The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  Well, I should save this for when there were more people around to appreciate it, so I stood, and so did Mom and Dad, who swayed a bit.

  Susan said to me, “Mom and Dad’s luggage is still in their car. Would you mind getting it?”

  “Not at all, darling.”

  William already had his keys in his hand, which he gave to me, and said, “Thank you, John.” I guess that meant he wasn’t going to help. Well, then, I wasn’t going to discount the two million.

  I went out into the rain, retrieved their cheap luggage, which looked like a bank giveaway, and hauled it up the stairs to their room.

  They weren’t in their room yet, so I didn’t get a tip, and I left the luggage on two racks that Susan had set up. Then I went to the master bedroom, where Susan was getting undressed, and I inquired, “Do we have time for a quickie?”

  She smiled, and asked, “Is that the alcohol talking?”

  “Very funny.” I commented, “Those two put away half a bottle of gin.”

  “They were very tense, and I think upset.” She observed, “But Dad seemed much less upset after the third one got to him.”

  “He did, didn’t he?”

  She inquired, “What did you two talk about?”

  I considered telling her that her father had tried to buy me off, and I would tell her . . . but if I did that now, she might be upset. It was better, I thought, to have her think that her father’s better mood was alcohol-induced. And tomorrow, when she saw that Dad and I were getting along tolerably well—without the martinis—she’d be happy, and her happiness would spread like sunshine over all of us, including Edward and Carolyn.

  And then, Sunday after dinner, or Monday morning, after the children were gone, and before Scrooge McDuck headed south, I’d ask Susan what she thought was a fair price for me to accept from Dad for going back to London. Well, I might present it differently, such as, “Your father had the nerve to offer me a bribe to leave you. I have never in my life been so insulted.” And so on.

  After she got over her shock, I’d tell her he offered me two million dollars, but that I wouldn’t leave her for less than five. I mean, that’s serious money. I could actually live off the interest, as the Stanhopes did.

  Susan sat at her makeup table and did some touch-ups. She said to me, “That actually went better than I expected. And I thank you again for being . . . nice.”

  “It’s easy to be nice to nice people.”

  She thought that was funny, but then advised me, “Cool the borderline sarcasm. They’re not that dense.”

  “You think?”

  “And do not bring up Ethel Allard’s life tenancy in the gatehouse.” She asked, “Why did you do that?”

  “I didn’t realize it was a sore subject.”

  “You know it is.” She further advised, “You need to find less obnoxious ways to amuse yourself.”

  “Okay. How about a quickie?”

  “John, we’re going to a wake.” She glanced at her watch and asked, “How quick?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  William and Charlotte would have blown the needle off a Breathalyzer, so I drove. I’d left the carbine home so the Stanhopes wouldn’t see it, and also so I wouldn’t be tempted to shoot them.

  Susan, sitting next to me, was looking good in black, but she was in a quiet, post-coital, pre–funeral home mood.

  The Stanhopes, in the rear seat of the Lexus, had changed out of their tropical bird costumes and were also wearing black, which made them look like buzzards. The car, by the way, smelled of gin, and I was getting a little tipsy.

  I had no doubt that William had told his wife about our private discussion, putting his own spin on it, and now they were turning this over in their tiny, alcohol-soaked brains.

  Well, three of us knew that we were negotiating for Susan Stanhope Sutter, who didn’t even know she was for sale.

  Anyway, despite a long and draining day, and what promised to be a long evening, I was in a chipper mood. Maybe I thrive on danger, conflict, and bullshit. Plus, of course, I just got laid. And I didn’t get laid with just anyone—no, I had sex with Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope’s daughter, which made it so much more enjoyable. That’s a little perverse, I know, but at least I’m aware of that, and it’s really low on the kinky scale, and not worth examining too much.

  And of course, if Mom and Dad were paying attention, they realized I was sharing their daughter’s bedroom. And if they had been lingering outside our door, they also knew why we were fifteen minutes late.

