The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  Sophie handed me a piece of paper, and I thought it was a note from Susan, or Sophie’s bill, but a quick glance showed me it was a list, written in Polish.

  She said, “You give to food store.”

  “Huh . . . ? Oh, right.” During my romantic month in Warsaw. Why do I have to be such a wiseass? Well, maybe I could pick this stuff up in Glen Cove, or Brooklyn.

  Sophie hesitated, then said, “Missus is sad. Maybe you go . . .” She pointed her thumb over her shoulder.

  I replied, “All right. Thank you. You’re a very nice lady. We’ll see you when we return.”

  “Yes.” She left and I closed the door behind her.

  I heard her leave through the front door, and saw her get into her car and drive off.

  Well, I suppose I could go in and resolve the matter by putting William in a choke hold and making him sign a blank sheet of paper that I’d fill in later. There is a legal basis for that—necessitasnonhabetlegem—necessity knows no law.

  But I did promise Susan I’d sit tight and not interfere with this family business, and she promised me she’d speak to me before they left.

  So, to kill time, I pulled up a few online news sources and read about Salvatore D’Alessio’s last supper. Most of the coverage was straight reporting, with not much new that I didn’t already know from Jenny Alvarez and Felix Mancuso, my man on the scene. One story, however, did say, “Calls to the Bellarosa residence on Long Island have not been returned, and calls to Mr. Bellarosa’s place of business, Bell Enterprises in Ozone Park, Queens, have been met with a recorded message.”

  Well, I thought, that’s no way to run a business. What if someone needed limousines for a funeral? Like the D’Alessio family?

  The story went on to say, “Sources close to the investigation say that it is likely that Tony Bellarosa has left the country.”

  I hope he’s not in London or Paris. I mean, I wouldn’t want to run into him at the Tate Gallery or the Louvre. I should definitely avoid Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum.

  Anyway, I had an idea, and I found Anthony’s card in my wallet and dialed his cell phone. After three rings, a recorded message said, “This number has been disconnected at the customer’s request. No further information is available.”

  That didn’t sound like Anthony had met with a sudden accident; it sounded like he didn’t want to be tracked through his cell phone signal.

  In any case, if I’d reached him, it would be a silly conversation—Anthony, where are you? John, where are you? I asked first, Anthony.

  I then e-mailed Carolyn regarding the murder of Mr. Salvatore D’Alessio, a fellow resident of the borough of Brooklyn, and a man who I was certain had been well known to the Brooklyn District Attorney’s office. I was also certain that Carolyn’s office was abuzz with this mob hit, and her colleagues were busy working with the NYPD and the FBI to develop leads regarding the killers, and Uncle Sal’s runaway bodyguard—and most importantly the identity of the person who paid for the whack. Well, figuring out that Anthony Bellarosa was the lead suspect was a no-brainer; finding him would not be so easy.

  I let Carolyn know, if she didn’t already know, that Mom and Dad might be mentioned in the news. I did not say, “I hope this doesn’t cause you any embarrassment,” but she understood that. She also understood by now—or someone in the office had mentioned to her—that Anthony Bellarosa might be looking to settle the score with Mom. I did not mention this to her, but I did tell her that we were leaving for Europe the next morning and that we’d be in touch by phone before we left. She would understand what that was about.

  I recalled that Anthony and Carolyn had met once, at Alhambra, and though I was not present, I was fairly sure that Carolyn had not been taken with the dark, handsome thug next door; in that respect, she had better judgment than her mother.

  Anyway, Carolyn Sutter, Brooklyn ADA, might possibly have more information than I had, and I was sure she’d share that with her mother and father if appropriate.

  So, having taken care of Bellarosa news and business, I went online and found some good Web sites for Paris, one of which had the name of two restaurants where Americans were welcome.

  At about 10:00, Susan opened the door and entered. She looked pale and shaken, but not weepy. I sat her on the couch, then I sat next to her.

  She took a deep breath, then said, “Well, their position is clear. If we marry, then my allowance is cut off, and I am disinherited, and disowned. Even if we don’t marry, they’ll do the same thing unless you leave the country.”

  I took her hand and said, “We knew that.”

  “Yes . . . but . . .” She took another breath and continued, “My father also said that he will disinherit the children . . . and stop the disbursements from their trust fund . . . and hold up the disbursement of the principal until they reach the age of fifty.” She looked at me and asked, “Can he do that?”

  I replied, “As I said, he can disinherit them at any time. As for the trust fund, I would need to see the trust documents. But I did see them once, and I know that Peter is the trustee, and your father, through Peter, can stop the distributions and hold the corpus and appreciation—the whole amount—until Edward and Carolyn reach the age of fifty.”

  She did some math and said, “That’s almost twenty-five years from now.”

  I tried to show her the bright side of that and said, “Without the distributions, the fund should quadruple by then.” Unless the fund administrators made some really bad investment choices.

  She said, “I’m worried about now. Not twenty-five years from now.”

  “I know.” I tried to get a sense of what she was thinking, and I got a hint when she withdrew her hand from mine.

