Authors: Nelson DeMille
“I do, too. We’re friends. I like Laurence, too, and I’m happy for both of them.”
“Good. Your kids are great. I love them.”
“They’re good kids. It’s been hard for them, but at least all this happened when they were old enough to understand.”
I nodded and said, “Same with my two.”
“Your kids are terrific, John.”
“I wish I’d been around for them more in the last ten years.”
“That wasn’t all your fault. And you have a long time to get to know them again.”
“I hope so.” I smiled and said, “My matchmaking seems to have fizzled.”
She, too, smiled and replied, “You never know.” She added, “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Then, on the subject of mating, she asked me, “Did you like Mitch?”
“No.”
She laughed and said, “You’re too subtle, John.”
“You can do much better.”
She didn’t respond to that, and we stood there a moment, neither of us coming up with a new subject for small talk.
So I said, “I spoke to Father Hunnings, and he said he spoke to you about the letter that your mother wrote to me.”
She nodded.
I continued, “He told me that your mother discussed with him—in general terms—the contents of that letter, and that Ethel asked him if she should give it to me.”
“I know that.”
“And Father Hunnings, as you know, wants to see the letter to determine if he thinks I should see it.”
She didn’t reply, and I could see that this was not going to be a slam dunk for me. I said to her, “I have no objection to sharing this letter with you—you are Ethel’s daughter. But I do have an objection to Father Hunnings seeing it before I do. Or seeing it at all.”
She nodded, and I could tell she was wavering.
So we both stood there. As an attorney, I know when to rest my case.
Finally, Elizabeth said, “I have the letter . . . unopened—it’s addressed to you . . . but . . . if you don’t mind, I’d like to think about it . . . maybe speak to Father Hunnings one more time.”
I reopened my case and said, “I think this is between me and you.”
“But Mom spoke to him . . . and now I’m in the middle.”
“What was the last thing she said to you about the letter?”
“You know . . . that I should give it to you after her death. But . . . what if it
is
scandalous? Or . . . who knows what?” She looked at me and asked, “What if it has something to do with Susan?”
I’d already thought about that, as Elizabeth obviously had. Elizabeth and Susan were friends, but somewhere in the back of Elizabeth’s otherwise beautiful mind was the selfish thought that if Susan were gone, then John was free. That’s egotistical, I know. But true. In any case, I didn’t think that Ethel, even if she knew some scandal about Susan, would be writing to me about it. In fact, she’d wanted Susan and me to reconcile. And even if the letter
was
about Susan, I couldn’t think of many things that would change my mind or my heart regarding how I felt about her. Well, I suppose I could think of a few things.
I said to Elizabeth, “This is something your mother wanted me to know. But I understand your concern about preserving her good reputation and her memory. So, may I suggest that we look at the letter now, together? And if it’s something like that, then you can keep it and destroy it.”
She shook her head. “I can’t do that now.”
“All right. When you’re ready.”
She nodded. “Maybe Monday. When this is all behind me. I’ll call you.”
“Thank you.” I smiled and said, “Maybe your mother was just telling me what an idiot I am.”
She smiled in return and said, “She actually liked you.” Elizabeth confessed, “But she never liked me liking you. She liked Tom. And Susan.”
“I like Tom and Susan, too. But Tom likes Laurence now.”
She smiled again and said, “It’s all about timing.”
“It is.” I opened my arms, and she stepped forward and we hugged.
She said, “Let’s speak Monday.”
“Fine.”
We walked together back to the patio, where Susan was speaking to Mitch and the other guests in Elizabeth’s little group.
Mitch said to Elizabeth and me, “Hey, let’s get the shovels and go digging for the money.”
Asshole.
Elizabeth ignored him—I’d given Mitch a thumbs-down, and he was finished—and said to Susan, “Sorry. John had to show me where to sign some papers.”
Susan smiled and said, “Make him earn his crabapple jelly.”
We chatted for a minute, then I said, “Unfortunately, we need to go.”
Susan and I thanked Elizabeth for her hospitality, and told her to call us if she needed anything. We wished everyone a good evening, and I said to Mitch, “Don’t wear those sandals if you go digging.”
