The Gold Coast

by Nelson DeMille

  A sailboat is not the ship you want to go shark hunting in, and there were a few times I thought that Edward was going to go over the side as the shark dove and the boat heeled. Finally, after nearly an hour, I suggested, “Let him go.”

  “No.”

  “Then let me relieve you awhile.”

  “No!”

  Carolyn and Susan had stopped fishing for blues and were watching Edward silently. Edward, of course, was not going to blow it in front of the women, or in front of me for that matter. I tried to think of a graceful way out for him but couldn’t. Actually, it was his problem, not mine.

  Carolyn poured a bucket of fresh water over Edward, then wrapped a wet towel around his head and shoulders. Susan held cans of cola to his lips, and Edward drank three of them.

  I could see that Edward was not in good shape. His skin was burning red, and his tongue was actually lolling around his mouth. His eyes had a faraway glazed look, and I suspected he was about to pass out from heat exhaustion. His arms and legs were wrapped around the pole in such a way that I didn’t think the pole could get away from him but would take him with it if the fish gave a long, powerful lunge.

  I wished in a way that he would pass out, or that the line would snap, or even that the shark would take him over the side; anything rather than his having to let go.

  Carolyn said to him, “Let it go, Edward. Let it go.”

  He could not speak any longer, so he just shook his head.

  I don’t know what the natural outcome of this would have been, but Susan took matters into her own hands and cut the line with a knife.

  Edward seemed not to understand what had happened for a minute or so, then he sprawled out on the deck and cried.

  We had to carry him below, and we put him in a bunk with wet towels. It was an hour before he could move his hands and arms.

  We set sail for home. Edward was quiet and sullen for some time, then said to everyone, “Thanks for helping out.”

  Carolyn replied, “We should have thrown you to the shark.”

  “Shark?’’ I said. “I thought he was fighting the dead chicken.”

  Susan smiled and put her arm around her son. She said, “You’re as stubborn and pigheaded as your father.”

  “Thank you,’’ said Edward.

  • • •

  We sailed into The Seawanhaka Corinthian late Monday afternoon, sunburned and exhausted. A boat is sort of a litmus test for relationships, the close quarters and solitude compelling people into either a warm bond or into mutiny and murder. As we tied the Paumanok up to its berth, the Sutters were smiling at one another; the sea had worked its magic.

  But you can’t stay at sea forever, and most desert islands lack the facilities for a quick appendectomy. So we tie up our boats, and we tie ourselves to our electronic lifelines, and we lead lives of noisy desperation.

  I knew that the bond that the Sutters had renewed on the Paumanok, while solid in most respects, had a serious fissure, a fault line if you will, which ran between husband and wife. The children were not holding us together, of course, but they did draw us together, at least while they were around. But that evening, as I sat by myself in my study, I realized that I wanted this summer to end; I wanted Carolyn and Edward back at school so that Susan and I could talk, could connect or disconnect.

  • • •

  On Friday, the four of us drove out to the Hamptons, and I listed our house with the realtors for a quick summer sale. Alas, the summer was already a few weeks old, and most of the Manhattan turkeys had already been plucked. This, combined with a shaky stock market, high mortgage rates, and some nonsense about an income tax increase, was depressing the summerhouse market. Nevertheless, I asked for a cool half million, which the realtor wrote down as $499,900. “No,’’ I said, “I told you half a million.”

  “But—”

  “I’m not looking for stupid buyers. List it my way.’’ And he did. Even if I got the half million, I wouldn’t see much profit after I paid off the existing mortgage, the realtor’s commission, Melzer, the IRS, and, of course, the new capital gains. God, how depressing. More depressing still was the fact that I liked the house, and it was the only solid piece of the earth that I owned.

  So we spent Friday afternoon in our shingled bit of Americana, packing a few personal things that we didn’t want around when the realtors brought customers through. Everyone was sort of quiet, and I suppose the reality of the situation was sinking in. Another reality, in case it crossed your mind, was that Susan could indeed come up with the money to pay off our tax debt. I don’t know exactly how much the woman has (I’m only her husband and a tax lawyer), but I estimate about six hundred thousand dollars, which spins off perhaps fifty thousand a year for pin money. She doesn’t spend that much, and probably it is plowed back into the stocks, bonds, and whatever. But asking an old-money heiress to touch her principal is like asking a nun for sex.

  Also, I don’t think Susan is as fond of the Hamptons or our house there as I am. There are some practical reasons why this is so, but I think there is a psychological thing going on there that she is barely aware of, which has to do with whose home turf is whose. Anyway, we took care of the house, shopped for groceries, then had a drink on the porch. Edward said, “If you don’t sell it by the time I get back from Florida, can we come out for a few weeks?”

  I replied, “If I can spare the time.”

  Carolyn said, “Dad, you take every August off.”

  “Yes, because taxes, though as inevitable as death, can be put off for a month. This year, however, I have a client with more serious problems than taxes, and I have to stay flexible. But we’ll see.”

  They both groaned, because “we’ll see’’ is father talk for “no.’’ I said, “No, really. We will see what happens.’’ I added, “You can both come out on your own if we haven’t sold the place. Perhaps your mother would like to join you.”

