The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  “I’ll tell them it’s my second car.”

  “They’ll see that there are guards in the gatehouse and that I couldn’t be living there.”

  “All right, do you want to greet them with me?”

  “No, Susan, I want to leave. I’ll be back—”

  “You are not leaving.” She explained, “You’re just hiding for a while.”

  “All right.” So I grabbed a napkinful of hors d’oeuvres and my Scotch, then I looked at her and said, “Good luck.”

  “John, just remember one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Half of a hundred million dollars.”

  I smiled, and carried my hideout rations into the office and closed the door. The blinds were open, and I could see the florist van pull up. I watched as two men unloaded enough flower arrangements to bury an Italian funeral home.

  I lowered the blinds so that William and Charlotte didn’t get a peek at their future son-in-law, and sat at the desk and checked my e-mail, ate hors d’oeuvres, and sipped my Scotch.

  Susan had called Mr. Mancuso, and she told me that he’d given her some assurances, some advice, and also some of the same information about Anthony’s disappearance that he’d given me. He’d also told her that he was impressed with her courage, but that she needed to balance that with some extra vigilance, and so forth. Apparently, according to Susan, they were now good buddies, which made me happy.

  I had not told Susan about running into Tony because she had enough on her mind, but right after the incident I had called Felix Mancuso using Susan’s cell phone, and I left him a message on his voice mail relating my intemperate remarks to Anthony’s driver. I suggested that he or someone from his office might want to question Tony regarding his boss’s whereabouts, if they hadn’t done so already. I had also informed Mancuso that Amir Nasim was in the process of installing a full security system at Stanhope Hall that would rival whatever they had in place at 26 Federal Plaza, which was the address on Special Agent Mancuso’s card. I suggested, too, that he might consider updating Detective Nastasi, or I’d do that if the FBI and the local police were not sharing information this week.

  I’m good at covering all my bases, and my ass, and my brain works well when my life is in danger.

  Anyway, I checked through almost two weeks of e-mail, most of it from clients in London who couldn’t seem to grasp the fact that I was on an extended sabbatical, which reminded me that I needed to inform my firm of my decision to resign. And I also needed to inform Samantha of my decision to resign from her.

  I should phone, but it was past 11:00 P.M. in London, so maybe I should just e-mail and get that over with, but that wasn’t the right thing to do . . . and, I thought, maybe I should wait to see what happened in the next thirty minutes. I mean, it could get ugly, but I knew that Susan would, as she said, put her priorities in order. The problem was, she had several priorities: me, the children, and the money, and they might be mutually exclusive.

  So it might have to be me who needed to put the priorities in order, and by that I meant I might bow out if it came down to John or half the hundred million. Not to mention the children’s trust funds and Susan’s allowance.

  While I was thinking about being noble and selfless, I could hear the florists going in and out the front door, and Susan giving them instructions in that upper-class tone of voice that was polite but unquestionably authoritative.

  How, I wondered, was this woman going to live without money? I mean, those fucking flowers cost more than most people made in a month. Not to mention the stupid froufrou hors d’oeuvres, and the caterer, and Sophie . . . well, why think about that now? We had more serious problems, like staying alive.

  I sent a few e-mails to friends in London, but I didn’t mention anything about quitting my job, relocating to New York, marrying my ex-wife, or the Mafia trying to kill me. Some of that could get back to my firm, or to Samantha. I mean, I was ready to burn my bridges, but if I somehow found that I needed to re-cross the pond, then I’d need that bridge.

  I had e-mailed my sister, Emily, who was still living on some beach in Texas with boyfriend number four or five. Emily and I are close, despite our long geographic separations for the last dozen years. I’d told her about Ethel’s passing, and then gave her the good news about Susan and me.

  I pulled up her reply, which said: Wonderful. Love, Emily P.S. Wonderful. P.P.S. I’ll miss Ethel’s funeral, but I will not miss John and Susan’s wedding. Let’s speak when you get a chance.

