“All right . . . I’ll be right back.”
She went inside, and I gave some thought to Susan meeting Salvatore D’Alessio at Alhambra, and I wondered if it ever occurred to her that she had entered a world in which she had no control, and where she was not Lady Stanhope. In fact, she was nothing more than the mistress of the don, and that didn’t bestow much status. It was incredible if you thought about it—and I had—that Susan Stanhope, who’d led such a sheltered and privileged life, and who was so haughty, had debased herself by becoming the sex toy of a powerful but crude man. I mean, history is full of noble ladies who’ve done this—the wife of a Roman emperor became a prostitute by night—and I suppose a clinical psychologist would have a field day with this interesting dichotomy. Maybe Susan was trying to pay back Mommy and Daddy. Maybe I forgot to compliment her on a new dress. Or, most likely, she herself had no idea why she took a criminal as a lover. The mind, as they say, is the most powerful aphrodisiac, and no one knows how it works. In any case, I was fairly sure that Susan had gotten this out of her system. Been there, done that.
Susan returned with a tray on which was a glass of white wine and my Scotch. She set the tray on the table, we raised our glasses, clinked, and she said, “To us.”
I added, “Together, forever.”
I sipped my Scotch, and Susan informed me, “That’s your Scotch. I’ve had it since . . . I moved.”
I guess none of her gentlemen friends or her late husband drank Dewar’s. Or she was telling me a little white lie to make me feel that the last ten years were just a small pile of crap on the highway to a lifetime of happiness. Nonetheless, I said, “It’s improved with age.” I was going to add, “and so have you,” but with women, you need to be careful with those sorts of compliments.
She asked me, “How does that pink squirrel differ from a Scotch on the rocks?”
“Mostly, it’s the spelling.”
She smiled and said, “It’s going to take me a while to get used to your infantile humor again.”
“Infantile? I’ll have you know—”
She planted a kiss on my lips and said, “God, I missed you. I missed everything about you.”
“Me, too.”
So we held hands and stood there, looking out at the sunny garden, sipping our drinks. After a minute or so, she asked me, “How was their house?”
“Not too bad, but I didn’t stop at the sales office.” I wanted to return to a previous subject, so I asked her, “Did you know that Salvatore D’Alessio was the prime suspect behind what happened at Giulio’s?”
She glanced at me and replied, “No. You mean . . . his own brother-in-law?”
“That’s right. You never heard that?”
“Where would I hear that?”
Well, from the intended murder victim, your lover, for one. But I replied, “The newspapers.”
She didn’t respond for a few seconds, then said, “I didn’t follow it in the news.”
“That’s right.” In fact, I seem to recall that she hadn’t even followed the bigger story, a few weeks later, about Susan Stanhope Sutter killing Frank Bellarosa—and that wasn’t because she couldn’t bear to read about it; that was more about Susan’s deeply ingrained lack of interest in, and disdain for, the news in general. Her motto had been the famous observation that if you’ve read about one train wreck, you’ve read about them all. Of course, if you were in the train wreck, you might find it interesting to read about it. In any case, coupled with her lack of interest in the news was her upbringing in a social class that still believed that the only time a woman’s name should appear in the newspapers was when she was born, when she married, and when she died. So that didn’t leave much room for stories about killing your lover. In any case, I believed her when she said she had no knowledge that Salvatore D’Alessio had been the man who ruined our evening in Little Italy. In fact, I’d never mentioned it to her myself.
She asked me, “Why did you bring that up?”
I replied, “Because I think that . . . Anthony Bellarosa may harbor a grudge against his uncle. Also, his uncle may want to finish with Anthony what he started at Giulio’s with Frank.”
She didn’t reply for a long time, then pointed out, “But they . . . they were having dinner together.”
“Well, the D’Alessios didn’t stay for dinner, but I’m sure they have all dined together.” I explained, using Frank Bellarosa’s own words on this same subject, “One’s got nothing to do with the other.”
