The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  And one enemy on the adjoining property. I could see now that Susan could not be persuaded to leave here because of Anthony Bellarosa’s proximity. The best I could hope for was to make her acknowledge the problem and the situation she’d gotten herself into. And if I was working for Anthony Bellarosa, that might keep him from his vendetta. But in the end, it didn’t really matter if I was working for don Bellarosa or not, and it didn’t matter where Susan lived. Anthony Bellarosa smelled blood, and when the time came, he’d follow that blood scent to the ends of the earth.

  A few days ago, protecting Susan had been an abstract thought; now, with her walking beside me, it became real.

  The obvious thing to do was to notify the local police, and also the FBI. If the law got on Anthony’s case regarding Susan Sutter, and told him to not even think about settling the score, then that should be all that was necessary to protect Susan.

  On the other hand, Susan had murdered Anthony’s father, and gotten away with it, and I didn’t think that Anthony Bellarosa was going to let that stand. Well . . . his father wouldn’t be swayed from his ancient duty to avenge the murder of a family member, but maybe Anthony was not made of the same stuff as his father. Quite possibly, I hoped, Anthony valued his freedom more than he valued the concept of family honor and vendetta. I simply didn’t have the answer to that question, and I didn’t want to guess wrong, or test either assumption. This was a big problem, and it trumped all my smaller problems.

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

  “Oh . . . about . . . what were we talking about?”

  “My parents. And that usually puts you in a dark mood.”

  “Not at all. And how are they?”

  “Fine.”

  “You must miss them.”

  Silence, then, “To tell you the truth, they drive me a little nuts.”

  That was a short trip, but I reminded her, “You said they’ve become more mellow.”

  “Well, they have, but . . . they like to look after me.”

  “I remember that.” In fact, as I said, William and Charlotte Stanhope were control freaks and manipulators, and he was not only a skinflint, but also an unscrupulous snake. Charlotte, the other half of this dynamically dysfunctional duo, was a smiling backstabber and a two-faced troublemaker. Other than that, they were quite pleasant.

  I had this thought that Susan was half trying to repackage Mom and Dad as kindly senior citizens—mellow and all that—who would no longer be a problem between us, if we somehow got back together. Well, the only way that William and Charlotte would cease to annoy me was if they were dead and buried. With that thought in mind, I asked, “How are they feeling? Any health issues?”

  She thought about that question, then replied, “Not that I know of.” She added, “In fact, they’re coming in for Ethel’s funeral.”

  I was afraid of that; I’d hoped they would take a pass on the funeral of an old servant, but as I said, there is this lingering sense of noblesse oblige among the old families, and William and Charlotte would stay true to that, even if it were inconvenient, not to mention the travel expenses. Maybe they’d hitchhike up. I asked, “Are they staying at The Creek?”

  “They’ve dropped their membership.”

  “I see. Well, club membership can be expensive.”

  “They just don’t come up here much to use the club.”

  “Right. And with airfare going sky high, pardon the pun—”

  “It’s not the money, John. It’s . . . they have fewer reasons to come to New York.”

  “Well, you’re here now. Carolyn has never left, and they have friends here who love them, so I’m sure you’ll be seeing a lot more of them than you thought.” I was on a nice roll, and it felt good, so I continued, “And I wouldn’t want them to spend all that money for a hotel, so they’re welcome to use Ethel’s room at the gatehouse. I’d enjoy—”

  “John. Stop it.”

  “Sorry. I was just trying to—”

  “You’re not the forgiving type, are you?”

  “What was your first clue?”

  She thought about that, then said, “If you won’t forgive, and you won’t forget, at least take some comfort in the fact that you’ve won.”

  “Won? What did I win?”

  “You won it all.”

  “I thought I lost it all.”

  “You did, but that’s how you won.”

  “Sounds Zen.”

  “You know what I’m talking about, so let’s drop it.”

  “All right.”

  She got back to the prior subject and announced, “My parents are staying with me.”

  I was afraid of that, too. I really didn’t want them on the property; my offer to put them up wasn’t sincere.

  Susan continued, “So are Edward and Carolyn. It will be nice to have them in their old rooms.”

  I nodded.

  She continued, “I’d like to invite you over for dinner or cocktails . . . whatever you’d like.”

  I didn’t respond.

  She said, “It would be less awkward, with you here on the property, if you didn’t feel you needed to avoid my parents . . . or me. The children would very much like that.”

  “I know they would, Susan.”

  “So?”

  I thought about this family reunion, compliments of Ethel. I was looking forward to seeing my children, but I could do without my ex-in-laws. The other thing was . . . well, my public humiliation of being cuckolded by my beautiful wife; by divorcing her, and not speaking to her for ten years, I’d felt avenged, and my pride was intact. I was ready, in theory, as I said, to be in the same room with her, smiling and chatting. But the reality of being in the house of my unfaithful ex-wife, sitting around the table with our children and her parents . . . Susan, darling, could you pass the peas?William, can I pour you more wine? Well, I didn’t think I was ready for that.

  “John?”

