Authors: Nelson DeMille
Susan stood, Sophie cleared the plates, and they left. Then Charlotte excused herself to use the facilities, and I found myself alone with William.
We looked at each other, and I could see his yellow eyes narrowing and the horns peeking through his hair. Smoke came out of his nostrils, and his orthopedic shoes split open, revealing cloven hoofs, and then he reached down the back of his pants and played with his spaded tail.
Or maybe I was imagining that. His eyes, however,
did
narrow.
Neither of us spoke, then finally he said to me, “This does not make us happy, John.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that. But your daughter is happy.”
“She may
think
she’s happy.” He let me know, “Susan was lonely after Dan died, and she became quite upset after the terrorist attacks, and for the last several months she’s been dwelling on the past.”
I didn’t reply.
He continued, “So, what I’m saying to you, John, is that she’s not herself, and what you’re seeing now is not what you might be seeing a few months from now.”
I replied, “I appreciate your not wanting me to make a mistake, and I’m touched by your concern for my future.”
His eyes narrowed again, and he said, “We actually don’t care for you.”
“Was it something I said?”
“And we don’t think that Susan does either.” He explained, “She’s confused.” He further explained, “We know our daughter, and we think she’s just going through a stage of life, which will pass.”
“Then you should tell her what you think of her mental state. Or I will.”
He leaned toward me, and in a quiet voice said, “We will need to discuss this, John, man to man.”
“I’m happy to do that.” But bring your own man, shithead; I’m not hiring one for you.
William got to the crux of the matter and said, “People in our position—I mean, Charlotte and I—have to be very careful in regard to acceptable suitors for our daughter.” He asked, “Are you following me?”
“Of course. You want her to be happy.”
“No— Well, yes, of course we do. But I’m speaking about . . . well, money.”
“Money? What does this have to do with money?” I assured him, “We’ll pay for our own wedding.”
He seemed frustrated with my dullness, but continued patiently, “I have no idea how you’re doing financially, but I’m sure that Susan’s annual allowance, and her future inheritance, has influenced your thinking. Now, don’t take that the wrong way, John. I’m sure you think you’re fond of her, but quite frankly, I think you both divorced for the right reasons—you were unsuitable for each other—and you stayed away from each other for ten years because of that. So now the question is, why are you courting her again, and why have you proposed marriage?”
It was more the other way around, but I was gentleman enough not to say that. I said, “William, if you’re suggesting that I’m a gold digger, I am truly offended.”
“John, I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that your thinking and your feelings may be influenced by those considerations—subconsciously, of course.”
“Well, you raise an interesting point . . . so, you think that, subconsciously . . . well, I guess I need to think about that.” I admitted, “I wouldn’t want to
think
I was marrying for love, when deep down inside it was for money.”
I may have crossed the sarcasm line, but William gave me a pass and leaned even closer to me, and said bluntly, “Perhaps we can discuss some financial arrangement that would induce you to move back to London.”
If he was talking about the measly one hundred thousand dollars that he offered to all Susan’s suitors, then I was insulted. Even two hundred thousand dollars was an insult. It would have to be seven figures.
“John?”
I looked at him, and I realized that if I told him to go fuck himself, the rest of the week could be a bit rocky. But if I played along, that would make him a happy houseguest, and after we’d finished our Father’s Day dinner, I could then tell him to go fuck himself. Or maybe I should wait until Edward left on Monday morning. Go fuck yourself has to be timed just right.
He said, “I hope you will think about this.”
“I will. I mean, not about the financial . . . But about what you said regarding Susan’s being confused and not herself.” I feigned deep thought, then nodded to myself and came to a reluctant conclusion. I said, “I wouldn’t want her to make a mistake about us remarrying . . . and then be unhappy.”
“No, John, we don’t want that.”
“So . . . well, then maybe we should”—bright idea—“live together.”
Poor William. He thought that my spinning wheels were going to stop at three lemons, and I’d get up and go home. He cleared his throat and said, “I was speaking of a financial inducement for you to return to London.”
