The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  Susan and I thanked Elizabeth for her hospitality, and told her to call us if she needed anything. We wished everyone a good evening, and I said to Mitch, “Don’t wear those sandals if you go digging.”

  Mitch did not reply.

  Susan and I walked around the side of the house to avoid the people inside, and she informed me, “You were almost rude to Mitch.”

  “I didn’t like him.”

  “You don’t even know him.”

  “There’s nothing to know.”

  “Well, I think he and Elizabeth are . . .”

  “Not anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I gave him an unsatisfactory rating.”

  She thought about that, then asked, “You said that to Elizabeth?”

  “I did.”

  She stayed silent awhile, then inquired, “When did you become Elizabeth’s mentor and confidant?”

  Whoops. I wasn’t following Susan’s thought process. I replied, “She asked me what I thought of him. So I told her.”

  “You should learn not to answer so bluntly. And you should also learn not to meddle in people’s affairs.”

  “All right.” I added, “It’s wonderful to be back.”

  She didn’t respond to that and we walked in silence. Clearly, Susan still harbored a wee bit of jealousy. Good. To change the subject, I asked her, “Don’t you want to know about the letter?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  So I explained to her how Elizabeth and I had left it, and I added, “I just don’t see what could be in that letter that has any importance or relevance to me. So we shouldn’t worry about it.” I continued, “Ethel is—was—an old woman with some typical hang-ups of that generation, and a lot of old-fashioned ideas about what is important.”

  Susan pointed out, “Father Hunnings was also concerned—or worried.”

  “Well, talk about hang-ups. Did I tell you that I swore to him we were sleeping in separate bedrooms?”

  “John, you shouldn’t have lied to a priest.”

  “I was protecting your honor.”

  “Let me do that.” She thought a moment, then said, “I think we need to give Father Hunnings the benefit of the doubt about this letter. He’s trying to do the right thing.”

  I suggested, “Let’s see if I get to read the letter that was addressed to me, and let’s see what it says. Then I’ll let you know if I think he’s trying to do the right thing.”

  We drove back to Stanhope Hall, and when we got to Grace Lane, Susan called the gatehouse to open up, then called Sophie, who assured us that there were still no onions in the house.

  Sophie wasn’t expecting us for dinner, but she quickly threw together a platter of bean sprouts and tofu. It’s hard to choose a wine for that.

  Susan and I had a quiet, candlelit dinner on the patio. The sky had cleared and the stars were out, and a nice breeze blew in from the Sound.

  Susan said, “This has been one of the best and one of the worst weeks of my life.”

  I assured her, “It will only get better from here.”

  “I think it will.”

  Well, I didn’t. But what else was I going to say?

  She said, “I’ll miss Edward and Carolyn being here.”

  “And I’ll miss your parents being close by.”

  “I won’t.” She switched to a happier subject and asked me, “What would you like for your Father’s Day breakfast?”

  “I was thinking of leftover bean sprouts, but maybe I’ll have fried eggs and sausage.” I added, “Buttered toast, home-fried potatoes, coffee, and orange juice. Make that a screwdriver.”

  “And would you like that served in bed?”

  “Of course.”

  “Edward and Carolyn said they were sorry they couldn’t be home for breakfast.”

  “No problem.”

  “They’ll be here in time for dinner.”

  “Good.”

  She suggested, “We should have a word with them about their grandparents.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “John?”

  I poured myself another glass of wine and said to her, “I’m not getting involved with that. If you think they need another reminder about the financial facts of life, then you give it to them.” I reminded her, “I already kissed William and Charlotte’s asses. My job is done.”

  “All right . . . I sense that you’re frustrated, and upset—”

  “Not at all. I did what I had to do, and I’m done doing it. I will be more than cordial tomorrow at dinner, and I will speak to your father privately tomorrow night, or Monday morning—about you. But only because that’s what he wants. Though I can tell you, nothing is going to change his mind about this marriage, and I will not even try to change his mind. So, you, Susan, need to face some realities, and make some decisions.”

  “I’ve already done that.”

