The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  Well, on that inspirational note, I shut off the radio, picked up the kitchen phone, and dialed the guest cottage number that Carolyn had given me. I listened to the phone ring three times and hoped for the answering machine.

  Susan must have Caller ID, which showed Ethel’s phone number, because she answered, “Hello, John.”

  I felt my heart give a thump at the sound of her voice saying my name, and I almost hung up, but obviously I couldn’t—though maybe I could imitate Ethel’s high-pitched voice and say, “Hello, Mrs. Sutter, I just wanted you to know I’m back from hospice, goodbye,” then hang up.

  “John?”

  “Hello, Susan.”

  Silence.

  I inquired, “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “Fine. Good. How are you doing?”

  “Still fine.”

  “Right . . . me, too.”

  She observed, “You didn’t rehearse this call very well.”

  I was a little annoyed at that and said, “I just thought about calling you, and I didn’t have time to make notes.”

  “And to what do I owe the great pleasure of this phone call?”

  My goodness. I hadn’t expected her to be overjoyed or emotional to hear my voice, but she was distinctly frigid. I had to remind myself that Ethel and Elizabeth had indicated that Susan would welcome a call from me. And Mr. Nasim said that Susan spoke well of me. Even Edward and Carolyn had hinted that Mom wanted to hear from me. So what was this all about?

  And the answer was, Susan asking me, “Has your houseguest left already?”

  Ah. Before I could reply, she further inquired, “That was Elizabeth Allard’s car there overnight, was it not?”

  “Yes, it was. But . . .” I didn’t fuck her. Honest.

  “And how is Elizabeth?”

  I really didn’t owe Susan any explanation, but to set the record straight, I thought I should say something—but this had caught me off guard, and I blurted, “She had too much to drink, and she wanted to see her old room, and we had a lot of estate work to do, and I’m the attorney, so she just stayed over, and—”

  Before I became even more unintelligible, Susan interrupted and said, “Well, I don’t care. So, what can I do for you?”

  “I didn’t sleep with her.”

  Silence, then, “I really don’t care, John.” She informed me, “I need to get ready for church.”

  Well, having taken the initiative by making this call, I wasn’t going to be blown off that easily, so I said, “I’m coming by now with an envelope for you. I’ll ring the bell. If you don’t answer, I’ll leave the envelope at the door.”

  Silence.

  I said, “Goodbye,” and hung up.

  I put on my blazer, grabbed the manila envelope from the dining room table, and went out the door.

  It was a beautiful, sunny day, birds sang, locusts chirped, bees buzzed, and my heart was pounding as I walked up the main drive toward the guest cottage.

  I couldn’t understand why I was feeling so tense. I mean, if anyone should be feeling tense or awkward—or guilty—it should be Susan. It wasn’t me who had an affair, then shot my lover.

  By the time I covered the three hundred yards to the guest cottage, I was in better control of myself.

  As I approached the house, I noticed that the previous owners, to whom Susan had sold the house, had marked the boundaries of their property by planting lines of hedgerows around the ten-acre enclave. When William and Charlotte still lived in the mansion, I’d suggested to Susan that we erect a twenty-foot stone wall with guard towers to cut down on her parents’ unannounced visits, but Susan didn’t want to block her views, so now I wondered if she was going to have these hedges ripped out. I was certain that Amir Nasim was concerned about these thick growths providing cover and concealment for Iranian snipers.

  But back to more immediate concerns. I half wanted Susan not to answer the door; then I could get on with my life with no further thought about Susan Stanhope Sutter. On the other hand, I did feel obligated to pass on Nasim’s concerns as well as my concerns about Anthony Bellarosa. Of course, all this could be done in a phone call or a letter, and if she didn’t answer the door, that’s what I’d do.

  The other half of me, to be honest, wanted her to open the door and invite me in. If nothing else, I needed to explain Elizabeth’s sleep-over—not because it mattered to me, but it might matter to Elizabeth, so I wanted to clear up that misunderstanding so Susan and I could get on to other misunderstandings.