  No one seemed to have much to say as I drove up to Locust Valley, so to liven up the mood, I said, “Let me buy dinner tonight. There’s a nice Italian place in Locust Valley that I haven’t been to in ten years.”

  “John.”

  “Yes, darling?”

  Susan informed me, “Mom and Dad have had a long day, so we’re having a quiet supper at home.”

  “Excellent idea, sweetheart. I’m sorry I missed that memo.”

  “Now you know.”

  William and Charlotte seemed unusually quiet, so I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw they’d both nodded off and missed my generous offer to buy dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant. I asked Susan, “What was the name of that place? Vaffanculo?”

  She leaned toward me and whispered, “Behave. This is too important for you to screw it up with your childish humor.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You were doing so well. Can’t you control yourself?”

  “I try, but sometimes I can’t resist—”

  “This is not about you. It’s about Edward and Carolyn. And us.”

  Susan, of course, didn’t know that I had some power over dear Dad now, but that power would disappear the minute I told William to take his offer and shove it up his culo. So I was looking forward to tweaking him for a few days, but I’d have to do it when Susan wasn’t around.

  “John? Do you understand?”

  I held up two fingers, which she took to mean “Peace,” and she said, “Thank you.” On Monday, I’d explain that it meant two million dollars.

  To be a little objective here, I understood that William, as a father, thought he was trying to do the best for his daughter. But he was also a control freak, and he had no clue about what was really best for Susan. Plus, of course, he hated me without justification. Well . . . we just never clicked. So this was about him. And instead of him talking to Susan, then to me, he got right down to offering me money to take a hike. And why would he think that John Whitman Sutter would take his money? Even after all these years, he had no idea who I was.

  And on that subject, I would insist on a prenuptial agreement that gave me nothing more than what I came into the marriage with, meaning nothing. That should make the old bastard happy, but more importantly, it made me happy to know that I was going to remarry Susan for the right reason. Love. Well . . . maybe a new boat. In case I had to leave again.

  Anyway, I was feeling like I was standing on the pinnacle of the moral high ground; my heart was pure, and my wallet was empty. So I should at least be allowed to have a little fun with the Stanhopes before they left.

  I looked at both of them in the rearview mirror. Maybe they were dead. Well, we were going to the right place.

  As we approached the funeral home, Susan said, “I know you don’t like wakes. No one does, but—”

  “Depends on who’s in the coffin.”

  “But try not to show how bored you are, and try to act appropriately.”

  “I’ve grown up a lot in the last ten years.”

  “Then this is a good time to demonstrate that.”

  “I’ll make you proud to be with me.”

  She smiled, took my hand, and said, “I was always proud of you, even when you acted like an idiot.”

  “That’s very sweet.”

  She leaned toward me, kissed my cheek, and said, “You look so handsome in that black suit.”

  I pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home and said, “Than
k you. Maybe I can get a job here.”

  I realized that the Stanhopes were awake, and I wondered how much of our conversation they’d heard. They weren’t exactly hopeless romantics, but clearly they could see and hear that Susan and I were in love—despite her criticisms of my core personality. Well, Willie, if you don’t get it, then I feel sorry for you, and for Charlotte. They could really make life easier for themselves, and for us, if they’d just say, “We’re happy for you. Have a wonderful life.”

  But they, like me, carried around too many grudges and grievances—but unlike me, they were deep down mean-spirited. And at the end of the day, this is where it all ends—at the funeral home.

  The Walton Funeral Home in tony Locust Valley is like the Campbell Funeral Home on Manhattan’s Upper East Side—a very good last address.

  This was where George Allard had been waked ten years ago, and also my aunt Cornelia, and my father, and too many other family and friends since I was a child.

  Walton’s is situated in a nice old Victorian house, similar to and not far from my former office, and I suppose if I stayed in New York, then someday this is where I’d wind up because these places never seem to go out of business. People are dying to get in and all that. I like Parlor B.

