The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  “At least until the funeral.”

  She nodded, but did not ask a follow-up question. The subject was family, so she advised me, “You should see your mother—before the funeral.”

  “Do you mean hers or Ethel’s?”

  “Please be serious. You should act toward your mother the way you’d want your children to act toward you. You need to set an example for them. She is their grandmother. You are her son.”

  “I think I get it.”

  “You need to be more of an adult.”

  “I am my mother’s son, and I act as I’m treated.”

  “Ridiculous.” She continued on her subject and said, “Your estrangement from your mother affects our children. I’m thinking of them.”

  It’s always the children, of course, but they rarely give a damn. In any case, this was not about Harriet and me, or the children and me; it was about Susan and me.

  She continued on to Point B and said, “Edward and Carolyn are also uncomfortable with your attitude toward my parents.” She reminded me, in case I missed the connection, “They are the children’s grandparents.”

  “How long do you think this lecture is going to last?”

  “This is not a lecture. These are important issues that need to be addressed for the sake of our children.”

  I wanted to say, “They are not children any longer, and you should have thought about them ten years ago when you decided to fuck Frank Bellarosa.” Instead, I said, “All right, to the extent that I have any involvement in the lives of anyone here, I’ll try to be a better son, a better father, and a better ex-husband.”

  “And hopefully, less sarcastic.”

  “And for the record, I have never said anything unkind about your parents to Edward or Carolyn.”

  “Maybe not . . . but they sense the hostility.”

  “They’re very perceptive.” I added, “I don’t even think about your parents.”

  She took the opportunity to give me some good news. “They’ve gotten a lot more mellow over the years.”

  The only way those two would be mellow is if they had brain transplants. I said, “Then maybe it was me who brought out the worst in them.”

  She ignored that and got to the conclusion of this lecture, saying, “What happened between us has impacted a lot of people around us whom we care for and who care for us, so I think we should try to be civil to each other and make life easier and less awkward for everyone.”

  “It may be a little late for that.”

  “No, it is not.”

  I didn’t respond.

  She asked me, “When are you going to let it go?”

  “I’ve done that.”

  “No, you have not.”

  “And you have?”

  “I was never angry with you, John.”

  “Right. Why should you be? What did I do?”

  “You should think about your role in what happened.”

  “Please.”

  “Then think about what you’ve done for the last ten years.”

  “I haven’t done anything.”

  “That is the point. You just ran off.”

  I didn’t reply, but I glanced at my watch, and she saw this and said, “You are not leaving until I finish what I have to say.”

  “Then finish.”

  She stayed silent awhile, then said, in a softer voice, “John, we can’t undo what happened—”

  “Try that again, with a singular pronoun.”

  She took a deep breath and said, “Okay . . . I can’t undo what happened . . . what I did. But I would like . . . I would like you to forgive me.”

  I didn’t see that coming, and I was momentarily speechless. I thought about what to say, and I almost said, “I forgive you,” but instead I looked at her and reminded her, “You never even apologized. You never said you were sorry.”

  She held eye contact with me, then said, “John . . . what I did was too great a sin to apologize for. What do I say? I’m sorry I ruined all our lives? I’m sorry I had an affair? I’m sorry I killed him? I’m sorry I didn’t go to jail to pay for what I did? I’m sorry about his wife and children? I’m sorry that it was my fault that our children have suffered, and my fault that they haven’t had you around for ten years? I’m sorry it was my fault you weren’t here when your father died? How do I apologize for all that?”

  I didn’t know what to say, and I couldn’t look at her any longer, so I turned away, and I heard her say, “Excuse me.”

  I looked back at her, but she’d stood and was walking quickly back into the house.

  I sat there for a minute, feeling pretty miserable, but also feeling that this was finally coming to some sort of end.

  There was a gate in the garden wall, and I looked at it, picturing myself walking through it. I could call her later, when we’d both calmed down. Or did she want me to wait here? Or follow her inside?

  Women are always hard to figure out, and when they’re upset, I don’t even try. The best thing for me to do right now was to do what I wanted to do, and I wanted to leave. So I stood, took the box she’d given me, and walked toward the gate. But then I hesitated and looked back toward the house, but there was no sign of her. Apparently, the conversation was over. And that was okay, too.

  I opened the gate, then I weakened again, and thought of her coming out and finding me gone. I was really torn, and my tougher side was saying, “Leave,” and my softer side was saying, “She’s hurting.”

  Sometimes, in moments like this, I ask for divine intervention, so I did that, but the kitchen door stayed closed. “Come on, God.”

  Pride goeth before a fall.

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  Say it with flowers.

  “What . . . ?” Then I suddenly recalled being here before, literally and figuratively, and I remembered how we sometimes made a peace offering without too much loss of pride.

  I went back into the garden and found her rose clippers on a potting bench, and cut a dozen red roses, and put them on the round table, then I walked toward the gate and opened it.

  “John.”

  I turned and saw her at the door. She called out, “Are you leaving?”