  So this was the moment that I knew would come, and I’d already given her my solution to the problem, which she’d rejected when it was just me laying out the problem and the resolution. But now that she’d gotten the final word from dear old Dad—and I was sure he was not bluffing—it had hit her like a judge handing down a life sentence.

  Out of curiosity, I asked, “How about your mother?”

  She shook her head, then replied, “She said that all I had to do was tell you to leave and everything would be all right again.”

  That wasn’t true, but I didn’t respond.

  Finally, she asked me, “What should I do, John?”

  Well, if you have to ask, Susan, you already know the answer.

  “John?”

  I took a deep breath and said, “What you have to do is get a lawyer—”

  “Why? You are a lawyer—”

  “Listen to me. You need to make sure that this sort of thing does not happen again. Your father needs to set up a trust fund for you, and new trusts for the children that will basically transfer to all three of you the portion of his estate that you and the children would receive as an inheritance. And this trust fund needs to be set up so that you and the children will receive annual distributions, free from his control, and his manipulation, and you need to pick the fund trustee, and it will not be Peter. Do you understand?”

  “I . . . why would he do that?”

  “Well, for a consideration on your part. In other words, in exchange for something he wants from you.”

  “What . . . ? Oh . . .”

  “You and the children need legal assurances that he can’t control your lives with his money, and in return you—and I—give him what he wants—in writing.”

  “John. No . . .”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at me and I turned toward her and our eyes met. She kept staring at me, then tears ran down her cheeks.

  In as firm a voice as I was able to muster, I said to her, “This is the only way, Susan, that we—you and I together—can protect the children, and protect your future as well.”

  She looked away from me and wiped her eyes with her hands.

  To bring this home, I stood and said, “Go back in there and tell him I am prepared to return to London—without h
is million dollars—but not until I have spoken to him about what he has to do for you, Edward, and Carolyn before I leave.” I assured her, “He’ll understand.”

  She remained seated, still shaking her head, then she said, “The children say they don’t care . . .”

  “They don’t. But we do.” I asked her, “Do you want Peter to be the sole beneficiary of the Stanhope fortune?”

  She didn’t reply, but she didn’t have to.

  I took her hand and lifted her to her feet. I suggested, “Go in the kitchen or someplace, get yourself composed, get angry, then go in there and tell him what the deal is.”

  She didn’t respond.

  I continued, “If he storms out, then you’re free of him and his money. But if he wants to speak to me, then we’ll work out an arrangement that loosens his grip on the money bag.”

  She shook her head again, then said in a barely audible voice, “No . . . John . . . I will not let you go.”

  “You—we—have no choice. Look, Susan . . . maybe in a year or so, after we’ve had a chance to think about this, and see how we feel—”

  “No!”

  “Okay, then I’ll speak to him now. Send him in here.”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll go out there—”

  “No . . . no . . . let me . . . I just need a minute . . .” She started to sit again, but I took her arm and moved her toward the door. I said, “It’s okay. You’re brave and you know what you have to do.”

  “No . . . I won’t . . .”

  I got very stern and said, “We will not sacrifice our children’s future for our own selfish—”

  She pulled away from me and said, “I will not let you leave again.”

  I took her by the shoulders and said, “I am leaving. But not until I put things in order here, for the children, which is what I should have done ten or twenty years ago—”

  “No. John, please . . .”

  “But I promise you, Susan . . . I promise that we will be together again.”

  She looked at me, and tears were still running down her cheeks. She sobbed, then put her head on my shoulder and asked, “Do you promise . . . ?”

  “I do. Okay . . .” I moved her toward the door, and walked her out to the foyer. She turned and looked at me. I smiled and said, “Tell your father that your lawyer wants to speak to him.”

  She didn’t smile, but she nodded, and I went back to the office and closed the door.

  I stood there for a full minute, then sat at the desk.

  I picked up a pencil and made a few notes about what I needed to cover with William. But my mind, and my heart, was not in it. Basically, I was going to negotiate a deal with him that ensured that Susan and I would never see each other again.

  It was possible, I suppose, that William would reject the idea of giving up control of his money, and thus of his daughter—because what was he getting out of the deal? Certainly not Susan’s love and companionship, or the love of his grandchildren. All he was getting out of this deal was the guarantee that John and Susan Sutter would never again see each other, and I wondered if that was enough for him. Well, I guess that depended on how honest he was about his motives for ending this engagement. Did he and Charlotte really believe that Susan was making a terrible mistake? Or was this really about William’s hate for me?

  Surely William realized that if he accepted this deal, then he’d not only be rid of me but also lose his daughter and his grandchildren as soon as they were financially independent. Basically, I’d turned this back on him, and put him in a no-win situation. And yet he might go for it if he were more consumed with hate for me than love for Susan, Edward, and Carolyn. I was sure, too, that Peter would pressure his father into taking the deal if it meant that Peter, too, would get his inheritance now. Then Peter could also tell Daddy to go fuck himself.

  The door opened, and Susan stepped into the office. I stood and we faced each other. She said to me, “My father totally rejects your suggestion.”

