I started to open the door, but Anthony said, “Just a sec.” He pulled out his cell phone, speed-dialed, and said, “Yeah. Ready.” He hung up and asked me, “You want to come out and say hello to Tony?”
I wouldn’t have minded some fresh air, but as I learned at Giulio’s, it’s a good rule not to stand too close to anyone who needs a bodyguard, so I said, “Perhaps another time.”
He apparently needed a minute to be sure he wouldn’t be standing alone on a dark road, so to pass the time, he asked me, “How come you haven’t seen her?”
“I’m busy.”
“Yeah? Is she busy? She got a boyfriend?”
“I have no idea.”
He looked at me and surprised me with a deep philosophical insight by saying, “This is all pretty fucked up, isn’t it?”
I didn’t reply.
His cell phone rang, and he glanced at the display but did not answer. He said to me, “Thanks for your time.”
I opened the door and said, “Thank you for stopping by.”
He smiled and said, “Hey, you looked like you saw a ghost.”
“You have your father’s eyes.”
“Yeah?” He put out his hand, and we shook. He said, “See you Wednesday.”
He walked out into the chill air, and I watched him go through the small postern gate and out to the road where Tony stood beside a big black SUV of some sort. What happened to the Cadillacs? The SUV was running, but its headlights were off, and Tony had his left hand on the door handle and his right hand under his jacket.
Some of this was a little melodramatic, I thought, but you might as well follow the drill. You just never know. Then, I thought, maybe there’s an open contract out on Anthony Bellarosa. And I’m having dinner with this guy?
Before the boys completed the drill, I closed the door and went back into the dining room, where I poured myself a cup of cognac.
“Right. Pretty fucked up.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The following day, I drove my Taurus along Skunks Misery Road, one of a number of roads around here with less than appealing names, which you’d think the residents or realtors might want to change—but these are historic names, some going back to the 1600s, plus people who are worth a zillion bucks wouldn’t care if their estate was on a road called Chicken Shit Lane. It actually adds to the charm.
The Gold Coast is a collection of colonial-era villages and hamlets on the North Shore of Long Island’s Nassau County, about twenty-five to thirty miles east of Manhattan. Some of these villages have quaint downtowns, and some, like Lattingtown, where Stanhope Hall is located, are exclusively residential, a quiltwork of grand estates, smaller estates with pretensions, and new McMansion subdivisions built on former estates.
In its day—between the Gilded Age and the Roaring Twenties, which ended on Black Tuesday, October 29, 1929—the Gold Coast of Long Island held the largest concentration of power and wealth in the world. You couldn’t throw a stone without hitting a billionaire. Since then, the Depression, the war, income tax, and the spreading suburbs had delivered what should have been mortal blows to this Garden of Eden of old money, old families, and old customs; but it’s hung on, a shadow of its former self, though now, with all this new Wall Street wealth, I sense a resurrection of the form, though not the substance, of this vanished world.
The Village of Locust Valley is the quintessential Gold Coast village, and that was my destination. My modest goal was a sandwich; specifically, Black Forest ham with Muenster cheese and mustard on pumpernickel bread. I’d been thinking about that for a week or so, and now the time had come. This sandwich could be obtained at Rolf’s German Delicatessen, which I hoped had not succumbed to gentrification, food fads, or healthy eating habits.
It was a perfect June day, mid-seventies, mostly sunny with a few fair-weather clouds in a light blue sky. The flowers were in bloom, and the big old trees were fully leafed and fluttering in a soft breeze. Outside the car, the birds were singing and bees were pollinating exquisite flowers while butterflies alighted on the little pug noses of perfect children, causing them to giggle to their nannies, “Oh, Maria, isn’t it wonderful to be rich?”
Being back here had sharpened my memories of why I was still teed off after a decade. I mean, I’d gotten on with my life, and my three-year sail, complete with a few life-threatening episodes, had been sufficiently cathartic and distracting so that I didn’t dwell on the past. And the seven years in London never seemed like an exile, or a place where I’d gone to escape the past. But now that I’ve returned, I feel that the past has been waiting patiently for me.