“Well, of course, it does, John. If that man tried to kill—”
“Susan, don’t even try to understand.” I thought about using an example of me taking out a contract on her father, but that was more of a fantasy than a good analogy, so I said, “The point is, I think this . . . vendetta has been on hold for ten years, and it may come to a head soon. So Anthony may be very busy for a while, trying to stay alive, and at the same time probably making plans to see that his uncle doesn’t.” Susan didn’t respond, so I concluded, “At least that’s what I think.”
She stared off into the rose garden, then finally said, “That’s unbelievable.”
“I just wanted to make you aware of what may happen.” And wake you up a little. “But this only concerns us to the extent that Anthony may not be living next door for long.” Or living at all. “So, the subject is closed.” I asked her, “Any word about Ethel?”
“No . . . John, what exactly did you say to Anthony, and what did he say to you?”
“I’ll tell you about it over dinner.”
“All right . . .”
“What’s for dinner?”
She informed me, “I’ve made my specialty. Reservations.”
“Great. What time?”
“Seven. Did I tell you I canceled your seven o’clock dinner with Elizabeth?”
“Yes, and I already left her a message about that.”
“Well, she hadn’t gotten it when I spoke to her.”
“Right. You spoke to her first. So where are we going?”
“I thought you would like to have dinner at Seawanhaka.” She added, “For old time’s sake.”
I thought about my former yacht club, and to be truthful, I had mixed emotions about seeing it again. On the one hand, there were good memories attached to the club—parties, weddings, the annual Fourth of July barbecue on the lawn overlooking Oyster Bay Harbor, and also the fact that this was where Susan and I had first met at the Guest wedding. Aside from that, my best memories were of the great sailing in my thirty-six-foot Morgan, the original Paumanok, which I’d loved so much that I’d scuttled her in the bay rather than let the IRS seize her for back taxes. There were no bad memories attached to my yacht club, other than that final sail on the Paumanok. But I didn’t know if I wanted to go back there; I wanted to leave it as it was.
“John? Is that all right?”
“Maybe some other time.”
“Now is the time. I want to remember this day for the rest of our lives, and I want it to end on the back porch with the sun going down and a drink in our hands.”
“All right . . . but if anyone says to me, ‘John, I’m surprised to see you here after you ruined your life and ran off,’ I’m going to punch him.”
Susan laughed and said, “If anyone says that, we’ll both beat him up.”
“Deal.” I said, “Well, I need to freshen up.”
“I’ve unpacked all your things, and I’ve separated your laundry for the cleaning lady. You need to go to the dry cleaner tomorrow.” She then pointed out, “You’ve hardly brought enough to wear.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll have Sophie—that’s my cleaning lady, she’s Polish, but speaks good English—I’ll have her press your black suit.” She added, unnecessarily, “You’ll need it soon.”
“Thank you.” I was relieved to discover that Susan hadn’t learned to wash or iron in the last ten years; that would have destroyed my image of her.
She reminded me, “But first, we nee
d to stop at Fair Haven.”
“All right.”
“I would invite Elizabeth to join us for dinner—I know she’s free because I canceled her dinner date—but I’m sure she wants to maintain her vigil at her mother’s bedside, and also this is our first night together.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I did ask her, quite bluntly, if anything happened between you two last night.”
“And now you know that nothing happened. I am disappointed that you didn’t believe me, and I’m frankly surprised that you’d ask her that question, but—”
“I didn’t ask her, John.”
“Oh . . .”
“I can’t believe you’d even think I would ask her.”
“What do I know?” Meaning, about women.
Susan said to me, “But she did offer to explain her overnight stay, and I told her you’d already addressed that.”
“Good. So that’s settled. Again.” I glanced at my watch and said, “I won’t be long.”
“I’ll go up with you.”
We went back inside, climbed the stairs, and entered our bedroom suite. We brushed our teeth at the same sink, as we’d done so many times, and Susan touched up her makeup while I washed Casa Bellarosa off my hands and face.
