The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  Meanwhile, George was fighting the more dangerous war in the Pacific, and William’s father, Augustus, took the opportunity to shag Ethel, who helped the war effort by growing her own vegetables in the Victory Garden.

  And here we are now.

  In some ways, we are coming to the end of an era, but these old dramas do not really end, because as someone wisely said, the past is prologue to the future, and short of a meteor strike and mass extinction, the dramas of each generation roll on into the next.

  Elizabeth asked me, “What are you thinking about?”

  “About . . . the generations who’ve lived here, in war and peace.”

  She nodded and commented, “Who would have thought, in 1945, that we’d be surrounded by subdivisions, and that an Iranian would be living in Stanhope Hall?”

  I didn’t reply.

  She asked me, “Did you see what happened to Alhambra?”

  “I caught a peek of it.”

  “It’s awful.” She asked, “Do you remember the estate—? Oh, I forgot . . . sorry.”

  “It really doesn’t bother me.”

  “Good.” She looked at me, hesitated, then said, “I think it does.”

  “Maybe because I’m back.”

  “Are you staying?”

  Again, the threshold question, and as with Anthony Bellarosa, the answer would partly determine whether Elizabeth and I had any serious business to discuss. I replied, “I’m going to give it a few months, then I can make a more informed decision.”

  “And what do you think is going to happen in a few months to help you with this informed decision?”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  She smiled. “No, but that’s so typically male. Informed decision. How do you feel? Right now.”

  “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  She laughed. “All right. I don’t mean to pry.”

  “Good.” I stood and asked, “Ready to wade through paperwork?”

  She stood also, and as we moved toward the kitchen door, she asked, “How long will this take?”

  “Less than an hour. Then maybe an hour to pack your car with any personal items you may want to take now.”

  She glanced at her watch and said, “I’d like to have a drink in my hand by six o’clock.”

  “That’s part of my service.”

  I opened the screen door for her and she went inside.

  As I followed, it occurred to me that we both had so many memories of Stanhope Hall—good and bad—that whatever happened today—good or bad—would be emotional and partly influenced by other people, living and dead, who were still here, in one form or another.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  We sat side by side at the dining room table, and I, in my organized and professional manner, identified documents, presented them to Elizabeth for reading, and explained the obtuse language when necessary. She was wearing a nice lilac scent.

  She said to me, “I’m happy that it’s you who are doing this, John.”

  “I’m glad I’m able to do it.”

  “Did you come back just for this?”

  “Well, I came to see your mother, of course.” I added, “And I need to move my things out of here.”

  Without hesitation, she offered, “You can move your things into my house. I have plenty of room.”

  “Thank you. I may take you up on that.”

  She hesitated, then said, “I’d offer you a room, but my divorce settlement makes my alimony dependent on me not cohabitating.”

  I joked, “Let me see that divorce settlement.”

  She smiled, then clarified, “I mean, we wouldn’t be cohabitating—I’d just make a room available to you . . . the way Mom did. But Tom would jump on that as soon as he found out.”

  “You could tell Tom that I’m on his team.”

  She laughed and said, “You have a reputation as a notorious heterosexual.”

  I smiled.

  She stayed silent awhile before thinking out loud, “Well . . . it’s a measly alimony, for only a few years . . .” She said to me, “If you really need a place, you’re welcome to use my guest room.”

  “Thank you.” I added, “I would insist on paying you a rent equal to your measly alimony.” I reminded her, “I have this place for a while, then I need to return to London to tidy up things there.”

  She nodded, and we went back to the paperwork.

  I came across a deed dated August 23, 1943, conveying a life tenancy from Mr. Augustus Phillip Stanhope, property owner, to Mrs. Ethel Hope Allard, domestic servant, and her husband, Mr. George Henry Allard, then serving overseas with the Armed Forces of the United States.

  So I could make the assumption that Mr. Stanhope and Mrs. Allard had, prior to this date, entered into their intimate relationship that led to this generous conveyance. In legal terms, this conveyance was obviously supported by the repeated receipt of sufficient consideration—meaning here, multiple sex acts—though these particular considerations from Mrs. Allard to Mr. Stanhope could not be candidly described in this document.

  Regarding that, did anyone question Augustus Stanhope’s generosity at the time? Even today, bells would go off. Unless, of course, this was kept secret until Augustus popped off, and Ethel dragged it out to show William Stanhope before he got any ideas about getting rid of the Allards, or before he demanded rent from their meager pay.

  Also, I wondered, when did George Allard learn that he was living rent-free, for life, in the Stanhope gatehouse? And how did Ethel explain this to her new husband when he returned from the war? “George, I have some good news, and some bad news.”

  In any case, William, at some point, knew about the life tenancy in his newly inherited property, and it was a constant thorn in his side, especially when he put the estate up for sale and had to reveal the existence of this encumbrance of unknown duration. I recalled that Frank Bellarosa, when he bought Stanhope Hall, was not thrilled with having Ethel—George was deceased by then—living on his property. But Frank had said to me philosophically, “Maybe she’s good luck. And how long can she live?” Answer: ten years longer than you, Frank.