  “All right.” That answered at least one question.

  She seemed drained, I thought, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her looking so lost and defeated by any situation.

  She looked away from me and said, “But . . . his offer to you stands if you will accept it now, and get on the flight to London tomorrow . . . alone.”

  “All right.” I waited for her to say something, but she didn’t, so I guess I had my answer to another question. And really, I didn’t blame her. Love, unfortunately, does not conquer all. Or, to be more kind, Susan’s love for her children—our children—overrode her love for me. And I felt the same way. Whoever said that children were hostages to fortune must have had a father-in-law like William Stanhope.

  I wanted to tell Susan that without any legal guarantees for herself and the children, her father would and could do whatever he wanted with his money, including turning everything over to Peter. But that would sound self-serving, like I was trying to convince her that my leaving did not necessarily guarantee her, or the children, a financially secure life; it guaranteed her that William would continue to control her life, and probably pick her next husband for her. Maybe William wanted her to marry dead Dan’s son, Bob.

  On that subject, I asked her, “What did he offer you?”

  She hesitated, then said, truthfully, “A large increase in my allowance if I sold this house and moved back to Hilton Head.”

  “I see.” Well, the reign of William the Dominator continues. As I said, I didn’t blame Susan, and I believed that if it was only our lives to consider, then she’d throw her parents out the door. I did not, and would not in the future, think any less of her for making this hard decision. I had already made the same decision. I said to her, “Tell him I’m leaving tomorrow. And tell him, too, that he can take his bribe and shove it up his ass.”

  Susan just stood there, then dropped her eyes and said, “I’m sorry . . .”

  “Don’t be. This is our decision, not just yours.” I said, “Better yet, send him in here and I’ll tell him myself.”

  She shook her head. “He doesn’t want to see you . . . he just wants your answer.”

  “My answer is I’ll leave tomorrow if he comes into this office now.”

  “I’ll tell him.” She looked at me and said, “I love you.”

  “I know you do.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “I do.” But I can’t.

  She nodded again and said, “We had this time together . . . and I will never forget this week.”

  “Neither will I.” I suggested, “You need to get on a plane to somewhere tomorrow and get out of here until things settle down.”

  “I know . . . they want me to come to Hilton Head. But . . .” She asked me, “What am I going to do without you?”

  “You’ll do fine.” I reminded her, “I’ll be here waiting for your father.”

  She took a step toward me, but I said, “Take care of this.”

  She looked hurt, and she looked so lost. I wanted to take her into my arms, and I would, but not until they were gone.

  She stood motionless, then nodded and left.

  I stared at the door, hoping she’d turn around and come back, and we’d both go into the living room and throw the Stanhopes out of the house. Our house. I also hoped that she wouldn’t make that decision.

  I felt . . . a lot of things. Anger, for sure. But mostly I felt that sense of loss that I remembered from ten years ago; that understanding that it was over, and worse, that it should not be this way—that there was too much love between us that was being thrown aside for reasons that might not be good enough to justify the decision to part. And I felt, too, there was something wrong here . . . that Susan had been right and that Fate had brought us together again. So how was this happening?

  I remained standing, staring at the door.

  The only comfort I could take in this was that Susan, and Edward and Carolyn, could now see William Stanhope for what he was—and that knowled
ge would do them more good over the years than his money. The other thing that was comforting was my sure belief that William understood that I was waiting in the wings, and that I would reappear if he didn’t follow through on his promise to at least maintain the status quo. And surely the bastard would be happy to hear that I didn’t want his money; but somewhere in his dim brain he’d eventually understand that I didn’t owe him anything either, and that I was a six-hour plane ride away, and free to return if he didn’t take care of my children.

  I thought about tomorrow—about getting on the flight, alone, and returning to London. Probably, I could get my job back, if I wanted it, and Samantha, too, if I wanted her. But really what I wanted to do was to find a yacht owner who needed an experienced skipper for a long sail. That, I knew from the last time, would remove the temptation—my and Susan’s—to make a bad decision based on love.

  I heard a car pulling up and looked out the window. Elizabeth’s SUV came to a stop, and she got out.

  I went to the front door and opened it before she rang the bell.

  She smiled and said, “Good morning.”

  “Good morning. Come in.”

  “Just for a moment.” She let me know, “I got your e-mail.”

  We entered the house, and I showed her into the office and closed the door.

  She looked around, noted Susan’s oil paintings on the wall, and commented, “Susan is very talented.”

  I glanced at the paintings, and a flood of memories came back to me—twenty years of living with a woman who had been delightfully crazy, and who had become, over the last ten years, a little less crazy, though no less delightful. And now, the Susan who had just walked out of here was . . . well, defeated. That, more than anything else, made my heart ache.

  Elizabeth asked, “John? Are you all right?”

  “Yes. So how are you holding up?”

  “I have good and bad moments.” She added, “I’ll be fine.”

  “I know you will.” I asked her, “Would you like to sit?”

  “No. I’m running late for a staff meeting at one of my shops.”

  “They can’t start without you.”