Mitch did not reply.
Susan and I walked around the side of the house to avoid the people inside, and she informed me, “You were almost rude to Mitch.”
“I didn’t like him.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“There’s nothing to know.”
“Well, I think he and Elizabeth are . . .”
“Not anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I gave him an unsatisfactory rating.”
She thought about that, then asked, “You said that to Elizabeth?”
“I did.”
She stayed silent awhile, then inquired, “When did you become Elizabeth’s mentor and confidant?”
Whoops. I wasn’t following Susan’s thought process. I replied, “She
asked
me what I thought of him. So I told her.”
“You should learn not to answer so bluntly. And you should also learn not to meddle in people’s affairs.”
“All right.” I added, “It’s wonderful to be back.”
She didn’t respond to that and we walked in silence. Clearly, Susan still harbored a wee bit of jealousy. Good. To change the subject, I asked her, “Don’t you want to know about the letter?”
“Yes, I do.”
So I explained to her how Elizabeth and I had left it, and I added, “I just don’t see what could be in that letter that has any importance or relevance to me. So we shouldn’t worry about it.” I continued, “Ethel is—was—an old woman with some typical hang-ups of that generation, and a lot of old-fashioned ideas about what is important.”
Susan pointed out, “Father Hunnings was also concerned—or worried.”
“Well, talk about hang-ups. Did I tell you that I swore to him we were sleeping in separate bedrooms?”
“John, you shouldn’t have lied to a priest.”
“I was protecting your honor.”
“Let me do that.” She thought a moment, then said, “I think we need to give Father Hunnings the benefit of the doubt about this letter. He’s trying to do the right thing.”
I suggested, “Let’s see if I get to read the letter that was addressed to me, and let’s see what it says. Then I’ll let you know if I think he’s trying to do the right thing.”
W
e drove back to Stanhope Hall, and when we got to Grace Lane, Susan called the gatehouse to open up, then called Sophie, who assured us that there were still no onions in the house.
Sophie wasn’t expecting us for dinner, but she quickly threw together a platter of bean sprouts and tofu. It’s hard to choose a wine for that.
Susan and I had a quiet, candlelit dinner on the patio. The sky had cleared and the stars were out, and a nice breeze blew in from the Sound.
Susan said, “This has been one of the best and one of the worst weeks of my life.”
I assured her, “It will only get better from here.”
“I think it will.”
Well, I didn’t. But what else was I going to say?
She said, “I’ll miss Edward and Carolyn being here.”
“And I’ll miss your parents being close by.”
“I won’t.” She switched to a happier subject and asked me, “What would you like for your Father’s Day breakfast?”
“I was thinking of leftover bean sprouts, but maybe I’ll have fried eggs and sausage.” I added, “Buttered toast, home-fried potatoes, coffee, and orange juice. Make that a screwdriver.”
“And would you like that served in bed?”
“Of course.”
“Edward and Carolyn said they were sorry they couldn’t be home for breakfast.”
“No problem.”
“They’ll be here in time for dinner.”
“Good.”
She suggested, “We should have a word with them about their grandparents.”
I didn’t reply.
“John?”
I poured myself another glass of wine and said to her, “I’m not getting involved with that. If you think they need another reminder about the financial facts of life, then
you
give it to them.” I reminded her, “I already kissed William and Charlotte’s asses. My job is done.”
“All right . . . I sense that you’re frustrated, and upset—”
“Not at all. I did what I had to do, and I’m done doing it. I will be more than cordial tomorrow at dinner, and I will speak to your father privately tomorrow night, or Monday morning—about you. But only because that’s what
he
wants. Though I can tell you, nothing is going to change his mind about this marriage, and I will not even try to change his mind. So, you, Susan, need to face some realities, and make some decisions.”
“I’ve already done that.”
“That’s what you think. Look, I came here with nothing, and I am prepared to leave here with nothing.”
“You’re not leaving here without me. Not again.”
“I won’t hold you to that.”
She took my hand and said, “Look at me.”
I looked at her in the candlelight, with the breeze blowing through her hair, and she never looked more beautiful.
