Authors: Nelson DeMille
She nodded, then switched to a happier subject and said, “That was fun at McGlade’s.”
“It was. Where debutantes and mountain men meet. Which reminds me, who was that mountain man who was hitting on you?”
“Are you jealous?”
“Have I ever been?”
“No. Well . . . when we were first dating.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“I can refresh your memory if you’d like.”
“You make this stuff up.” I said, “Okay, we have a long day ahead of us, so we should get to bed, and not have sex.”
“Thank God.”
“I’ll check the doors and windows and be right up.”
She went upstairs, and I sat at the computer. It was almost 7:00 A.M. in London, so Samantha should get my e-mail before she had her first cup of coffee—assuming she checked her e-mail regularly, which she didn’t. I
really
didn’t want her to get on a plane to New York. I mean, I had enough problems here, and though Susan is not the jealous type, I was quite sure she didn’t want to have drinks at the Mark with Samantha.
So I began typing a very nice Dear Samantha letter, which I’d already composed in my mind, explaining the situation with honesty and regret. I didn’t mention the Mafia problem because she’d worry—though maybe me getting whacked would please her. You never know with women who have been scorned. Just look at Susan with Frank—whoops. Delete that.
I reread the letter, tweaked it, then pushed the send button, feeling as though I’d just pushed the detonate button to blow up my last bridge to London.
Well . . . there was no going back now. Actually, since last Sunday, there never was. Done.
I retrieved the rifle from the broom closet, checked all the windows and doors, then went up to the master bedroom.
Susan was lying in bed, naked, with a pillow under her butt. Bad back? Yoga? Ah! I get it.
S
aturday morning was rainy. Good funeral weather.
The Sutters, all dressed in black and carrying black umbrellas, piled into the Lexus. I drove, and within fifteen minutes we were parked near St. Mark’s Episcopal Church in Locust Valley.
The small but handsome Gothic structure had been built at the turn of the last century with money that had been confiscated from a poker game being played by six millionaires in a Gold Coast mansion.
And who, you might ask, would confiscate money from millionaires enjoying a high-stakes poker game? Well, socialists would, or government tax men—but not to build a church. Actually, it was the men’s own wives, good Christian ladies, who were being playful, but who had probably been incited to rob from the rich—themselves—by the parish priest, who thought he needed a new church, and knew how to get it.
Hunnings, I’m sure, would do the same thing if given half a chance. In any case, it was a nice church, despite the sinful origins of the funding—gambling and robbery.
Susan, I, and the children did the meet-and-greet in the narthex, then we found a pew close to the front.
The church was about half full, which was not bad for the funeral service of an elderly woman on a rainy Saturday morning. I didn’t see William’s chestnut locks as we moved down the center aisle, or Charlotte’s emergency-exit red hair, which is hard to miss. So they weren’t here yet. Maybe they had too many martinis at dinner last night, got nasty, and their friends beat them up.
Ethel’s closed coffin was sitting on a bier near the altar rail, covered with a white pall. Some of the flower arrangements from the funeral home had been placed along the rail to brighten things up, and the organist was providing background music. The rain splashed against the stained glass windows, and the air was moist and heavy and reeked of wet clothing and candle wax.
I’d been here at St. Mark’s for many happy occasions—weddings and christenings—and sad occasions—weddings and funerals—and, of course, for Easter Sunday and midnight services at Christmas as well as regular Sunday service now and then. In fact, if I closed my eyes, I could see Carolyn’s and Edward’s christenings, and I could even picture Susan walking up the aisle in her wedding gown.
This place had many memories, and many ghosts, but maybe the saddest memory was of a boy named John Sutter sitting in a pew with Harriet and Joseph and Emily . . . thinking that he had normal parents, and that the world was a very good and safe place.
And speaking of the devil, Harriet sidled into the pew and squeezed herself in next to Carolyn. We all said hello, and Harriet whispered to me, “I’d like to ride with you to the cemetery.”
“Of course.” If Harriet drove herself, there would be a few more bodies along the way for the hearse to collect.
