Authors: Nelson DeMille
“John? I said, This would not be a God-pleasing relationship if you were sharing the same bed.”
I was starting to feel like I was eighteen, which was kind of fun. I replied, “I understand.”
“Good.” He then said, “I imagine that Edward and Carolyn are happy for you.”
“They’re thrilled.”
He then made some sort of mental leap and said, “Your mother has asked me to speak to you.”
“About what?”
He replied, “She mentioned to me that you and she had become estranged.” He added, “She was very upset that you were not here for your father’s funeral.”
“No more upset than I was when I found out he died.” I added, “I was at sea.”
“Yes, I know.” He changed the subject and inquired, “If I may ask, how have Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope received this news?”
That sounded like a question to which he already knew the answer. I replied, “They’re here for the funeral, so you should ask them directly, if you haven’t already.”
“I saw them here this evening. But we spoke only for a moment.”
Really? I informed him, “They’re in a cottage at The Creek, if you want to call them.”
Father Hunnings said, “They were always active and generous members of Saint Mark’s, and I respect them both greatly, and I know that Susan loves them both, so I am concerned for all of you if they have not given you their blessing.”
I took a deep breath and said to him, “I don’t care about their blessing—or their money. And neither should my mother, if that’s her concern. And if William and Charlotte are still making contributions to Saint Mark’s, then Susan and I can get married elsewhere, if that’s
your
concern.”
He held up his hand—Peace? Shut up? He said, “My concern, John, is that your marriage to Susan is not ill-advised, and that it fulfills your expectations and hers, and that you enter into the sacrament of Holy Matrimony with full knowledge of your duties and obligations.”
There was more going on here, but I wasn’t sure what it was. Though, if I took a wild guess, I’d say that William had already spoken to Father Hunnings, and told him that he and Mrs. Stanhope were vehemently opposed to this marriage, and would Father Hunnings be so kind as to speak to John and to Susan in a counseling session, and then, of course, separately. Divide and conquer. William would undoubtedly tell Father Hunnings that he thought John Sutter was a gold digger. And William might even tell Father Hunnings that John solicited a bribe from him to break off the impending engagement and marriage. And, of course, William would mention offhandedly a generous contribution to St. Mark’s.
I wouldn’t put any of this past Wily Willie. But I really didn’t think Father Hunnings would go along for the whole ride; he’d just take it as far as he could, and maybe see if William Stanhope had legitimate concerns. Or he’d take it to the next level and ask me about soliciting money from William. And maybe he’d even plant some seeds of doubt in Susan’s head.
William was a ruthless, Machiavellian prick, but rather than point that out to Father Hunnings, who thought well of William, I said, “Susan and I have decided to remarry, and that should not be anyone else’s business.”
“Of course,” he allowed, but then continued, “it’s just that this is so sudden after all these years of being apart, and you’ve only been together for . . . what? A week?”
“Since Sunday.” I added, “About noon.”
“Well, I am sure you will not rush into marriage without allowing some time to get to know each other again.”
“Good advice.” At least he could tell William he gave it a good shot. I stood and said, “Well, Susan and the children are probably wondering where I am.”
He stood too, but he was not finished. He said to me, “I visited with Mrs. Allard often while she was in hospice.” He let me know, “She was a lady of great faith and spirit.”
“She was one of a kind,” I agreed.
“She was. And she mentioned that you’d had a good visit at Fair Haven.”
“I’m sorry I missed you there.”
He continued, “She confided in me, as her priest, that she’d written you a letter.”
I looked at him, but did not respond.
He went on, “She told me in very general terms of the contents of that letter and asked if I thought she should give it to you.”
Again, I didn’t respond, so he said, “I believe Elizabeth was to give you the letter on Ethel’s death.” He asked, “Did she?”
I said, “I’d rather not discuss this.”
He nodded and said, “As you wish.” He glanced at his watch and said, “Oh. It’s almost time for prayers.”
We walked to the door together, and he said, “I hope you will be staying to pray with us.”
“I wish I could.”
We walked down the stairs, and I took the opportunity to tell him, “I am the attorney for Mrs. Allard’s estate, as you know, and while the will has not been admitted into probate as yet, I think I can reveal to you that Mrs. Allard has made a generous contribution to Saint Mark’s.”
