The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  I noticed that my mood had darkened. Why does Susan Sutter still have the power to affect my frame of mind?

  I needed to answer that question honestly, before I could move on.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Elizabeth and I filled her BMW with her parents’ personal items that she wanted to take that night, such as photo albums, the family Bible, and other odds and ends that were priceless and irreplaceable. We piled the rest of the personal property, including George’s naval uniforms and Ethel’s wedding gown, into the foyer to be moved another day.

  It was very sad for Elizabeth, of course, and I, too, found myself thinking about life and death, and the things we leave behind.

  On one of our trips to her vehicle, she retrieved her garment bag and a makeup case and took them up to her mother’s room.

  By the time the cuckoo clock struck six, Elizabeth was sitting in her mother’s rocker in the living room, and I was sitting in George’s wingback chair across from her. On the coffee table was the three-page inventory list, most of the items now checked. Also on the table were two mismatched wineglasses that I’d filled from a bottle of Banfi Brunello, one of three Tuscan reds I’d bought in Locust Valley after my Oyster Bay adventure with Anthony. I’d also picked up some cheese and crackers at a food shop and a plastic tray of pre-cut vegetables. I stuck to the Brie.

  Elizabeth dipped a carrot and said to me, “You should have some vegetables.”

  “Vegetables are a choking hazard.”

  She smiled, nibbled at the carrot, then sipped her wine.

  We were both tired, and a little sweaty and dusty from the trips to the basement and the attic, and we needed a shower.

  She said to me, “I made a seven-thirty reservation at The Creek. Is that all right?”

  I informed her, “I think I’m persona non grata there.”

  “Really? Why . . . ? Oh . . . I guess when Susan . . .”

  I finished her sentence: “. . . shot her Mafia lover.” I smiled and added, “They’re very stuffy there.”

  Elizabeth forced a smile, then informed me, “Actually, Susan has rejoined the club. We had lunch there. So maybe it’s not a problem. But we can go to a restaurant.”

  I finished my wine and poured another. So let me get this straight—I had been on thin ice at The Creek because I’d brought Mr. Frank Bellarosa, a Mafia gentleman, and his gaudily dressed wife, Anna, to the club for dinner; but it was Susan’s murder of said Mafia gentleman that actually got us booted. And now, Susan Stanhope Sutter—Stanhope is the operative word here—had the nerve to apply for membership and was readmitted. Meanwhile, if I reapplied, I’m sure I’d discover that I was still blackballed.

  Nevertheless, I said, “The Creek is fine if you don’t mind a disciplinary letter to you from the Board of Governors.”

  She thought about that, smiled, and replied, “That could be fun.”

  As I refilled her glass, I also thought about running into everyone I used to know there, including Susan. But what the hell. It could be fun.

  Elizabeth suggested, “Or we could stay here.”

  I looked at her in the dim light, and as I said, I’m not good at reading a woman’s signals, but Elizabeth’s signal was loud and clear. I replied, “Let’s think about that.”

  “Thinking is not what we want to do.”

  I nodded, then changed the subject. “I have something for you.” I stood, went into the dining room, and found Susan’s photographs of the Allards.

  I knelt beside Elizabeth’s chair and said, “Susan took most of these, and I want you to have them, though I’d like to make a few copies for myself.”

  She took the stack of photos and went through them, making appropriate remarks about each one, such as, “I can’t believe how many times we were all together . . . I barely remember these . . . Oh, look, here’s my college graduation . . . and there’s you, John, with your arm around me and Dad . . . oh, God, was I a dork, or what?”

  “No, you were not. I’ll take a copy of that one.”

  “No, no.”

  “You look great with straight black hair.”

  “Oh my God—what was I thinking?”

  We came across a posed photograph taken on the rear terrace of Stanhope Hall, occasion unknown or forgotten. Standing in the photo is Ethel, still attractive in late middle age, and George, his hair still brown, and Augustus Stanhope, late into his dotage, sitting in a rocker with a blanket on his lap. Also, on his lap is a girl of about six or seven, and I realized it was Elizabeth.

