The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  “Oh . . . that was Stacy. She’s . . . we’re going to the beach.”

  “Terrific. Which one?”

  “Probably Malibu. Hey, Dad, you have to come out here.”

  “I plan to. But I guess I’ll see you here soon for a less happy occasion.”

  “Yeah . . . how’s she doing?”

  “Not too well. I saw her a few days ago, and I think it will be soon.”

  “That’s really sad.” He asked me, “So, how are you doing back in New York?”

  “Terrific. Good to be back.”

  “How’s the weather there?”

  “Perfect.” It didn’t seem to occur to Edward that there was anything unusual about his mother and me calling him together, and he seemed to have forgotten that it was about something important. Edward actually has a genius IQ, though most people wouldn’t guess that, and he’s been a little spacey since I can remember, so I couldn’t blame that on California, much as I’d like to.

  I could see that Susan was getting a bit impatient, so I said to Edward, “Well, Skipper, you’re probably wondering why we called.”

  “Yeah . . . is everything okay?”

  Susan put the phone on speaker and said, “I’m on the line, sweetheart. Your father and I have some very good news.”

  “Great.”

  I guess it was my turn to speak, so I said in a happy tone, “Your mother and I are getting married.”

  “Huh?”

  “Married. Again. Remarried.”

  There was a silence, then Edward asked, “You mean . . . ? To each other?”

  Susan chirped in, “Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Oh . . . yeah. Wow. Awesome.” Then I think he got it, and said, “Oh, wow.” He expounded on that. “Hey, are you kidding?”

  Susan and I replied in unison, “No,” and Susan said to him, “We called Cari and she’s just thrilled. She’ll call you tonight.”

  “Great. Hey. I’m . . .” And then something odd happened, and I could actually hear that he was choking up. I had a little lump in my throat, too, and I saw that Susan had tears in her eyes.

  I said to him, “We’re going to let you get going, Skipper. Have fun at the beach. See you soon.”

  “Yeah . . . see you . . .”

  Susan was dabbing her eyes with a tissue, and suggested to Edward, “Don’t make too many plans for when you get in. This is family time. We’re having dinner together.”

  “Yeah? Oh. Okay. Sure. Good.”

  Susan continued her briefing. “I’ll call and e-mail you as soon as we know something. You need to take the first available flight to New York. It doesn’t have to be direct or nonstop. And don’t forget to ask about first or business class if coach is sold out. Edward? Are you listening?”

  Edward had actually stopped listening about ten years ago, but he replied, “Okay, Mom.”

  “I love you.”

  “You, too.”

  I said, “Love you.”

  Susan hung up and said to me, “They were absolutely thrilled. They really were, John. Could you tell?”

  “I could.”

  Susan dabbed her eyes again and said, “We have a lot of time to make up for as a family.”

  “We do, and I have a lot of catching up to do with them, but this will all be very positive now.”

  “It will be.” She thought a moment, then said, “Edward still needs a good, strong male figure in his life. He’s . . . immature.”

  I didn’t think so, and I should have let it drop, but my sarcastic side said, “He’s twenty-seven years old. He can be his own male role model.”

  She seemed a little annoyed, then embarrassed, and reminded me, “You know how Edward is.”

  “Yes, he’s like me.”

  “You’re slightly more organized. And I emphasize slightly.”

  Susan had actually been one of the most scatterbrained women I’d ever known, but apparently she’d become more organized since I left. Or at least less scatterbrained.

  The problem was, we’d both changed, but the memories had not, or the memories had changed, and we had not. It was going to take a lot of work for both of us to see each other as we were now, not as we were then.

  On a more optimistic note, Susan felt so immediately comfortable with me that she didn’t hesitate to point out my flaws and make constructive criticisms when necessary. That was a very short courtship.