On a more positive note, most of these familiar sights brought back some good memories. I mean, I was born here, and grew up here, and got married and raised children here, and I still had family and friends here. And then I left. Maybe that’s why I’m still angry; it shouldn’t have turned out this way—and wouldn’t have if Frank Bellarosa hadn’t been screwing my wife, or vice versa.
I continued my drive down memory lane, which was now called Horse Hollow Road, and passed my former country club, The Creek. This brought back a lot of memories, too, such as the time Susan and I took don Bellarosa and his gaudily dressed wife, Anna, to the club for dinner. The members were not pleased, and looking back on it, I was not displaying good judgment. But it was pretty funny.
Anyway, it was Tuesday, near noon, and the day after Anthony Bellarosa had dropped by for what I knew had been an exploratory visit. I couldn’t believe I’d actually made a dinner date with this guy. As one of my own paesanos once said, “If you are going to sup with the devil, bring a long spoon.” Or, in this case, long chopsticks. Better yet, cancel that dinner.
This was my first trip to the village since I’d returned, and as I approached I noted the familiar landmarks. This area was settled in 1667 by the English, including my ancestors, and the residents have been resisting change ever since, so there wasn’t too much new in the quaint hamlet. It’s all about the zoning.
I turned onto Birch Hill Road, the old main street, and cruised through Station Plaza, where I used to take the Long Island Railroad for my fifty-minute commute into Manhattan. In the plaza was McGlade’s Pub, where Susan would sometimes meet me when I got off the train. Thinking back, I now wondered how many times she’d had afternoon sex with Frank Bellarosa before having drinks with me.
I slowed down as I approached my former law offices, where I used to put in a day or two each week to break up the commute into the city. The Locust Valley branch of Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds had been housed in a Victorian mansion at the edge of town. The mansion was still there, and it was still a law office, but the ornate sign on the front lawn now read: joseph p. bitet & justin w. green, attorneys-at-law.
I didn’t recognize those names, and not seeing my name on the sign was a bit of a shock, though it shouldn’t have been.
If this was a Twilight Zone episode, I’d now enter the building and see that the furniture was different, and I’d say to the receptionist, “Where’s Kathy?” and the lady would look at me, puzzled, and reply, “Who?”
“My receptionist.”
“Sir? How can I help you?”
“I’m John Sutter. This is my office. Why is my name not on the sign?”
And the lady would say, “Just a moment, sir,” then disappear and call the police, who would come and take me away as I was ranting about this being my office, and demanding they find my secretary, or call my wife to straighten this all out. Then Rod Serling’s voice-over would say, “John Whitman Sutter thought he’d just returned to his office after lunch—but he’d been gone longer than that . . . in the Twilight Zone.”
I doubled back toward the center of the village. Anyone from west of the Hudson who was dropped into this little town would not mistake Birch Hill Road for Main Street USA. For one thing, there are an inordinate number of imported luxury cars on the street, and the stores, I noticed, were still mostly antiques and boutiques, art galleries, and rest
aurants, with not a Starbucks to be seen.
I’d been avoiding Locust Valley, where I probably still knew a lot of people, but now that I was here, I could imagine a chance encounter with a former friend or neighbor. “Hello, John. Where have you been, old boy?”
“Around the world on my boat, then London. I left about ten years ago.”
“Has it been that long? How is Susan?”
“We got divorced after she shot her Mafia lover.”
“That’s right. Damned shame. I mean, the divorce. Why don’t we have lunch at the club?”
“I’m never allowed to set foot in The Creek or Seawanhaka for the rest of my life.”
“You don’t say? Well, you look wonderful, John. Let me know when you’re free.”
“I’ll send my man around with some dates. Ciao.”
Anyway, I turned onto Forest Avenue and found a parking space near Rolf’s German Delicatessen, which I used to frequent whenever I got tired of Susan’s organic compost.
I was glad to see that the deli was still there, but inside, I discovered that there had been a Mexican invasion, and the English language was not on the menu.