  Susan said, “We’ll see.”

  And that seemed to be the phrase of the moment, because the future was beginning to look tentative, subject to change without notice.

  • • •

  At seven P . M ., the Sutter clan dutifully made the short trip to Southampton to visit Grandma and Grandpa Sutter, who were so overcome with joy at our arrival that they shook our hands. They own one of those glass and cedar contemporaries with every convenience known to late-twentieth-century American civilization. The house is actually on a computer/timer sort of thing, with all types of sensors that draw blinds open and shut depending on the sun, water lawns if they need watering, shut off lights if no one is in the room for more than five minutes, and so on. But as there are no uric acid sensors, you do actually have to flush your own toilet.

  My mother announced that she would rather go directly to the restaurant instead of sitting and having a drink there, so we turned around and left in separate cars, meeting in the village of Southampton on Job’s Lane. This is an interesting street, one of the oldest in America, going back to the 1640s, though none of the buildings actually go back that far. But speaking of Job, of all the miseries that God visited on that poor man, none—I repeat, none—could have been as bad as having to go to dinner with Joseph and Harriet Sutter.

  Well, perhaps I exaggerate. But I do say this: There are times when I would rather eat worms in a root cellar than go to a restaurant with my parents.

  Anyway, we had reservations at a trendy new place called Buddy’s Hole. In the Hamptons, the more modest the name, like Sammy’s Pizza or Billy’s Burgers, and/or the more loathsome the name, like Buddy’s Hole, the more pretentious the place will be. My parents, always avant-garde, seek out these dreadful places, filled with the dregs of the American literary world (which is barely distinguishable from the cream), and has-been actors, never-been artists, and a smattering of Euro-trash who probably swam here to sponge off the millionaires.

  I myself, oddly enough, prefer the old-guard places of the Hamptons, dark, civilized sort of establishments with no
hanging asparagus plants, and a menu that could be described as ancienne cuisine, heavy on the fatty Long Island duck and light on the kiwi fruit.

  Be that as it may, we were shown to a nice table for two with six chairs around it and no tablecloth. On the floor under the table was a cat, which is supposed to be cutesy, but I know they rent them and rotate them like they do with the hanging plants. I’ve seen the same fat tiger cat in four different restaurants. I have little tolerance for these hip places, as you may have gathered, which may explain what happened later.

  Well, to continue my complaining, the noise in the place sounded like the soundtrack in the Poseidon Adventure when the boat flips over, and the air-conditioning engineers hadn’t taken into account that people might show up.

  We ordered drinks from an irrepressibly friendly little college girl who didn’t seem to realize we were not nice people.

  My father, as patriarch, held up his glass as if to propose a toast, and we all did the same. But as it turned out, he was only checking for water spots, and having found some, he called the waitress over and reprimanded her. She was so bubbly and fascinated by the water spots that I began to think she was on a controlled substance.

  New drink in hand, Dad examined the glass again, then set it down. So I proposed a toast. “Here’s to being together, and to a summer of love, peace, and good health.”

  We touched glasses and drank. A vicious hanging fern kept trying to get its tendrils around my neck, so I ripped some of them off and threw them on the floor where the rent-a-cat was rubbing against my leg. Just as I was about to punt the fuzzy beast across the room, a college kid, probably on Quaaludes, dropped a full tray of food, and the cat, who like Pavlov’s dogs knew by now that this sound meant food, took off like a shot. I said to Susan, “I’m going to recommend this place to Lester and Judy.”

  Anyway, we chatted awhile, though my parents rarely make small talk. They don’t care much about family news, don’t want to hear about Lattingtown, Locust Valley, or the law firm, and show about as much interest in their grandchildren as they do in their own children; i.e., zip.

  Nevertheless, I tried. “Have you heard from Emily recently?’’ I inquired. I hadn’t seen my sister since Easter, but she had written to me in May.

  My father replied, “She wrote.”

  “How recently?”

  “Last month.”

  “What did she write?”

  My mother picked up the ball. “Everything is fine.”

  Susan said, “Carolyn is going to Cuba next week.”

  My mother seemed genuinely interested in this. “Good for you, Carolyn. The government has no right to stop you.”

  Carolyn replied, “We actually have to fly to Mexico first. You can’t get there from here.”

  “How awful.”

  Edward said, “I’m going to Florida.”

  My mother looked at him. “How nice.”

  My father added, “Have a good time.”

  We were really rolling now, so I tried this: “Edward would like to spend some time out here in late August. If you’re going away, he can house-sit for you.”

  My father informed me, “If we go away, we have the day maid house-sit.”

  Neither of them asked why Edward couldn’t stay at our house in East Hampton, so I volunteered, “We’re selling our house.”

  “The market is soft,’’ said my father.

  “We’re selling it because I have a tax problem.”

  He replied that he was sorry to hear that, but I knew he must be wondering how a tax expert could have been so stupid. So I briefly explained the cause of the problem, thinking perhaps the old fox might have an idea or two. He listened and said, “I seem to recall telling you that would come back to haunt you.”

  Good ol’ Pop.

