Authors: Nelson DeMille
She smiled, then gave our phone number and address—Stanhope Hall, Grace Lane, Lattingtown—no, there’s no house number, just look for the gatehouse—then she called the gatehouse to clear the deliveryman.
I sat with my bare feet on the table and took another swallow of beer.
Susan returned to the subject of William’s apparent capitulation and said to me, “I know my father, and I know that these are going to be tough negotiations.”
“I’m a good negotiator.” Especially when I have the other guy’s balls in my hand, and I’m squeezing. Or should I twist?
“John . . . do you think he was . . . insincere? Or that he’ll renege?”
“He will do no such thing.”
“But . . . I just
don’t
understand—”
“Susan, I believe that your father had . . . well, an epiphany. I think, when he was sitting alone in his car, that it just came to him that he was wrong, and maybe he was moved by the Holy Spirit. I mean, I couldn’t believe it myself when I saw him from the window, getting out of the car with this rapturous look on his face, then coming into my office, and saying, ‘John, I would like to speak to you.’”
What he actually said was, “How
dare
you insist that I come into your office?”
Well, I apologized to him, of course—or did I tell him to sit down, shut up, and read the letter? In any case, as he read the letter, he went from livid to pale, and it was sort of interesting to see someone’s skin color change that quickly. I wish I’d had a video camera. Also, his hands trembled. After that, the negotiations were rather easy. He did bluster now and then, saying things like, “No one will believe the ramblings of an old woman on medication,” and so forth. So I suggested we show the letter to his daughter and his wife to see what they thought, then pay a visit to Mrs. Cotter at the nursing home to see if she could clarify any of this. That shut him up, of course, but he did utter the word “Blackmail.”
I know this is blackmail, and I’m a lawyer, and this goes against all my beliefs and principles. What William had done—or what he is alleged to have done—was not only despicable, but also a crime, though unfortunately the statutes had run out on his crimes years ago. So if he was to pay for these crimes, then it would have to be in another way. The Bar Association and the courts might have another view of this, but at least Ethel would speak up for me when I stood before the Final Court.
Susan said to me, “He looked . . . pale. Shaken.”
“Did he? I didn’t notice.”
“And my mother seemed confused that he’d had this sudden and complete change of heart.”
“Well, she hadn’t shared his divine revelation.”
“John . . . ?”
“Yes?”
“Did you . . . threaten him with something?”
“What could I threaten him with?”
“I don’t know . . . but—”
“Can we change the subject?” I asked, “Whose turn is it to get beer?”
She stood and went into the kitchen.
I finished my beer and thought about Ethel’s letter. She’d made her deathbed confession to me, but according to Father Hunnings, Ethel had also spoken to him about the contents of this letter—and Hunnings had advised Ethel not to give it to me, and he’d also put some pressure on Elizabeth to withhold the letter. Why? To protect Ethel’s memory, as he said? Or did he want to get ahold of the letter himself, then give it to William in exchange for . . . what? A comfortable retirement?
Susan returned with the beers and said, “John, I think you’re too modest. I think that my father’s change of heart was because of something you said, not because of some . . . divine message.”
I replied, modestly, “Well . . . I did my best, and I
was
persuasive, but I really think I had help from a higher source.”
She reminded me, “I
told
you I believe that this was our Fate, and that we have a guardian angel watching over us.”
“It seems that way.” I took a slug of beer.
She moved on to another subject and asked me, “Do you think we should get married at Saint Mark’s?”
“Why not? Father Hunnings gives a discount for the second time.”
She laughed, then reminded me, “You don’t like him, and I don’t think he is particularly fond of you.”
“Really? Well, then I’ll speak to him and smooth things over.” And mention that I read Ethel’s letter, and maybe I
would
ask him if he had any knowledge—other than in a general sense—of the contents.
Susan said, “I’d like it if you would do that.” She added, “I’d like to get married there again.”
“No problem. And I’ll even get Father Hunnings to waive the prenuptial counseling.”
She smiled and said, “I think you’re getting all full of yourself after your success with my father.”
