The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  Susan asked, “What is making you smile?”

  “You, darling.”

  I parked in the gravel field and noted a lot of vehicles—mostly SUVs—on this pleasant Sunday evening, and Susan informed me, “Tonight is Salty Dog.”

  Salty Dog is a barbecue on the lawn, and though I’m not sure where the name comes from, I never ate the spareribs, just to play it safe.

  She added, “But I’ve made our reservation for the dining room, so we can be alone.”

  “Good.” As we walked toward the clubhouse, I inquired, “Do we own a yacht?”

  She smiled and replied, “No. I just wanted to rejoin the club. For social reasons.”

  That may have meant meeting people, sometimes known as men. I reminded her, “In the good old days, single women were not admitted as members.”

  “Well, thank God those days are over. What would you do without us?”

  “I can’t even imagine.”

  As we approached the clubhouse, I had second thoughts about coming here. I mean, I’d been asked, nicely, to leave for unspecified reasons, which may have included sinking my own boat, and being publicly identified on TV as a Mafia lawyer, not to mention my wife shooting and killing my Mafia client who was also her lover. On the other hand, Susan had been readmitted, and she had no hesitation about coming here. So maybe everyone had forgotten about all of that unpleasantness. What, then, was I concerned about?

  “Dear Ms. Post, Well, I’m back with my ex-wife—the one who killed her Mafia lover—and she wants to take me to dinner at our former yacht club. Considering that we were kicked out for bad behavior (she committed adultery and murder, and I became a mob lawyer, and also sunk my yacht so the government couldn’t seize it for back taxes), do you think the club members will accept us? (Signed) Still Confused on Long Island.”

  “Dear . . . Whatever, I assume one or both of you have been reinstated as members, so if you dress and act appropriately, and your dues and charges are paid up, the other members will be delighted to have such interesting people to speak to. Two caveats: One, do not initiate conversations about the murder, adultery, or being a mob lawyer or sinking the boat; wait for others to bring it up. Two, try to avoid repeating any of the criminal and socially unacceptable acts that got you blacklisted in the first place. Good luck. (Signed) Emily Post. P.S. You two have a set of balls.”

  Susan may have sensed my hesitation because she took my hand and said, “I’ve been here twice since I’ve been back, and I haven’t had a problem.” She reminded me, “The membership committee had no problem here, or at The Creek.”

  I remarked, “Standards have certainly slipped.” In fact, maybe now I could get Frank Bellarosa into The Creek—if he wasn’t dead.

  We entered the clubhouse, turned right into the bar room as we’d done so many times, and went up to the bar.

  I was not surprised to see that nothing had changed, including the bartender, a cheerful bald-headed gent named Bennett, who said to Susan, “Good evening, Mrs. Sutter.” He looked at me and, without missing a beat, said, “Good evening, Mr. Sutter.”

  “Hello, Bennett.” We both hesitated for a second, then reached out our hands, and he said, “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Same here. Good to be back.”

  He inquired, “Dark and stormy?”

  “Please.”

  He moved off to make two dark and stormies, which I actually don’t like, but it’s the club drink, and . . . well, why upset the universe?

  I put my back to the bar and looked around. I recognized an older couple at one of the tables and noted some young couples who seemed to fit in well, though not all the men were wearing blue blazers and tan pants. Also, I couldn’t imagine that some of them knew port from starboard, but, I recalled, that was me once.

  Susan asked me, “How does it feel?”

  “Good.”

  Bennett put the drinks on the bar, and Susan signed the chit.

  I surveyed the room again, this time noting the Race Committee pewter mugs lined up in a niche on the wall, one of which had my name engraved on it. Another wall was covered with half-hull models, and there were old pictures on the other walls of people who were long dead and forgotten, but were immortalized here until the end of time, or at least until the female members got their way and redecorated.

  Susan handed me my drink, we touched glasses, and she said, “Welcome back.”