We reached the bottom of the stairs, and Father Hunnings nodded and said, with a good show of disinterest, “That was very beneficent of her.”
What was that word? I assured him, “The bequests should be distributed within eight weeks. If you’d like to be at the reading of the will, I’ll notify you of the time and place.” Or I’ll just put the five-hundred-dollar check in the mail, minus the postage.
Father Hunnings was trying to figure out how much money Ethel Allard could possibly have, and also if her beneficence to the church would significantly cut into her family’s share of the loot. He wouldn’t want to be sitting with them if he was going to be hauling away a good part of their inheritance. I’d seen this before.
Finally, he replied, “It’s not necessary that I be there.”
“If you change your mind, let me know.” I inquired, “Do you like cats?”
“Uh . . . not actually. Why?”
“Well . . . Mrs. Allard . . . but we can discuss that another time.”
We bid each other good evening.
I saw Susan in the lobby, and she informed me that her parents had left to have dinner with friends. This surprised me—not that they weren’t going to join the Sutters for dinner, but that they had friends.
Nevertheless, I said, “I’m surprised and annoyed that they passed up an opportunity to be with their grandchildren.”
Susan replied, “Well, they did speak to Edward and Carolyn.”
“And was it a happy reunion?”
“It seemed to be.”
That didn’t sound real positive. I said, “Your parents are avoiding me, and are sulking. And they know that Edward and Carolyn are very happy for us. Therefore, your parents are not happy with Edward and Carolyn.”
“John, let’s not overanalyze this.”
“All right. What are we doing now?”
“Do you want to stay for prayers?”
“I thought we could pray privately at a local bar.”
She smiled and said, “Let’s go to McGlade’s. We haven’t been there in a while.”
About ten years, actually. I said, “Sounds good.”
We rounded up the kids, and Susan passed on our destination to a number of people. Funeral customs vary widely in America, but around here, some people like to hit a bar after the last evening viewing of the body—especially if it’s a Friday night. What better place to deal with your grief?
So the Sutters made the two-minute trip to McGlade’s Pub in Station Plaza, where there was a lively Friday night crowd.
We gave the hostess our name and bellied up to the bar.
Susan and I chatted with some patrons, a few of them from Walton’s, Parlor A and Parlor B, and I was nice to almost everyone.
Edward and Carolyn spotted a few people their own age whom they knew, and they all gathered in a group at the far end of the bar.
The jukebox was playing sixties stuff, and the place was lively, and filled with commuters, townies, and assorted others of all social classes, which is the mark of a good pub. In fact, on the menu, as I recalled, it said, “McGlade’s—Where Debutantes and Mountain Men Meet.” Susan used to say that was us.
As the designated driver, I stuck to my light beer while Susan morphed from Lady Stanhope to Suzie, and banged down a few vodka and tonics. I could see that she was very popular, and it occurred to me that if I hadn’t come along when I did, she wouldn’t have been a widow for long.
After about forty-five minutes, the hostess had a table for us, and we decided to leave Edward and Carolyn at the bar with their friends, and we sat alone, which was nice. There was not a single healthy thing on the menu, so I had a great American pub-food dinner. Love those Buffalo wings.
It did seem like old times, except that at ten o’clock Susan called home before Sophie went to bed, and Sophie confirmed that as of that time, there were no Mafia hit men waiting in the kitchen for us. No onions.
At a little before midnight, we convinced the kids that they needed to leave with us, and a few minutes before we got to Stanhope Hall, Susan called the gatehouse, so when we got there the gates were open, and the guard waved us through. I stopped, however, got out, and explained to him, out of earshot of the children, about my problem with my Mafia neighbor, and he already knew a little about that. I said to him, “I’m going to call you from the house in about ten minutes. If I don’t, you call the police, and if you’d like, come to the guest cottage.” I added, “Gun drawn.”
I didn’t know how he was going to react to that, but he said, “Wait here and I’ll wake my relief guy, and I’ll come with you.”
I didn’t want to make a big thing of this in front of Edward and Carolyn, so I said, “That’s all right. Just wait for my call.”
