Authors: Nelson DeMille
“I did.”
“Why?”
“We should have a few beers one night.”
“I’d like that.”
“Good.” I asked him, “Are you and the county police in touch?”
“Detective Nastasi and I spoke last night.”
“I’m happy to hear that. And are you still assigned to this case?”
“Until it’s resolved.”
“Great.” I asked him, “How is the war on terrorism going?”
“Pretty good today.”
“Well, it’s still early.”
He informed me, “Every day that nothing happens is a good day.”
“I know the feeling.”
Our business concluded, we signed off with promises to speak again, and I sat down and contemplated my granola muffin. I said to Susan, “This tastes funny.”
“It’s made with yogurt. What was he saying on his end?”
I filled her in, but decided not to mention Mr. Mancuso’s suggestion that her parents get out of our house. Or was that my idea? Anyway, I thought I should hold on to that and use it if the Stanhopes became insufferable. Also of course, I really didn’t want to alarm everyone, especially Edward and Carolyn.
But Susan asked me, “What was he saying about my parents?”
“Oh, he said if he heard anything that would change our alert level here, then he’d advise us, and we should ask your parents to find other accommodations.”
She thought about that, then said, “I would be very upset if I had to tell Edward and Carolyn about our problem and ask them to sleep elsewhere.”
“Not a problem. Mancuso said the children will be fine here. It’s only your parents who would have to leave.”
“I don’t understand . . .” Then she understood and said to me, “John, that’s not funny, and not nice.”
“Sorry. It’s my ace in the hole.” I suggested, “Think about it. Less chance of friction. More chance of bonding.”
She actually seemed to be thinking about it, and said, “Let’s see how it goes today.”
“Okay.” I pointed out, “
You
seemed a bit impatient with them last night.”
“It was a long, tense, and emotional day.”
I didn’t reply, which was good because I heard Them on the stairs.
William and Charlotte came into the kitchen, and Susan kissed her parents, and I satisfied myself with “Good morning.”
William, I recalled, liked his cold cereal in the morning, and Susan had lined up six boxes on the counter of these godawful sugar concoctions, and William picked something with cocoa in it that I wouldn’t feed to the pigs.
Charlotte doesn’t eat breakfast and doesn’t drink coffee, so Susan had set out a chest of herbal teas, and Susan boiled water for the old bat.
I mean, it wasn’t even 8:00
A.M
., and I was already strung out.
I was impressed, however, that to look at them, you would never know that they had consumed enough gin and wine last night to float a small boat. Amazing. Maybe they had annual liver transplants.
Anyway, the four of us sat around the kitchen table and made small talk.
Then William said to me offhandedly, “I didn’t realize from Susan’s e-mail and phone calls that you were actually staying here.”
I replied, “Well, I moved in only a day or so ago.” I explained, “Upon Ethel’s death, Mr. Nasim, as you know, was able to reclaim the gatehouse, and he wanted to install his security people there—as you saw—so that left me homeless in New York, and Susan was kind enough to let me use my old bedroom here.”
He thought about that, then pointed out, quite correctly, “That’s also her bedroom.”
Susan explained, unnecessarily, “We’re sleeping together.”
William, of course, knew that by now. Hello? William? But I guess he wanted to hear it from the sinners’ own mouths. Meanwhile, I was sure he and Charlotte had not been too judgmental of Susan when she lived and dated in Hilton Head. I mean, really, Susan is an adult, and I have adult tendencies, and it’s none of their business what we do behind closed doors. Not to mention we’d already been married to each other, and we had two children, for God’s sake. But, as I say, William is a control freak, plus, of course, this really had to do with John Sutter, not propriety.
Anyway, we dropped that subject, and William shoveled spoonfuls of milk-sodden Cocoa Puffs into his mouth, and Charlotte sipped tea made out of Himalayan stinkweed or something.
I was thinking of an excuse to excuse myself, but then William said to Susan, “Your mother and I were thinking that you have enough company with Edward and Carolyn coming—and John here—so we’ve decided to stay at The Creek.”
Thank you, God.
Susan objected, and I did my part by saying, “Won’t you reconsider?” Maybe you should go home.