  “Well . . . I don’t think your parents would want to sit with me—”

  “I don’t care what they want. They can dine out if they don’t like it. I’m asking you if you’d like to have dinner at home with me, Edward, and Carolyn.”

  “Yes. I would.”

  “Good. They’ll be very happy when I tell them.”

  “Can I bring a date?”

  She looked at me, saw I was joking, and suppressed a smile, then gave me a playful punch on the arm and said, “Not funny.”

  We continued to walk around her ten acres, and now and then she’d point out something the Ganzes had done, or something new that she’d done in the few months she’d been back, and she also remarked on how little the property had changed. She said, “The trees are bigger, and every one of them has survived, except for that copper beech that was over there. I’d replace it, but I had an estimate of about thirty thousand dollars.”

  I wanted to suggest that her parents pay for it as a housewarming gift, and maybe I’d mention it to them if they came to dinner. Charlotte would choke to death on her martini olive, and William would drop dead of a heart attack. Total win-win.

  Actually, this might be an opportunity for me to make amends with William by apologizing for calling him, quote, “an unprincipled ass-hole, an utterly cynical bastard, a monumental prick, and a conniving fuck.” I believe that was the last time we spoke. So maybe it was time for me to apologize for my profanity, rephrase the sentence in proper English, and ask him if he’d worked on those problems.

  Susan reminded me, “This is where the children used to pitch their tents in the summer. Can you believe we let them sleep outdoors by themselves?”

  “They usually had friends. And it’s very safe inside the walls.” Or it used to be.

  Susan said, “My place in Hilton Head is a gated community.”

  “Is it?” Of course it is.

  “It’s hard to believe that Carolyn and Edward live in small apartments with no doorman on crowded city streets, and they love it.”

  “They’re
young and adventurous.”

  “And not afraid. I’m glad we didn’t overprotect them, or spoil them.”

  “Well, it’s a fine line between protecting and overprotecting, providing and spoiling.” Not to mention underprotecting and underparenting, which was my upbringing, but I’d rather have that than what Susan had.

  Bottom line on this conversation was Susan reminding me that we’d done something right; we had been good parents, and that remained a source of pride, as well as a bond. Of course, we blew it at the end, but by the time we separated, Edward and Carolyn were on their way into the real world.

  Susan said to me, “If I could turn back the clock, I would.”

  That did sound like she regretted what she’d done, or, like most of us, me included, she regretted getting caught. The affair itself must’ve been emotionally stimulating and sexually pleasurable, not to mention deliciously taboo. I mean, she wasn’t screwing the tennis pro at the club; this was a Mafia don. So I didn’t know if she regretted the affair, or the consequences. That would depend on how far back she wanted to set that clock.

  To be honest here, during the time that Susan and I had been estranged and sleeping in separate bedrooms, I’d become briefly involved with a TV news reporter named Jenny Alvarez, who was locally well-known at the time. I’d met her because she was covering the murder indictment against Frank Bellarosa, and I was, of course, the don’s attorney. I never regretted my involvement with Jenny Alvarez, probably because there were no unpleasant consequences, and of course, I felt justified because my wife was screwing my most famous client. Well, justified or not, I was playing with fire at a time when Susan and I didn’t need any more fire. I always felt I should have told Susan about this brief fling—as I called it, to distinguish it from her affair—but I wasn’t sure if my motives for confession would be the correct motives of truth, and honesty, and unburdening my soul. Or would I have been bragging, trying to hurt her, or trying to make her jealous? So, since I couldn’t decide, I’d kept it to myself.

  But now maybe the time had come to tell Susan that she hadn’t been the only one committing adultery. I said to her, “Susan . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well . . . do you remember that TV reporter Jenny Alvarez, who was on, I believe, one of the network stations?”

  “No . . . I don’t think so.”

  I described Ms. Alvarez to her, but she couldn’t recall the lady, and inquired, “Why do you ask?”

  “Well . . . I was just wondering if she was still on the air.”

  “I don’t watch much television news.”

  “Right. So, Nasim tells me that you and his wife . . . Soheila, right—?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “—have become friendly.”

  “Well, I suppose . . . but . . .” She seemed confused and asked me, “Why were you asking about that TV reporter?”

  I came to my senses and said, “I used to enjoy her reporting, and I can’t seem to find her on any of the stations.”

  Susan shrugged and said, “There are dozens of new cable stations on the air since you’ve left.”

  “Right. So, Edward seems happy working for a major film studio.”

  Susan was happy to get back to the subject of her children and replied, “He likes what he does—the development office, whatever that is. And I’m surprised that he also likes Los Angeles.”

  “Me, too. Where did we fail?”

  She smiled and said, “But I think he misses the East Coast.”

  “Maybe.”

  “John, do you think he’ll stay there?”

  “He might. You have to accept that.”

  She nodded, then said, “Well . . . it’s only a six-hour flight.”

  “Right.”

  She reminisced, “I grew up with family close by . . . I thought that was normal.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Again, she nodded, then said, “At least Carolyn is close. But I haven’t seen much of her. She’s very busy.”

  “Being an assistant district attorney is a lot of hours, and very stressful.”

  “I know. She tells me.” Susan looked at me and asked, “Aren’t you proud that she followed in your footsteps?”