  Ethel, however, was in Parlor A, which is small and usually reserved for the elderly who have outlived most potential mourners, or for the truly unpopular. Like the Stanhopes.

  I could barely hear the piped-in organ music as I signed the guest book, so I asked a guy in black to turn it up a bit and check the treble. Then we entered Parlor A.

  There were a lot of flower arrangements along the walls, but not many people in the seats. The Allard family occupied most of the front row, but we went first to the coffin, and the four of us stood there looking at Ethel Allard.

  She seemed peaceful—I mean, she wasn’t moving or anything—and the undertakers had done a good job with her hair and makeup. She wore a very nice lavender-and-white lace dress that looked like it was from another era. Good choice, Ethel.

  Susan whispered, “She’s so beautiful.”

  I agreed, “She looks good.” For someone who’s old and dead.

  William and Charlotte commented that Ethel hadn’t aged much in ten years. In fact, she looked better than Charlotte, who was alive.

  I said a silent prayer for Ethel, then I took the lead in getting us away from the coffin, and I turned and walked to Elizabeth, who stood, and was looking very good in black. We kissed, and she said, “Thank you for coming.”

  I said, “She was a remarkable woman, and I will miss her.”

  Susan came up beside me, and she and Elizabeth exchanged kisses and appropriate remarks. Susan asked her, “How are you doing?”

  Elizabeth nodded and replied, “I’m happy that she’s with Dad now.”

  Well . . . who knows where she is or whom she’s with.

  Next, the Stanhopes greeted Elizabeth, and I could sense that there was some distance there on both sides. The Stanhopes were ostensibly there out of a sense of noblesse oblige, but really they’d come to see their daughter, and their few friends in New York, and I hoped their grandchildren. My being in New York was a bonus for them.

  In truth, William and Charlotte had some issues with Ethel, mostly having to do with Ethel’s life tenancy in what had once been their property, and also having to do with the reason for that life tenancy. Not to mention Ethel not knowing her place, which Charlotte actually did mention, and which in turn went back again to Ethel screwing Augustus. Well, I guess William was happy that his father’s mistress was dead.

  Elizabeth, for her part, I’m sure, never cared for William and Charlotte—who did?—but she’d been programmed over the years to be nice to them, and of course, she was very nice now and thanked them for coming all the way from Hilton Head.

  Then Elizabeth, perhaps not recalling or not fully appreciating the Stanhopes’ feelings toward their once and future son-in-law, said to them, “Isn’t this wonderful about Susan and John?”

  Well, you wouldn’t think that faces could freeze and twitch at the same time, but theirs did. Elizabeth got it right away and said, “Let me introduce you to my children.”

  She introduced us to Tom Junior and Betsy, who we all remembered as little tykes, and they were good-looking young adults, and very well dressed and well mannered. Maybe I should try to match them up with Edward and Carolyn. We could start a dynasty. But for now, we all expressed our sorrow about Grandma’s passing.

  Then Elizabeth introduced us to some other family members in Row A, and finally at the end of the row was Elizabeth’s ex, Tom Corbet, whom I remembered. Tom then introduced us to a good-looking man named Laurence, who Tom said was his partner.

  Well, what can I say? These things are always awkward when exes are in the same room with their new loves, and it doesn’t matter much if the new love is of the same or the opposite sex. It occurred to me, too, that if things had gone differently Saturday night and Sunday morning, I might be sitting next to Elizabeth now, and I’d be greeting Susan, William, and Charlotte with cool indifference bordering on hostility. Goes to show you.

  Anyway, because Tom had introduced Laurence as his partner, this quite naturally prompted William to inquire, “What business are you two in?”

  Tom replied, “Wall Street,” and Laurence replied, “CBS News.”

  This seemed to confuse William, who pressed on. “I thought you were partners.”

  Elizabeth was all too happy to clear that up, and everyone had a little chuckle, except William, who’d just learned a new meaning to an old word that he didn’t want to know. Charlotte, even sober, never knows what anyone is talking about anyway.