“Oh . . . right. Well . . . I don’t want to hurt Susan by leaving . . . but I also don’t want to hurt her by entering into a doomed marriage . . .”
William assured me, “You would both be much happier in the long term if you separated now.” He advised me, “It needs to be quick, merciful, and final.”
This sort of reminded me of the deal I made with Frank Bellarosa. Anyway, I took a deep breath—actually, it was a sigh, and said, “I need to think about this.”
William smelled a deal and said, “I’d like your answer by Sunday, or Monday morning before we leave, at the latest.”
“All right.” I inquired sheepishly, “About that financial inducement . . .”
“We can discuss that when we speak.”
“Well . . . it would help me now to know how much I’m being induced.”
William himself didn’t know how much he wanted to spend to ensure his only daughter’s happiness. And he didn’t know what my price was to tear myself away from the love of my life. He
did
know, however, that I was very aware that he could cut off Susan’s allowance and disinherit her. So that lowered her value, and lowered my price to dump a Stanhope.
I could see him struggling with this, pissed off beyond belief that Susan was going to cost him a wad of cash. And of course he was pissed off at me for lots of reasons, including my getting any of his money. Maybe he’d reduce her allowance to amortize the payoff.
Finally, he asked, “What do
you
have in mind?”
“How does two million sound?”
I thought he was going to fall face first into the baked brie, but he caught his breath and mumbled, “Perhaps we can agree on half of that—but paid in ten annual installments, so that your inducement is ongoing.”
“Ah, I see what you’re getting at. But if I got it all up front, I wouldn’t renege on the deal. I give you my word on that.”
“I would want a written contract.”
“Right. Like a non-nuptial agreement.”
“And non-cohabitation.”
“Of course.” I love to do deals, so I said, “But if I got it all up front, I’d discount the two million.”
“I think we need to discuss that number, and the terms. Later.”
“What are you doing after dinner?”
But before he could respond, Susan and Sophie returned, and William, gentleman that he is, stood and, while he was up anyway, grabbed a martini off Susan’s tray.
Sophie rearranged the coffee table and left. Susan sat and asked, “Where’s Mom?”
William said, “Freshening up.”
Susan took stock of the situation and inquired, with a smile, “Have you had a good man-to-man talk?”
William replied, “We were just discussing what’s going on here at Stanhope Hall.”
I looked at William, and I could see that he was a bit more relaxed now, maybe even hopeful that his worst nightmare might be ending before it began. I considered winking at him and flashing two fingers—Victory—and not at any price; only two million.
Charlotte returned, took her seat, and scooped up her martini.
Susan, thinking that she was continuing with our subject of Stanhope Hall, said, “As I mentioned in my e-mail, the owner, Amir Nasim, has some security concerns, so he’s hired a security firm to advise him of what needs to be done.”
William inquired, “What sort of security concerns?”
Susan explained, “He’s originally from Iran, and his wife told me that he has enemies in that country, who may want to harm him.”
Charlotte was now licking the bottom of her martini glass, and she stopped in mid-lick and said, “Oh, my.”
William, always thinking of himself, asked me, “Do you think there’s any danger to us?” Meaning him.
I replied, “No one is likely to mistake the guest cottage for Stanhope Hall, or mistake Mr. and Mrs. Nasim for any of us.”
William agreed, and said, stupidly, “Well, maybe we’ll have a little excitement here.”
No one laughed or slapped their knees, but I did say, “If you’d feel more comfortable elsewhere, Susan can inquire about the cottages at The Creek.”
Susan chimed in, “I don’t think we should overreact, John.”
I didn’t reply, but I did note that neither William nor Charlotte expressed any concern about their daughter and their grandchildren.
William did say, however, “When we lived in Stanhope Hall, we never even locked our doors.” He looked at his zoned-out wife and asked, “Did we, darling?”
“We did,” Charlotte agreed, or disagreed, depending on what she thought he said.
I was actually glad I was drinking hundred-proof tonic because I was better able to appreciate William and Charlotte with a clear head.
Susan reminded them of why they were in New York, and said, “I am feeling so sad about Ethel. It’s hard to believe that she’s gone.”
