Authors: Nelson DeMille
She ignored me and looked around the room, then asked, “Does Elizabeth want this old stuff?”
“I don’t know, but I inventoried everything, and she signed for it.”
We moved into the dining room, where the table and floor were still stacked with storage and file boxes. She asked, “What is all this?”
I replied, “Mostly the contents of my law office and my former home office, which I stored here when I left.”
“You can have your old home office back.”
“That is very generous of you.”
“What were you going to do with all this?”
I was going to store it in Elizabeth Allard’s house, but I replied, “Public storage.” I added, “But you’ve solved my storage problem.” I further added, “And my housing problem. And all my other problems.”
She agreed, “I have.” She advised me, “After you resign from your job, you’ll need to get rid of your London flat.”
“Of course, darling. I’ll fly to London right after Ethel’s funeral.”
“And get rid of your London girlfriend. Before you go there.”
“I will, sweetheart.” Unless she flies in unexpectedly before then. I needed to make that phone call soon.
Susan announced, “I’ll fly to London with you.”
“Great. We’ll stay at the Berkeley.”
“We’ll stay in your flat.”
I was afraid of that. I keep a nice, neat place for a bachelor, and Samantha doesn’t have a key, but there might be a few things in the flat, including some of Samantha’s odds and ends, which would annoy Susan.
She had raised the subject of personal space and privacy, so I said, “Before I move in with you, I’ll give you all the time you need to clear out anything that you don’t want me to—”
“You can and will move in this afternoon, and you can snoop all you want. I have nothing to hide from you.” She rethought that and said, “Well, maybe I need an hour.”
I smiled and said, “That’s all I need in London.”
“I’ll give you ten minutes while I wait in the taxi.”
I had visions of stuffing a pillowcase with letters, Rolodex cards, interesting photos from my three-year sail, and Samantha’s underwear—the equivalent of an embassy burn-bag, frantically being filled as the rioting mob broke through the compound gates. But I couldn’t burn it, so I’d have to drop it out the window and hope for the best.
“John?”
I replied, “Deal.”
I sensed that I was losing some control of the agenda, and my life. Susan had been far from a jealous or controlling woman, except, as I recalled, in the early days of our courtship and marriage. So this was just a phase. It would pass.
She looked around the room and noticed that the photo portrait of Ethel and George was not hanging above the fireplace, and she said, “It’s hard to believe . . . they were here before I was born.”
I replied, “You know, Susan, this estate was one of the last that had been in the same family from the beginning, and there aren’t that many left, so if you think about it, that era had ended even before you were born.” I added, “We were all on borrowed time here.”
She thought about that, nodded, and said, “Nostalgia is not what it used to be.”
Susan moved through the dining room into the kitchen and looked around, commenting, “When I was a little girl, George would drive me here after school, and Ethel would give me fresh-baked cookies and hot chocolate.”
I was sure she didn’t get that at Stanhope Hall, but if she did, it wasn’t her mother who baked the cookies, made the chocolate, or even served it to her. Susan, from what I could gather from Ethel, George, and the servants who were still here when I came on the scene, had been the classic lonely little rich girl. Her parents, I suspect, took not much interest in her until her debutante party, at which time they probably began thinking about a suitable education, and a suitable marriage—they screwed up there—and also began thinking about how their daughter’s social success, or lack thereof, would reflect on them.
I suppose I could be more charitable about how I thought of William and Charlotte, and I could blame some of their many faults and failures on their own upbringing—but I’ve known a lot of the old gentry, and many of them were fine, decent people who loved their children, and were generous with their friends and those less fortunate than themselves. A few were total swine, but if the Four Hundred Families in the Social Register got together to award a prize for the biggest swine, William Stanhope would win the Blue Ribbon, and Charlotte would get an Honorable Mention.
Susan opened the refrigerator and observed, “There’s nothing in here.”
“Less to move.”
Susan suggested, “We should take some photographs before everything is cleaned out.”
“Good idea.”
