Authors: Nelson DeMille
I thought about tomorrow—about getting on the flight, alone, and returning to London. Probably, I could get my job back, if I wanted it, and Samantha, too, if I wanted her. But really what I wanted to do was to find a yacht owner who needed an experienced skipper for a long sail. That, I knew from the last time, would remove the temptation—my and Susan’s—to make a bad decision based on love.
I heard a car pulling up and looked out the window. Elizabeth’s SUV came to a stop, and she got out.
I went to the front door and opened it before she rang the bell.
She smiled and said, “Good morning.”
“Good morning. Come in.”
“Just for a moment.” She let me know, “I got your e-mail.”
We entered the house, and I showed her into the office and closed the door.
She looked around, noted Susan’s oil paintings on the wall, and commented, “Susan is very talented.”
I glanced at the paintings, and a flood of memories came back to me—twenty years of living with a woman who had been delightfully crazy, and who had become, over the last ten years, a little less crazy, though no less delightful. And now, the Susan who had just walked out of here was . . . well, defeated. That, more than anything else, made my heart ache.
Elizabeth asked, “John? Are you all right?”
“Yes. So how are you holding up?”
“I have good and bad moments.” She added, “I’ll be fine.”
“I know you will.” I asked her, “Would you like to sit?”
“No. I’m running late for a staff meeting at one of my shops.”
“They can’t start without you.”
She smiled. “I’m afraid they might.” She opened her bag and took out a small, stationery-sized envelope. She said to me, “This is yours.”
I took the plain white envelope and saw that it was addressed to “Mr. John Sutter,” in Ethel’s hand. I said to Elizabeth, “Thank you.” I took it to the desk, picked up a letter opener, and said, “Let’s read it.”
“No. You read it. Mom addressed it to you.”
“Well, I know, but we agreed—”
“If there is anything in there that you want to share with me, give me a call.” She added, “I trust your judgment on this.”
“All right . . . but . . .”
“You don’t look well.”
“Father’s Day hangover.”
She smiled and said, “You should have seen
me
Sunday morning.”
“That was a nice gathering.”
“I’d like to have you and Susan over for dinner when you return from your trip.”
“That would be nice.”
“Tell her I stopped by and said hello and bon voyage.”
“I will.”
“And get some caffeine and aspirin.”
“I will. Thanks.”
I walked her out to her car, and she asked me, “Is that the Stanhopes’ car?”
“It is.”
“Oh, God. I see why you’re under the weather.”
I forced a smile and said, “They’re leaving for the airport soon.”
“Let’s celebrate. See if Susan wants to come by tonight for drinks.”
“Thanks, but we need to pack. Early flight.”
“Let me know if you change your mind.” She asked, “Why are you going to Istanbul?”
“Just to get away. I spent a week there when I was sailing.”
She looked at me and said, “Maybe someday, some handsome man will ask me to sail with him around the world.”
Maybe sooner than you think. I said, “If you wish it, it will happen.”
She didn’t reply.
I said to her, “Tell Mitch I said hello.”
“Who?”
Well, that answered that question.
She gave me a peck on the cheek and said, “Send me a postcard.”
“I will. We will.”
“Bye.” She got in her BMW and drove off.
I went back in the house, into the office, and shut the door.
Well . . . I had too much on my mind and too much on my plate to think about Elizabeth. And, in truth, my heart was still here.
I stood at the desk and looked at the envelope on it.
The intercom buzzed, and I picked it up.
Susan said, “I’m in the kitchen. My father will not see you in the office, but he will speak to you on the phone later—or after you return to London.”
She sounded more composed now—or maybe shell-shocked. I replied, “All right.”
“He’s going out to the car so that I can spend a few minutes alone with my mother.”
“Fine.”
“Please don’t go out to speak to him.”
“I won’t.” I said to her, “I’ll see you after they leave.” I hung up.
I heard the front door open, and I saw William walking to his car.