Charlotte remarked, “The poor dear. I hope she didn’t suffer at the end.”
And so we spoke about the departed Ethel for a few minutes, recalling many happy memories, and, of course, not recalling that Ethel was a pain in the ass. Charlotte did say, however, with a smile, “She was a stubborn woman.” Still smiling, she remarked, “Sometimes I wondered who was mistress and who was servant.”
Susan reminded her, “We don’t use those words any longer, Mother.”
“Oh, Susan. No one minds.”
I noticed that William had nothing to say about Ethel, good or bad, and he just sat there, perhaps thinking about his father fucking Ethel, then Ethel fucking his father.
I thought this might be a good time to straighten out the mistress thing—about Ethel being Augustus’ mistress; so of course Ethel was
a
mistress, but not
the
mistress of Stanhope Hall. I mean, she was dead, and so was Augustus, so to liven up the conversation, I said to Charlotte and William, “I was going through Ethel’s paperwork, and I found the life tenancy conveyance among her papers, and that got me wondering why Augustus conveyed such a valuable consideration to two young employees, who—”
“John,” said Susan, “I think we should get ready.” She looked at her watch and said, “I’d like to be at the funeral home at seven.” She stood.
Well, I should save this for when there were more people around to appreciate it, so I stood, and so did Mom and Dad, who swayed a bit.
Susan said to me, “Mom and Dad’s luggage is still in their car. Would you mind getting it?”
“Not at all, darling.”
William already had his keys in his hand, which he gave to me, and said, “Thank you, John.” I guess that meant he wasn’t going to help. Well, then, I wasn’t going to discount the two million.
I went out into the rain, retrieved their cheap luggage, which looked like a bank giveaway, and hauled it up the stairs to their room.
They weren’t in their room yet, so I didn’t get a tip, and I left the luggage on two racks that Susan had set up. Then I went to the master bedroom, where Susan was getting undressed, and I inquired, “Do we have time for a quickie?”
She smiled, and asked, “Is that the alcohol talking?”
“Very funny.” I commented, “Those two put away half a bottle of gin.”
“They were very tense, and I think upset.” She observed, “But Dad seemed much less upset after the third one got to him.”
“He did, didn’t he?”
She inquired, “What did you two talk about?”
I considered telling her that her father had tried to buy me off, and I
would
tell her . . . but if I did that now,
she
might be upset. It was better, I thought, to have her think that her father’s better mood was alcohol-induced. And tomorrow, when she saw that Dad and I were getting along tolerably well—without the martinis—she’d be happy, and her happiness would spread like sunshine over all of us, including Edward and Carolyn.
And then, Sunday after dinner, or Monday morning, after the children were gone, and before Scrooge McDuck headed south, I’d ask Susan what she thought was a fair price for me to accept from Dad for going back to London. Well, I might present it differently, such as, “Your father had the
nerve
to offer me a bribe to leave you. I have
never
in my life been so insulted.” And so on.
After she got over her shock, I’d tell her he offered me two million dollars, but that I wouldn’t leave her for less than five. I mean,
that’s
serious money. I could actually live off the interest, as the Stanhopes did.
Susan sat at her makeup table and did some touch-ups. She said to me, “That actually went better than I expected. And I thank you again for being . . . nice.”
“It’s easy to be nice to nice people.”
She thought that was funny, but then advised me, “Cool the borderline sarcasm. They’re not that dense.”
“You think?”
“And do
not
bring up Ethel Allard’s life tenancy in the gatehouse.” She asked, “Why did you do that?”
“I didn’t realize it was a sore subject.”
“You know it is.” She further advised, “You need to find less obnoxious ways to amuse yourself.”
“Okay. How about a quickie?”
“John, we’re going to a wake.” She glanced at her watch and asked, “How quick?”
W
illiam and Charlotte would have blown the needle off a Breathalyzer, so I drove. I’d left the carbine home so the Stanhopes wouldn’t see it, and also so I wouldn’t be tempted to shoot them.
Susan, sitting next to me, was looking good in black, but she was in a quiet, post-coital, pre–funeral home mood.