I glanced at the cuckoo clock, which showed it was 3:30, and I said, “How about tomorrow morning?”
“All right.”
I thought the house tour was over, so I said, “Let’s sit on the patio.”
“Let’s see the second floor.”
I followed her into the foyer and up the stairs. She opened the door to Ethel’s bedroom and entered.
The drapes were pulled, and the room was dark and had a musty smell to it. The doors of the armoire and closet were open, as were the dresser drawers, and most of the clothing was lying on the bare mattress. It was an altogether depressing scene, reminding me of what the priest at Frank Bellarosa’s funeral had said at the grave, quoting from Timothy:
We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.
Susan did not comment on Ethel’s bedroom, and we left, closing the door.
She glanced into the bathroom, and seeing the piles of towels on the floor asked, “Is the washing machine broken?”
“I don’t know. Where is it?”
“I’ll have my cleaning lady come here and get this place tidied up for Elizabeth tomorrow.”
“That’s very nice.” How could I forget that a cleaning lady came along with my new house and bride?
Susan asked me, “Did she shower here?”
“The cleaning lady?”
“John.”
“I believe so. Yes.”
Susan went into my bedroom, formerly and lately Elizabeth’s bedroom, and looked around without haste. She stared at the bed, then noticed the empty bottle of wine on the nightstand, and focused on the two wineglasses, which I should have gotten rid of. She inquired, “Why are there two glasses here?”
I thought of several replies, including telling Susan about Elizabeth’s imaginary childhood friend who drank wine, but to keep it simple and close to the truth, I said, “Elizabeth wanted to sleep in her old room, so we had a nightcap before she retired.”
“That is
so
lame.”
I took a deep breath, and, remembering that the truth is the last defense of the trapped, I said, “All right . . . so, we . . . had too much wine, and we thought about it, but decided we’d be making a big mistake.”
No reply.
So I went on, “Your name came up, and Elizabeth felt . . . uncomfortable about, you know, and to tell you the truth, so did I.”
Again, no reply.
You should quit while you’re ahead, but I didn’t know if I was ahead. To play it safe, I concluded, “That is the whole truth.”
“That’s not quite what you told me earlier.”
“Right. Well, now you have the details.” I was a bit annoyed at myself for being so defensive, and remembering, too, that the best defense is a good offense, I pointed out, “I was a free man last night, Susan, and even if I’d slept with her, it would be no business of yours.”
She turned and left the bedroom, then started down the stairs. With Susan, it’s hard to tell if she’s angry, indifferent, or if the trolley has jumped the tracks. Sometimes she needs a few minutes to figure it out herself, so I took the opportunity to tidy up the room.
I heard her call up the stairs, “I’ll be on the patio.”
I gave it another minute, then came down the stairs with the two glasses and the empty wine bottle, which I deposited in the trash under the sink.
I went out to the patio and saw that Susan was walking through the vegetable garden.
I called out to her, “I have to be someplace at four.”
She didn’t reply.
I continued, “But I need to speak to you first.”
She looked at me and asked, “About what?”
“Sit here, Susan. This won’t take long.”
She walked back to the patio and inquired, “Where do you have to be at four?”
“That’s what I want to speak to you about. Have a seat.”
She hesitated, then sat at the table, and I took the chair beside her. I began, “This is going to sound . . . well, a little unbelievable, but, as I told you—”
“So, you didn’t sleep with her because you were thinking of me?”
Apparently, we hadn’t finished with that subject, so I replied, “That’s correct.” I expanded on this and said, “It didn’t feel right. Especially after I saw you in your car. I can’t explain it, but even without knowing how you felt about me, I just couldn’t do anything like that before I spoke to you.”
I thought that should put this to rest, but women examine these things on levels that men don’t even think about, and Susan said to me, “So, you were attracted to her?”
“Not at all.” I explained to her, “Men don’t need a reason—they just need a place.”
“Believe me, I understand that. But she is obviously attracted to you.”
“Everyone is.”
“You’re a total idiot.”
“I know that. Can we—?”
