“How about the Holy Ghost?”
“The Holy Spirit. That’s different.”
“We used to say the Holy Ghost.”
This was a little frustrating. I said, “Well, get the priests back. Let them check it out.”
“I will.”
Finally, Susan and Frank returned. Susan said to me, “You should see the conservatory. It’s bursting with flowers and tropical plants, palms, and ferns. It’s gorgeous.”
“No zucchini?”
Bellarosa explained, “I got all the vegetables outside now. My gardener grows all the houseplants and stuff in there. He switches everything around. Rotates stuff. You know?”
Susan and Frank sat. It was time for plant chat, and I tuned out. I replayed the balcony scene in my mind, then the library scene. The entire episode was so far removed from my experience, even as an attorney, that it had not fully sunk in yet. But I did have the feeling that Bellarosa and I had made some sort of arrangement.
A large, ornate tall-case clock in the far corner struck the hour, and twelve loud chimes echoed through the ballroom, stopping the conversation. I took the opportunity to say, “I’m afraid we’ve overstayed our visit.’’ This is Wasp talk for “Can we get the hell out of here?”
Bellarosa said, “Nah, if I wanted you to leave, I woulda said so. So what’s your rush?”
I informed everyone, “My hemorrhoids are bothering me.”
Mrs. Bellarosa, who seemed to have gotten over her ghost jitters, said sympathetically, “Oh, that can drive you nuts. I had that with all my pregnancies.”
“So did Susan.’’ I stood, avoiding Susan’s icy glare.
Everyone else stood, and we followed the Bellarosas out of the ballroom. I did a little soft-shoe routine to try to make Susan smile. She finally cracked a smile, then punched me in the arm.
We crossed the palm court, and I did a bird call, a yellow finch, which I’m good at, and all the caged birds began chirping and squawking.
Bellarosa glanced back at me over his shoulder as he walked. “That’s pretty good.”
“Thank you.’’ I felt another punch in the arm.
We stood at the front door, all ready to do the good-night routine, but Susan said, “I would like to give you both a housewarming gift.”
I hoped she had opted for the cake, but no, she said, “I paint Gold Coast houses, and—”
“She gets nine hundred a room,’’ I interjected, “but she’ll do any room in the house for free.”
Susan continued, “I do oil paintings of the ruins. I have photos of this palm court when it was in ruins.’’ She explained and ended by saying, “I have the slides, but I need to do some work here for three-dimensional perspective, proportion, and different lighting.”
Poor Mrs. Bellarosa seemed confused. “You want to paint it like it was when I first saw it? It was a wreck.”
“A ruin,’’ Susan corrected. Susan is very professional when she’s in her artiste mode.
Frank chimed in. “Sure. I get it. Like those pictures we saw in the museum in Rome, Anna. All these Roman ruins with plants growing out of them, and sheeps and people with mandolins. Sure. You do that?”
“Yes.’’ Susan looked at Anna Bellarosa. “It will be beautiful. Really.”
Anna Bellarosa looked at her husband. Frank said, “Sounds great. But I got to pay you for it.”
“No, it’s my gift to you both.”
“Okay. Start whenever you want. Door’s open to you.”
It seemed to me that Frank had some prior knowledge of this, and I would not have put it past Susan to have done an end run around me and Anna Bellarosa. Susan gets what Susan wants.
I moved to the door. “Well, it’s been a very enjoyable and interesting evening,’’ I said, going into my standard good-bye.
“Yeah,’’ Frank agreed.
Susan did her line. “Anna, you
must
give me your recipe for cannoli cream.”
I felt my stomach heave again.
Mrs. Bellarosa replied, “I got no recipe. I just make it.”
“How wonderful,’’ Susan said, then finished her speaking part. “I don’t know
when
I’ve had so much fun. We
must
do this again. Come to us next time.”
Actually, Susan sounded sincere.
Anna smiled. “Okay. How about tomorrow?”
“I’ll call you,’’ Susan said.
Frank opened the door. “Take it easy going home. Watch out for the fuzz.’’ He laughed.
I shook hands with my host and kissed Anna on the cheek. Anna and Susan kissed, then Frank and Susan kissed. Everyone was taken care of, so I turned toward the door, then stopped, took a calling card from my wallet, and left it on a plant table.
Susan and I walked to her car. Susan wanted to drive, and she got behind the wheel. She swung the car around in the forecourt, and we waved to the Bellarosas, who were still at the door. Susan headed down the drive.
We usually don’t say much to each other after a social evening, sometimes because we’re tired, sometimes because one or the other of us is royally ticked off about something, like flirting, close dancing, sarcastic remarks, and so on and so forth.
As we approached the gates, they swung open, and Anthony stepped out of the gatehouse. He waved as we went by. Susan waved back. She turned right, onto Grace Lane. Finally, she spoke. “I had a nice evening. Did you?”
“Yes.”
She looked at me. “Was that a yes?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then you’re glad you went?”
“Yes.”
She turned into the open gates of Stanhope Hall and stopped the car. Unlike the Bellarosas, we don’t have electric gates, so I got out, closed the gates, and locked them. The gatehouse was dark, of course, as the Allards turn in early. It is at this point that I sometimes announce my preference to walk the rest of the way home. This is usually followed by spinning wheels and flying gravel. George sweeps and rakes it out in the morning.
“Are you coming?’’ Susan called out from the car. “Or not?”
Nations sometimes go to war. Married couples live in a state of perpetual war, broken occasionally by an armed truce.
