The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  “I did not.”

  “I can do that for you.” She turned her attention back to the photographs and said, “I haven’t gained an ounce.” She glanced at me and observed, “It doesn’t look like you have, either.”

  My mouth was dry, and I finished my water and again glanced at my watch, but Susan was staring at six or seven photos that she’d spread out on the table. She looked up at me and said, “This brings back some good memories, John.”

  I nodded.

  Then she stood, stared at me, and in a tone of voice that left no doubt about her meaning, said, “I’d like to show you what I’ve done to the house.”

  Well . . . why not? I mean, why not? Before I could think of why not, I stood, we reached across the table and held hands, then we walked together into the house.

  The tour started and ended in our old bedroom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The upstairs master bedroom was warm, and Susan lay naked on her back atop the sheets with her legs parted and her hands behind her head. She was awake, but her eyes were closed.

  The window and the drapes were open, and daylight lit the room. An oscillating floor fan swept over the bed, and the breeze cooled the sweat from our bodies and stirred her long red hair.

  I sat up and looked at her lying beside me. Her skin had a nice early summer tan, including her breasts, but she was milky white where she’d worn a bikini bottom that barely covered her bright red pubic hair.

  With her eyes still closed, she asked, “Are you looking at me?”

  “I am.”

  “How do I look?”

  “Like you did the day I first made love to you.” Which was true.

  “Thank you. I have good genes.”

  Indeed, William and Charlotte were a handsome couple; unfortunately, their brains were scrambled.

  Susan opened her eyes, turned toward me, and said, “I haven’t had anyone up here.”

  I replied, “That’s your business.”

  Still looking at me, she said, “I wanted you to know.” She smiled and added, “It’s been so long since I’ve had sex, I forgot who ties who up.”

  I smiled, too, but I didn’t offer any help on that subject, so she asked me, “And you?”

  “Well . . .”

  “That’s all right. I don’t want to know.”

  Of course she did, so to get it out of the way, I said, “There’s a woman in London.” I remembered to add, “But it’s not serious.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Samantha.”

  “Nice name.” She suggested, “Get rid of her.”

  “Well . . . all right. But . . .”

  Susan sat up, took my hand, looked at me and said, “We’ve wasted ten years, John. I don’t want to waste another minute.”

  “I know . . . but . . .”

  “Is this too fast for you?”

  “Well, it is rather sudden.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “I do. Always have.”

  “Me, too. Forever. So?”

  I asked, “Are you sure about this?”

  “I am. And so are you.”

  Apparently, this was a done deal. But, to be honest, I think I knew that two minutes after walking into this house. I mean, putting aside all my negative thoughts about her, and despite everything that happened this morning, the minute we laid eyes on each other I felt that extraordinary sexual energy that we used to have, and I knew that she did, too. Sex isn’t love, of course, though it will do in a pinch, but in this case the love was already there, and always had been, so all we needed to do was do it. And we did.

  It could have been awkward after ten years, but it wasn’t; we were at ease with each other, which is the good part of being with a partner whom you’ve had a lot of practice with. Also, of course, there was an element of newness after all these years, and maybe a slight feeling that this was somehow taboo. You can’t beat that combination.

  I said to Susan, “I’ve thought about this.”

  “Me, too. Often.” She asked me, “Why did you take so long to call me?”

  “I was . . . well, afraid.”

  “Of?”

  “Of . . . well, afraid this would happen, and afraid it wouldn’t.”

  “Me, too. Now we don’t have to be afraid.”

  “No.” I said to her, “I thought you would call me.”

  “I was playing hard to get.” She added, “I was going to give it another forty-eight hours before I called you. Then I saw Elizabeth’s car there overnight, and I was . . . what’s a good word?”

  “Destroyed? Devastated? Pissed off?”

  “That’s it. But I was ready to forgive you.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  “Do you like her?”

  “I do.”

  She didn’t respond for a few seconds, then said, “She likes you. She told me that when we had lunch. Well, she was coy about it, considering the circumstances, but I could tell.”

  “She’s a nice lady.”

  “I think so, too. So, we can all be friends.”

  “Great.” A lot seemed to have been decided in the last thirty minutes that I wasn’t aware of, but that’s what sometimes happens after you have sex with someone. I mean, you go from a polite “hello” to naked in bed, engaged in the most intimate acts with a person you may or may not know that well, and then—if you’re not pressed for time—you need to engage in pillow talk. And talking is where you usually get into trouble, sometimes without even knowing it.

  In this case, however, with Susan, Fate had long ago decided that I’d be here, so I might as well get with the program. I said to her, “I never thought we’d be apart for the rest of our lives.”

  “I knew we would not be.”

  I confessed to her, “I saw you on Tuesday in Locust Valley.”

  “You did? Where?”

  “At that food place, a few doors from Rolf’s.”

  “Oh, right. I was having lunch with Charlie Frick.”

  “It looked like a woman.”

  “Charlene. Charlie Frick. She’s one of the Fricks.”

  “Apparently, if that’s her name.”

  “John, you just got laid. Can you tone down your sarcasm?”

  I didn’t see the connection, but I was certain there’d be more of these post-coital non sequiturs. I said, “Sorry.”