“Well, maybe she was so drunk that you looked good to her.”
“I’m sure of that. So—”
“I thought she was my friend.”
“She is, Susan. That’s why she—”
“And I suppose she was feeling very lonely and needy with her mother dying.”
“Exactly.”
I waited for further analysis, but Susan took my hand and said, “All right. Subject closed.”
I doubted that, so I waited a few seconds, then began, “As I told you—”
“I love you.”
“And I love you.”
“I know you were faithful to me all during our marriage, and I wish I could say the same.”
Me, too.
“I just want you to know, John, that he was the only one.”
“I know that.”
“So many women were chasing after you, and I was never jealous. I totally trusted you.”
“I know you did, and you can still trust me.”
“But if you’d had an affair while I was . . . while we were estranged, I would understand.”
“Good. I mean—”
“Did you?”
“Of course not.” I had a brief fling. “I was too distraught to even think about that.”
“I’m sorry I betrayed your trust.”
“It’s behind us.” A trite but appropriate expression came to mind, and I said, “Today is the first day of the rest of our lives together.”
She smiled, leaned over, kissed me, then sat back and asked, “Did you want to speak to me about something?”
“Yes. And please listen without comment.” I began, again, “As I told you, Anthony Bellarosa stopped by here last Monday.” I gave her a very brief outline of the visit, mentioning again Anthony’s inquiry about her, and Susan listened without comment. I concluded with, “He asked me to have dinner with him.”
“And did you?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. Except that I was concerned about you.”
She didn’t reply, so I continued, “And I suppose I had a perverse curiosity—”
“I understand. Go on.”
“All right. So I met him at Wong Lee’s in Glen Cove.” I couldn’t help myself from saying, “I thought it best to avoid an Italian restaurant, considering what happened . . . well, anyway, Anthony is not as charming as his father, or as bright, but—”
“John, I really don’t want to hear anything about his father. Good or bad. Just tell me what happened with Anthony.”
“All right.” I mentioned Tony, the driver, who inquired about her, then I related the pertinent parts of the dinner conversation with Anthony Bellarosa, and I briefly mentioned my phone conversation with Anna Bellarosa. I concluded with, “I got up and left.”
Susan thought about all that and said, “I hope this isn’t the job offer you mentioned.”
“Well . . . let me continue.” I told her about my chance meeting with Tony and Anthony on Grace Lane, and how I went for a one-way ride to Oyster Bay. I gave her an idea of what was said in Teddy Roosevelt’s former office, trying to make her understand not only what
was
said, but also what was
not
said about her. I mentioned, too, the black Cadillac Escalade, and suggested she keep an eye out for it. I downplayed a lot of what was discussed, and what I thought, because I didn’t want to alarm her; but neither did I want her to think this was something that would go away by itself, or that she should treat the situation with her usual indifference. I finished by saying, “So we sort of left this job offer up in the air.”
She looked at me and replied, “It doesn’t sound that way to me.” She asked me, “Are you
crazy
?”
“Susan, you need to understand—”
“I do understand, John. You believe that you’re considering this so-called job offer to try to protect me, but—”
“Why else would I even be speaking to this man?”
“You should ask yourself that question, not me.”
“Susan, let’s not get into amateur analysis. If I didn’t think that Anthony Bellarosa was looking for revenge for what happened . . . all right, I may have also thought that I could work for him in a legitimate capacity—”
“He’s a
Mafia
don.”
“I don’t
know
that.”
“John, you
know
that. And I’ll tell you something else you know. He appealed to your ego, and you were flattered. And he sensed, too, that you were vulnerable to his advances because of what happened in the past, and because you were not completely satisfied with your life. You are
not
going to repeat that mistake—”
“Hold on. Do I have to remind you who encouraged that relationship with you-know-who, and
why
you encouraged it?”
“Stop it!” She took a deep breath, then got herself under control and said, “You don’t have to remind me. I should remind myself.”
Neither of us spoke for a while, then she said, “He may be brighter than you give him credit for.”