Nevertheless, I ordered in my usual brusque New York manner, “Black Forest ham, Muenster, mustard, on pumpernickel.”
“Mister?”
“No, Muenster.”
“Muster.”
“No. Good Lord, man, I’m ordering a sandwich. What part of that order couldn’t you understand?”
“Blaforesam. Yes?”
I could hear the soundtrack from The Twilight Zone in my head, and I whispered, “Where’s Rolf? What have you done with Rolf?”
He made a joke and said, “He go, amigo.”
“Right.” Anyway, I didn’t want a German sandwich made in Mexico, so I said, “Just give me a coffee with leche. Milko. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I got my coffee and left.
A few doors down was a new gourmet food shop, and as I sipped my coffee, I moved toward the shop window to look at the menu. Suddenly, the door opened and out walked Susan Stanhope Sutter. I stopped dead in my tracks, and I felt a thump in my chest.
She would have seen me, not twenty feet away, if she hadn’t been talking on her cell phone.
I hesitated. But having thought about this already, I decided to go up to her and say hello.
Susan sat at a small café table in front of the shop and, still talking on the phone, unpacked her lunch bag. Lady Stanhope laid out her paper napkin, plastic utensils, imported water, and salad exactly as it belonged at a well-set table.
It had been four years since I’d seen her, at my aunt Cornelia’s funeral, and her red hair was a little shorter than I remembered, and her tan was browner than I’d ever seen it. She wore a frosty pink gloss on her pouty lips, and those catlike green eyes still looked like emeralds in the sunlight. I found myself thinking of those photographs of her nude on the boat.
I got rid of that image and noticed that she was wearing one of the standard Locust Valley outfits—tan slacks and a green polo shirt in which was hooked a pair of sunglasses. She had on a sports watch, but no other jewelry, not even a widow’s wedding ring, and on the table was what I think was a Coach handbag to complete the look; simple and not too chic for an afternoon in the village. Most of all, it signaled that she was gentry, not townie.
Anyway, I drew a deep breath and took a step toward her, but before I could get into full gear, the shop door opened and another woman came out, glanced at me, then turned to Susan and sat down opposite her.
Susan got rid of her phone call, and she and her lunch companion began to chat.
I didn’t know the lady, but I knew the type. She was somewhat older than Susan, but still dressed preppie, and her name was probably Buffy or Suki or Taffy, and she firmly believed that you can never be too rich or too thin.
I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could tell that Taffy (or whatever her name was) spoke in the local dialect known as Locust Valley Lockjaw. Okay, I’ll tell you. This is an affliction of women, mostly, but men are sometimes stricken with it, and it occurs usually in social situations when the speaker’s teeth are clenched, and enunciation is accomplished by moving only the lips. This produces a nasal tone that’s surprisingly audible and distinct, unless the speaker has a deviated septum.
Anyway, Taffy’s lunch consisted of bottled water and yogurt with five grapes that she plucked from a thousand-dollar handbag. She and Susan seemed at ease with each other, and I couldn’t tell if they were talking about something light, like men, or something important, like shopping.
I had this sudden urge to walk over to them and say something uncouth to Taffy, like, “Hi, I’m John Sutter, Susan’s ex-husband. I divorced her because she was fucking a Mafia greaseball, who she then shot and killed.”
But Taffy probably already knew that, since this was not the kind of local gossip one could hide or forget. This place thrived on scandal and gossip, and if everyone who had done something scandalous was ostracized, then the country clubs would be empty, and the house parties would be poorly attended.
There were, however, limits to bad behavior, and the Sutters taking the Bellarosas to dinner at The Creek was one such example. On the other hand, Mrs. Sutter having an affair with Mr. Bellarosa was not likely to get her stricken from the A-List. In fact, her presence at charity events, cocktail parties, and ladies’ luncheons would be most desirable. As for shooting your lover, well, it was not completely unheard of, and with a little spin, a tawdry crime of passion could be repackaged as a matter of honor. Bottom line on this was that Susan Sutter was a Stanhope, a name permanently entered into the Blue Book. Substitute any other local family name—Vanderbilt, Roosevelt, Pratt, Whitney, Grace, Post, Hutton, Morgan, or whatever—and you begin to understand the unwritten rules and privileges.