  I replied: You are wonderful. Life is wonderful. Will call you when I can. Love, John P.S. The Stanhopes will arrive momentarily. Not so wonderful. But maybe good for a few laughs.

  Regarding that, the doorbell rang. I peeked out the blinds and saw next to my blue Taurus another blue Taurus that I was certain was the Stanhopes’ rental car. I had this wonderful vision of William and Charlotte driving their blue Taurus through the gates onto Grace Lane and being met by a stream of machine-gun fire.

  I could hear Susan exclaim, “Welcome!”

  William the Terrible said, “Damned traffic in New York—how can you live here?”

  Charlotte chirped, “It’s so wonderful to see you, darling!”

  And so forth.

  The happy voices disappeared down the corridor, and I turned back to the keyboard and began typing an e-mail to Edward and Carolyn: Hi! Your grandparents have unfortunately arrived safely . . . delete that . . . Grandma and Grandpa have just arrived, and I’m hiding . . . delete . . . G and G just got here, and I haven’t yet said hello, so I’ll keep this short. Remember, when you get here, that your mother and I love you very much, and we love each other, and we will all try to make Grandpa and Grandma feel welcome and loved, and even Uncle Peter, that useless . . . delete . . . who may be joining us. Your mother and I will try to call you tomorrow, and let you know how things are going, or call us. Edward, if we don’t speak, have a safe flight. Carolyn, let us know what train you’re taking. Love, Dad. P.S. Your grandparents are worth a hundred million dollars dead . . . delete.

  I read the e-mail, not sure if I should send it. I mean, Edward and Carolyn knew there would be some friction between me and their grandparents, and the children were adults, so I needed to treat them as such and give them a heads-up. My letter seemed positive, but they’d understand the subtle hint that there could be a problem when they got here. I had no idea what Susan had told them on this subject, if anything, but I needed to be proactive, so I pushed the send button and off it went into cyberspace.

  To kill time, I went online and typed in in-laws, perfect murders of, and actually got a few hits.

  Next I went onto a Web site that an American client had told me about, which showed aerial views of homes and commercial properties around the country. I’d actually used this site once in my work for an American client, and I’d even checked out Stanhope Hall and Alhambra a few months ago during a nostalgia attack.

  Within a minute I had an aerial view of Stanhope Hall taken this past winter, which showed me just how huge the main house was. I could also see the hedge maze, the love temple, the tennis court, the plum orchard, and even the overgrown burned-out ruins of Susan’s childhood playhouse, which was about half the size of a real cottage.

  I zoomed in on the gatehouse, then moved to the guest cottage and the nearby stables. Then I shifted the view toward Alhambra, and I could see the long, straight line of white pines that separated the estates, and I thought of Susan’s horseback rides from Stanhope Hall to the Alhambra villa.

  This photograph, of recent vintage, did not show Bellarosa’s razed villa, of course, or the mock Roman ruins, or the reflecting pool; it showed the red-tiled roofs of the new mini-villas and their landscaping, and the roads that connected them.

  I zoomed in on Anthony’s house with the big patio and the oversized pool, then I moved the view back toward the pine trees and the Stanhope estate, and the guest cottage.

  On the ground, it was a circuitous route
from Susan’s cottage to Anthony’s villa, but from the air, as I suspected, it was only about five or six hundred yards—a third of a mile—between the two houses.

  Note to self: If I was jogging cross-country to Anthony Bellarosa’s house, I could be there in less than five minutes; and it was the same traveling time if Anthony Bellarosa was coming this way.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  The intercom buzzed, and I picked up the phone and asked, “Did they faint or leave?”

  “Neither. But they’re over their initial shock.”

  “Are they ready for another shock when I tell them we’re not entering into a prenuptial agreement?”

  “Let’s limit it to one shock a day. It’s your turn tomorrow.”

  “All right. Where are you?”