I found a reasonably clean shirt hanging in my old closet, and Susan slipped on a nice white summer dress that looked good against her tan.
I used to think that Susan took too much time with her preparations, but after ten years of waiting for other women, I realized that Susan was actually fast. She is a natural beauty, and she doesn’t spend forever in front of the mirror or in her closet. It occurred to me that this time around, I’d appreciate her more. At least for the first few weeks.
She actually finished first and asked, “Ready?”
“I can’t find my comb.”
“It’s in your jacket, where it always is.”
I checked and, sure enough, it was there.
So we went downstairs, left the house, and she gave me a set of keys, saying, “These are yours.”
“Thank you.”
I locked the front door, and she noticed, but didn’t comment.
We used her Lexus, and I drove. As we passed the gatehouse, Susan said to me, “I called Soheila, as a courtesy, and told her you’d moved in with me.”
“Did she say you were a fallen woman?”
“No, John. She wished me luck.”
“That’s nice.” I reminded her, “I need to move back into the gatehouse when your parents arrive.”
“No. If they don’t like the arrangement, they can find other accommodations.”
I replied, with total insincerity, “I don’t want to cause trouble between you and your parents.”
She had no response to that, but said, “I e-mailed my parents and the children and told them that Ethel has slipped into a coma.”
“All right.”
I turned onto Grace Lane and headed toward Fair Haven Hospice House.
Susan hit the CD button and Bobby Darin was singing “Beyond the Sea.”
We rode in silence, listening to the music.
It was only eleven days until the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, and the sun was still high on the horizon, and the pleasant landscape was bathed in that special late afternoon summer sunlight, and a nice land breeze blew out to the Sound.
This had been the best of days, and the worst of days. But on balance, it was more good than bad. Unless, of course, you were Ethel Allard, or even Anthony Bellarosa, for that matter. But for Susan and me, it had been a very good day.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Susan called ahead to Elizabeth’s cell phone, so we knew that Ethel’s condition hadn’t changed, and when we arrived at Fair Haven, Elizabeth met us in the lobby. She was wearing a nice blue linen outfit, and she may have come here in what she’d worn to church after getting the call about her mother.
We exchanged hugs and kisses, and Susan and I expressed our sorrow at this turn of events. Elizabeth appeared composed and somewhat philosophical about her mother’s imminent demise, which, she informed us, Dr. Watral said would likely come within forty-eight hours.
Elizabeth, I thought, seemed friendlier to Susan than to me, and in fact, she barely spoke to me. Well, I understood that; we’d shared some pleasant and even intimate time together, and we were both lonely souls who thought maybe this was the start of something. And then Fate stepped in, as it does, and realigned the triangle.
Elizabeth asked us, “Would you like to see her?”
Susan replied, “Of course.”
So we took the elevator up to Ethel’s room, where a nurse sat in a chair in the corner, reading a romance novel. Ethel was connected to a few more tubes than the last time I’d seen her, but she seemed peaceful.
The window blinds were pulled this time, and the room was dark, except for the nurse’s reading lamp and the indirect cove lighting over Ethel’s bed.
Elizabeth said to us, “The doctor assures me she isn’t feeling any pain, and she does look so peaceful.”
Susan moved to Ethel’s bedside, took her hand, and leaned close to her face. She whispered, “God bless you, Ethel, and a safe journey home.” She kissed Ethel on the cheek and said, “Thank you for the hot chocolate and cookies.”
I took a deep breath, moved to Ethel’s bed, took her hand, and said to her, “Tell George I said hello when you see him.” And Augustus, too. I let her know, “Susan and I are together again.” I knew she was in a deep coma, but I thought I felt her squeeze my hand. I kissed her and said, “Goodbye.”
Well, there was little more to say after that, so the three of us went into the hallway and Elizabeth said to us, “Thank you for stopping by.”
Susan, feeling some guilt perhaps, or knowing that Elizabeth would not leave her mother’s bedside, offered, “We’re going to dinner at Seawanhaka. Why don’t you join us?”