I watched Susan and Taffy lunching and talking, and I took a last look at Susan. Then I turned and walked to my car.
CHAPTER FIVE
The next day, Wednesday, was overcast, so I didn’t mind spending the day in the dining room of the gatehouse, my mind sometimes focused on the paperwork at hand, sometimes wandering into the past that was spread before me.
I still hadn’t burned the nude photos of Susan, and I thought again about actually giving them to her; they weren’t exclusively mine, and she might want them. What would Emily Post say? “Dear Confused on Long Island, Nude photographs of a former spouse or lover should be returned, discreetly, via registered mail, and clearly marked, ‘Nude Photographs—Do Not Bend.’ An enclosed explanation is not usually necessary or appropriate, though in recent years the sender often indicates in a short note that the photographs have not been posted on the Internet. The recipient should send a thank-you note within ten days. (Signed) Emily Post.”
On the subject of communication between ex-spouses, in my phone calls to and from Edward and Carolyn, they’d both given me their mother’s new home phone number and told me that she had kept her South Carolina cell phone number. Plus, I had her e-mail address, though I didn’t have a computer. Susan, of course, knew Ethel’s phone number here, which hadn’t changed since FDR was President. So . . . someone should call someone.
I went back to my paperwork. I found my marriage license and I also found my divorce decree, so I stapled them together. What came in between was another whole story.
Regarding my divorce decree, I’d need this in the unlikely event I decided to remarry. In fact, the lady in London, Samantha, had said to me, “Why don’t we get married?” to which I’d replied, “Great idea. But who would have us?”
I’d spoken to Samantha a few times since I’d left London, and she wanted to fly to New York, but since the relationship was up in the air, Samantha wasn’t up in the air.
I pulled a manila envelope toward me that was marked, in Susan’s handwriting, “Photos for Album.” They hadn’t made it into any album and were not likely to do so. I spilled out the photos and saw that they were mostly of the
Sutters, the Stanhopes, and the Allards, taken over a period of many years, primarily on holiday occasions—Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, birthdays, and all that.
The whole cast was there—William and Charlotte Stanhope and their wastrel son, Susan’s brother, Peter, as well as Susan herself, looking always twenty-five years old.
Then there was me, of course, with Edward and Carolyn, and my parents, Joseph and Harriet, and in one of the photos was my sister Emily with her ex-husband, Keith. There was a nice shot of my aunt Cornelia and her husband, Arthur, now both deceased.
It was hard to believe that there was a time when everyone was alive and happy. Well, maybe not that happy, but at least encouraged to smile for the camera, helped along by a few cocktails.
As I looked at the photos, I couldn’t believe that so many of these people were dead, divorced, or, worse, living in Florida.
I noticed an old photo of Elizabeth Allard, and I remembered the occasion, which was Elizabeth’s college graduation party, held on the great lawn of Stanhope Hall, another example of noblesse oblige, which is French for, “Sure you can use our mansion, and it’s not at all awkward for any of us.” Elizabeth, I noticed, was a lot prettier than I remembered her. Actually, I needed to call her because she was the executrix of her mother’s estate.
I pushed the photos aside, except for one of George and Ethel. Longtime family retainers often become more than employees, and the Allards were the last of what had once been a large staff, which reminded me that I needed to go see Ethel. I needed to do this because I was her attorney, and because, despite our differences, we’d shared some life together, and she was part of my history as I was of hers, and we’d all been cast in the same drama—the Allards, the Sutters, and the Stanhopes—played on the stage of a semi-derelict estate in a world of perpetual twilight.
Tonight, I decided, was as good a time as any to say goodbye; in fact, there probably wasn’t much time left.
But that reminded me that I had another date with destiny this evening: Mr. Anthony Bellarosa. I’d thought about canceling that dinner, but I didn’t know how to reach him, and standing him up wouldn’t make him go away.
The Gate House Page 5