“I’m on a roll,” I agreed. And while I was remaking my world to suit myself, I assured her, “Not only will your parents bless our marriage, they will also pay for it.”
“All I want is their blessing.”
“
I
want to give them the bill. And don’t forget to e-mail them with a Save-the-Date. They’ll want to come in early to help out with the arrangements—and discuss your dowry.”
She ignored my suggestions and asked me, “John, are you willing to forgive and forget? I mean, about my parents?”
I thought about that and replied, “It’s not my nature to hold a grudge.”
Susan thought that was funny for some reason, and suggested, “No, it’s the central core of your being.”
“You know me too well.” I replied, seriously, “I can’t ever forgive or forget what they’ve put us through during our marriage, and just recently, but . . .” I can be magnanimous in victory, so I continued, “I will say this: If your father—and your mother, as well—is looking for forgiveness and trying to make amends, then I’m open to that, and I’m certain that your father is going to forgive me for calling him an unprincipled asshole, and so forth. But my question to you is: How do
you
feel about them?”
She took a deep breath, then replied, “I’m angry. And I’ve seen this very unpleasant side of them. But they are my parents, and I love them, and I will forgive them.” She added, “We would want that from our children.”
“Well, we would, but we don’t need their forgiveness for anything.”
She stayed silent a few moments, then confessed, “I did. For what I did. And they forgave me, unconditionally. Just as you have.”
I nodded and said, “Life is short.”
Maybe I could eventually forgive Charlotte and William for what they did to the Sutter family—the best revenge is living well. But I could never forgive William for what he did to those young girls, and that would stay with me, and with him, until the day we both died.
So we sat in the shade of the patio and looked out into the sunny rose garden as we sipped our cold beers. It really was an exquisite day, and nature was in full bloom, and the air was scented with roses and honeysuckle. I watched a big monarch butterfly trying to decide where to land.
Susan broke into my quiet moment and said, “We need to e-mail the children with this good news, and give them some calendar updates, and . . . well, maybe mention that they might see something in the newspapers about . . . us.”
“You should e-mail Carolyn about this good news. I’ve already e-mailed her about our possible mention in the bad news.”
Susan nodded, then said, “I’m sorry.”
“Subject closed.”
“All right. Then I’ll e-mail Edward . . .”
“And definitely tell him that Grandpa has blessed our marriage by handing over his trust fund to him. But don’t say too much about our possible appearance in the news.”
“All right. But you know that he and Carolyn will discuss this.”
“Fine. And we’ll answer their questions truthfully, but with a little spin.” I further suggested, “Call your parents and set up a date when they can visit Edward in L.A. They need to get to know their heirs better.”
She smiled, then said, “That’s not a bad idea.”
Again we sat in silence, enjoying and savoring the moment together. There are not many perfect hours such as this, especially on a day that had begun so badly, which made this moment all the more extraordinary.
Of course, in every Garden of Eden, there is at least one serpent lurking in the flowers, and we actually had two. The first had a name, and it was Anthony Bellarosa. We knew he was here, and we were avoiding him, and we even avoided speaking of him—at least for now.
The second serpent had no name, and it had recently slithered into the garden. But if I had to give it a name, I’d call it Doubt.
So, to kill this, before it killed us, I said to Susan, “What we did was an act of love.”
She didn’t reply, so I continued, “I never doubted your love, and I know that your heart was breaking.”
Again no reply, so I concluded, “And if we had to do it over again, we would do the same thing.”
She sat there for a long time, then said, “You didn’t even want to take his money. And I . . . I feel so venal, so compromised—”
“No. Remember why we did what we did. It wasn’t for us.” It was to screw William and Peter. And, of course, to see that Edward and Carolyn got their fair share of the family fortune.
“John, that might be true for you, but I’m not sure about me.”
“Don’t doubt your motives. Your father created an impossible dilemma.”
“I know . . . but, God, I felt that I was selling myself and betraying you, and giving up our love for—”
“Susan, I don’t feel that way, so neither should you.”
“All right . . . you’re a very loving and wise man.”
“I am. Have another beer.”
She forced a smile, then said, “I hope this never comes back to haunt us.”