  “That’s what you think. Look, I came here with nothing, and I am prepared to leave here with nothing.”

  “You’re not leaving here without me. Not again.”

  “I won’t hold you to that.”

  She took my hand and said, “Look at me.”

  I looked at her in the candlelight, with the breeze blowing through her hair, and she never looked more beautiful.

  She said, slowly and deliberately, “I understand what you’re saying and why you’re saying it. But you can forget it. You’re not getting away so easily this time. Even if you think you’re doing it for me and for our children.”

  I looked into her eyes, and I could see they were getting misty. I said, “I love you.”

  “And I love you.”

  She said to me, “I’m tired of them controlling me with their money. So if I lose the money, and I lose them, then I’m free.”

  “I understand.” I asked, “And the children?”

  “He won’t do that—my mother would not let him do that.”

  Wanna bet? I said, “Okay. That’s good. Then it’s settled.” I said to her, “I almost didn’t come in for the funeral.”

  She replied, “I knew you were coming in, even if you didn’t.” She pointed to the sky and said, “This was in our stars, John. This is the way it was meant to happen.”

  Oddly enough, I felt the same thing, as all lovers do. But the question now was, What did the stars have in store for us next?

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Susan served me breakfast in bed, though I think Sophie cooked it—which was much better than the other way around.

  It was a beautiful June day, and sunlight shone on my tray of sizzling fat. I hardly knew where to begin.

  Susan, in her nightie, sat crossed-legged next to me and sipped a cup of coffee. I inquired, “Do you want a sausage?”

  “No, thank you.”

  I dug into the sausages and eggs.

  She said, “This is your special day. What would you like to do on Father’s Day?”

  Shoot your father. I replied, “It’s such a beautiful day. Let’s go to the beach.”

  “I thought we could go shopping.”

  “Uh . . . I thought . . .”

  She had a shopping bag next to her, and she gave it to me. “Here’s your Father’s Day present, and we need to buy you something to go with it.” She informed me, “That’s from me, Carolyn, and Edward. Carolyn and I bought it for you when we were in the city.”

  “Great. You shouldn’t have.”

  “Open it.”

  I reached into the bag for my horrid, two-hundred-dollar tie, which now needed a new suit to match. But it didn’t feel like a tie box. It felt like underwear, or maybe a new Yale T-shirt. But when I pulled it out, it was a white yachting cap, with a black shiny bill, and gold braid on the crown. I stared at it. The last time I wore one of these was when I was on the Race Committee at Seawanhaka—a lifetime ago.

  Susan said, “Happy Father’s Day.”

  I looked at her, still not quite sure that I was understanding this.

  She said, “Try
it on.”

  So I put it on and it fit. I said, “This is very . . . thoughtful.” Should I look out the window for the yacht?

  Susan explained, “I’ve gone through some yachting magazines, and chosen five boats that we can look at today.”

  I really didn’t know what to say, but I said, “This is . . . really too extravagant.”

  “Not at all.”

  I turned toward her—without upsetting my breakfast tray—and gave her a big kiss. I said, “Thank you, but—”

  “No buts. We are going to sail again.”

  I nodded.

  “One condition.”

  “Never by myself.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Agreed.”

  So we sat there awhile holding hands—my eggs were getting cold—and finally I asked, “Can we afford this?”

  “We’re all chipping in. Edward and Carolyn want to do this for you.”

  That still didn’t answer the question, but I was very moved by the thought.

  Susan produced some magazine pages and gave them to me. I looked at a few classified ads that were circled in pen, and I saw that we were in the right class—forty to fifty-footers—an Alden, two Hinckleys, a C&C, and a forty-five-foot Morgan. The prices, I noticed, were a bit steeper than a mainmast—but, as they say, if you have to ask how much a yacht costs, you can’t afford it. Still, I said, “These are a lot of money.”

  “Think of all the hours of enjoyment we’ll all get out of it.”

  “Right.” I remembered all the good times we’d had as a family sailing up and down the East Coast. Then I thought about my sail around the world, which was something far different. I said, “We have to get the kids to take some time this summer to sail with us.”