Anyway, we went back and forth, and when I was sure they were adamant, I said, “Maybe you can stay just one more night.”
“Well . . .”
Oh my God. What did I do?
Then William stuck to his guns and said to Susan, “Please call The Creek and see if a cottage is available.”
Charlotte chirped in, “We’ve always enjoyed staying there, and it’s no reflection on your wonderful hospitality, dear.”
I replied, “I understand that.”
Charlotte looked at me and said, “I was speaking to Susan.”
“Of course.”
Susan went to the phone, called The Creek, and secured a cottage for Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope, her parents, and instructed the club to put all charges on her bill, including food, beverage, and incidentals. William was happy. I was giddy.
I said to Susan, “See if you can get Mom and Dad golf privileges. And don’t forget the cabana. And maybe tennis lessons.”
Susan ignored me, finalized the arrangements, then hung up and said, “You’re booked until Monday.”
So it was settled. I guess the Stanhopes didn’t want to share a house with me, and probably they were afraid of another spontaneous or planned house gathering, and I’m sure they found the guards at the gate to be inconvenient. Not to mention the possibility of Iranian assassins hiding in the bushes.
But for the record, everyone agreed that it might work out better if Mom and Dad had their own space, close to here, but not too close, though we were all a little disappointed, of course.
I inquired, “Can I help you pack?”
William assured me that they could do that themselves, but he asked if I’d carry their luggage to the car.
I replied, “Whenever you’re ready.”
Charlotte slipped up and said, “We’re packed.”
“Well, then”—I stood and said—“I’ll just go and get your things.”
And off I went, taking the steps four at a time.
So, within half an hour, William, Charlotte, John, and Susan were outside saying ciao, but not arrivederci.
William announced that he and Charlotte had some old friends they wanted to see, and maybe they’d play golf with them and have lunch and also dinner, and unfortunately wouldn’t be at Ethel’s wake today or tonight, and they were sorry to miss Edward and Carolyn this evening, and so forth.
But we’d all get together Friday night at the funeral home, then play it by ear—whatever that meant. I hoped it meant we wouldn’t see them until the funeral service Saturday morning, if then. But we were all on for Father’s Day, and I reminded William, sotto voce, that we’d speak no later than Monday morning. I winked, but he didn’t return the wink.
Susan and I stood in the forecourt and waved as they drove off. I flashed William the V-sign, but I don’t think he saw it.
Susan and I walked back to the house, and she said, “Well, I’m a little disappointed, but a little relieved.”
“I know exactly how you feel.”
“Come on, John. You practically pushed them out the door.”
“I did not. He stumbled.”
We returned to the kitchen, and I tried another muffin. “This smells and tastes like manure.”
“It’s bran.” She said to me, “Well, you tried, and I tried, but I don’t think they were comfortable with this situation.”
“What was your first clue?”
She thought a moment, then said, “Well, it’s
their
problem.”
“It is. And don’t let them make you feel guilty. You’re a good daughter, but they’re manipulative, narcissistic, and self-centered.” Plus, they’re assholes. I added, “And they don’t care about seeing their grandchildren.”
Susan sat at the table, and she looked sad. So I said, “We’ll have a nice Father’s Day together. I promise.”
She forced a smile.
I hesitated, then took her hand and said, “If me leaving . . . I mean, leaving for good, will—”
“If you say that one more time, I’ll kick you out.”
I stood and gave her a big hug, then said, “Your father and I have a date to discuss business, Sunday night or Monday morning.”
She thought about that and said, “I don’t like being discussed as though I was a blushing virgin.”
“You’re not a virgin?”
“What are you going to talk about?”
“Well, the deal.” I let her know, “We need a prenuptial agreement. That’s what will make the deal work.”
“This is not a
deal
. It’s a marriage.”
“Not when you’re a Stanhope. And that’s your problem, not mine.”
“All right. Talk to him. Try not to screw up my allowance and my inheritance.”
“Do you care?”
“No. But take care of the children.”
“I will.” I added, “Whatever it takes.”
Then she said something that did not shock me. She said, “God forgive me, I hate them.”
She was a little weepy, so I put my arms around her and said, “We’ve moved on from the past, and now you have to move on from your parents.”
