The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

“And please do not use the words ‘a hundred million’ again.”

  “I was just trying to quantify—”

  “Remember the children. I don’t care about us, but I do care about them.”

  I thought a moment and said, “I don’t want our children to lose their self-respect or their souls for a pot of gold.”

  “No. That’s our job.”

  I asked her, “Where are Mom and Dad sleeping tonight?”

  “It hasn’t come up.”

  “Do they know I’m sleeping here with you?”

  “Well . . . Dad commented on the guards in the gatehouse, but I don’t think he’s put two and two together yet.” She added, “When the time comes, we should all just say good night and not make a big thing of it.”

  “All right. And what are our dinner plans?”

  “Well, we all go to the funeral home, then I’ll suggest we come back here for a light supper. Unless they’d rather go to a restaurant.”

  “How about that Italian restaurant in Locust Valley where we had the last supper?”

  She laughed and said, “Okay, but don’t skip out on the bill this time.”

  “Ah! That’s why he’s still pissed off.”

  Susan poured a touch of dry vermouth in each glass, added an olive, and said, “Let’s get back so they don’t think we’re talking about them.”

  “They’re talking about us.”

  She put both glasses on a silver tray, handed it to me, and said, “You do the honors.”

  I started for the door, then stopped and said to her, “If this doesn’t work out by Sunday, I never want to see those two again. Understand?”

  “It will work. You will make it work.”

  I continued on, back through the foyer and into the living room, where I said, cheerfully, “Here we go! And there’s more where that came from.”

  They took their glasses, tasted their martinis, and William said, “Susan makes a perfect martini.”

  “And I didn’t spill a drop,” I said proudly.

  Susan raised her glass of wine and said, “Let me again say how happy I am that you’re here, where we all once lived in beautiful Stanhope Hall, and even though it’s a sad occasion, I know that Ethel is looking down on us, smiling as she sees us all together again.”

  That almost brought a tear to my eye, and I said, “Hear, hear.”

  We didn’t touch glasses, but we did raise them and everyone drank.

  I had the feeling that William and Charlotte had spent the last five minutes congratulating each other for being such assholes, and also coordinating an attack on John.

  Along those lines, William said to his daughter, “I saw Dan’s son, Bob, the other day at the club, and he passes on his regards.”

  Susan replied, “That’s nice.”

  “He told me again how happy you’d made his father in his last years.”

  Susan did not reply.

  It was Charlotte’s turn, and she said, “We all miss Dan so much. He was always the life of the party.”

  William chuckled and added, “And did he ever love to golf. And he made you love the game, Susan. You were getting quite good.” He inquired, “Are you golfing here?”

  “No.”

  “Well, once it’s in your blood—I’ll bet Dan is up there golfing twice a day.”

  Charlotte said to Susan, “You left those beautiful clubs he bought you. Would you like us to send them?”

  “No, thank you.”

  I wanted to snap their scrawny necks, of course, but I just sat there, listening to them updating Susan on all the news from Hilton Head, and continuing to drop Dan’s name whenever possible.

  Susan should have suggested to them that I might not want to hear about her dearly departed husband, but these two were so off the chart that I suppose it didn’t matter. Also, of course, they’d be in a better mood if I ate all the shit they were shoveling.

  Meanwhile, my only past sin had been not putting up with their crap, but their daughter had committed adultery and murder, and it was I who had to apologize to them for calling William an unprincipled asshole, an utterly cynical bastard, a conniving fuck, and a monumental prick. Or was it prick, then fuck? Whatever, it was all true.

  Susan could sense I was simmering and about to boil over, as I’d done ten years ago in the restaurant, so she interrupted her father and said, “Edward and Carolyn will be here tomorrow night, and they’re so excited to see you.”

  Charlotte said, “We’re so looking forward to seeing them.” She remembered to ask, “How are they doing?”

  Do you really give a damn? I mean, I had assumed they’d already had this conversation, but I saw now that they hadn’t even asked about their only grandchildren. What swine.

  Susan filled them in on Edward and Carolyn, but I could see that Grandma and Grandpa were only mildly interested, as though Susan were talking about someone else’s grandchildren.

  We exhausted that topic, so William turned to me and inquired, “How about you, John? How are you doing in London?”

  He really didn’t give a rat’s ass about how I was doing in London, and I recognized the question—from long experience—as a prelude to something less solicitous.

  I replied, “London is fine.”

  “Are you working?” he asked.

  I replied, “I’ve always worked.”

  He reminded me, “You took a three-year sail around the world,” then he generously conceded, “Well, I suppose that’s a lot of work.”

  I wanted to invite him to take a long sail with me, but he’d figure out that he wasn’t coming back. I said, “It was challenging.”

  “I’m sure it was.” He smiled and inquired, “So, did you have a woman in every port?”

  I replied, “That is an improper question to ask me in front of your daughter.”

  Well, that sort of stopped the show, but Susan jumped in and said, “Dad, the past is behind us.”

  William, like all cowards, backed off and said, “Well, I didn’t mean to touch on a sore subject.”

  Susan assured him, “It is not a sore subject. It is a closed subject.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Sensitive. Then he had the gall to ask me, “How is it that you haven’t remarried after all these years, John?”