  She obviously sensed what I was thinking, or she was following up on her last comment, and she informed me, “I love you anyway. I love your boyish charm, your sarcastic wit, your very annoying habits, and even your stubborn, unforgiving nature. I love you unconditionally, and I always have. And I’ll even tell you why—you tell the truth, and you have character, which I don’t see too much of these days, and you have guts, John.” She added, “I’m never afraid when I’m with you.”

  I hardly knew what to say, but I could have followed her lead and replied, “You’re spoiled, totally out of touch with reality, slightly bitchy, passive-aggressive, and crazy, but I love you anyway.” That was the truth, but I was afraid it might not come out right, so I said, “Thank you.” I took her in my arms and said, “I love you unconditionally. I always have, and I always will.”

  “I know.” She put her head on my shoulder and said, “This is like a dream.”

  I could feel her tears on my neck, and we held on to each other.

  I don’t know what she was thinking, but I was thinking of dinner with Anthony Bellarosa.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Susan had taken on the formidable task of perfecting me before remarrying me. One of my imperfections was my pale skin, which she’d remarked on in the bedroom, and I agreed that I needed a little color. So we moved two chaise lounges into the sunlight on the patio, took off our clothes, and lay side by side holding hands, I in my boxer briefs and Susan in her bikini panties. The radio in the kitchen was tuned to a classical station, and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, led by Sir Georg Solti, was playing the Flying Dutchman Overture.

  The sun felt good on my skin, which hadn’t seen much sun in London for seven years.

  On the side table between us was a liter of San Pellegrino, which reminded me of the first time I’d had this sparkling water, with Susan, on our first visit to the Bellarosa house. The second time was a celebratory lunch with Frank Bellarosa at Giulio’s in Little Italy, after our court appearance at which I’d gotten Frank sprung on bail. Perhaps my last bottle of Pellegrino water was also at Giulio’s, some months later. This was a social occasion with our wives, and by that time I was more familiar with Italian cuisine, and I was also fairly certain that my wife, lying now beside me, was having an affair with our host, who was practically ignoring her and being very solicitous of me. What more proof did I need?

  So, on that occasion, I was not in the jolliest of moods—I mean, as a lawyer, I’m supposed to screw the client; the client is not supposed to screw my wife—and thinking back on it, I should have said to Anna Bellarosa, as she was eating her cannoli, “Your husband here is fucking my wife.”

  And Anna would have turned to Susan and said, “Susan, I have to . . . but you . . . ?”

  Just kidding. In any case, I’ve often wondered how the evening would have turned out if I had confronted them in Giulio’s. Would Frank and I have gone out to the street to see if his limousine was waiting for us? Probably not. I’m certain I’d have been looking for a taxi to take me to the Long Island Railroad station, alone. And would my abrupt departure have thrown off the timing of the planned hit? I don’t know, but I’m sure I wouldn’t have been standing next to Frank when he took two shotgun blasts in his Kevlar vest, and I wouldn’t have been there to stop him from bleeding to death, and he wouldn’t have lived so that Susan could kill him later.

  If we are being stalked by Fate, there’s no escape, but even Fate has to have a Plan B to allow for human nature, and Kevlar vests.

  Susan said to me, “You’re very quiet.”

  “I’m en
joying the moment.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “Okay . . . you have beautiful breasts.”

  “Thank you. Would you like to see my ass?”

  I smiled. “Sure.”

  She pulled off her panties and turned on her stomach. “How’s that?”

  I turned on my side toward her and replied, “Perfect.”

  She suggested, “Take off your shorts. Get some sun on that pale butt.”

  I slipped off my shorts, turned on my stomach, and we faced each other.

  She asked me, “Can you do it again?”

  “Turn again?”

  “No, John, make love again.”

  “Why would you even ask?”

  She smiled, reached over, and pinched my butt cheek. I felt a stirring in my loins, as they say, and the chaise cushion didn’t have much give in it, so to avoid a serious injury I flipped again on my back, and Susan exclaimed, “Oh, my goodness! Hold it right there.”