  The dark and stormy wasn’t too bad if you like dark rum and ginger beer in the same glass, which I don’t.

  We took our drinks and moved into the big main room, which hadn’t changed too much and still looked very nautical with all the club members’ private flags hanging from the ceiling molding surrounding the room, and the cabinet full of racing trophies, a few of which I’d won.

  There were a number of people sitting or standing in the main room having cocktails, and a few of them looked at us and did double takes, and some waved and we returned the greeting, though none got up from their seats to chat. I guessed they were surprised to see me, and to see Susan and me together, and no one wanted to be the first to come over and ask, “So, what is this all about?” I knew that after we’d passed through the room, tongues would wag, and possibly someone would be deputized to approach the formerly married Sutters and get the scoop.

  In fact, before we got to the double doors that went out to the porch, a woman appeared in front of us, and it took me a second to recognize Mrs. Althea Gwynn, one of the grand dames of the old order, who, as I recalled, fancied herself the arbiter of good manners and acceptable behavior. Her husband, Dwight, I also recalled, was a decent man, who’d either suffered a stroke or was faking it so he didn’t have to speak to her.

  Anyway, Mrs. Gwynn smiled tightly at me and Susan, and said to me, “I had heard that you were back, John.”

  “I am.”

  “How wonderful. And where are you living?”

  “At home.”

  “I see . . .”

  Susan informed her, “John and I are back together.”

  “That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you both.”

  I really didn’t think so, but I replied, “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Gwynn looked at me and said, “The last time I saw you, John—it has to be ten years now—you and Susan were dining at The Creek with . . . another couple who I believe were new to the area.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember that. I believe that was Mr. Frank Bellarosa and his wife, Anna, formerly of Brooklyn.”

  Mrs. Gwynn seemed a little surprised that I’d be so blunt—I was supposed to just say, “Has it been that long?”

  Susan said to me, “It was Frank and Anna, darling. I remember that.”

  I replied to Susan, “That’s right. We were welcoming them to the neighborhood.” I added, “But they didn’t stay long.”

  Mrs. Gwynn didn’t know quite what to say, so she said, “Excuse me,” and walked off.

  Susan put her arm through mine, and we continued through the room. She said to me, “That was very nice of Althea to greet us.”

  “She’s a wonderful woman,” I agreed, “to get up off her fat ass to pry.”

  “Now, now, John. She was just remarking that it’s been ten years since she’s seen you.”

  “Right. We were dining at The Creek with . . . who was that?”

  “The Bellarosas, darling. Formerly of Brooklyn.”

  We both laughed.

  Well, it was a little funny, and Mrs. Gwynn was one of a dying breed, and not as important as she thought she was. But in her world, she’d done what she was put on this earth to do. And I was in awe of her steadfast snootiness and snobbery, especially since Susan was a Stanhope.

  Anyway, Susan changed the subject and said, “I have your flag, and when we buy a boat, we’ll have it rehung.”

  I wondered what had become of my boat flag; I know what became of my boat, so I said, “I’m not sure of my status here.”

  She thought about that and replied, “You�
�re allowed to sink one boat every ten years.”

  I smiled, but wondered how many lovers you were allowed to kill before you were banished forever. I gave myself a mental slap on the face for that.

  Susan added, “When we’re married, you’ll be a member, and I will buy us a nice forty-footer that we’ll take down to the Caribbean for our honeymoon.”

  I commented, “This deal is getting much better,” but I wondered if she understood that her six-figure-a-year allowance was at serious risk as a result of that honeymoon.

  We walked out to the long, wrap-around covered porch, found two chairs, and sat facing the bay.

  It was just 7:00 P.M., and the sun was sinking over the land to the southwest. Out on the lawn, which swept down to the water, the American flag billowed in a soft southerly breeze atop a tall flagpole, and the barbecue was in full swing. I noticed a lot of young couples and kids—more than I remembered in the past. The McMansion People.