  She joked, “That’s not me.”

  “It looks like you.”

  She stared at the photograph, then said, “My mother took care of him before they had to hire around-the-clock nurses.” Elizabeth put the photo on the table with the others and added, “Mom was very fond of him.”

  I replied, “He was a gentleman.” I added, of course, “Very unlike his son.”

  We dropped that subject and continued on through the stack of photos.

  Elizabeth commented at one point, “I can’t believe how many of these people are dead.”

  I nodded.

  She asked me, “Were you happy then?”

  “I was. But I didn’t always know it. How about you?”

  “I think I was happy.” She changed the subject. “Oh, here are Edward and Carolyn. They’re so cute.”

  And so we continued through the photographic time trip, both of us, I think, realizing how much our lives had intersected, and yet how little we knew each other.

  Because Susan had taken most of these pictures, she wasn’t in many of them, but we came across a photo of Susan and Elizabeth together, taken at the Stanhope annual Christmas party in the mansion. Elizabeth stared at it and said, “She is a beautiful woman.”

  I didn’t comment.

  Elizabeth continued, “She was very nice at lunch.”

  I had no intention of asking about the lunch, so I stood and poured the remainder of the wine into our glasses.

  Elizabeth finished with the photos and said, “I’ll have them all copied for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  She sat silently for a while, sipping her wine, then informed me, “I’ve heard that . . . Bellarosa’s son has moved into one of the Alhambra houses.”

  I nodded.

  She remained silent again, then asked me, “Do you think . . . ? I mean, could that be a problem for Susan?”

  I asked, “What did Susan think?”

  Elizabeth glanced at me, then replied, “She didn’t think so,” then added, “She seemed not at all concerned.”

  “Good.”

  “But . . . well, I would be.”

  I didn’t reply and opened the second bottle of Tuscan red, a Cabreo Il Borgo, and we sat silently, drinking wine and getting a little tipsy.

  We seemed to have run out of things to talk about; or, to put it another way, someone needed to address the subject of sex or supper. Elizabeth had already broached that subject, and I’d let it pass, but she tried another approach and announced, “I’m too drunk to drive.” She asked, “Can you drive?”

  “No.”

  “Then let’s stay here.”

  I could, of course, call a taxi for her, and that’s what a real gentleman would do—or a limp-dicked, half-wit poor excuse of a man. So I said, “Let’s stay here.”

  “That’s a good idea.” She finished her wine, stood, and said, “I need to shower.”

  I, too, stood and watched her walk, a little unsteadily, into the foyer.

  I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to follow. “Dear Ms. Post—”

  “Dear COLI, Just fuck her already.”

  “Right.” I moved toward the foyer, then hesitated. I seemed to recall that I’d already decided that Elizabeth was emotionally distraught and vulnerable, and I should not take advantage of that. On a more selfish level, I didn’t want to complicate my life at this time. And Elizabeth Allard Corbet would be a major complication.

  On the other hand . . .
I mean, this was her idea.

  My head said no, my heart said maybe, and my dick was pointing toward the staircase. Dick wins every time.

  But first, I uncorked the third bottle of wine, took the two glasses, and went to the foot of the stairs, where I heard a door close on the second floor.

  I made my way up the steps to the small hallway. The bathroom was straight ahead, her mother’s room was to the left, and my room—her old room—was to the right. All three doors were closed, so I opened mine and saw she wasn’t there. I set the bottle and glasses on the nightstand. I could now hear the shower running in the bathroom.

  I’ve been here before, on the outside of a closed bathroom door while the lady inside was showering, and I had no clear, verbal invitation to share the shower. “Dear Ms. Post—”

  “Hey, stupid, see if the door is unlocked.”

  “Right.” I went back to the bathroom door and gently tried the knob. Locked.

  I went back to my bedroom, leaving the door open, and I poured two glasses of wine and sat in the armchair.