Don’t be cynical, Sutter.
“Coming, dear.’’ I got back into the car, and
Susan drove slowly up the unlit drive. She said, “You didn’t have to leave your calling card.”
“Why not?”
“Well . . . anyway, what were you and Frank talking about all that time?”
“Murder.”
“Anna is rather nice. A bit . . . basic, perhaps, but nice.”
“Yes.”
“Frank can be charming,’’ Susan said. “He’s not as rough as he looks or talks.”
Wanna bet?
“I think Anna liked you, John. She was staring at you most of the evening.”
“Really?”
“Do you think she’s attractive?”
“She has Rubenesque tits. Why don’t you paint her naked, dancing around the palm court?”
“I don’t paint naked women.’’ She stopped the car in front of our house, we got out, I unlocked the door, and we went inside. We both headed into the kitchen, and I poured club soda for us. Susan asked, “Did you discuss any business?”
“Murder.”
“Very funny.’’ She asked, “Did you and Anna figure out where you’d seen each other before?”
“Yes. Locust Valley. The pharmacy. Hemorrhoid remedies.”
“You’re quick, John.”
“Thank you.”
“Why were you wearing your reading glasses? Quick now.”
“So Frank wouldn’t hit me.”
“Excellent. You’re crazy, you know.”
“Look who’s talking.”
Susan finished her club soda and headed for the door. “I’m exhausted. Are you coming up?”
“In a minute.”
“Good night.’’ She hesitated, then turned to me. “I love you.”
“Thank you.’’ I sat at the table, watched the bubbles in my club soda, and listened to the regulator clock. “Murder,’’ I said to myself. But he didn’t commit
that
murder. I believed him. He has committed a dozen felonies, probably including murder. But not
that
murder.
As I’ve said, I’d had a premonition that Frank Bellarosa and I would one day go beyond vegetable chatter. But that was as far as my prophecy went. From here on—from the moment I sat there and had that last drink with him instead of leaving—I was on my own.
Looking back on that evening, I recalled that if Susan had told me she had a terrible evening and wanted to avoid the Bellarosas, then I would have done just that. But, incredibly, Lady Stanhope was going to do a painting of Alhambra that would put her into almost daily contact with don and donna Bellarosa. I suppose I should have foreseen the dangers inherent in this situation, and perhaps I did, but instead of demanding of Susan that she withdraw her offer to do a painting, I said nothing. Obviously, we were both responding to Bellarosa’s unwanted attention for our own reasons; me, because I saw a challenge and because I wanted to show Susan that her husband was not just a dull attorney and was perhaps a little sinister himself, and Susan because . . . well, I didn’t know why then, but I found out later.
So, it was a juxtaposition of events—the hayloft incident, the tennis court incident, and the Sutters’ post-winter ennui—that had combined with Frank Bellarosa’s proximity and his own problems to draw us together. These things happen, as unlikely as it seems, and if ever there was a case to be made for sticking with your own kind, this was it.
But that’s all hindsight. That evening, my mind was cloudy, and my good judgment was influenced by my need to prove something. It goes to show you, you shouldn’t stay out too late during the week.
I rattled around the big old house on Birch Hill Road all day, ignoring the ringing phone, watching the rain, and even doing some work.
No one else, except the mailman, came by, and I was irrationally annoyed that my employees had actually taken the day off on my made-up holiday. I would have written a nasty memo to the staff, but I can’t type.
At about five
P
.
M
., the fax machine dinged, and I walked over to it out of idle curiosity. A piece of that horrible paper slithered out, and I read the handwritten note on it:
John,
All is forgiven. Come home for cold dinner and hot sex.
Susan
I looked at the note a moment, then scribbled a reply in disguised handwriting and sent it to my home fax:
Susan,
John is out of the office, but I’ll give him your message as soon as he returns.
Jeremy
Jeremy Wright is one of the junior partners here. I suppose I was pleased to hear from Susan, though it was not I who needed forgiving. I wasn’t the one rolling around in the hay with two college kids, and I wasn’t the one who thought Frank Bellarosa was good-looking. Also, I was annoyed that she would put that sort of thing over the fax. But I
was
happy to see that she had regained her sense of humor, which had been noticeably lacking recently, unless you count the laughing from the hayloft.
As I was about to walk away from the fax machine, it rang again and another message came through:
Jerry,
Join me for dinner, etc.?
Sue
I assumed, of course, that Susan had recognized my handwriting. I replied:
On the way home, I saw that the sky was clearing rapidly with wisps of black cirrus sailing across a sunny sky as the southerlies brought the warm weather back. Long Island is not a large land mass, but the weather on the Atlantic side can be vastly different from the Sound side, and the East End has its own weather patterns. All of this weather is subject to change very quickly, which makes life and boating interesting.
I turned the Bronco into Stanhope’s gateway and waved to George, who was on a ladder cutting some low branches on a beech tree.
As I headed toward my house, I tried to put myself in the right postbellum, precoital mood.
Susan swung open the door, wearing nothing at all, and called out, “Jerry!’’ then put one hand over her mouth and the other over her pubic region. “Oh . . . !”
“Very funny.”
Dinner was indeed cold—a salad, white wine, and half-frozen shrimp. Susan has never taken to cooking, but I don’t fault her. It’s a wonder she knows how to turn on the oven considering she never even saw Stanhope Hall’s downstairs kitchen until she was twenty. But dinner was served in the nude, so what could I complain about?