The Reverend James Hunnings approached in his appropriate ecclesiastic garb, bowed toward the altar, then walked somberly to center stage. He extended his hands and proclaimed, “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord.” I hoped he wasn’t speaking about himself.
Ethel, if she could hear, would be pleased with Father Hunnings’ performance as well as that of the organist. The hymns had been chosen by Ethel, and the choir and the congregation were in fine voice.
Elizabeth delivered a beautiful eulogy about her mother, followed by Tom Junior and Betsy. You do learn a few things about the deceased during these eulogies, and Ethel sounded like a nice lady. Maybe she was.
Father Hunnings, too, spoke well of the deceased, saying that she was a lady of great faith and spirit, words that he’d tried out on me last night.
The service continued, including Holy Communion, which meant we could skip Sunday service. I took the opportunity of time and place to say a prayer for my father.
Finally, Father Hunnings invited us to give the sign of peace, and the Sutters kissed; I even kissed Harriet. Then we shook hands with the people around us, and I turned toward the pew behind me and extended my hand to . . . William Stanhope. When did he sneak in?
Carolyn, Edward, and Susan kissed Charlotte and William, then it was my turn with Charlotte, and there was no way out of it for either of us, unless I faked a heart attack. So in keeping with the wonderful message of peace, I planted a quick one on her wrinkly cheek and mumbled, “Peas be with you.”
The funeral home had provided professional pallbearers, and the Allard family followed the coffin, and then Father Hunnings, then the acolytes picked up the rear, followed by the mourners.
It was still raining, so there were umbrellas being popped open, which added to the usual confusion about who’s riding in whose car to the cemetery and who goes in which limousine. Ethel, for sure, was going in the hearse.
Susan insisted that my mother ride in front with me, so I had the pleasure of listening to Harriet giving me driving advice. This is a joke—right?
I maneuvered my way into the line of cars in the funeral procession with Ethel in the lead, followed by three stretch limousines for the family, and about twenty other cars, with a police escort, and we made our way across town to Locust Valley Cemetery. A corner of this nondenominational cemetery is actually the Stanhope family burial ground, which ensured them maximum privacy and a comfortable separation from the less important stiffs.
I parked as close to the gravesite as possible, and we walked with the crowd through the rain toward the open grave.
The funeral home had delivered the flower arrangements and placed them away from the grave, forming a circle, within which we all assembled, and someone handed out roses. There were about fifty mourners gathered around the coffin, which was sitting on a bier next to the hole that was covered with some sort of Astroturf. I noticed that at the head of Ethel’s grave was the old sign that said “Victory Garden.”
George Allard’s tombstone lay next to Ethel’s final resting place, and Elizabeth went over and put her hand on George’s name. That was very nice.
I looked around and noted the other gravestones, most of which had Stanhope as the last or middle name. One of the perks of marrying a Stanhope is that you get a free plot here, and I was really looking forward to that.
William and Charlotte were standing on the other side of the coffin, facing me, and I looked at them. Surely, standing here among all his deceased forebearers, William must be thinking about his own mortality, and about his immortal soul, and his deeds here on earth, which would determine if he was going to be told to take the Up elevator or the Down elevator. He should be thinking, too, about the only immortality we can be sure of—his children and his grandchildren, and the generations that would come after him. Maybe, I thought, or prayed, today William would have an epiphany, and bless our marriage, and embrace our children.
I looked at him closely to see if the Holy Spirit was moving him. But he just looked hungover. Then he sneezed. Pneumonia? Maybe I’d be back here next week.
And speaking of dead Stanhopes, somewhere, maybe fifty yards from here, was the headstone of Augustus Stanhope, and I recalled Ethel’s visit to her lover’s grave on the occasion of George’s interment here. I’d never told anyone about that, except for Susan, and thinking about it now, I wondered if Ethel had taken any other secrets with her to the grave—and this reminded me of the letter. There had to be something in that letter, or Father Hunnings wouldn’t have mentioned it. But what? Possibly a secret will to trump the will we all had been looking at, or some deed, or some other inter vivos transfer from Augustus that gave Ethel or her heirs a claim on the Stanhope fortune? Or maybe the letter revealed a paternity that no one knew about. Maybe William Stanhope was the illegitimate son of the Italian gardener. Who knows? But if you live long enough, as Ethel had, you know a few things.