  The shower stopped. I opened a copy of Time magazine, sipped my wine, and read.

  A few minutes later, while I was reading a fascinating article about something or other, I heard the bathroom door open, and Elizabeth poked her head through my door, wrapped in a large bath towel, and drying her hair with another towel. She said to me, “Shower’s free.”

  “Good.” I stood and asked, “Feel better?”

  “Terrific.” Then she turned and walked into her mother’s room and closed the door. I could hear the hair dryer running.

  First-time sex is like a first dance. Who’s leading whom? Am I dancing too close, or too far? Do I need a shower? Yes.

  I went into the bathroom, leaving the door unlocked, stripped and threw my clothes in the corner on top of hers, then got in the shower, still not absolutely certain where this was going.

  After I finished, I dried off with the last towel, wrapped it around my waist, and exited into the hallway. Her bedroom door was still closed, but it was quiet in there. I entered my room and found her in my chair, her legs crossed, sipping wine, reading my magazine, and wearing my Yale Crew T-shirt, and not much else, except a little makeup.

  I said, “That shirt looks good on you.”

  “I hope you don’t mind.”

  I think I knew where this was going.

  I took my wine, sat on the bed opposite her chair, and we clinked glasses and sipped without talking.

  She looked around at the small room, the old furniture, the faded wallpaper, the worn carpet, and the sun-bleached drapes, then said, “I spent most of my first twenty-one years here.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “I always came home on school breaks,” she continued, and I could hear that her voice was a little tired and slurred. “It always felt like home . . . it was always here . . . and now, it’s time to move on.”

  I nodded.

  She announced, “I’d like to sleep here tonight.”

  “Of course.”

  She stretched out her legs and put her feet on my lap. She said, “My feet are sore from all that moving.”

  I put down my wine and rubbed her feet.

  She put her head back, closed her eyes and murmured, “Oooh . . . that feels sooo good.”

  Her T-shirt—my T-shirt—had ridden north, and I could see that the carpet matched the drapes.

  I’ve been here before, too, and I never felt comfortable dipping my pen in a client’s inkwell. But Elizabeth was also a social acquaintance, and not really a client, and . . . well, the line was already crossed. So . . . I mean, not to proceed at this point would be rude.

  She held out her empty glass, and I refilled it.

  It was past 7:00 P.M., still light outside, and the open window let in a nice breeze and the sounds of birds chirping. Now and then I could hear a vehicle passing on Grace Lane, but no one drove into the gravel driveway.

  She finished her wine, put her feet on the floor, and raised herself up from the armchair.

  I, too, stood, and she put her arms around my shoulders and buried her face in my bare chest.

  I put my arms around her, and I could feel she was limp and barely standing—as opposed to Bad John who was not limp and standing fully erect. I lifted her and laid her down on the sheets with her head on the pillow.

  She stared up at the ceiling, then tears welled up in her eyes.

  I took some tissues from a box on the nightstand and put them in her hand, and Good John suggested, “Why don’t you get some sleep?”

  She nodded, and I got the quilt from the foot of the bed and laid it over her.

  She said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “I want to . . . but it’s just . . . too much. Everything. I’m too sad.”

  “I understand.” I also understood that Elizabeth was possibly considering her relationship with Susan, and that made two of us.

  “Maybe later,” she said.

  I didn’t reply.

  “I like you.”

  “I like you.”

  I opened the small closet, found a pair of khakis and a golf shirt, and got a pair of shorts from the dresser. I took off my towel, and I saw she was watching me. She asked, “Where are you going?”

  “Downstairs.” I pulled on my shorts, pants, and shirt and asked her, “Do you need anything?”

  She shook her head.

  “See you later.” I headed toward the door.

  She said, “Kiss me good night.”

  I went back to the bed, gave her a kiss on the cheek, then on the lips, and wiped her eyes with a tissue, then left the room and closed the door.

  I went downstairs, got a beer from the refrigerator, and sat out on the back patio.