  “I dated only married women.”

  William didn’t think that was so funny, but Charlotte seemed satisfied with my explanation, though she commented, “It sounds like you wasted all those years on women who were not eligible.”

  Susan asked, “Can I get you both another drink?”

  Mom and Dad shook their heads, and William informed us, “We limit ourselves to three martinis.”

  A minute? I pointed out, “You’ve only had two.”

  “We had one before you got here.”

  “That doesn’t count.” I added, “I hate to drink alone.”

  “Well . . . all right,” he acquiesced.

  I stood to run off and make two more, but Sophie poked her head in and asked Susan, “Do you need anything?”

  William, who treats household help like indentured servants, replied, “Two more martinis and clear some of these plates and bring fresh ones and clean napkins.” Then, to Susan, he said, “Show her how to make a martini.”

  Susan stood, Sophie cleared the plates, and they left. Then Charlotte excused herself to use the facilities, and I found myself alone with William.

  We looked at each other, and I could see his yellow eyes narrowing and the horns peeking through his hair. Smoke came out of his nostrils, and his orthopedic shoes split open, revealing cloven hoofs, and then he reached down the back of his pants and played with his spaded tail.

  Or maybe I was imagining that. His eyes, however, did narrow.

  Neither of us spoke, then finally he said to me, “This does not make us happy, John.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. But your daughter is happy.”

  “She may think she’s happy.” He let me know, “Susan was lonely after D
an died, and she became quite upset after the terrorist attacks, and for the last several months she’s been dwelling on the past.”

  I didn’t reply.

  He continued, “So, what I’m saying to you, John, is that she’s not herself, and what you’re seeing now is not what you might be seeing a few months from now.”

  I replied, “I appreciate your not wanting me to make a mistake, and I’m touched by your concern for my future.”

  His eyes narrowed again, and he said, “We actually don’t care for you.”

  “Was it something I said?”

  “And we don’t think that Susan does either.” He explained, “She’s confused.” He further explained, “We know our daughter, and we think she’s just going through a stage of life, which will pass.”

  “Then you should tell her what you think of her mental state. Or I will.”

  He leaned toward me, and in a quiet voice said, “We will need to discuss this, John, man to man.”

  “I’m happy to do that.” But bring your own man, shithead; I’m not hiring one for you.

  William got to the crux of the matter and said, “People in our position—I mean, Charlotte and I—have to be very careful in regard to acceptable suitors for our daughter.” He asked, “Are you following me?”

  “Of course. You want her to be happy.”

  “No— Well, yes, of course we do. But I’m speaking about . . . well, money.”

  “Money? What does this have to do with money?” I assured him, “We’ll pay for our own wedding.”

  He seemed frustrated with my dullness, but continued patiently, “I have no idea how you’re doing financially, but I’m sure that Susan’s annual allowance, and her future inheritance, has influenced your thinking. Now, don’t take that the wrong way, John. I’m sure you think you’re fond of her, but quite frankly, I think you both divorced for the right reasons—you were unsuitable for each other—and you stayed away from each other for ten years because of that. So now the question is, why are you courting her again, and why have you proposed marriage?”

  It was more the other way around, but I was gentleman enough not to say that. I said, “William, if you’re suggesting that I’m a gold digger, I am truly offended.”

  “John, I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that your thinking and your feelings may be influenced by those considerations—subconsciously, of course.”

  “Well, you raise an interesting point . . . so, you think that, subconsciously . . . well, I guess I need to think about that.” I admitted, “I wouldn’t want to think I was marrying for love, when deep down inside it was for money.”

  I may have crossed the sarcasm line, but William gave me a pass and leaned even closer to me, and said bluntly, “Perhaps we can discuss some financial arrangement that would induce you to move back to London.”

  If he was talking about the measly one hundred thousand dollars that he offered to all Susan’s suitors, then I was insulted. Even two hundred thousand dollars was an insult. It would have to be seven figures.

  “John?”

  I looked at him, and I realized that if I told him to go fuck himself, the rest of the week could be a bit rocky. But if I played along, that would make him a happy houseguest, and after we’d finished our Father’s Day dinner, I could then tell him to go fuck himself. Or maybe I should wait until Edward left on Monday morning. Go fuck yourself has to be timed just right.

  He said, “I hope you will think about this.”

  “I will. I mean, not about the financial . . . But about what you said regarding Susan’s being confused and not herself.” I feigned deep thought, then nodded to myself and came to a reluctant conclusion. I said, “I wouldn’t want her to make a mistake about us remarrying . . . and then be unhappy.”

  “No, John, we don’t want that.”

  “So . . . well, then maybe we should”—bright idea—“live together.”

  Poor William. He thought that my spinning wheels were going to stop at three lemons, and I’d get up and go home. He cleared his throat and said, “I was speaking of a financial inducement for you to return to London.”

  “Oh . . . right. Well . . . I don’t want to hurt Susan by leaving . . . but I also don’t want to hurt her by entering into a doomed marriage . . .”

  William assured me, “You would both be much happier in the long term if you separated now.” He advised me, “It needs to be quick, merciful, and final.”