An acolyte held an umbrella over Father Hunnings’ head, and when everyone was assembled, Father Hunnings began, “In the midst of life we are in death.”
And fifteen minutes later, he ended, “In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through Our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our sister Ethel; and we commit her body to its resting place; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .”
Susan, I, Edward, Carolyn, and Harriet threw our roses on the coffin. “Rest in peace.”
Harriet walked with Edward and Carolyn, and as we moved from the grave, Susan took my hand and said, “Do you remember, at George’s funeral, we promised that we’d come to each other’s funeral, even if we were divorced?”
“I remember that.” Or something like that. “Why do you ask?”
“Because . . . those three years you were at sea . . . I kept thinking . . . what if he’s lost at sea? How can I . . . ?” Then she broke down and started crying.
I put my arm around her, and we walked with the somber, black-clad mourners with our black umbrellas through the rain past the black limousines.
W
e all gathered in the basement fellowship room of St. Mark’s Church, and I could see that there were more people here than had been at the cemetery. The cemetery no-shows, however, seemed to consist mostly of the elderly and the very young, plus the church ladies who’d set up the punch bowls and the food, so these people got a pass on the burial in the rain.
The punch seemed to be alcohol-free, but I was hoping that someone had spiked at least one punch bowl, and all I had to do was find it.
I’m not a big fan of Episcopal cake and cookies, and my stomach was growling for a liverwurst sandwich on rye with deli mustard. But I settled for some potato salad that had little specks of mystery meat in it.
These post-burial gatherings are sort of awkward—I’m just not sure if we’re supposed to continue the mourning, or yuck it up with the family and friends of the deceased. I asked Susan about this—Emily Post had been a little sarcastic the last few times—and Susan said that we’re just supposed to exchange good memories of the deceased, and prop up the bereaved family for a little while longer. I guess I knew this, but having been gone for ten years, I felt like a foreigner sometimes, and I had been noticing that I’d missed or misunderstood some of the subtle changes that had occurred here in the last decade. Or maybe I’d changed more than the culture had.
Harriet seemed to be more popular than I’d realized, which was surprising, but good. Also good was that her car was here, and I didn’t need to drive her home.
I spotted William and Charlotte standing by themselves, sipping the awful punch. I watched carefully to see if William sneezed or coughed, but he seemed more bored than terminally ill. Damn it. Also, I was annoyed that Susan hadn’t dragged Edward and Carolyn over to keep them company and suck up to them. There weren’t that many opportunities left, and Susan was letting one get by. I looked around for the kids, but I didn’t see them, though I did see the Corbet kids.
Maybe I should give up my matchmaking and also my attempt to get the kids to hang around with their grandparents. Susan was no help in either case, so why should I worry about it? Love? To hell with it. Money? Who cares? Leave it to Fate.
I love to mingle in a crowd of people I don’t know, especially if most of them are elderly; you can really get into some interesting conversations. The punch helps, of course. I did see Tom Corbet and Laurence, so the three of us stood in the outcast corner and chatted.
I spotted the Reverend James Hunnings, and his wife had joined him, so I went over to say hello to her—and him—and I noticed that Mrs. Hunnings had aged in the last ten years. This was a big disappointment; I hate it when my fantasy women get old. Nevertheless, she still had a sparkle in her eye and she was charming. Her name, I recalled now, was Rebecca, and she said to me, “Jim tells me that you’re back, and that you and Susan have reunited.”
Who’s Jim? Oh, James Hunnings. Her husband. I replied, “God works in mysterious ways.”
Hunnings butted in, as I’m sure he does often, and said, “Indeed, He does. And wondrous ways.”
Right. Take, for example, your wife not leaving you. I said, “That was a beautiful church service and a touching eulogy.”
“Thank you, John. It’s not difficult to eulogize Ethel Allard. She was a lady of great faith and spirit.”