  The night was getting cool, and the setting sun cast long shadows across the lawn. In the distance, if I cared to look, was Susan’s house, and I understood that it was Susan’s proximity and her literal and figurative presence that was causing me the same conflict that Elizabeth probably felt.

  And my conflicts and indecisions went beyond the issue of women; my dealings with Anthony Bellarosa, for instance, were affected by Susan’s presence, as was my uncertainty about staying here, or returning to London, or going someplace new.

  So, I needed to speak to Susan to put these issues to rest, to find out how much—or how little—she actually mattered.

  I finished my beer, put my feet on the table, and looked up at the darkening sky. The light pollution from the encroaching subdivisions cast an artificial glow on the horizon, but overhead it was as I remembered it; a beautiful watercolor blue and pink twilight, and in the east the stars were starting to blink on in the purple sky.

  The sound of a vehicle on the gravel broke into my stargazing, and I turned as the vehicle passed the gatehouse and saw that it was a white Lexus SUV. It stopped, then moved on slowly toward the guest cottage.

  We had been separated for a decade by oceans and continents, and now we were a few minutes’ walk from each other, but still separated by anger, pride, and history, which was harder to overcome than continents and oceans.

  I’d always felt that we’d parted in haste, without a full accounting of why we were going our separate ways, and as a result, neither of us, I think, was really able to move on. We needed to revisit the past, no matter how painful that would be. And the time to do that was now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  As the sun came over the estate wall and through the kitchen window, I brewed a pot of coffee and took a mug out onto the patio, where I counted four empty beer bottles on the table.

  I’d slept in my clothes on the couch, and my only trip up the stairs was to use the bathroom. To the best of my knowledge, Elizabeth never came downstairs.

  I sipped coffee from my steaming mug and watched the morning mist rise from the lawn and garden.

  As we used to say in college, “Getting laid is no big deal, but not getting laid is a very big deal.”
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br />   On a more positive note, that was the right move. No involvement, no complications.

  On the other hand, sex or no sex, Elizabeth and I had connected on some level. I liked her, and she was part of my past, and therefore possibly part of my future. I’d spent ten years sleeping with strangers; it might be nice to sleep with someone I knew. If nothing else, I now had a place to store my property, and a guest room if I needed one. And, hopefully, I had a friend.

  I heard the screen door squeak open, and I turned to see Elizabeth walking barefoot across the dewy patio, wrapped in my old bathrobe and carrying a mug of coffee.

  She gave me a peck on the cheek and said, “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.”

  She asked, “Did you sleep well?”

  “I did. How about you?”

  “I . . . it was strange sleeping in my old room.” She added, “I had sad dreams . . . about being a young girl again . . . and Mom and Dad . . . I woke up a few times, crying.”

  I nodded and looked at her, then we held hands. She still looked very sad, then seemed to shake it off and said, “Do you know this poem? ‘Backward, turn backward, O Time in your flight; Make me a child again just for tonight.’”

  “I’ve heard it.”

  “That’s what I was thinking last night.”

  I nodded and squeezed her hand.

  She said to me, “I thought you’d come up.”

  “Believe me, I thought about it.”

  She smiled, then said, “Well, I don’t think I was in a very romantic mood.”

  “No. You wanted to be a child again, just for one night.”

  She looked at me, nodded, then said, “But . . . I wanted your company. So I came downstairs. You were snoring on the couch.”

  “Do I snore?”

  “God, I thought you were running the vacuum cleaner.”

  I smiled and said, “Red wine makes me snore.”

  “No more red wine for you.” She looked at the empty beer bottles and asked, “Did you have people over?”

  I smiled again and replied, “I was killing garden slugs.”

  We sat down at the table, still holding hands, sipping coffee. The sun was well above the wall now, and sunlight streamed through the trees into the garden and patio, burning through the ground mist. It was quiet except for the morning birds chirping away, and the occasional vehicle on Grace Lane beyond the wall.