  Carolyn said, “Do you know who we have living next door to us?”

  My father replied, “Yes, we heard at Easter.”

  I said, “We have become somewhat friendly with them.”

  My mother looked up from her menu. “He makes the most fantastic pesto sauce.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve had it, John.”

  “You’ve eaten at the Bellarosas’?”

  “No. Where is that?”

  Obviously I was not paying attention.

  Mother went on, “He gets the basil from a little farm in North Sea. He picks it every day at seven P . M .”

  “Who?”

  “Buddy Bear. The owner. He’s a Shinnecock, but he cooks marvelous Italian.”

  “The owner is an Indian?”

  “A Native American, John. A Shinnecock. And ten percent of the bill goes directly to the reservation. He’s a darling man. We’ll try to meet him later.”

  I ordered another double gin and tonic.

  And so we passed the time, my parents not inquiring after Susan’s parents or any of her family. They also did not ask about anyone in the Locust Valley or Manhattan office, or about the Allards, or in fact, about anyone. And while they were at it, they made a special point of not asking Carolyn or Edward about school. There are certain types of persons, as I’ve discovered, who have a great love of humanity, like my parents, but don’t particularly like people.

  But my mother did like Buddy Bear. “You absolutely must meet him,’’ she insisted.

  “Okay. Where is he?’’ I replied graciously.

  “He’s usually here on Fridays.”

  Edward said, “Maybe he’s at a powwow.”

  My mother gave him a very cool look, then said to my father, “We must get his mushrooms.’’ She explained to Susan and me, “He picks his own mushrooms. He knows where to go for them, but he absolutely refuses to let anyone in on his secret.”

  I was fairly certain that Buddy Bear went to the wholesale produce market like any sane restaurateur, but Mr. Bear was putting out a line of bullshit to the white turkeys who were gobbling it up. My God, I almost felt I would rather have been dining with Frank Bellarosa.

  My mother seemed agitated that the owner had not put in an appearance, so she inquired of our waitress as to his whereabouts. The waitress replied, “Oh, like he’s really busy, you know? He’s like, cooking? You know? Do you want to talk to him or something?”

  “When he has a moment,’’ my mother replied.

  I mean, who gives a shit? You know?

  At my mother’s suggestion, or insistence, I had ordered some angel-hair pasta concoction that combined three ingredients of Mr. Bear’s supposed foraging: the basil, the mushrooms, and some god-awful Indian sorrel that tasted like moldy grass clippings.

  There wasn’t much said during dinner, but after the plates were cleared, my mother said to my father, “We’re going to have the Indian pudding.’’ She turned to us. “Buddy makes an authentic Indian pudding. You must try it.”

  So we had six authentic Indian—or should I say Native American—puddings, which I swear to God came out of a can. But I had mine with a tumbler of brandy, so who cares?

  The check came and my father paid it, as was his custom. I was anxious to leave, but as luck would have it, the great Indian was now making the rounds of his tables, and we sat until our turn came.

  To fill the silence, I said to my father, “Edward tied into a mako last week. About two hundred pounds, I’d say.”

  My father replied to me, not to Edward, “Someone caught a fifteen-foot white out of Montauk two weeks ago.”

  My mother added, “I don’t mind when they’re eaten, but to hunt them just for sport is disgraceful.”

  “I agree,’’ I said. “You must eat what you catch, unless it’s absolutely awful. A mako is very good. Edward fought him for an hour.”

  “And,’’ my mother added, “I don’t like it when they’re injured and get away. That is inhumane. You must make every effort to capture him and put him out of his misery.”

  “Then eat him,’’ I reminded her.

  “Yes, eat him. Buddy serves shark here when he gets it.”r />
  I glanced at Edward, then Susan and Carolyn. I took a deep breath and said to my father, “Do you remember that time, Dad, when I hooked that blue . . . ?”

  “Yes?”

  “Never mind.”

  Mr. Bear finally got to us. He was rather fat and, in fact, didn’t look like an Indian at all except for his long black hair. If anything, he was a white man with some Indian and perhaps black blood and, more important, a keen sense of self-promotion. My mother took his left hand as he stood beside our table, leaving his right hand free to shake all around. “So,’’ said Buddy Bear, “you like everything?”

  Mother gushed forth a stream of praise for one of the most horrible meals I’ve ever eaten.

  We made stupid restaurant chatter for a minute or two, mother still holding Mr. Bear’s paw, but alas, the last of the Shinnecocks had to move on, but not before my mother said to him playfully, “I’m going to follow you one of these mornings and see where you pick your mushrooms.”

  He smiled enigmatically.

  I asked him, “Do you have sorrel every day, or only after you mow your lawn?”

  He smiled again, but not so enigmatically. The smile, in fact, looked like “Fuck you.”

  Edward tried to stifle a laugh, but failed miserably.

  On that note, we left Buddy’s Hole for the cool evening breezes of Southampton.

  On the sidewalk of Job’s Lane, my mother said, “We would invite you all back to the house, but we have a long day tomorrow.”

  I addressed my parents. “We have almost nothing in common and never did, so I would like to end these meaningless dinners if it’s all the same to you.”