  I walked up the slate path to the large stone guest cottage, and noticed that the ivy hadn’t been cut and was climbing over the windowsills. Also, the gravel driveway and the forecourt in front of the house were in need of maintenance. These used to be my jobs, to do or to hire out. I did notice that the flowerbeds, Susan’s area of responsibility, were picture-perfect. Why was I noticing this?

  I stepped up to the front door, and without hesitation, I rang the bell.

  I had time for one quick thought before the door opened, or before I left, so I thought back to Susan and Frank screwing their brains out all summer while I was off breaking my butt in the city, while also trying to fight an IRS income tax evasion charge, and in my spare time trying to defend my wife’s boyfriend on a murder charge. All of those happy memories put me in the right frame of mind.

  I waited about ten seconds, then put the envelope against the door, turned, and walked away.

  About five seconds later, I heard the door open, and Susan’s voice called, “Thank you.”

  I looked over my shoulder and saw her standing at the door holding the envelope, dressed in jeans and a pink polo shirt. I said, “You’re welcome,” and kept walking.

  “John.”

  I stopped and turned around. “Yes?”

  “Would you like to come in for a minute? I have something for you.”

  I glanced at my watch, then with a show of great reluctance, I said, “Well . . . all right.”

  I walked back to the house, and she disappeared inside, leaving the door open. I entered and shut the door.

  She was standing at the far end of the large foyer, near the kitchen, and she asked, “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Thank you.”

  She disappeared into the kitchen and I followed. The house, from what I could see, looked very much like it did ten years before, furnished mostly with Stanhope family antiques, which I called junk and which she must have taken with her to Hilton Head or put into storage.

  The big country kitchen, too, looked very much the same, including the old regulator clock on the wall, and I had that Twilight Zone feeling that I’d just left to get the Sunday newspapers and returned to discover that I’d been divorced for ten years.

  Susan, standing with her back to me at the coffee pot, asked, “Still black?”

  “Yes.”

  She poured coffee into two mugs, turned, and I met her halfway. She handed me the mug, and we looked at each other. She really hadn’t aged, as I’d noticed when I’d seen her from a distance a few days ago, and she hadn’t gained an ounce of weight in ten years, but neither had I. So with obviously the same thoughts in our minds, we said, simultaneously, “You’re looking—” We both smiled involuntarily, then said, “—well.”

  The pleasantries over, I said to her, “I need to speak to you.”

  She replied, “If you’ve come here because you’re feeling guilty—”

  “I’m not guilty of anything.”

  “You can sleep with whomever you wish, but try to stay away from my friends, please.”

  “Well, then, give me a list of your friends.”

  “And you do the same, if you have any.”

  Bitch. I put my coffee mug on the table and said, “Before I go, you need to understand that I did not have sex with Elizabeth Allard.”

  “I don’t care if you did or didn’t.”

  “But you just said—”

  “Are you playing lawyer with
me?”

  Some things never change. Susan is very bright, but no one has ever accused her of being logical or rational. I mean, she can be, but when she’s stressed, she takes refuge in the nutty part of her brain. It’s the red hair. I said, “Look me in the eye.”

  “Which one?”

  “Look at me.”

  She looked at me, and I said, “I did not have sex with Elizabeth.”

  She kept staring at me, and we held eye contact. I suggested, “Speak to Elizabeth.”

  She nodded, then said, “All right. I believe you.”

  So we stood there, and the regulator clock on the wall ticked away, as it did many times when Susan and I passed these deadly silent minutes in the kitchen after a fight. Those fights were usually cathartic, a good sign that we still cared enough to go a few rounds, and more often than not, we kissed and made up, then sprinted upstairs into the bedroom. I was sure she was remembering that, too, but we were not going to the bedroom this time. In fact, I said, “I can come back another time.”

  She asked me, “What’s in the envelope?”