  In any case, this document wasn’t relevant to the business at hand, so I casually slid it back into its folder. But Elizabeth asked, “What was that?”

  “Oh, just the life tenancy grant to your parents. It needs to stay here until the time comes when it’s moot.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Well . . . sure.” I placed it in front of her, and she read the single-page document, then passed it back to me. I said, “Next, we have—”

  “Why do you think Augustus Stanhope gave my parents a life tenancy in this house?”

  “As it says, for devoted and faithful service.”

  “They were in their twenties then.”

  “Right. He doesn’t say long service.”

  “What am I not understanding?”

  Oh, you don’t want to know that, Elizabeth. I suggested, “You should ask your mother.” I shuffled through a few papers. “Okay, so here we have your mother’s last three Federal tax returns—”

  “Mom said it was a reward for long service.”

  Faced with having to respond with the simple truth or a thin lie, I chose neither and continued, “You need to contact your mother’s accountant . . .” I glanced at her and saw she was looking above the fireplace at the large framed photo portrait of her parents on their wedding day.

  I continued, “Your mother has a paid-up life insurance policy with a death benefit of ten thousand dollars. Here is the actual policy, and you should put it in a safe place.”

  Elizabeth looked away from the photograph and said, “She was very beautiful.”

  “Indeed, she was. Still is.”

  “My father looked so handsome in that white uniform.”

  I looked at the colored photo portrait and agreed, “They were a handsome couple.”

  She didn’t reply, and when I glanced at her again, I saw she had tears in her eyes
. John Whitman Sutter, Esq., who’d done this sort of work before, was prepared, and I took a clean handkerchief from my pocket and put it in her hand.

  She dabbed at her eyes and said, “Sorry.”

  “That’s all right. Let me get you some water.” I stood and went into the kitchen.

  As I said, I did this for a living once. Most of the time, I was a hotshot Wall Street tax lawyer in the city, but in my Locust Valley office I did wills, trusts, health care proxies, and that sort of thing. Half my clients were wealthy old dowagers and grumpy old men who spent a lot of time thinking of people to put in their wills before disinheriting them a week later.

  Also, the last will and testament, along with related papers, sometimes revealed a family secret or two—an institutionalized sibling, an illegitimate child, two mistresses in Manhattan, and so forth. I’d learned how to handle this with professional stoicism, though now and then, even I had been shocked, surprised, saddened, and often amused.

  Ethel Allard’s adultery was no big deal in the grand scheme of things, especially given the passage of half a century. But it’s always a bit of a jolt to the adult child when he or she discovers that Mommy had a lover, and Daddy was diving into the steno pool.

  In any case, Elizabeth, divorced, with two grown children, a deceased father, and a dying mother, was maybe lonely, and surely emotionally distraught, and thus vulnerable.

  So . . . I filled a glass with tap water. So, nothing should or would happen tonight that we’d regret, or feel guilty about in the morning. Right?

  I returned to the dining room and saw that Elizabeth had composed herself. I handed her the water and suggested, “Let’s take a break. Would you like to walk?”

  “I want to finish this.” She promised, “I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay.”

  We cleared up the peripheral paperwork, and I opened the envelope that held Ethel’s last will and testament. I said, “I drew up this will after your father died, and I see that it’s held up pretty well over the years.” Continuing in my official tone of voice, I asked her, “Have you read this will?”

  “I have.”

  “Do you want to review this will with her?”

  “I don’t want to read her will to her on her deathbed.”

  “I understand.” And I wouldn’t want Ethel to increase her five-hundred-dollar bequest to St. Mark’s. I said, “I’ll keep this copy here for when the time comes.”

  Elizabeth nodded, then said, “She didn’t leave you anything.”

  “Why should she?”

  “For all you’ve done for her and for Dad.”

  I replied, “What little I’ve done was done in friendship. And your mother reciprocated by letting me use this house for storage.” Though she did charge me rent when I lived here ten years ago, and she just reinstated the rent.

  Elizabeth said, “I understand. But I’d feel better if her estate . . . I’m the executor . . . paid you a fee.”

  I wondered if Elizabeth thought I needed the money. I did, but I wasn’t destitute. In fact, I was making a good living in London, but unfortunately I’d brought with me to London the American habit of living beyond my means. And now I was on an extended, unpaid sabbatical.

  But things were looking up. I had an offer from an old, established Italian-American firm. La Cosa Nostra.

  Elizabeth said again, “I’d really feel better if you were paid for your professional services.”

  I replied, “All right, but I’ll take my fee in crabapple jelly.”

  She smiled and said, “And dinner is on me tonight.”

  “Deal.” I stacked a dozen folders in front of her and said, “Take these with you and put them in a safe place. I’ll try to visit Ethel tomorrow or Monday.”

  She asked me, “Is that it?”