  “They promised. Two weeks in August.”

  “Good.” And then I thought about everything that could and would happen between now and August—the Stanhopes, Susan and me, and Anthony Bellarosa. Well, I’m too pessimistic. Or realistic. But I didn’t want to spoil the moment, so I said, “This was really a great idea. How did you think of this?”

  “It was easy. Carolyn, Edward, and I sat down to discuss your Father’s Day gift, and we each wrote a suggestion on a piece of paper, and we all wrote the same thing. Sailboat.”

  I guess that was quicker than doing pantomime. I said, “They’re great kids.”

  “They were so happy they were able to do this for their father.”

  I was getting a little emotional, so I joked, “Where’s my tie?”

  “Oh, it didn’t look as good here as it did in the store. I’ll bring it back.”

  I wonder why things look different in the store for the ladies. Lighting? Well, it must have been really awful. I said, “I’ll take the boat. Give the tie to your father.”

  “Good idea. As soon as the kids get here, we’ll go out and see these boats.” She added, “They want to help.”

  Well, it was their money. Actually, it was William’s money, which made this a really great gift. I couldn’t wait to tell Cheap Willie that he’d helped out with my two-hundred-thousand-dollar Father’s Day present—at least with the down payment. We’d need to finance the rest, and I wasn’t sure if everyone’s allowance and the trust fund distributions would be rolling in after today. This was a very appropriate and heartwarming gift to me, but it was also pure folly. Nevertheless, it’s the thought that counts.

  Susan said, suggestively, “Finish your breakfast, and I’ll give you another gift.”

  The hell with breakfast. Well . . . maybe one more sausage.

  She hopped out of bed and said, “You have to keep your hat on.” She explained, “You’re a sailor who’s washed ashore in a storm, and I’m the lonely wife of a seaman whom I haven’t seen in years. And I’m nursing you back to health, and I just came in to take your breakfast tray.”

  “Okay.” Don’t take it too far.

  She moved to the side of the bed and asked, “Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?”

  “Well—”

  “Oh, sir, how is that tray rising by itself?”

  I smiled. “Well . . .”

  “Let me take that, sir, before it topples.”

  She put the tray on the dresser, then came back to the bed and said, “With your permission, sir, I will massage ointment on your injured private parts.”

  I tipped my hat and said, “Permission granted.”

  So I didn’t get much breakfast, but I don’t have a lot of trouble choosing between sex and food.

  Carolyn and Edward came in on the 9:28 train, and Susan picked them up at the station.

  They gave me a kiss and hug for Father’s Day, and a nice card that had a picture of a sailboat on it. I thanked them for the real sailboat, and they were beaming with the pure joy of giving.

  Edward said, “Welcome home, Dad.”

  Carolyn said, “You are our Father’s Day present.”

  Susan got weepy, and so did Sophie, and even Carolyn, usually tough as nails, wiped her eyes. Edward and I, real men, just cleared our throats.

  I didn’t share with the children my thoughts that their funds to pay for this could soon dry up. Realistically, we’d have the answer to that before anyone wrote out a check, so I wasn’t too concerned. The worst scenario was that they’d be disappointed that they couldn’t follow through with their gift. And they’d know whom to blame for that. On that subject, I did not remind them, “Be very nice to Grandpa and Grandma.” I said, however, “Let’s sail to Hilton Head in August.”

  Susan advised me, “Let’s not mention this to my parents today.”

  “Right. We’ll surprise them in August.” Susan did not second that. Bottom line here, it was still the Stanhope money that colored what we did and said. Well, hopefully, that would end soon.

  Anyway, we got into the Lexus and went out to look at a few boats.

  The first two, an Alden forty-seven-footer and a Hinckley forty-three-footer, were in public marinas, and we inspected them from the dock.