  This sort of reminded me of the deal I made with Frank Bellarosa. Anyway, I took a deep breath—actually, it was a sigh, and said, “I need to think about this.”

  William smelled a deal and said, “I’d like your answer by Sunday, or Monday morning before we leave, at the latest.”

  “All right.” I inquired sheepishly, “About that financial inducement . . .”

  “We can discuss that when we speak.”

  “Well . . . it would help me now to know how much I’m being induced.”

  William himself didn’t know how much he wanted to spend to ensure his only daughter’s happiness. And he didn’t know what my price was to tear myself away from the love of my life. He did know, however, that I was very aware that he could cut off Susan’s allowance and disinherit her. So that lowered her value, and lowered my price to dump a Stanhope.

  I could see him struggling with this, pissed off beyond belief that Susan was going to cost him a wad of cash. And of course he was pissed off at me for lots of reasons, including my getting any of his money. Maybe he’d reduce her allowance to amortize the payoff.

  Finally, he asked, “What do you have in mind?”

  “How does two million sound?”

  I thought he was going to fall face first into the baked brie, but he caught his breath and mumbled, “Perhaps we can agree on half of that—but paid in ten annual installments, so that your inducement is ongoing.”

  “Ah, I see what you’re getting at. But if I got it all up front, I wouldn’t renege on the deal. I give you my word on that.”

  “I would want a written contract.”

  “Right. Like a non-nuptial agreement.”

  “And non-cohabitation.”

  “Of course.” I love to do deals, so I said, “But if I got it all up front, I’d discount the two million.”

  “I think we need to discuss that number, and the terms. Later.”

  “What are you doing after dinner?”

  But before he could respond, Susan and Sophie returned, and William, gentleman that he is, stood and, while he was up anyway, grabbed a martini off Susan’s tray.

  Sophie rearranged the coffee table and left. Susan sat and asked, “Where’s Mom?”

  William said, “Freshening up.”

  Susan took stock of the situation and inquired, with a smile, “Have you had a good man-to-man talk?”

  William replied, “We were just discussing what’s going on here at Stanhope Hall.”

  I looked at William, and I could see that he was a bit more relaxed now, maybe even hopeful that his worst nightmare might be ending before it began. I considered winking at him and flashing two fingers—Victory—and not at any price; only two million.

  Charlotte returned, took her seat, and scooped up her martini.

  Susan, thinking that she was continuing with our subject of Stanhope Hall, said, “As I mentioned in my e-mail, the owner, Amir Nasim, has some security concerns, so he’s hired a security firm to advise him of what needs to be done.”

  William inquired, “What sort of security concerns?”

  Susan explained, “He’s originally from Iran, and his wife told me that he has enemies in that country, who may want to harm him.”

  Charlotte was now licking the bottom of her martini glass, and she stopped in mid-lick and said, “Oh, my.”

  William, always thinking of himself, asked me, “Do you think there’s any danger to us?” Meaning him.

  I replied, “No one is likely to mistake the guest cottage for Stanhope Hall, or mistake Mr. and Mrs
. Nasim for any of us.”

  William agreed, and said, stupidly, “Well, maybe we’ll have a little excitement here.”

  No one laughed or slapped their knees, but I did say, “If you’d feel more comfortable elsewhere, Susan can inquire about the cottages at The Creek.”

  Susan chimed in, “I don’t think we should overreact, John.”

  I didn’t reply, but I did note that neither William nor Charlotte expressed any concern about their daughter and their grandchildren.

  William did say, however, “When we lived in Stanhope Hall, we never even locked our doors.” He looked at his zoned-out wife and asked, “Did we, darling?”

  “We did,” Charlotte agreed, or disagreed, depending on what she thought he said.

  I was actually glad I was drinking hundred-proof tonic because I was better able to appreciate William and Charlotte with a clear head.

  Susan reminded them of why they were in New York, and said, “I am feeling so sad about Ethel. It’s hard to believe that she’s gone.”

  Charlotte remarked, “The poor dear. I hope she didn’t suffer at the end.”

  And so we spoke about the departed Ethel for a few minutes, recalling many happy memories, and, of course, not recalling that Ethel was a pain in the ass. Charlotte did say, however, with a smile, “She was a stubborn woman.” Still smiling, she remarked, “Sometimes I wondered who was mistress and who was servant.”

  Susan reminded her, “We don’t use those words any longer, Mother.”

  “Oh, Susan. No one minds.”

  I noticed that William had nothing to say about Ethel, good or bad, and he just sat there, perhaps thinking about his father fucking Ethel, then Ethel fucking his father.

  I thought this might be a good time to straighten out the mistress thing—about Ethel being Augustus’ mistress; so of course Ethel was a mistress, but not the mistress of Stanhope Hall. I mean, she was dead, and so was Augustus, so to liven up the conversation, I said to Charlotte and William, “I was going through Ethel’s paperwork, and I found the life tenancy conveyance among her papers, and that got me wondering why Augustus conveyed such a valuable consideration to two young employees, who—”

  “John,” said Susan, “I think we should get ready.” She looked at her watch and said, “I’d like to be at the funeral home at seven.” She stood.