He then informed me, “I’m an off-duty Nassau cop.” He introduced himself as Officer Dave Corroon and even flashed his creds in case I thought he was just a rent-a-cop with megalomania, like so many of these private security guys. He said, “My advice is to wait for me if you think there’s a potential problem at your house.”
I explained about not wanting to trouble my children. Then I gave him what we called in the Army the sign and countersign. Onions, no onions.
He thought that was clever.
I got back in the Lexus, but no one asked me what I was talking about to the guard, and I proceeded to the guest cottage.
Susan tried Sophie’s cell phone, then the house phone, but no one answered, and I assumed she was asleep.
As we all got out of the car, I said, “I need some fresh air. Let’s sit on the patio a minute and talk about tomorrow.”
Susan thought that was a good idea, and if Edward and Carolyn didn’t, they didn’t say anything.
Susan led them to the path on the side of the house, and I said, “I’ll be right there.”
I unlocked the front door and opened the foyer closet where I’d left the carbine, and it was still there. So I took it out and did a fast check of the first floor, then the second floor. In the master bedroom, I dialed the gatehouse, and Officer Corroon answered and asked, “Everything okay? You got onions?”
“No onions here.”
“Okay. Call if you think you see or hear onions.”
“Thanks.” I hung up, went downstairs, and put the carbine in the broom closet, then went out to the patio.
Susan and Carolyn were sitting at the table talking, and Edward was snoozing in a lounge chair.
We let him sleep, and we went through the itinerary for tomorrow. Depart here no later than 9:30 for the funeral Mass at St. Mark’s at 10:00 A.M. Then to the Stanhope cemetery for burial, and if Father Hunnings didn’t go on too long at graveside—pray for rain—we’d be out of the cemetery before noon, then back to St. Mark’s for a post-burial gathering in the basement fellowship room. Not my idea of a fun Saturday, but every day is not a beach day.
Carolyn inquired, “Should we synchronize our watches now?”
Susan thought that was funny. But if I’d said it . . .
Susan informed us, “Elizabeth is having friends and family to her house Saturday night, seven P.M., and I think we should go.”
I’d never actually been inside Elizabeth’s house, and I thought I should go see the guest room and check out the storage space in the basement. Just in case. I replied, “Fine. Okay—dismissed.”
Not even a smile.
Carolyn woke her brother, and they excused themselves and retired for the evening.
I needed a little nightcap after all that near-beer, so we went into the office and I poured myself a brandy.
I said to Susan, “Father Hunnings asked to speak to me privately in his branch office at the funeral home.”
“About what?”
I told her, and she thought about the conversation. She said, “I certainly don’t need prenuptial counseling, and I am very annoyed that my parents have spoken to him about us.”
I replied, “Their only concern is your happiness.”
“Then they should have no concerns.
I’m
happy. They are not.” She added, “
They
need the counseling.”
“They’d be so much happier if they gave us all their money.”
She smiled, then thought of something else and said, “I can’t believe Father Hunnings mentioned that we are living together.”
“Well, I think your parents brought that up, so he has to address it.”
“Why don’t they all mind their own business?”
“You know the answer to that.”
She didn’t respond and asked, “What do you think is in that letter?”
“Maybe something more important than I’d thought.”
“And Elizabeth has the letter?”
“She did have it.”
“You should ask her for it tomorrow night.”
“I will.”
She asked me what was going on at the gatehouse, and I told her, and said, “This guy, Officer Corroon, seems sharp.” I advised, “Get to know who the off-duty police are. The rest of them could have a second job with Bell Security for all I know.”
She nodded.
I asked, “Do you think the kids are getting wise to something?”
She replied, “They were very quiet in the car when you were talking to Officer Corroon . . . but I don’t know what they’re thinking.”
I said, “If they ask, we stick to the Nasim story.”
She thought about that, then said, “Sometimes I think we should tell them. For their own safety.”
“No. They’re already on the lookout for Iranian hit men. We don’t need to tell them that we really meant Italian hit men.” I added, “Carolyn will be gone Sunday night and Edward Monday morning, and I don’t want them worrying about us after they’ve left.”