  Then Susan, saint that she is, told Elizabeth we’d be there until closing time, and to please let her know if there was anything that she or John could do. John seconded that, but John had no idea how he could help out in a funeral home. Water the flowers? Turn up the organ music? Hopefully, William and Charlotte would tire before 9:00 P.M. That was one good thing they could do for me.

  Elizabeth thanked us for all we’d done already and added, “I love you both.”

  That was sweet. And to continue the love fest, I said, “It’s too bad that it took a funeral to bring us all together—you, and Susan and me, and William and Charlotte, who I’ve missed terribly all these years.”

  I thought I heard a little squeaky sound come from Charlotte, who didn’t miss that, and I definitely heard a snort from William. Come on, guys. Loosen up and let the love in.

  Susan suggested we sit, so we took seats behind Elizabeth and her two children.

  Some wakes are better than others, partly depending, as I said, on who’s lying in the coffin. Also, you do get to see people you haven’t seen in a while, and you can promise to get together for happier occasions. This wake, however, promised to be deadly. All right, all right.

  I mean, I didn’t seem to know anyone who was there, or anyone who was drifting in. Maybe I should go over to Parlor B and see what was going on there.

  Susan did know some people, however, and she stood a few times and said hello to arriving mourners, and now and then she’d drag someone over to say hello to me and her parents.

  William and Charlotte, too, knew a few of the older crowd, and they got up and greeted some of them, then they drifted off to the back of the parlor where the senior citizens had gathered, away from the coffin, which probably upset them.

  I recalled that at George’s wake ten years ago, the old servants’ network, or what was left of it then, had gathered in good numbers at Walton’s to pay their final respects to one of their own. I recalled, too, that even a few of the old gentry and their ladies had made an appearance. But now I didn’t see anyone who could be from either of those opposite but joined classes, and this more than anything else I’d seen here made me realize that the old world that had been dying when I was born was truly dead and buried.

  And then, coming through the door, appeared an old
lady in a wheelchair pushed by a nurse in a white uniform. Susan saw her and said to me, “That’s Mrs. Cotter, who was our head housekeeper. Do you remember her?”

  I didn’t recall having a housekeeper, head or otherwise, so I assumed she meant at Stanhope Hall. I replied, “I think I do.”

  Mrs. Cotter was wheeled up to the coffin by the nurse, and they remained there for some time, then they did a one-eighty and moved toward Elizabeth.

  Susan stood and took my hand, and we went to where Elizabeth and Mrs. Cotter were now sitting face-to-face, and Elizabeth held the old lady’s hands in hers. They were both crying and speaking through their tears.

  Mrs. Cotter was infirm, but she seemed sharp enough, and she recognized Susan right away. Susan knelt beside her, and more tears started to flow as all three women reminisced about Ethel, and George, and about the past, and caught up on life.

  This seemed to be all that was left of the glory days of Stanhope Hall—the former master and mistress burping martinis in the rear of Parlor A; their daughter trying to re-create at least some parts of those better days; Mrs. Cotter, whom I did remember presiding over a diminished staff in a house that was being closed up, room by room; Elizabeth, the estate brat; and Ethel, who was in the enviable position of not having to attend any more funerals.

  Susan said to Mrs. Cotter, “You remember my husband, John Sutter.”

  Mrs. Cotter adjusted her bifocals and said, “I thought you ran off with another woman.”

  The elderly, God bless them, can and do say whatever they want, even if they don’t get it quite right. I replied, politely, “I’m back.”

  “Well, you never should have left in the first place. Miss Stanhope had all the suitors she wanted, and from some of the best families.”

  Everyone was suppressing smiles, and Mrs. Cotter, happy for the opportunity to speak up for Miss Stanhope, continued, “This is a fine young lady, and I hope you appreciate her.”

  “I do.”

  Mrs. Cotter seemed content to leave it at that, and Susan said to her, “My parents are here, Mrs. Cotter, and I know they would want to say hello.”