I’m usually in control of a situation, or if I’m not, I take control. But there are times—like this time—when the best thing to do is nothing. And, really, what did I need to say to William Stanhope? I didn’t need to tell him what I thought of him—he already knew that. And I certainly wasn’t going to ask him to reconsider his demands, or try to soften his heart. So the only thing I could do now that would be positive and productive would be to go out there and smack his head against the steering wheel until the airbag popped. And I would have if he was younger.
And on top of all this, Anthony Bellarosa was still out there, though after tomorrow, when Susan and I were gone—in opposite directions—that problem would be on hold, and with luck, resolved.
I stared at William, who’d gotten in the car and started it, probably listening to the radio. I wondered how he and Charlotte were going to react when they heard about Salvatore D’Alessio’s murder, and Anthony Bellarosa being the prime suspect, and discovered that their daughter was again in the news. Well, I’m sure they’d insist that she return to Hilton Head immediately. I realized that neither one of us was coming back here to live.
I sliced open the envelope, pulled out four folded sheets of plain white stationery, and glanced at Ethel’s neat but crabbed handwriting. I read:
Dear Mr. Sutter,
I write this letter to you from what I believe is my death bed, and I write in anticipation of your return from London to settle the affairs of my estate. This letter will be given to you at the time of my death by my daughter, Elizabeth Corbet, on the condition that you do, in fact, return from London for that purpose, and, further, that you and I have spoken, in person, upon your return.
Well, I thought, I’d met both conditions—I flew in from London, and I visited her in hospice. And she met the final condition. She died.
The only certainty there was that she was going to die; my trip to New York had not been so definite. In retrospect, I should have stayed in London and saved everyone a lot of trouble and sorrow.
I watched William Stanhope awhile, trying to decide if I should just go out there and tell him, calmly but firmly, that he was not to screw around with his grandchildren’s trust funds or inheritance. I mean, what was he going to do if I walked toward the car? Drive off to the airport and leave his wife here?
I looked back at Ethel’s letter to me and read:
I am tired and not feeling well as I write this, so I will get right to my purpose. I know that you and your father-in-law have never cared for each other, and I know, too, that this state of affairs had caused your former wife much grief, and caused trouble between you and her, and I believe, too, that the Stanhopes influenced Mrs. Sutter in her decision to sell her house and join them in Hilton Head.
Well, I could see where this was going—Ethel was playing Cupid at the end, just as she’d done when I’d visited her. Why, I wondered, did she care about Susan and me getting together again? Well, she liked Susan, and I was sure they’d bonded again since Susan had returned, and Ethel knew that Susan wanted to reunite with me. So, Ethel, with not much else to do while waiting for the end, had gotten it into her head to make a final pitch on Susan’s behalf.
I put the letter aside for later. Okay, Ethel. But you forgot about William Stanhope. Actually, she hadn’t, which was why she’d mentioned him. Also, Ethel
never
liked William, and this was her chance to . . . what?
I picked up the letter again and continued reading:
What I am about to write is very difficult for me to put into words. Therefore, let me be direct. William Stanhope is a man who has shown himself to be morally corrupt, depraved, and sinful.
Whoa.
I sat down and turned to the next page.
His shameless and dissolute behavior began when he was a college student, and continued throughout his military service, and beyond, and did not cease even after his marriage. I have difficulty, even now, so many years later, allowing my mind to return to that time. I do not wish to be explicit in my descriptions of his behavior, but I will tell you that he forced himself on the youngest and most innocent of the female staff at Stanhope Hall—
I stopped reading and drew a deep breath.
My God.
I reread the last line, then continued:
He fancied the foreign born girls, those being the most unlikely to resist him. Before and during the war, it was the Irish girls who fell prey to him, and one of them, Bridget Behan by name, attempted to take her own life after he had his way with her. And after the war, there were a number of displaced persons, mostly German and Polish girls who could hardly speak English, and who were terrified of being deported, and this caused them to bend to his will. One of these girls, a Polish girl of no more than sixteen, whose name I am sorry I cannot recall, became pregnant by him, and he had her returned to her country.