She said, slowly and deliberately, “I understand what you’re saying and why you’re saying it. But you can forget it. You’re not getting away so easily this time. Even if you think you’re doing it for me and for our children.”
I looked into her eyes, and I could see they were getting misty. I said, “I love you.”
“And I love you.”
She said to me, “I’m tired of them controlling me with their money. So if I lose the money, and I lose them, then I’m free.”
“I understand.” I asked, “And the children?”
“He won’t do that—my mother would not let him do that.”
Wanna bet? I said, “Okay. That’s good. Then it’s settled.” I said to her, “I almost didn’t come in for the funeral.”
She replied, “I knew you were coming in, even if you didn’t.” She pointed to the sky and said, “This was in our stars, John. This is the way it was meant to happen.”
Oddly enough, I felt the same thing, as all lovers do. But the question now was, What did the stars have in store for us next?
S
usan served me breakfast in bed, though I think Sophie cooked it—which was much better than the other way around.
It was a beautiful June day, and sunlight shone on my tray of sizzling fat. I hardly knew where to begin.
Susan, in her nightie, sat crossed-legged next to me and sipped a cup of coffee. I inquired, “Do you want a sausage?”
“No, thank you.”
I dug into the sausages and eggs.
She said, “This is your special day. What would you like to do on Father’s Day?”
Shoot your father. I replied, “It’s such a beautiful day. Let’s go to the beach.”
“I thought we could go shopping.”
“Uh . . . I thought . . .”
She had a shopping bag next to her, and she gave it to me. “Here’s your Father’s Day present, and we need to buy you something to go with it.” She informed me, “That’s from me, Carolyn, and Edward. Carolyn and I bought it for you when we were in the city.”
“Great. You shouldn’t have.”
“Open it.”
I reached into the bag for my horrid, two-hundred-dollar tie, which now needed a new suit to match. But it didn’t feel like a tie box. It felt like underwear, or maybe a new Yale T-shirt. But when I pulled it out, it was a white yachting cap, with a black shiny bill, and gold braid on the crown. I stared at it. The last time I wore one of these was when I was on the Race Committee at Seawanhaka—a lifetime ago.
Susan said, “Happy Father’s Day.”
I looked at her, still not quite sure that I was understanding this.
She said, “Try it on.”
So I put it on and it fit. I said, “This is very . . . thoughtful.” Should I look out the window for the yacht?
Susan explained, “I’ve gone through some yachting magazines, and chosen five boats that we can look at today.”
I really didn’t know what to say, but I said, “This is . . . really too extravagant.”
“Not at all.”
I turned toward her—without upsetting my breakfast tray—and gave her a big kiss. I said, “Thank you, but—”
“No buts. We are going to sail again.”
I nodded.
“One condition.”
“Never by myself.”
“That’s right.”
“Agreed.”
So we sat there awhile holding hands—my eggs were getting cold—and finally I asked, “Can we afford this?”
“We’re all chipping in. Edward and Carolyn want to do this for you.”
That still didn’t answer the question, but I was very moved by the thought.
Susan produced some magazine pages and gave them to me. I looked at a few classified ads that were circled in pen, and I saw that we were in the right class—forty to fifty-footers—an Alden, two Hinckleys, a C&C, and a forty-five-foot Morgan. The prices, I noticed, were a bit steeper than a mainmast—but, as they say, if you have to ask how much a yacht costs, you can’t afford it. Still, I said, “These are a lot of money.”
“Think of all the hours of enjoyment we’ll all get out of it.”
“Right.” I remembered all the good times we’d had as a family sailing up and down the East Coast. Then I thought about my sail around the world, which was something far different. I said, “We have to get the kids to take some time this summer to sail with us.”
“They promised. Two weeks in August.”
“Good.” And then I thought about everything that could and would happen between now and August—the Stanhopes, Susan and me, and Anthony Bellarosa. Well, I’m too pessimistic. Or realistic. But I didn’t want to spoil the moment, so I said, “This was really a great idea. How did you think of this?”
“It was easy. Carolyn, Edward, and I sat down to discuss your Father’s Day gift, and we each wrote a suggestion on a piece of paper, and we all wrote the same thing. Sailboat.”