Elizabeth smiled and replied, “That’s very kind of you, but I need to stay here.” She explained, “I’ve called a few people, who said they would come by.” She looked at me and let me know, “Your mother is coming soon, if you’d like to wait for her.”
I didn’t, so I replied, “I would, but my mother often loses track of time.” I remembered to say, “Please tell her I’m sorry I missed her.”
I thought Susan was going to give me an argument, but she didn’t.
I didn’t want to stay here any longer and run into Harriet, or the Reverend Hunnings, or anyone else I might not want to see, but I thought I should let Elizabeth know, “I’ve moved out of the gatehouse.”
She nodded and said, “I know.”
“So, you have full access to the house, and you can make arrangements to remove the furniture and personal items.” I added, “I’ll speak to Nasim about a reasonable amount of time to vacate the premises.”
She nodded again, looked at me, and said, “Thank you. And thank you also, John, for all you’ve done.”
We made brief eye contact, I nodded and replied, “I’ll handle whatever else needs to be done, and if you need anything, call me.”
Susan added, “Call my cell phone or the house, and I’ll get the message to John. And please let us know when Ethel passes.”
“I will.” Then she looked at us and said, “I’m very happy for you both.”
I was sure she was being as sincere as Susan had been in inviting her to dinner.
Anyway, we all hugged and kissed again, and Elizabeth went back in the room to continue her deathbed vigil, and Susan and I went down to the lobby.
On our way out to the parking lot, Susan asked me, “Are you sure you don’t want to wait for your mother?”
I picked up the pace and replied, “We’d be here until sunrise.” I added, “I need a drink.”
“All right . . . but, I want you to call her and tell her we’re together again.”
I assured her, “I will, but then she’ll call you to try to talk you out of it.”
; “John—”
I interrupted, “That was nice of you to invite Elizabeth to dinner.”
“I do like her.”
She wouldn’t have liked her if she’d said yes. Nevertheless, it was a nice gesture, and Susan was always kind to her friends.
Susan commented, “Elizabeth is one of the last of the old crowd.”
I nodded and thought about all the people we’d known who’d died, and those who’d moved away, and I replied, “Indeed, she is.”
Susan added, “There are not too many left, as I’m finding out.”
“Well, I’m back, and you’re back. We’ll make new friends in the subdivisions.”
“I think not.”
We held hands as we walked to the car. Fortune was with me again because we got to the car before I ran into anyone I didn’t want to see. But I knew I’d see them all at Ethel’s funeral. Thinking back, one of the people I had not been looking forward to seeing at the funeral was Susan. And now . . . well, it’s true—life is just one surprise after another. Some pleasant, and some not so pleasant.
We drove to Centre Island, which is actually a peninsula, but if you live in a ten- or twenty-million-dollar mansion on Oyster Bay or the Sound, you can call it whatever you want.
We drove into the parking field in front of the Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club, and as I expected, the clubhouse looked the same as the last time I’d seen it, and pretty much the same as when it was built in 1892. William Swan, a close friend of Teddy Roosevelt, had been one of the founders of the club and its first commodore, and if he sailed into the harbor today, he’d easily recognize the big, three-story, gabled and shingled clubhouse, with white trim and black shutters. And unless things had changed in my absence, he’d feel right at home inside, as well. The dress code, of course, had changed, but the gentlemen still wore jackets, though ties were not always required, and as for the ladies, they dressed conservatively, but the old boys would still be shocked at the amount of skin showing.
The club was actually founded in 1871, making it one of the oldest Corinthian yacht clubs in America—Corinthian meaning that the yacht owners sailed and raced their own boats, without professional seamen, and this is in the spirit of the ancient Greek Corinthians, who apparently were the first people who competed in amateur racing for fun. The most sailing fun I’ve ever had, incidentally, was watching William and Charlotte puke their guts out aboard the Paumanok during a gale on the Sound. I remember that day fondly.
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