Authors: Nelson DeMille
“A what?”
She explained, but I didn’t get it.
Susan began a series of stretching and bending exercises, and it was so sexy that I asked, “When does this class start?”
“Anytime you’re ready.”
She continued her gyrations, and I asked, “Is everyone naked?”
“No, John.”
“Oh . . .”
Susan slipped on her panties, spread her beach towel on the patio, then lay on her back and began doing floor exercises that didn’t seem humanly possible.
I glanced at the sun and guessed it was close to 3:00 P.M. I said to her, “Susan, I need to speak to you about a few matters.”
Without interrupting her routine, she replied, “Later. Let’s go out to dinner tonight.”
I didn’t reply.
She continued, “I’d like you to move your things here this afternoon. I’ll help you.”
I reminded her, “Your parents will be staying here.”
“Oh . . . we’ll work it out.”
I pulled on my shorts, stood, and said, “Let’s go inside.”
She stopped her leg lifts, sat up, looked at me, and asked, “What else do you need to speak to me about?” She pointed out, “We’ve discussed what needed to be discussed.”
I gathered my clothes and replied, “Some logistical things.”
She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then stood and gathered her clothes, and we went inside. As we got dressed in the kitchen, she suggested, “Let’s sit in my office.”
It used to be my den and home office, so I knew the way, and we went into the big front room where I’d seen her through the window a few days ago.
I expected to see that my masculine décor—leather, brass, mahogany, and hunting prints—had been replaced with something softer, but the furnishings and their arrangement looked the same as when I’d left ten years ago, and the only thing missing, aside from me, was some Army memorabilia. I noticed that she even had a framed photograph of my parents on a bookshelf.
Susan commented first. “I kept everything, except what you took.”
I didn’t reply.
She moved to the small bar and announced, “It’s time for a drink.”
“I’ll stick to vodka.”
She poured me a vodka with ice from the bar refrigerator and made herself a vodka and tonic.
We sat together on the leather couch, and Susan put her bare feet on the coffee table. As I’d learned from many years of law practice, I should make my points in ascending order of importance, starting with the least important, which was her parents. Also, start with a question. I asked, “How do you think your parents are going to react to our good news?”
She answered, without hesitation, “They’re going to have a shit fit.”
I smiled at the unexpected profanity, but to show this was a serious subject, I asked, “And how are you going to react to their shit fit?”
She shrugged, then replied, “It’s my life.”
“But it’s their money.”
“I have money of my own.” She added, “But not that much after I overpaid for this house.”
“All right. So—”
“And that’s something I wanted to discuss with you.”
“The answer is, I’m broke.”
She waved her hand in dismissal and informed me, “Oh, I guessed that. But you can earn a good living and you’re good in bed.”
I smiled and said, “All right, but—”
“No, what I wanted to tell you is, I don’t want us to have a prenuptial agreement this time.”
That was a bit of a shock, but she explained, “My only real assets are this house, and the house in Hilton Head, both of which are mortgage-free, and I want you to own half of both of them—and pay most of the bills.”
I replied, “That’s very generous, but—”
She continued, “As you’ve already figured out, when we announce our remarriage, my parents will threaten to cut me out of their will, and end their financial support.”
I saw that she’d thought about this in the last few hours, or maybe the last few weeks, or years. Apparently, while I was wondering if we could establish some civility toward each other, she was thinking about how much a remarriage to John Sutter was going to cost her. I was very touched that she decided that I was worth more than her parents’ money. Nevertheless, what was abstract and noble now was going to be a hard reality for her in a few days when she called Mom and Pop. I said to her, “They are not going to
threaten
to cut off your allowance and disinherit you. They
will
. In a heartbeat.”
Again, she shrugged and replied, “You, Mr. Sutter, are my last chance at happiness. And my happiness is all that counts.” She smiled and added, “Well, yours, too.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say something nice.”
“I’ll say something realistic, and that’s the nicest thing I can say to you—life is not easy without money.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“That’s the point, Susan.”