  “That’s it for the paperwork, except for this inventory I’ve made of personal property, including your father’s.” I slid three sheets of paper toward her, on which I’d handwritten the inventory, and asked, “Do you want to go through this?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, look it over later. Meanwhile, item four is sixty-two dollars in cash that I found in the cookie jar when I was looking for cookies.” I put an envelope in front of her and said, “If you count that and initial item four, you can have the cash now.”

  She dropped the envelope in her canvas bag without counting the money, initialed where indicated, and said, “This will buy us a nice bottle of wine.”

  “Don’t drink up your whole inheritance.”

  “Why not?” She asked again, “Is that it?”

  “We’re getting close.”

  I handed her another envelope and said, “These are your mother’s funeral instructions.”

  Elizabeth informed me, “I already have a photocopy of this with up-to-the-minute changes.”

  I sensed that Elizabeth had become a little impatient with her mother’s precise preparations for the big event. I said, “Well, take this anyway.”

  She threw the envelope in her canvas bag and said, “I love her, but she drives me nuts—right to the end.”

  I replied, “I’m sure our children say the same about us.”

  She smiled, then said, “This reminds me—that envelope that my mother wanted me to give you—I spoke to her and apparently she wants me to wait until she’s gone.”

  I nodded, thinking it was probably a bill for the rent. Or instructions on what to wear to her funeral.

  Elizabeth inquired, “So, are we done here?”

  I stood and said, “We’re done here. But you need to find the dress your mother wants to wear. Meanwhile, I’ll put that garden sign in your car, and I’d like you to take that photo portrait, and whatever else you’d like to take with you tonight.”

  She stood also, and we looked at each other, then she asked me, “Will you come up with me?”

  “No. You should go to her room by yourself.” I added, “And you can take a look at your old room.”

  She nodded, then said, “The car’s unlocked.” She left the dining room, and I could hear her making her way up the steep, narrow staircase to the two bedrooms above.

  I don’t normally talk myself out of sex, but there is a time and place for everything. Even sex. But maybe I was reading Elizabeth wrong, and she was not actually in the mood for love with a handsome stranger from across the sea.

  “Dear Ms. Post, I am the attorney of record for an elderly lady who is dying—I wrote to you about her—and her beautiful daughter is the executrix of her estate, so we are working closely together on this. My question is, Should I have sex with her? (Signed) Confused on Long Island (again).”

  I think I know what Ms. Post would say: “Dear COLI, No. P.S. What happened to the ex-wife down the road? P.P.S. You are headed for trouble, buddy.”

  Anyway, I took the framed photo portrait off the wall above the fireplace and noticed how dingy the wallpaper around it was. A new decorating project for Mrs. Nasim.

  I carried the portrait outside to where Elizabeth had parked her SUV next to my Taurus, and I saw that it was a BMW, which suggested some degree of business success, or a good divorce attorney. I also saw a garment bag hanging in the rear, and I guessed that was Elizabeth’s dinner clothing for tonight.

  I opened the cargo compartment and set the portrait facedown, noticing on the paper backing some handwriting. I pulled the portrait toward me and read the words, written with a fountain pen, in what looked like Ethel’s hand: George Henry Allard and Ethel Hope Purvis, married June 13, 1942, St. Mark’s, Locust Valley, Long Island.

  And under that, in the same feminine hand, Come home safe, my darling.

  And beneath that, in George’s hand, which I also recognized, My sweet wife, I will count the days until we are together again.

  I slid the portrait forward and closed the tailgate. Well, I thought, hopefully, they’ll be together again soon.

  I thought, too, perhaps cynically, that all marriages start with hope and optimism, love and
yearning, but the years take their toll. And in this case, by August of 1943, fourteen months after these words of love and devotion were written, Ethel had succumbed to loneliness, or lust, or had been seduced by money and power—or, recalling that scene ten years ago at the cemetery when Ethel had disappeared from George’s grave and I’d found her at Augustus’ grave—quite possibly she’d actually fallen in love with Augustus Stanhope. Or all of the above.

  In any case, Ethel and George had worked it out and spent the next half century together, happily, I think, living in this little house together, raising their daughter, and doing increasingly lighter work on the grand estate whose walls and lonely acres kept the encroaching world away, and kept them, in some mysterious way, a forever-young estate couple who’d met here, fallen in love, married, and never left home.

  As I was walking toward the garden path that ran between the gatehouse and the wall, I heard a vehicle crunching the gravel behind me. I turned to see a white Lexus SUV heading toward the open gates, driven by Susan Stanhope Sutter.

  The Lexus slowed, and we made eye contact. She’d seen the BMW, of course, and may have known to whom it belonged, but even if she didn’t, she knew I had company of some sort.

  It’s awkward making eye contact with the former love of your life, into whose eyes you no longer wish to look, and I didn’t know what to do. Wave? Blow a kiss? Flip the bird? Ms. Post? Help me.

  It was Susan who waved, almost perfunctorily, then she accelerated through the gates, making a hard, tire-screeching right onto Grace Lane.