  She asked me, “Where were you? I hope you weren’t getting one of your awful sandwiches at Rolf’s.”

  And then there’s post-coital criticism of my life. I replied, “Actually, I just got a coffee at Rolf’s, and I came out and saw you and Mitzi.”

  “Charlie. Why didn’t you say hello?”

  “Because that wasn’t how I wanted to meet you for the first time after four years.”

  She squeezed my hand and said, “Me neither.” She asked me, “How did you feel? What were you thinking?”

  “I felt . . . I think, sad. And I thought you never looked so beautiful.”

  She snuggled up to me and put her arms around me. She said, “I love you, and we’ll never be apart again, and never be sad again.” She kissed me and said, “Can you believe this? Can you believe we’re together again?”

  “It is hard to believe.”

  “Will you marry me again?”

  I was actually prepared for that question, so I replied, without hesitation, “If that’s what you want.”

  That must not have been the correct answer because she moved away from me and asked, “What do you want?”

  I tried again and asked her, “Will you marry me?”

  “Let me think about it. Okay, I’ll marry you.”

  “You’ve made me the happiest man in the world.”

  “I know I have. But let’s live together for a year, to make sure.”

  “All right. No, I mean, let’s get married as soon as possible.”

  “If that’s what you want. What are you doing tomorrow?”

  Clearly, Susan was happy, and when she
’s happy, she’s funny. I was happy, too, but this was a little sudden, and I wasn’t processing it at the speed it was happening, and I really wanted at least ten minutes to think about completely changing my life. But then I remembered what I’d said to Elizabeth about using more heart and less brain, and about taking chances. At this point in my life, I didn’t have much to lose by marrying my ex-wife. I suppose I could do worse. On a more positive note, I was in love with her, and I was being given a second chance to be happy.

  Susan, who knows me, asked, “Are you talking yourself into or out of marrying me?”

  I replied, “I would like nothing more than for us to be married again, and to be a family again.”

  She sat back against the headboard, and I saw tears welling up in her eyes. She said, “I am so sorry, John, for what happened.”

  “I know. Me, too.”

  We sat there for a while, and I watched the fan sweeping the room and felt the breeze on my body. Being here, in our old bedroom, with our old furniture, brought back good memories of making love, lazy Sunday mornings, the children when they were young coming in to snuggle with us, Mother’s Day and Father’s Day breakfast in bed, and staying up and talking late into the night. I remembered the anniversary card she’d written me: John, You don’t know how many times I wake up in the morning and just stare at you lying beside me, and I will do this for the rest of my life.

  I could dwell on the past, and on the ten-year gap between now and the last time we’d made love here, but I’d done that, and it had gotten me nothing but anger, resentment, and a troubled soul. So I took her hand, looked at her, and said, “I forgive you.”

  She nodded her head and said, “I knew you would.”

  So did I.

  She moved closer to me and put her head on my shoulder, and we both sat there, enjoying the moment and thinking ahead into the future.

  It was, indeed, time to move forward.

  Unfortunately, the past was not really dead and buried; it was alive, and it lived at Alhambra, and it was about to catch up with us.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sex in the shower is my kind of multitasking.

  Afterwards, we dressed and went downstairs into the kitchen, and Susan asked me, “Are you hungry?”

  I looked at the regulator clock and saw it was a little after 1:00 P.M., and I remembered my Sunday spaghetti and meatballs at the Bellarosas’.

  I also remembered I was supposed to call Elizabeth for a possible 7:00 P.M. rendezvous. A lot had been set in motion before this unexpected turn of events, and I wished now that I’d called Susan last week. But who knows what would have happened last week if we’d met? I wasn’t really ready then for what just happened, and in fact, I wasn’t sure I was ready now for what was happening. But clever people, like me, can change plans as the situation changes. As for my plans with Elizabeth, for instance, people who are getting married should cut down on their dating. As for dinner with the Bellarosa family, that decision wasn’t as simple.

  “John? Hello?”

  I looked at Susan and said, “You know, I could go for a Bloody Mary.”

  “I don’t think I have tomato juice.”

  “Even better. Vodka on the rocks.”

  She opened the freezer, retrieved a bottle of Grey Goose and poured it in a glass, then added ice and filled the glass with orange juice, saying, “You can’t drink straight vodka this early in the day.”

  I thought I could. I was starting to remember things from my first marriage, which was also my last.

  Susan poured herself an orange juice and handed me my drink. We clinked glasses, and I said, “Here’s to us.”

  “To us.”

  I sipped my drink and couldn’t taste the vodka.

  She asked again, “Would you like something to eat?”

  “No, this is fine.”

  “What did you have for breakfast?”

  “Uh . . . let me think . . .” I almost had Elizabeth on the patio table, but I shouldn’t mention that. I said, “An English muffin.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Crabapple jelly. Coffee.”

  “And did you dine alone?”

  “I did not.”

  She inquired, “How is it that you and she slept in the same house overnight, and nothing happened?”

  I was getting a little impatient with the Elizabeth questions, and I said, “It doesn’t matter how or why nothing happened. What matters is that nothing happened.”