I pointed out, “If we could work through what happened ten years ago, then this is nothing.”
“I love you.”
“That’s why we’re here.” I asked, “Where is the pizza guy?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never ordered a pizza in my life.”
“Well, we’ll fix that in the next twenty years.”
We sat and talked about London, and Paris, with maybe a side trip to the Loire Valley, as we’d done many years ago.
Susan’s portable phone rang, and it was the guard at the gate announcing the pizza man.
I got up, went through the house, and waited for him outside the front door. But as I stood there, I realized that it was moments like this, when you are least expecting it, that your world could suddenly explode—as it had for Salvatore D’Alessio.
I saw a small van coming up the driveway. I went back into the house, bounded up the stairs, grabbed the carbine, went down into my office, and looked out the window. The van stopped, and a young Hispanic-looking guy got out, retrieved the pizza from the rear, then ambled toward the front door. I mean, I wasn’t thinking that the pizza delivery kid could be a hit man, but it was just the act of me standing outside, with no one around, and Alhambra Estates five hundred yards away through the trees, that had spooked me for a moment. Well, that was good. Uncle Sal had been stuffing a cannoli in his mouth, or doing something other than watching the door, and the next thing he knew, he was looking down the barrels of a shotgun. Then, bang, he was in hell.
The doorbell rang, and I went to the front door. I stuck the carbine in the umbrella stand and opened up.
I looked over the pizza guy’s shoulder as we exchanged pizza for money, plus a nice tip, and I locked the door.
I can balance a pizza box on one finger, but I used my whole hand, and carried the box and the carbine out to the patio.
Susan couldn’t help but notice the carbine, and asked, “Do we really need that out here?”
“I hope not.”
I opened the box on the table, and the aroma wafted into my nose and engulfed my soul.
I sat, and Susan went inside, then returned with plates, napkins, knives, and forks. I explained that napkins were optional, and the rest of the stuff was not necessary.
I know that Lady Stanhope has eaten pizza—I’ve seen her—but she always approaches food like this with some trepidation and perhaps a little disdain.
I showed her how to flip the point back and bite it off, then fold the slice to stabilize it. I said, “It’s basic physics.”
So we sat there with our beers, and our pizza, and our rifle, and we had a nice lunch.
Susan confessed, “This actually tastes good.”
“And it’s good for you.”
“I don’t think so, but we can have this once in a while.”
I pointed out, “We could buy the whole pizza parlor.”
She laughed, then said, “Well, John, you saved the day, and I guess I owe you something.” She asked me, “Aside from the yacht, and unhealthy food, what would you like?”
“Just you, darling.”
“You already have me.”
“And that’s all I want.”
“How about a sports car?”
“Okay.”
I ate half the pizza—six slices—and Susan had a second piece, and we wrapped the rest for my breakfast.
Then we went to the bedroom to work off the pizza—sort of a victory lap—and pack for our trip. I had a whole wardrobe in London, so I just threw some odds and ends in my suitcase, and Susan saw this as an opportunity to pack more of her clothes in my luggage. She said, “I have some nice things in the basement that I haven’t gotten around to unpacking.”
Well, we could be gone a lot longer than three weeks, so I didn’t object.
After we packed our suitcases, we took a nap, then at about 5:00 P.M., I got up and said to Susan, “I’m going to run into Locust Valley for a few things. Would you like to come?”
“No, I have a lot to do here, but I’ll give you a list of what I need.”
So I got dressed and said to her, “Keep the doors locked, and don’t go outside.”
She didn’t reply.
I further advised her, “Keep the carbine or the shotgun near you. I’ll put the carbine in the umbrella stand near the front door.”
“John—”
“Susan, we have about”—I looked at my watch—“less than fifteen hours before we’re lifting off the runway. Let’s play it safe.”
She shrugged, then asked me, “What time do you want the car to pick us up for a seven-thirty A.M. flight?”
We’d have to leave for the airport at about 5:00 A.M. in the dark, so I replied, “We will take my rental car so that I can keep the carbine with us, and we’ll park the car in the long-term lot.”