  “I’m in the kitchen, making them martini number two, but I’ll be in the living room in a minute.” She said, “I’ve made you a stiff drink.”

  “Good. See you there.”

  I walked out of the office into the foyer. I took a minute to recall twenty years of their bullshit, then I entered the living room.

  William and Charlotte were sitting near the fireplace in side-by-side chairs, and Susan was sitting on a love seat across from them. Between them was a coffee table covered with plates of hors d’oeuvres, and I could see that William and Charlotte had fresh martinis in front of them, and Susan had a white wine.

  I considered running toward them with my arms out, yelling, “Mom! Dad!” but instead I said simply, “Hello,” and walked toward them.

  Susan stood, then William and Charlotte rose without enthusiasm.

  I first kissed Susan, to piss them off, then I extended my hand to Charlotte, who gave me a wet noodle, then to William, who gave me a cold tuna. I asked, “So, did you have a good flight?”

  William replied, “Good enough.”

  Susan said, “Sit here, John, next to me. I’ve made you a vodka and tonic.”

  “Thank you.” I sat next to Susan on the love seat, and she took my hand, which came to Mom and Dad’s immediate notice and made them wince.

  Schubert was playing softly in the background, and the room was lit with candles and adorned with flowers. Sort of like a funeral home.

  I sipped my drink and discovered it was pure tonic.

  William the Color Blind was wearing silly green trousers, an awful yellow golf shirt, and a shocking pink linen sports jacket. Charlotte had on pale pink pants and a puke green blouse, and they both wore these horrid white orthopedic walking shoes. I’m surprised they were allowed to board the aircraft.

  William, I noticed, really hadn’t aged much in ten years, and he had a full head of hair and was still using the same hair coloring. Charlotte’s face had aged a lot, with a network of deep wrinkles that looked like cracked house paint. She’d let her hair go naturally bright red, and she was wearing earrings, a necklace, and a bracelet all made of coral and seashells, giving her the appearance of a dry aquarium. Neither one of them had gained much weight, and both of them were amazingly pasty-faced for golfers, as though they used whitewash for sunblock.

  I said to them, “You’re both looking very well.”

  William did not return the compliment but said, “Thank you. We feel well.”

  It’s here where the senior citizen usually gives you a complete medical report, and while this usually bores me senseless, in this case I was anxious to hear about any ailments, no matter how small or insignificant; you never know what could develop into something fatal at that age. But they weren’t sharing their medical history with me, except that Charlotte said, “Our internist said we could live to be a hundred.”

  That bastard.

  Susan addressed the big subject and said, “John, I’ve told Mom and Dad that we are getting remarried, and I also told them how happy Edward and Carolyn are for us.”

  I said to Mom and Dad, “My mother, too, is delighted. And Ethel, right before she passed away said to us, ‘Now, I can go in peace, knowing—’” I felt Susan’s nails dig into my hand, so I cooled that, and said, “Susan and I have thought long and hard about this”—since we had sex on Sunday—“and we’ve discussed all aspects of our remarriage, and we are certain this is what we want to do.”

  Susan reminded me, “And we’re in love, John.”

  I said, “And we’re in love.”

  Neither Mom nor Dad had anything to say about any of that, so Susan continued, “As I said to you before John joined us, I understand that this comes as a surprise to you, and I understand why you have some doubts and reservations, but we are certain about our love for each other.”

  William and Charlotte sat there as though their hearing aids had died, and they simultaneously reached for their martinis and took a good slug.

  Susan continued, “John and I have discussed all that happened in the past, and we’ve put that behind us, and we hope that we can all move forward. We feel that the past has taught us what is important, and whatever mistakes we’ve made have taught us invaluable lessons, which we’ll use to strengthen our love and our family.”

  William and Charlotte finished their martinis.