“Are you trying to worm your way out of this marriage just because I’m down to my last few million dollars?”
I forced a smile and joked, “Don’t forget your dowry and the big wedding gift from your parents.”
She replied, “You can be sure they’ll offer me five million
not
to marry you.”
I stayed silent for a while, sipping my drink. Finally, I said, “All right . . . we could do very well on what you have left, stay in this house if you’d like, maybe keep the house in Hilton Head, and I can certainly earn a good living.” Which was true, even if I didn’t work for Murder, Inc., and I was fairly certain I wouldn’t be doing that after this turn of events in my love life.
Susan, picking up on my last statement, reminded me, “You have a job offer.”
“I do . . . and we’ll get to that shortly. But, money aside, have you considered the emotional cost of an estrangement from your parents?”
“They’ll get over it.” She added, “But I want you to promise not to throw fuel on the fire.”
I considered that and replied, “I’ll certainly let them know that I’m a very different man than the person they knew ten years ago.”
Susan observed, “You’re not. But you can
say
you are.” She reminded me, “You called my father a fuckhead.”
“No, I didn’t. I called him a—”
“I don’t need to hear that again.” She looked at me and said, “He probably deserved all that, but if you love me, you’ll apologize to him.”
“All right. I love you, so I’ll apologize.”
“Thank you.”
“And I’m very glad to hear that they’ve mellowed.”
She informed me, “Actually, they haven’t. I lied about that.” She smiled and winked.
I smiled, too, and admitted, “I didn’t believe you.”
She got serious and said, “We’ll do the best we can, John. It’s not going to be easy, but I promise you this—this time, I will always put you ahead of my parents.”
That was the first admission I’d ever heard from her that she’d had her priorities reversed when we were married. I understand the power of money, especially when it’s in the hands of people like William and Charlotte Stanhope, but ultimately, if you confront that sort of bullying and manipulation, everyone will benefit, even people like those two. I said, with far more optimism than I felt, “Well, we may be surprised at how they react when we tell them.”
“
We
? I’m not telling them.
You
are.” She laughed.
I smiled and said, “I will ask your father for your hand in marriage, as I did the last time.”
“That’s very nice. And don’t forget to tell them that
you
insisted we not have a prenup.” She suggested, “Bring a video camera. I want to see their reaction.”
Clearly, Susan was at some point in her life and her emotional development that was causing a belated rebellion against parental authority. This was a few decades late, but I could see that the rebellion was complete in her mind; all she had to do now was follow through.
I thought, too, of her marrying her father’s older friend, Dan Hannon, and it didn’t take too much analysis to figure out that that was an arranged marriage, and she’d gone through with it to please Daddy. Now she was going to show Daddy a thing or two. I had no doubt she loved me, and that she’d give up her parents and their money for me, but this was also a little bit of payback for Dad.
Susan had some good news for me. “I don’t want to sound cold, but they don’t have many years left.”
I let that alone and raised a related topic. I said to her, “I’m also wondering if our remarriage will affect the children’s trusts or their inheritance.”
Susan seemed surprised and replied without enough thought, “They would never do that to their grandchildren.”
I didn’t respond, and I wanted to believe that, but I knew the Stanhopes well enough to answer my own question; William, at least, was so vindictive that if he had a family crest, it would say, “I will cut off my nose to spite my face,” and emblazoned on the crest would be the profile of a man without a nose.
Susan reminded me, “The children’s money is in
trust
.”
I didn’t want to upset her, so I said, “That’s true.” But I’d seen the trust documents, and without getting into legalities, I knew that what Grandpa giveth, Grandpa could taketh away. In addition, her useless brother, Peter, was the trust administrator, and William, through Peter, could manipulate the trusts, and basically stop the monthly payments to the children, plus, he’d make sure that Edward and Carolyn didn’t see a nickel of the principle until they were fifty. And of course, he could disinherit his grandchildren anytime.