  She sensed I was annoyed and said, “I’m sorry. I can’t believe how jealous I am. I won’t mention it again.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Maybe you’re losing your touch.”

  “Susan—”

  “Or were you being faithful to Samantha?”

  That sounded like a loaded question, so I explained, “Elizabeth, as you might imagine, is very upset about her mother. We spent the whole day going through Ethel’s papers and personal property, and by the end of the day she was emotionally drained, and she drank too much wine and went to bed early. I slept on the couch. End of story.”

  “All right. I’m sorry.” She inquired, “Do you have any third-party witnesses to those events?”

  I was about to lose my patience, but when I looked at her, I saw she was smiling, so I, too, smiled, and she put down her glass and hugged me. She said, “I don’t want to be jealous.”

  Could’ve fooled me. I put my glass on the counter, and we hugged and kissed.

  She said, “Let’s call Edward and Carolyn.”

  She seemed excited about that, and I realized that I was, too. I said, “You make the call.”

  She went to the wall phone, dialed, and said, “I’m trying Carolyn on her cell phone first.”

  Carolyn answered, and they chatted for a few seconds, and from what I could gather, Carolyn was at Sunday brunch with friends. Susan said to her, “I’d like to speak to you in private for a moment. Yes, all right.” Susan covered the phone and said to me, “I want you to tell her.” Carolyn came back on the line, and Susan said, “Your father wants to speak to you.”

  That must have confused Carolyn because Susan added, “No, he’s right here.” She handed me the phone, and I said to my daughter, “How are you, sweetheart?”

  She replied, “Great. So . . . how are you?”

  “Also great.” I could hear street noises in the background, and I asked, “Where are you?”

  “In front of Petrossian.” She added, “I’m with friends here.”

  I didn’t think assistant district attorneys made that much money, so maybe the Stanhope trust was paying for the champagne and caviar. I joked, “I hope this is an expense account brunch.”

  “I have a date, Dad.”

  “Oh . . .” I still couldn’t think of my little girl with a man, especially one who plied her with caviar and champagne. I joked again, “Then get seconds on the Beluga.”

  She ignored that and asked, “So . . . what’s happening?”

  Good question. I glanced at Susan, who decided to put the phone on speaker, and I said, “Well . . . I’m here at your mother’s house . . .”

  “I know.”

  “And . . . well, Cari, we’ve decided to get back together—” I heard a squeal, and I thought she’d gotten hit by a bus or something, then she squealed again and said, “Oh my God! Oh, Dad, that’s wonderful! Oh, I’m sooo happy. Mom! Mom!”

  Susan took the phone from me, turned it off speaker, and began a rapid-fire conversation with her daughter, punctuated by unintelligible squeaks and squeals.

  I figured my speaking part was finished, so I moved off and freshened my orange juice with vodka. I heard Susan say, “John, that’s enough,” then she turned her attention back to Carolyn.

  After a few minutes of coded girl talk, Susan put the phone back on speaker and said, “We’ll let you get back to your friends. Call me when you have a moment. Your father wants to say goodbye.”

  I called across the kitchen, “Bye, Cari! Love you!”


  “Bye, Dad! I love you!”

  Susan signed off and said to me, “She’s so happy for us, John. Isn’t this wonderful?”

  “It is.” I said, “She has a date.”

  “I told her we were going to call Edward now, and she said she’ll call him tonight.”

  “Who is this guy?”

  “He’s our son. Edward.”

  “No, I mean her date.”

  “Oh . . . I don’t know. She broke up with Cliff, and now she’s dating again. But she’s not serious about anyone.”

  “Petrossian for a two-hundred-dollar brunch sounds serious.” I speculated, “Maybe this has something to do with her concern about world hunger.”

  Susan ignored me and suggested, “You call Edward.”

  I glanced at the clock and observed, “It’s only ten A.M. in L.A. He’s probably sleeping.”

  She took the phone, dialed, and said, “I’m trying his apartment.” After a few rings, someone answered, and Susan said, “Hello, this is Mrs. Sutter, Edward’s mother. Is he there?” She listened again and said, “Tell him it’s important. I’ll hold. Thank you.” She informed me, “He’s in the shower.”

  “Who was that?”

  “A young lady without the good manners to give me her name, nor the social skills to say that Edward was indisposed.”

  “Maybe that’s what she said. Indisposed. And you heard ‘in de shower.’”

  “Very funny.”

  Susan, I recalled, had always been a little more critical of her son’s choice of girlfriends than she’d been of Carolyn’s choice of boyfriends. I usually had the opposite reaction to their significant others. I’m sure Freud could explain that if I wrote to him. Dear Sigmund—

  Susan said to me, “I hope I didn’t alarm him.”

  I replied, “You probably sent that girl bursting into the shower.”

  “John, please.” Susan put the phone close to her ear and said, “Good morning, sweetheart. No, everything is fine. I just wanted to share some good news with you. Hold on. Someone wants to say hello.”

  She handed me the phone, and I, using his old nickname, said, “Hello, Skipper.”

  “Dad!”

  “Sorry to pull you out of the shower—”

  “No problem. What’s up?”

  “Who answered the phone?”