  Carolyn was not exactly following in my footsteps; I had been a Wall Street attorney and I made a lot of money. Carolyn was working for peanuts, as many trust fund children do, and she was prosecuting criminals, which sort of surprised me because she once held an idealistic view of the rights of criminal defendants. But perhaps three years in the criminal justice system had opened her eyes a bit. Maybe someday she’d be on the prosecution team in the case of The State v. Anthony Bellarosa. I said, “I am proud of her.”

  “Do you think there’s any possibility of her joining your old firm?”

  There was no possibility of me joining my old firm, and I didn’t think the remaining partners of Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds wanted an actual Sutter to replace the dead one or the disgraced one. They’d kept the name, of course, so as not to incur the expense of changing it, and also my father was legendary on Wall Street. As for me, well . . . my fall from grace had begun with the lady who was now asking me about getting her daughter a job. Ironic. Also silly. Carolyn’s next move would not be to an old Wall Street law firm; it would be to some sort of civil liberties group, or some do-gooder firm. And that was okay; someone in this family needed to have a heart. Plus, it would piss off William. But to address Susan’s question, I said, “I will make inquiries.”

  “Thank you.” The subject was employment and the law, so she asked me, “How are you doing in London?”

  “Fine.”

  “Can you be absent from your job until September?”

  “I’m on sabbatical.”

  “So you’ll return?”

  My future plans seemed to interest a lot of people more than they interested me. Maybe, though, it was time to verbalize my thoughts, and to be truthful and unambiguous, so I said, “When I left London, I honestly thought I would return. But now, being here, I’ve decided to stay in the U.S. Beyond that, I have no definite plans. But I have gotten a job offer.”

  She stayed silent awhile, then said, “I’m happy to hear that.” She asked, “What sort of offer?”

  Rather than say, “Consigliere to the new don Bellarosa,” I said, “It’s bad luck to talk about it before it happens.”

  She glanced at me, probably wondering when I became superstitious. She said, “Let me know if it happens.”

  “I will.”

  She advised me, “But you should take the summer off.”

  Susan, like most people who are born into old money, was mostly clueless about that subject, so it never occurred to her that I might not be able to afford three months of working on my tan. I mean, if you’re a little short on cash, just sell an annuity. What’s the problem?

  Also, regarding the subject of Stanhopes and money and work ethic, Edward and Carolyn received annual trust fund distributions and really didn’t need to work, but they did, to give meaning to their lives, and to do something interesting, or something useful for society.

  Susan’s brother, Peter, however, was a totally useless human being, who’d spent his life and his trust fund distributions on perfecting the art of indolence, except for tennis, golf, and surfing, which at least kept his body in good shape while his brain atrophied. Peter was not a good role model for his niece and nephew, but thankfully, they knew that.

  And then there was William, who’d managed to reach retirement age without working a day in his life, except for managing the family money. Well, to be fair, there was his two-year stint in the Coast Guard, which had been mandatory because of that annoying world war.

  And let’s not forget Charlotte, who had been both a debutante and a dilettante before marrying William and becoming a full-time socialite. I suppose that could be a lot of work, but Charlotte would be hard-pressed to fill in the “state your occupation” box on an income tax form unless she wrote “Occupi
ed with lazy household staff.”

  As for Susan, she’d mostly followed in her brother’s footsteps, but then she’d embraced the newly enlightened concept of getting a job, and when I’d met her, she was working as the private social secretary for a fabulously wealthy publishing company heiress in Manhattan. This is a very acceptable job for a young lady of Susan’s social class, sort of like a lady-in-waiting for royalty.

  We’d met, incidentally, at a summer wedding held under the stars at the Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club. The bride was a Guest, or as I said to Susan that night, a Guest at her own wedding. That got a little chuckle out of her, and we danced. The rest, as they say, is history.

  The Stanhopes, at first, accepted me because of my lineage, though they had concerns about my net worth. But in their world, it’s more about who your parents are, where you went to school, your accent, and your social skills. Money is good, but money without pedigree is too common in America, so if you’re William and Charlotte Stanhope, and you’re trying to marry off your daughter, you go for the pedigree and punt on the bucks, which was why Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope, Dad and Mom, gave us their blessings. They soon discovered, however, that they didn’t actually like me. The feeling was mutual, but it was too late; Susan and I were madly in love.

  It had been a very good marriage, by any objective standard, including good sex, so if anyone had asked me what went wrong, I wouldn’t be able to answer, except to say, “She was screwing a Mafia don.” Of course, she was also a bit off her rocker, and I admit I can be a little sarcastic at times, but mostly we were happy with our lives and our children and each other.

  I think, though, that Frank Bellarosa was like a malevolent force that entered Paradise, and no one was prepared for that. To continue the biblical theme, but with a different story line, Eve killed the serpent, but Adam stayed pissed off about her seduction and filed for divorce.

  We walked in silence for a while, and I was sure that she, too, was thinking about the past, and I’d have liked to be able to read her mind, to see if her memories and mine had any similarities. Probably not; I was still dwelling on the negatives, and I was sure she was thinking happier thoughts.