  Susan and I, as children and teenagers, came here with our parents, who were members, but the Stanhopes and the Sutters did not know one another, and neither Susan nor I could recall ever meeting, and if we did, it was not memorable.

  My father had owned a beautiful seventeen-foot Thistle, and he’d taught me how to sail, which is one of my fondest memories of him.

  William, my once and future father-in-law, a.k.a. Commodore Vomit, had not actually owned a sailboat; he didn’t know how to sail, but he had owned a number of power yachts, though large power craft are not encouraged to be kept here at the club. William and Charlotte’s membership at Seawanhaka Corinthian was mostly social, which was another skill he wasn’t good at.

  I looked out at the three club docks, which jutted about a hundred feet into the bay. The Junior Club dock was crowded with adolescents, male and female, who were happy to be away from their parents, and who seemed to be engaged in pre-mating rituals. I recalled doing the same thing when I was young, and I also recalled that the boys, and even some of the girls, used to horse around a lot on the dock, and someone usually wound up in the water. I asked Susan, “Did you ever get thrown in the water?”

  “At least once a week.” She reminisced, “This beastly boy, James Nelson, used to show his adolescent affection for me by throwing me off the dock.”

  “You should have married him.”

  “I would have, but I suspected he wasn’t going to grow out of it.” She asked me, “Did you throw girls off the dock?”

  “I may have.”

  “Did anyone throw you off the dock?” she asked.

  “Only my mother, and only when she could find an anchor to tie around my ankle.”

  “John. Don’t be awful.”

  We held hands, and I looked south across the water. I could see the lights of the village of Oyster Bay, where I nearly had a new career, and I wondered if Anthony was still going to buy that building. It annoyed me, of course, that this man, whose fortune was so closely tied to criminal activity, had so much money. I’d felt the same way about his father. But I reminded myself, people like that don’t sleep well at night. Or if they did, their waking hours must be filled with dread and anxiety. And usually, the law, or a bullet, caught up with them. In fact, I hoped the bullet would catch up to Anthony, soon.

  Susan said, “It’s so beautiful here.”

  “It is.” The sunlight was sparkling on the water, and a few dozen sailboats and power boats were out on the bay, and fair-weather clouds moved slowly across the blue sky. I looked to the southeast toward Cove Neck, where Teddy Roosevelt’s house, Sagamore Hill, was now a National Historical Site, and where a few Roosevelts still lived, including old friends of ours, so I asked Susan, “Have you stayed in touch with Jim and Sally?”

  She replied, “I did for some years, but they’ve moved to San Diego.”

  “What are they doing in Mexico?”

  “Southern California.” She suggested, “Stop being an East Coast snob.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  “I have an excuse—I was born a snob. You had to take lessons.”

  “Point made.”

  She said, “We should go in.”

  “Let’s cancel dinner and sit here.”

  “All right. I’ll be right back.”

  Susan stood and disappeared into the clubhouse. I watched a forty-foot yawl coming in, its sails full with the southerly breeze, and I could almost feel the helm in my hands and the heeling deck beneath my feet.

  Susan returned and said, “The Sutters are only drinking tonight.”

  “The Sutters are my kind of people.”

  We sat gazing at the sparkling water and the land across the bay, and the sky, and the boats, now with their running lights on, headed for their moorings as the sky darkened.

  I looked out on the east lawn, and I said to her, “That’s where we met. Right where the wedding tent was pitched.”

  “That’s so sweet of you to remember,” she said, but then suggested, “I think, though, it was closer to the porch here. I was coming out of the clubhouse and you were going in.”

  “That’s right. I had to go to the bathroom.”

  “That’s so romantic.”

  “Well . . . anyway, I saw you—actually, I’d seen you earlier and tried to find out if you were with anyone, or if anyone knew who you were.” I added, “Well, I guess I’ve told you this.”

  “Tell me again.”