  The next one, an old forty-one-foot Hinckley, was docked at a private house on Manhasset Bay, and we called ahead, and the owner showed it to us. The fourth boat, a forty-five-foot Morgan 454, was moored at Seawanhaka, and we had a club launch take us out to it, but we didn’t go aboard. The fifth, a 44 C&C, was also at Seawanhaka, but the launch pilot said the family had taken it out for the day. He did tell us it was a beautiful boat.

  Back at the club, there was a barbecue being set up on the lawn for Father’s Day, and I suggested to Susan, out of earshot of the children, “Why don’t we take your parents here instead of having dinner at home? Then your father and I can take that Morgan out later and see how it handles.”

  She reminded me, “We don’t want to mention this to him.”

  “I think he and I can have a very productive man-to-man talk in the middle of the Sound.”

  She must have misunderstood me, because she said, “John, threatening to drown my father on Father’s Day is not nice.”

  “What are you talking about?” I wondered if he was still a good swimmer.

  We all sat on the back porch and had Bloody Marys. Susan asked me, “So, did you see anything you liked?”

  I replied, “They were all great boats. We need to make some dates to take them out and see how they handle.” I added, “And I want to see that C&C that was out.”

  Edward said, “I liked the Morgan. It reminds me of the one we had.”

  Carolyn agreed, “That would be big enough for Dad and Mom to take to Europe.”

  So the Sutters sat there on the porch, sipping Bloody Marys and watching the sunlight sparkle on the bay, and the sailboats at their moorings, their bows pointed at the incoming tide, talking about which yacht we liked best. It really doesn’t get much better than this, which was probably what the passengers on the Titanic were thinking before they hit the iceberg.

  Before we went home to get ready for the Stanhopes and my mother, we stopped at Locust Valley Cemetery.r />
  Susan, Edward, and Carolyn had been here for my father’s burial, but maybe not since then, so I checked at the office for the location of the grave of Joseph Sutter, while Susan bought flowers from a vendor who had set up shop near the gate.

  We walked on a winding, tree-lined road through the parklike cemetery. The headstones here were no more than a foot high, and not visible among all the plantings, which created the illusion that this was a nature preserve or a botanical garden.

  The Stanhope cemetery off in the distance was sectioned off by a hedge and a wrought-iron fence, and the tombstones and mausoleums in there were more grandiose, of course—unless you had been a servant—and there was no mistaking that you were walking among the dead. Here, I felt, you had been returned to nature. This is where I wanted to be—at least five hundred yards from the closest Stanhope. Maybe I could talk Susan into breaking a family tradition—or maybe we’d all be banished to a public cemetery anyway.

  There were a number of people in the cemetery on this sunny Father’s Day, and I could see bouquets of flowers on many of the graves, as well as small American flags stuck into the earth beside the headstones of those who’d been veterans.

  Susan said, “We need to come back here next week with a flag for your father’s grave.”

  I hoped we weren’t back here next week for eternity. But maybe I should stop at the sales office just in case.

  We found the grave of Joseph Whitman Sutter. Like most of the others, it was a small white granite slab, about a foot high, and except for the engraved lettering, it looked more like a low bench than a gravestone.

  In addition to his name and dates of birth and death, it also said, Husband and Father, along with the words, In Our Hearts, You Live Forever.

  To the right of Joseph’s grave was an empty plot, no doubt reserved for Harriet.

  There was already a bouquet of flowers resting on my father’s stone, and I assumed that was from my mother, notwithstanding her aversion to cut flowers—though maybe it was from a secret girlfriend. That would be nice. I had to ask Harriet if she’d been here today.

  As I looked at my father’s grave, I had mixed memories of this man. He was gentle—too gentle—a loving husband—bordering on uxorious—and a decent, though somewhat distant father. In that respect, he was a product of his generation and his class, so no blame was attached—though I’d have liked him to have been more affectionate toward Emily. As for me, well, we worked together, father and son, and it wasn’t easy for either of us. I would have left Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds, but he’d really wanted me to stay and carry on the family name in this old, established practice. If that was meant to be his immortality, then I’m sure he was disappointed when the other partners forced me out. He’d been in semi-retirement by then, but after I left he returned full-time, and died one night in his office.