  She scrambled out of her chaise and positioned herself on top of me with her legs and knees straddling my hips, then lowered herself and I slid right in.

  We’d done this here before, on the patio, though I think the chaise lounges were different, and we’d only been caught twice—once by the gardener, who never seemed the same to me again, and once by Judy Remsen, a friend of Susan’s who’d stopped by to deliver a potted plant, which she dropped. Our next dinner date with the Remsens had been interesting.

  Susan began a slow, rhythmic up-and-down movement, then increased her tempo. Her body arched back, and her face was lifted toward the sun.

  Time, which is relative, seemed to stand still, then speed up, then slowed for a very long second as we both reached orgasm together.

  Susan rolled forward and fell on my chest, and I could hear her heavy breathing over my own. She slid her hands and arms under my back and squeezed me tightly as she bit gently into my shoulder. She began gyrating her hips, and within seconds she had another orgasm.

  I thought she might go for a hat trick, but she stretched out her legs, put her head on my shoulder, and within a minute she was asleep. I can only imagine what my suntan was going to look like. I, too, was sex-and-sun drowsy, and I drifted off, listening to birds singing and Wagner on the radio.

  I had a pleasant dream about lying naked on a sunny beach, and when I awoke, I had this good idea that Susan and I should go to the nude beach in St. Martin where I’d spent a few happy days ten years ago.

  But as my head cleared, I rethought that and considered the possible pitfalls of suggesting a trip to a place where I’d been during my self-exile. Especially a nude beach. So maybe Susan and I should travel back to Hilton Head with her parents after Ethel’s funeral, and we could begin the process of healing and bonding as a family. The Stanhopes would be delighted that we were together again, and William would grab my shoulders and say, “John, you silly rascal, it’s good to have you back.” And Charlotte would chirp, “My favorite son-in-law is with us again!”

  Actually, they were going to have a monumental fit. I gave this subject some deep thought, realizing I needed to discuss this with Susan.

  Susan stirred, yawned, stretched, then gave me a peck on the cheek and rolled off. She stood beside the chaise facing into the sunlight with her eyes closed, and she asked me, “Do you remember the time Judy Remsen dropped by?”

  “I do.”

  She laughed and said, “I felt so bad for her.”

  “Don’t feel too bad. She rushed off to call everyone she knew.” I sat up, drank some Pellegrino water, and watched Susan standing naked in the sunlight.

  She said to me, “Stand here, facing me, and we’ll do stretching exercises.”

  “I’m sorry. I pulled my groin. You go ahead.”

  “John, you need to stay in shape.”

  “I run.”

  “You need to stretch and work your muscles.” She informed me, “There’s a new Pilates studio in Locust Valley.”

  “A what?”

  She explained, but I didn’t get it.

  Susan began a series of stretching and bending exercises, and it was so sexy that I asked, “When does this class start?”

  “Anytime you’re ready.”

  She continued her gyrations, and I asked, “Is everyone naked?”

  “No, John.”

  “Oh . . .”

  Susan slipped on her panties, spread her beach towel on the patio, then lay on her back and began doing floor exercises that didn’t seem humanly possible.

  I glanced at the sun and guessed it was close to 3:00 P.M. I said to her, “Susan, I need to speak to you about a few matters.”

  Without interrupting her routine, she replied, “Later. Let’s go out to dinner tonight.”

  I didn’t reply.

  She continued, “I’d like you to move your things here this afternoon. I’ll help you.”

  I reminded her, “Your parents will be staying here.”

  “Oh . . . we’ll work it out.”

  I pulled on my shorts, stood, and said, “Let’s go inside.”

  She stopped her leg lifts, sat up, looked at me, and asked, “What else do you need to speak to me about?” She pointed out, “We’ve discussed what needed to be discussed.”

  I gathered my clothes and replied, “Some logistical things.”

  She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then stood and gathered her clothes, and we went inside. As we got dressed in the kitchen, she suggested, “Let’s sit in my office.”