  “I . . . I was . . .”

  “How can you just—?” She saw the cut roses and walked to the table. She picked up a stem and looked at it, then looked at me. We stared at each other across the garden, then I walked slowly back toward the house.

  She watched me as I approached, and I stopped at that well-defined midpoint where sparring spouses and exes are neither too close nor too far, but just right for comfort.

  She asked me, “Why were you leaving?”

  “I thought you wanted me to leave.” I reminded her, “You got up and left.”

  “I said, ‘Excuse me,’ not goodbye.”

  “Right. Well, I wasn’t sure . . . actually, to be truthful, I wanted to leave.”

  “Why?”

  “This is painful.”

  She nodded.

  So we stood there, neither of us knowing what to say next. She’d asked me to forgive her, and after ten years, I should just say, “I forgive you,” and move on. But if I said it, I’d have to mean it, and if I didn’t mean it, she’d know it.

  Susan and I had both grown up in a world and a social class where things like sin, acts of redemption and contrition, and absolution were drummed into us in church, at St. Paul’s, at Friends Academy, and even at home. That world may have vanished, and we may both have strayed so far off course that we’d never see land again, but we were still middle-aged products of that world. So, knowing she’d understand what I meant, I said to her, “Susan, I can and do accept your apology for everything. I really do. But it isn’t in my heart, or my power, to forgive you.”

  She nodded, and said, “I understand. Just don’t hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “You did.”

  “I never did. I told you . . . on the courthouse steps . . . remember?”

 
“I do.” She reminded me, “You told your sister you were going to sail to Hilton Head. I waited for you.”

  This was getting painful again, but it needed to be painful before it finally stopped hurting. I said, “I did sail there . . . but I turned around.”

  “And sailed off to see the world.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You could have been lost at sea.”

  “That wasn’t my plan, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  “You said it, I didn’t.”

  “Subject closed,” I said.

  “Everyone was worried. Your parents, your children—”

  “That wasn’t part of the plan, either. It was just an exquisite act of irresponsibility and self-indulgence. Nothing more.” I added, “I deserved it.” I reminded her, “Subject closed.”

  “All right.” She picked a lighter subject and said, “Thank you for the flowers.”

  “They’re actually your flowers,” I pointed out.

  “I know that. But thank you for the gesture.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m touched that you remembered.”

  I was still bothered by her suggestion that I’d sailed off around the world because I was a distraught, self-pitying, heartbroken, sympathy-seeking, suicidal wreck of a man. Women just don’t understand irresponsible behavior, so I returned to the closed subject and said, “It was also a challenge.”

  “What was?”

  “Sailing around the world in a small boat.”

  “Oh . . . I thought you said the subject—”

  “Men enjoy the thrill of danger.”

  “Well . . . I don’t think the people waiting at home enjoy it, but you did it, and I hope you’ve gotten it out of your system.”

  “Maybe.” On that note, I decided to quit while we were still speaking, so I said, “I don’t want to make you late for church. So, why don’t we meet tomorrow?”

  “I don’t think I’m in the mood for meeting people at church.”

  I didn’t think the purpose of church was meeting people, and I don’t know what sort of mood you needed to be in to meet them there, but I said, “You may feel better if you go to church.”

  She ignored that and asked, “Why don’t we take a walk?”

  I thought about that, then said, “All right . . .”

  I took off my blazer and hung it on the chair, then we headed out through the garden gate. Susan carried along a rose stem.

  It was just like old times, except it wasn’t. And it never would be again. We were not going to get back together, but this time when we said goodbye, we could also say, “Stay in touch.” There would be more funerals and weddings, births and birthdays, and there would be new people in our lives, and that would be all right, and we could be in the same room together, and actually smile; our friends and family would like that.

  That was as good as it was going to get, and after ten years, considering all that had happened and could have happened in our lives, it was a small miracle that we were here now, speaking, and taking a walk together.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  We walked across the rolling lawn toward the hedgerow in the distance.

  Susan was barefoot, which was how she liked to walk around the property, and I wondered if Amir Nasim would approve of bare feet. But we were still on Susan’s property, so it was moot until we crossed into Iranian territory.

  Susan made small talk about the property as we walked and said, “The Ganzes . . . they were the couple I sold the house to . . . Diane and Barry Ganz—did you meet them?”

  “Briefly, after you left. They’d call about once a week to ask me questions about how things worked, or why things didn’t work.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I tried to help, but I reminded them that I did not sell them the house.”

  She didn’t reply to that, then said, “That was an impulsive move. Selling the house. But I was . . . distraught. And my parents were urging me to join them in Hilton Head.”

  With William and Charlotte, urging meant pressuring, and I wondered if Susan had figured out the difference in the last ten years.

  Also, her selling the house and moving basically killed any chance that we would reconcile, which was one reason the Stanhopes wanted her to move.

  Plus, of course, Susan had whacked a Mafia don, and it’s always best to leave the neighborhood when you do something like that.