  So I related the story of my stalking, and my discovery that she wasn’t with a date, and that she was a Stanhope, and fabulously wealthy, which of course meant nothing at all to me because I was so captivated by her beauty and her self-assured manner, and so forth. Someone should have tipped me off that her parents were dreadful people, but I wasn’t looking to get married; I was looking to get . . . well, laid.

  Anyway, I got that, plus got married, and also got her parents as a punishment for my original dishonorable intentions.

  I said to Susan, “Thinking back on it, that line I used was divine inspiration.”

  “And what line was that, John?”

  “You remember. I said, regarding the bride . . . what was her first name . . . ? Anyway, I said she was a Guest at her own wedding. Remember?”

  Susan sat quietly for a second, then informed me, “That was the third time I’d heard that line that night.”

  “No.”

  “And I swore that the next man who said that to me, I would tell him he was an idiot.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. And that was you.”

  “Well . . . I thought it was funny. And you laughed.”

  “I did laugh. And that’s how I knew you were special.”

  “I’m glad you laughed.” I added, “You were the first woman that night who did.”

  The waitress came by with two more dark and stormies, and also a platter of crudités, and a platter of shrimp, which I guess Susan had ordered.

  So we sat there, drank, talked, and watched the sun go down.

  At sunset, colors were sounded and the cannon on the lawn boomed, and everyone stood silently and faced the flag as it was lowered.

  The color guard folded the flag and carried it away, and Susan said to me, “Remember this day.”

  “Until I die.”

  “Me, too.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Susan and I woke up in the same bed, and it took us a few minutes to adjust to this sleeping arrangement after ten years. Thankfully, I didn’t call her by another woman’s name, and she got my name right on the first try, but it was a little disorienting at 6:00 A.M.

  Within half an hour, however, we’d slipped back into our old morning routines and dressed and went downstairs.

  After a hearty lumberjack breakfast of yogurt, granola, and fish oil capsules, I announced to her, “We are going to the police station, and you are going to file a complaint.”

  She didn’t respond, so I stood and said, “Let’s do that now.”

  She remained seated and replied, “He hasn’t
actually threatened me.”

  “He has.”

  She glanced at me, then stood and got her handbag. I put on my blue blazer, and we left the house and got into her Lexus.

  I headed south toward the Second Precinct of the Nassau County Police Department, which was about a half-hour drive from Stanhope Hall, and half a world away.

  It had been the detectives from this precinct who’d initially responded to the FBI’s report, ten years ago, of a shooting at Alhambra, and I assumed there might still be people there who remembered the incident. How could they forget it? So we’d get the attention we needed, though perhaps not the attention we wanted, considering that the FBI hijacked the case from the state, and the U.S. Justice Department gave Susan a pass on the murder.

  Well, maybe the county police were over it by now, and this complaint would give them an opportunity to ask questions of Mr. Anthony Bellarosa, heir to his father’s evil empire.

  Anyway, it was another beautiful, sunny day, and if it wasn’t for this cloud hanging over us, our future would be as bright as the sky.

  I glanced at Susan and saw she seemed withdrawn. I said to her, “This won’t be pleasant, but as your attorney and future husband, I feel this is a necessary precaution.”

  She didn’t reply. Maybe she thought that I was pushing the past in her face, but I wasn’t. I was, however, addressing the consequence of what she’d done ten years ago, and she, too, needed to address that.

  I gave her a short briefing on what to expect, and what to say, but she didn’t seem to be listening. I myself had little experience with making a complaint to the police, and I really wasn’t certain exactly what would happen, but as an attorney, I could figure it out when I got there.

  Susan slid a CD into the player, and we drove on, listening to Wagner blasting out of a dozen speakers.

  We approached the village of Woodbury, and I spotted the sign for the Second Precinct station house. I turned right off Jericho Turnpike, then left into a side parking lot marked for visitors, popped Richard Wagner out of the CD player, and said to Susan, “This may take an hour or more. Then we’re done.”