  It used to be my den and home office, so I knew the way, and we went into the big front room where I’d seen her through the window a few days ago.

  I expected to see that my masculine décor—leather, brass, mahogany, and hunting prints—had been replaced with something softer, but the furnishings and their arrangement looked the same as when I’d left ten years ago, and the only thing missing, aside from me, was some Army memorabilia. I noticed that she even had a framed photograph of my parents on a bookshelf.

  Susan commented first. “I kept everything, except what you took.”

  I didn’t reply.

  She moved to the small bar and announced, “It’s time for a drink.”

  “I’ll stick to vodka.”

  She poured me a vodka with ice from the bar refrigerator and made herself a vodka and tonic.

  We sat together on the leather couch, and Susan put her bare feet on the coffee table. As I’d learned from many years of law practice, I should make my points in ascending order of importance, starting with the least important, which was her parents. Also, start with a question. I asked, “How do you think your parents are going to react to our good news?”

  She answered, without hesitation, “They’re going to have a shit fit.”

  I smiled at the unexpected profanity, but to show this was a serious subject, I asked, “And how are you going to react to their shit fit?”

  She shrugged, then replied, “It’s my life.”

  “But it’s their money.”

  “I have money of my own.” She added, “But not that much after I overpaid for this house.”

  “All right. So—”

  “And that’s something I wanted to discuss with you.”

  “The answer is, I’m broke.”

  She waved her hand in dismissal and informed me, “Oh, I guessed that. But you can earn a good living and you’re good in bed.”

  I smiled and said, “All right, but—”

  “No, what I wanted to tell you is, I don’t want us to have a prenuptial agreement this time.”

  That was a bit of a shock, but she explained, “My only real assets are this house, and the house in Hilton Head, both of which are mortgage-free, and I want you to own half of both of them—and pay most of the bills.”

  I replied, “That’s very generous, but—”

  She continued, “As you’ve already figured out, when we announce our remarriage, my parents will threaten to cut me out of their will, and end their financial support.”
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  I saw that she’d thought about this in the last few hours, or maybe the last few weeks, or years. Apparently, while I was wondering if we could establish some civility toward each other, she was thinking about how much a remarriage to John Sutter was going to cost her. I was very touched that she decided that I was worth more than her parents’ money. Nevertheless, what was abstract and noble now was going to be a hard reality for her in a few days when she called Mom and Pop. I said to her, “They are not going to threaten to cut off your allowance and disinherit you. They will. In a heartbeat.”

  Again, she shrugged and replied, “You, Mr. Sutter, are my last chance at happiness. And my happiness is all that counts.” She smiled and added, “Well, yours, too.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say something nice.”

  “I’ll say something realistic, and that’s the nicest thing I can say to you—life is not easy without money.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “That’s the point, Susan.”

  “Are you trying to worm your way out of this marriage just because I’m down to my last few million dollars?”

  I forced a smile and joked, “Don’t forget your dowry and the big wedding gift from your parents.”

  She replied, “You can be sure they’ll offer me five million not to marry you.”

  I stayed silent for a while, sipping my drink. Finally, I said, “All right . . . we could do very well on what you have left, stay in this house if you’d like, maybe keep the house in Hilton Head, and I can certainly earn a good living.” Which was true, even if I didn’t work for Murder, Inc., and I was fairly certain I wouldn’t be doing that after this turn of events in my love life.

  Susan, picking up on my last statement, reminded me, “You have a job offer.”

  “I do . . . and we’ll get to that shortly. But, money aside, have you considered the emotional cost of an estrangement from your parents?”

  “They’ll get over it.” She added, “But I want you to promise not to throw fuel on the fire.”

  I considered that and replied, “I’ll certainly let them know that I’m a very different man than the person they knew ten years ago.”

  Susan observed, “You’re not. But you can say you are.” She reminded me, “You called my father a fuckhead.”