  Susan, however, had another explanation for me and continued, “The government had taken over Stanhope Hall from . . . well, you know that. And I wasn’t sure if I’d be surrounded by a subdivision, as was happening . . . next door . . . so I sold the house.”

  I didn’t reply, but I noted that she avoided uttering the name Frank Bellarosa, or Alhambra. Maybe she couldn’t recall her lover’s name, or where he’d lived. Or, more likely, Susan thought, correctly, that I did not want to hear the name Frank Bellarosa, or Alhambra. But that was not the last minefield we would encounter on this walk, so to show I couldn’t be wounded anymore, I said, “I saw the houses at Alhambra,” and in a poor choice of words, I added, “Frank Bellarosa must be rolling over in his grave.” I further added, “Sorry.”

  Susan stayed silent awhile, then returned to the Ganzes and said, “They took good care of the property, but they planted these hedgerows for privacy, and they block my views. But now that Stanhope Hall is occupied, they do give me some privacy. So I don’t know if I should take them out. What do you think?”

  “Live with them for a year, then decide.”

  “Good idea.” She informed me, “I sunbathe on the lawn, and that could be an issue with the new owner.”

  “I know that.”

  “Oh, have you met him?”

  “I have.”

  “And? What did he say?” she asked.

  “Dress modestly.”

  “Yes, I know. What else did you talk about?”

  “Well, I have arranged with him for me to stay in the gatehouse after Ethel passes on.”

  “Did you? For how long?”

  “No later than September first. If I stay here that long. Then he wants his property back.” I added, “Nasim wants to put . . . someone of his choosing into the gatehouse.” I asked her, “Did he tell you that?”

  “No. We never spoke of that.” She informed me, “He wanted to buy the guest cottage from me. Did he mention that to you?”

  “He did.”

  We continued our walk across the sun-dappled lawn, and she said to me, “He made me a very generous offer for the cottage and the land.” She added, “He seemed upset when I turned him down.”

  I didn’t reply, and neither did I make a pitch for her to accept the offer. Also, I decided not to bring up the subject of Amir Nasim’s security concerns at this time; that needed to be discussed along with my concerns about Anthony Bellarosa, and I wanted to save that for last.

  Susan, of course, had changed, as we all had in ten years, but I know this woman, and I was fairly certain she would think that Amir Nasim’s concerns were silly or paranoid, or at worst, real, but of no concern to her. As for Mr. Anthony Bellarosa’s possible vendetta . . . well, she’d understand that on one level, but dismiss it on another. Susan was raised in an incredibly sheltered and privileged environment, and I was sure that hadn’t changed much in Hilton Head. I used to think of her as having the Marie Antoinette Syndrome—not so much the “let them eat cake” mentality, but rather the mentality of not comprehending why anyone would want to cut off her head, not to mention the good manners to apologize to her executioner when she stepped on his foot near the guillotine.

  Well, maybe she had changed over the years, but I wasn’t seeing much of it. I did notice, however, that she seemed less nutty. Or maybe she was saving that as a special treat for later, after we got comfortable with each other.

  I asked her, “Why did you come back?”

  She replied, “I was homesick.” She asked me, “Were you homesick?”

  I t
hought about that, then replied, “Home isn’t a place.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s . . . people. Family, friends . . . memories . . . that sort of thing.”

  “Well? And didn’t you miss that?”

  “I did at first. But . . . time heals, and memories fade.” I added, “Home can also be suffocating. I needed a change.”

  “I did, too, but I felt drawn back here.” She added, “I didn’t want to die in Hilton Head.”

  “No, that would be redundant.”

  She almost laughed, then said, “It’s a nice place. I think you’d like it there.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever find out.”

  She stayed silent awhile, then said, “I kept my place there . . . so, if you ever want to use it, you’re welcome.”

  “Well . . . thank you.”

  “It’s near the beach, and near two golf courses. Very relaxing.”

  “Sounds . . . relaxing.” So, we’d gone from barely speaking to her offering me her house at the beach to relax. She was trying, and I was not. Maybe, I thought, as Nasim suggested, she was on a major nostalgia trip, which is why she’d moved back here, and somehow I was included in her happy memories of the past. In any case, my life was in flux, or limbo, or whatever, and hers was settling back into a past that no longer existed and could not be resurrected.

  She returned to the subject of her place in Hilton Head and said, “I had it completely refurnished, and moved all my things back here.”

  “I noticed.” I then asked her, “So, are you happy being back?”

  “I am. You know, sometimes you just feel it in your heart when you’ve made the right move.”

  “Good.” I couldn’t resist getting in a zinger and said, “I’m sure your parents miss you, but are happy for you.”

  She glanced at me, knowing from long experience that everything I said about her parents was either ironic or a double entendre, or just plain nasty. She informed me, “To be honest, I needed to spend less time with them.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  She ignored that and went on, “After Dan died . . . I realized that I had no reason to stay there . . . I mean, Carolyn is here, Edward comes to New York more often than he comes to Hilton Head, and I still have family and friends here.”