I cannot tell you here all that happened during those years, but I can tell you that his disgraceful behavior continued, unabated, until he and Mrs. Stanhope departed for Hilton Head.
And now, Mr. Sutter, you are thinking to yourself why have I waited until this moment to reveal this? First, I must tell you that I, and others at Stanhope Hall, attempted to bring this matter to the attention of Augustus Stanhope while he lived, but to his shame, he would not hear our complaints. And to my everlasting shame, I did not press the matter with him. And to my husband George’s shame,
he
would not take the matter to Augustus Stanhope, and told me to be silent. You must understand that in those days, it was not likely that these girls would make a complaint to the authorities, or if they did, would they be believed over the word of William Stanhope? I know, too, that these girls were at times threatened with discharge or deportation, and at times they were paid to keep their silence. I cannot tell you how many young girls fell victim to William Stanhope, but by my reckoning, not a year passed without some incident or complaint that came to my attention. Now, I must say here that some of these girls, perhaps more than I know, were willing participants in these liaisons, and sold themselves for money. But there were at least as many who did not welcome his attentions, but who nonetheless succumbed to his insistent pressure and his physical aggression.
I realize, as I write this, that I have no proof of what I say, except that there is a fine, upstanding lady who is as familiar with these events as I am, and her name is Jenny Cotter, a name which you or Mrs. Sutter may recall from her years as head housekeeper at Stanhope Hall. Mrs. Cotter is alive as I write this, and is in residence at Harbor View Nursing Home in Glen Cove. She can, and is willing to, give you more particulars if you should need or want more than I have written here.
And so, Mr. Sutter, my letter to you is as much my confession as it is my apology for staying silent all these years. Please understand that my only purpose in remaining silent, aside from my husband’s insistence that I do so, was so as not to cause young Miss Susan—later Mrs. Sutter (and Mrs. Stanhope, for that matter) any pain or heartbreak. But now that I am about to make my journey into the Kingdom of Heaven, I know that I need to unburden my soul of this, and I know, in my heart, that you are the person I should have gone to with this matter many years ago. And I would have, if not for Mrs. Sutter, and this is now in your hands to decide if she should know. I pray that you read this letter, and pray that you confront Mr. Stanhope with this letter and the word of Mrs. Cotter as proof of his transgressions and offenses against these girls. I know that God will forgive me for my silence, and God will forgive him as well if he is forced to look into his soul and face up to his sins and ask for God’s forgiveness.
Sincerely yours,
Ethel Allard
I looked at the four pages in my hand, then looked out the window at William Stanhope, sitting impatiently in his car, waiting for his wife and daughter to finish with their visit.
I opened Susan’s phone book and dialed William’s cell phone.
I saw him find his phone in his jacket pocket, look at the Caller ID, then answer, “Yes?”
I said to him, “William, this is your future-son-in-law. Come in here. I need to speak to you.”
I
still don’t understand,” Susan said, “how you convinced him to change his mind.”
“I can be very persuasive,” I replied.
She’d been questioning me about this, on and off, since her parents left an hour ago, but mostly she was just happy and relieved that it had turned out so well. She called it a miracle, and maybe it was. Thank you, Ethel, and tell that angel at the Heavenly Bar to give you another sherry. It’s on me.
We were sitting in the shade on the patio, celebrating with a few beers, and Susan asked me, “What can I make you for lunch?” She promised, “Anything you want.”
“I was thinking of yogurt. But a pepperoni pizza wouldn’t be so bad.”
Without comment, she picked up her portable phone, called information, then connected with a local pizza parlor. She’d have to memorize that number.
The protocols involved in ordering a pizza seemed to be a mystery to Susan Stanhope—Sicilian or regular?—but she was making good progress. She said to the pizza man, “Hold on,” then said to me, “He wants to know if there is anything else you want on that?”
“Well, how about sausage and meatballs?”
She added that to the toppings, listened to another pizza question, then asked me, “Do you want that cut into eight slices or twelve?”
I remembered a joke that Frank had once told me and I replied, “Twelve—I’m hungry.”