  I replied, “Some photos, and some papers that you should have, such as Carolyn and Edward’s birth records, which wound up in my storage.”

  She nodded, then said to me, “If you have a few minutes, I need to discuss some things with you, and I have a few things to give you.”

  “All right.”

  She suggested, “Why don’t we sit in the rose garden?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll be right out.”

  I took my coffee and went out the rear kitchen door into the English rose garden, which was surrounded by a low stone wall, and looked basically the same as I remembered it, except that the cast-iron furniture had been replaced with wicker, which looked not much more comfortable. Women can sit on anything.

  The roses were starting to bloom, and I couldn’t remember if this was early or late for the blooms—it depended, I guess, on what kind of spring there had been here on Long Island.

  So here I was, home but not home. It all looked familiar, but the slight changes were disorienting. Same with the people. I’d feel more comfortable in a native hut on a Pacific island, where nothing reminded me of my past life.

  I recalled something my father had said to me when I was in the Army and about to begin an assignment in Germany. He’d said of his four years away at war, “When I returned, I felt so out of place that I wished I was back with my buddies in a foxhole.” Considering that he’d later met and married my mother, I was sure that was a recurring wish. More to the point, I now understood what he meant.

  Anyway, I sat in a chair at a round wicker table and watched the fountain bubbling in the rear of the neat, symmetrical garden with the sundial in the center.

  There were a few garden statues scattered around the rose beds, mostly classical figures, and this reminded me of Alhambra’s classical gardens, the reflecting pool, and, of course, my dream. Probably I would never ask her how, when, and where she’d begun her affair with Frank Bellarosa, but if I did ask how it happened, she’d say, “How did what happen? Oh, that. That was so long ago, John. Why are you bringing that up?” And so forth. She’s an accomplished amnesiac, and I was certain that she had no more memory of screwing Frank Bellarosa than she had of shooting him. Well, of course she remembered, but only if someone like me was uncouth enough to mention it.

  I recalled the last time I saw her, which was about four years ago at my aunt Cornelia’s funeral. I don’t know why she was there, but because of our children, she was still part of the family in some way. She’d left her new husband back in Hilton Head, so I didn’t have a chance to meet the lucky man, or the opportunity to comment on how old he looked, or how fat he was, or whatever. If she’d married a young stud, you can be sure he’d have been there in a black Armani suit.

  Anyway, Susan and I had spoken then, but it had been mostly small talk about Aunt Cornelia, and Cornelia’s deceased husband, Arthur, and their two brainless sons. We spoke, too, about my father, whom Susan had been fond of, but she didn’t mention his funeral that I had missed. I recalled congratulating Susan on her marriage, and I wished her happiness. I think I even meant it.

  She’d told me that her husband was a very good man, meaning, I think, that he was not the love of her life.

  She hadn’t asked me anything personal, and I didn’t offer any news on my love life.

  Also not on the agenda were the last words we’d spoken to each other before we parted, six years before. I had attended her hearing in Federal court in Manhattan to offer testimony as a witness in the death of Frank Bellarosa. As her husband and onetime lawyer, I didn’t have to take the stand, but I wanted to offer some extenuating and mitigating circumstances on her behalf, mostly having to do with her state of mind on the night of the murder, such as, “Your Honor, my wife is nuts. Look at that red hair.” Also I informed the court that I wanted to speak for the record about the FBI pimping my wife for the Mafia don while he was in their protective custody in his mansion, and I definitely wanted to say a few words about the questionable actions of the U.S. Attorney, Alphonse Ferragamo.

  Well, as it turned out, the judge and Mr. Ferragamo didn’t want to hear any of that from me, and the closed-door session had ended with the Justice Department concluding that this case would not be presented to a grand jury. A total victory for Susan, and a reaffirmation of the government’s right to cover its ass. As for me, this was the only time I’d ever influenced the outcome of a case by sitting in the hallway with my mouth shut.