  I guess it was my turn, so I said, “I’m sure you want Susan to be happy, and I believe I can make her happy.” It was time for my mea culpa, and I said, “I made many mistakes during our marriage, and I take most of the blame for what happened between us, but I want you to know, I’ve grown as a person, and I’ve become more sensitive to Susan’s needs and wants, and I’ve strengthened my coping skills, and learned how to manage my anger, and—” Again, the nails in my hand. So I concluded, “I could give you a hundredmillion reasons”—or half of that—“why I think I can be a good husband to Susan, and a hundred million reasons why—”

  “John.”

  “What?”

  “I think Mom and Dad may want you to address what happened the last time we were all together.”

  “Right. I was getting to that.” As I recalled, we were in an Italian restaurant in Locust Valley, and William had just sold Stanhope Hall to Frank Bellarosa, and William was asking me to draw up the contract of sale, for free, and then he was going to stick me with the restaurant bill, as he always did, and I’d had about all the crap I was going to take from him, so I called him—

  “John.”

  “Right.” I looked at William, then at Charlotte, and said, “One of the major regrets of my life has been my words to you, William, when we last had dinner together. My outburst was totally unacceptable and unprovoked. My words, which spewed forth from my mouth, like . . . well, that bad fra diavolo . . . anyway, if I could take those words back—or eat them—I would. But I can’t, so I can only offer my most sincere and abject apology to you and to Charlotte for you having to hear that stream of vile obscenities, and to Susan, too, for having to witness the three people she loved most . . .” I was losing the sentence structure, so I concluded, “Please accept my apology.”

  There were a few seconds of silence, then William said, “I have never been spoken to like that in all my life.”

  Really?

  Charlotte said, “That was so hurtful.”

  Maybe they needed another martini. Well, I’d promised Susan I’d apologize, and I did, but these two shitheads were having none of it. Nevertheless, I gave it the old Yale try and said, “You don’t know how many times I sat down to write you a letter of apology, but I could never form the words on paper that were in my heart. But now that I can deliver these words of apology to you—from the same mouth that disgorged those coarse, vulgar, crude, and profane words . . . now, I hope that you can see and hear that my apology is from my heart.” I pointed to my heart.

  I could see that William, even with two martinis in his dim brain, was sensing that I was having a little fun with this. Charlotte, who is truly dim, takes everything literally.

  Finally, William said, “I was stunned, John, that a son-in-law of mine, a man whose parents I respect, would use that kind of language—in a public place, or anywhere for
that matter, and to use it in the presence of ladies.” And so forth.

  I hung my head and listened to him go on. Obviously, William had hoped for this day, and he was going to squeeze every ounce of petty pleasure out of it.

  Finally, Susan interrupted him and said, “Dad, John has asked you to accept his apology.”

  William looked at her and then at me and said, “Charlotte and I will discuss this. And be aware, John, that we don’t dispense forgiveness as easily and as lightly as do so many young people today.” He let me know, “Forgiveness can be asked for, but it has to be earned.”

  I took a deep breath and replied, “I hope I can earn your forgiveness.”

  “It’s not a matter of hope, John, it’s a matter of working at it.”

  All right, fuckhead. “That’s what I meant.”

  Susan said, “Let me freshen your drinks.” She took their glasses and said to me, “Give me a hand, John.”

  I stood and followed her into the kitchen.

  She said to me, “Thank you.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “I know that was difficult, but you did it.”

  “It came from my heart.” I pointed to my heart.

  “I think it came from your spleen.”

  “I thought you said they mellowed.”

  “No, I told you I lied about that.”

  “Right.”

  Susan took the Boodles out of the freezer and said, “This stuff isn’t working.”

  “It will. One martini, two martini, three martini, floor.” I said, “There’s no vodka in my tonic.”

  “You will thank me for that.”

  “I just need one more to get through this.”

  “You’re doing great.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. But don’t overdo it. You’re borderline sarcastic.”

  “Me?” I asked her, “Would we be going through this if they weren’t rich?”

  She poured the gin into both glasses and replied, “If they weren’t rich, they wouldn’t be so difficult.”

  “We’ll never know.”