“I know.” She said, “I feel sorry for them.”
It’s hard for me to feel sorry for anyone worth one hundred million dollars, especially if they’re assholes, but to be nice, I said, “I know what you mean . . . I feel sorry for Harriet, and I felt sorry for my father . . . and I think he died feeling sorry for himself. But . . . we are not going to become them.”
She nodded, stood, and said, “Let’s do something fun today.”
Well, I just pushed the Stanhopes out the door, and it doesn’t get more fun than that. I asked, “What would you like to do?”
“Let’s go to the city and have lunch, then go to a museum, or shop.”
“Shop?”
“When was the last time you were in Manhattan?”
I replied, “September of last year.”
She looked at me, nodded, and said, “I’ve never been to Ground Zero.” She thought a moment, then asked, “Is that something we should do . . . ?”
“It’s not exactly a fun day in the city.”
“I know . . . but you were there . . . can we do that today?”
“You can let me know how you feel when we’re driving in.”
“All right . . .” She took my hand and said, “I feel safe when I’m standing next to you.”
“That’s very nice.” I said to her, “I never felt so alone and so depressed in my life as I did when I came back to New York last September.”
She said, “Carolyn came to Hilton Head, and she said to me, ‘Mom, I wish Dad was here.’ And I said to her, ‘Me, too.’”
I replied, “Well, I’m here.”
A
s we drove toward Manhattan, Susan looked at the skyline and observed, “It’s so strange not seeing the Towers there . . .” Then she said, “Let’s go to Ground Zero.”
I glanced at her and replied, “All right.”
So we drove the Taurus into Lower Manhattan, and spent some quiet time on the observation platform overlooking the excavated ruins. It was hard to comprehend this tragedy, and harder to understand the senseless deaths of so many human beings, including people we knew. The gray, drizzly day added to our somber mood.
We took a walk through the streets of Lower Manhattan. When I worked here, this was a very busy and bustling part of the city, but now the streets and sidewalks look emptier than I remembered, and I knew that had to do with September 11. Maybe I’d be working down here again, but with a new firm, of course—one that valued my brash career decisions, my sailing adventures, and my past association with organized crime. In fact, getting a good job was not going to be that easy—Anthony Bellarosa’s generous offer notwithstanding—so, since I might be the only person who would hire me at my required salary, I should work for myself. My future father-in-law would be delighted to finance my new firm, and Carolyn could work with me, and we’d be Sutter & Sutter: tax law, environmental specialists, and women’s legal rights.
Susan asked, “What are you thinking about?”
I told her, and she smiled and asked, “Which of those areas would you feel comfortable working in?”
We walked up to Chambers Street and entered Ecco restaurant, where I used to bring clients. After we were seated, I looked at the lunch crowd, which was mostly Wall Street types who are easy for me to spot, though I didn’t see a single face I knew. Ecco’s clientele also included high-priced defense attorneys who had business in the nearby courts, plus a few high-ranking law enforcement people from nearby Police Plaza and Federal Plaza. I looked around for Mr. Mancuso, but I didn’t think he’d splurge on a sixty-dollar lunch, though maybe this is where we’d have our beers one night after work.
Susan asked, “See anyone you know?”
“No, I don’t. And it’s only been ten years.”
She commented, “Ten years can be a long time.”
“It can be.”
We had a good lunch, with a good bottle of red wine to take the chill out of our bones, and we held hands and talked.
After lunch, we took a walk to my old office building at 23 Wall Street, and as I always do with visitors, I pointed out to Susan the scars in the stone that were caused by the Anarchists’ bomb at the turn of the last century. She was sweet enough not to remind me that I’d shown this to her about twenty times.
I was going to enter the big, ornate lobby to look around, but I noticed that there was now a security point right near the door, complete with metal detectors and tables where you needed to empty your pockets. This was a little jarring, and also depressing, so we moved on—not that I wanted to take the elevator up to Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds to hug and kiss my former partners.
Well, I was ready to leave Memory Lane and take a subway or taxi up to Midtown for some really great shopping, but Susan said to me, “Let’s walk to Little Italy.”