  I was relieved that Susan had walked, of course, but to be honest, I was also a little disappointed—as a lawyer and as a citizen—that the Justice Department had let her off so easily, without even a slap on the wrist. And as a betrayed husband, I’d wished that Susan had at least been ordered to wear a scarlet A on her prim dress, but then, by extension, I guess I’d be wearing a sign that said cuckold.

  Anyway, after the hearing, I had made a point of running into her on the steps of the courthouse in Foley Square, and she’d been surrounded by her happy parents, three relieved lawyers, and two family-retained psychiatrists, which were barely enough for any member of the Stanhope family.

  I’d gotten Susan separated from her retinue, and we’d spoken briefly, and I congratulated her on the outcome of the hearing, though I was not entirely happy with that outcome. Nevertheless, I said to her, “I still love you, you know.”

  And she’d replied, “You’d better. Forever.”

  And my last words to her were, “Yes, forever.”

  And her last words to me were, “Me, too.”

  So we parted there on the courthouse steps and didn’t see each other for almost four years, when Edward graduated from Sarah Lawrence.

  And the last time we’d spoken, at Cornelia’s funeral, the final thing she’d said to me was, “I’ll wish you happiness, John, but before that, I wish you peace.”

  I didn’t know why she’d thought I wasn’t at peace—that was my secret—but I replied, “Thank you. Same to you.”

  We had parted at the cemetery, and I’d returned to London. Now, four years later, we were about to bury another lady from our past, and if I were in a joking mood I’d say to her, “We have to stop meeting like this.” But maybe, I thought, one or both of our children would finally decide to get married, and Susan and I would meet on happier occasions, such as births and christenings and grandchildren’s birthdays.

  Until then, it was funerals, which reminded me of a line from Longfellow—Let the dead Past bury its dead.

  Yes, indeed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Susan came out to the rose garden, and I was observant enough to notice she’d run a brush through her hair, and maybe tweaked the lip gloss.

  Gentleman that I am, I stood, and she, recalling a running joke between us, asked me, “Is someone playing the national anthem?”

  We both smiled, and she set a stationery box on the table as well as the envelope I’
d brought, then she sat opposite me.

  As for the envelope, I didn’t want her opening it now and seeing the nude photos of herself; that might be awkward, or embarrassing, or it might send the wrong message. Or did she already look in the envelope? In any case, she left it on the table.

  We both sat in silence for a few seconds, then I remembered to say, “I was sorry to hear about your husband.”

  “Thank you.”

  That seemed to cover the subject, so I asked the grieving widow, “What did you need to speak to me about?”

  “You go first.”

  “Ladies first.”

  “All right. Well, I have this box for you that contains copies of some photos I thought you’d like to have. Also, I’ve found a stack of letters to us from Edward and Carolyn when they were at school, and I’ve made photocopies for you.”

  “Thank you. Do you also have the canceled checks we sent them?”

  She smiled and replied, “No, but I do have the thank-you notes.” She observed, “Now they e-mail, but they used to know how to write longhand.”

  We both smiled.

  She asked me, “What’s in that envelope?”

  “Same thing. Photos, a few letters from the children. Some documents that you may want to keep.”

  “Thank you.” She then informed me, “Edward and Carolyn both told me they’d be here for Ethel’s funeral.” She added, “Edward needs some lead time. He’s very busy at work. So is Carolyn, but she can get here quickly from Brooklyn.”

  I remarked, “I always wanted to live long enough to see my children juggling work and family responsibilities. I can’t wait for them to get married and have kids.”

  “John, you make work, family, marriage, and children sound like a punishment for something.”

  “Sorry. That came out wrong. Anyway, you should keep them up to date on Ethel. I don’t have e-mail or a cell phone.”

  “Do you plan to?”

  “If I stay.”

  She didn’t pursue that and asked me, “When was the last time you spoke to them?”

  “Last Sunday. They sounded well.”

  “I think they are.” She told me, “They’re happy you’re back.” She took the opportunity to inquire, “How long are you staying?”