I really felt duty-bound to tell her all this because even if she was prepared to give up
her
inheritance and allowance, she wasn’t prepared to do that to Edward and Carolyn. If it came down to that, then maybe John Sutter would have to go. And I would understand that.
In the meantime, I’d hope that William loved his grandchildren enough that he would not punish them because of the sins of his daughter, so I said, “All right, but you
do
understand that you, Susan, may lose your allowance, and you could be disinherited from an estate worth millions of dollars?”
“Yes, John, I understand that.”
I asked, not altogether jokingly, “And you still want to marry me?”
She replied, “Not anymore. You cost too much.”
I assumed she was being funny, so I said, “Be serious.”
“I can’t believe you would ask me that question.”
“I apologize.”
“But wait . . . tell me again what’s in this for me?”
“Just me.”
“That’s it? Prince Charming with no job and no money?”
“I have a law degree.”
“Can I see it?”
We both smiled, sat back, and sipped our drinks. Okay, if that had gone any differently, I’d have been surprised. Susan Stanhope Sutter was in love and wanted me back, and whatever Susan wants, Susan gets. I was in love, too, and had never stopped loving her, so this should work, theoretically.
Susan crossed her legs, stared out the window, and said as if to herself, “Love conquers all.”
“Right.” As Virgil said it,
omnia vincit amor
, which reminded me of my next subject, if I needed reminding.
W
ith the Stanhope family issues out of the way, or at least out in the open, I was now ready to discuss with Susan the subject of Anthony Bellarosa, past, present, and future. But Susan wanted to take a stroll to the gatehouse, perhaps to see if there were panties on the floor, so we walked down the long drive from the guest cottage to my temporary quarters.
When I had walked up this drive, six hours earlier, my life was in limbo, and my future plans were uncertain; now . . . well, now I was engaged to be married.
Susan said to me, “When I grew up here, I never would have imagined that this estate would be sold and divided, surrounded by subdivisions, and I’d be living alone in the guest cottage.” She added to that, “I never really forgave my father for putting the estate up for sale.”
William didn’t really need to sell Stanhope Hall, but the upkeep and taxes cost more than I made in a year and more than he wanted to spend to preserve the family estate for his heirs and their progeny. He couldn’t take it with him, but he hated spending it before he left. So he moved to Hilton Head and eventually found a buyer in the person of Mr. Frank Bellarosa, whom I’m certain was influenced in his decision to own a second estate by the lady walking beside me.
Now Stanhope Hall—minus Susan’s ten-acre enclave and the developed back sixty acres where Susan used to ride—was in the hands of Mr. Amir Nasim, a man who was not in the Social Register, but who might be on the mullah’s hit list. And Alhambra was subdivided, and its former owner, Frank Bellarosa, was dead. A lot of these changes, if you thought about it, were a result of the actions of Susan Stanhope Sutter, who didn’t like change.
In any case, we need to live in the world as it is, not as it was. But first, we all needed to tidy up the past a bit.
Susan, however, was momentarily in the present, and she asked me, “Am I going to find something in the gatehouse that I don’t want to see?”
“Well . . . did I tell you that I wear silk bikini shorts?”
“Very funny.” She picked up the pace and said, “I’ll bet you never thought you’d be walking me to the gatehouse when you called on me this morning.”
“No, I didn’t.” But the house held no incriminating evidence—only exculpatory evidence—and more importantly, I had a clear conscience.
We reached the gatehouse, and Susan said to me, “You have no idea how upset I was when I saw Elizabeth Allard’s car here all day and all night.”
I thought, by now, I did have some idea, but I said, “Not everything is as it seems.”
“We’re about to find out.”
She preceded me into the gatehouse, and in the foyer she saw the Allards’ personal property that Elizabeth and I had stacked there. Susan commented, “I see you did something other than drink.”
“There was a lot of work to do here.”
“What did you do for dinner?”
“Cheese and crackers.”
She moved into the sitting room and saw my pillow and blanket on the couch, which I was happy I’d left there. But Susan didn’t comment on this evidence that I’d slept alone, so I did. “See?”