The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  I checked for phone messages, and there were several, but none from Mr. Mancuso, who in any case would have called Susan’s cell phone if he had anything important to tell us.

  I also checked my e-mail, and there was a message from Samantha that said, Flying to New York tomorrow. Arriving late afternoon. Meet me at The Mark at seven.

  Good hotel, but I didn’t think that was going to work out, so I quickly typed, The Mafia is trying to kill me, and I’m engaged to be married. Hard to believe, but . . . There had to be a better way to say that. I deleted and typed, Dear Samantha, My ex-wife and I have reunited and—

  Susan walked in and asked me, “Who are you e-mailing?”

  I pushed delete and said, “My office.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m resigning.”

  “Good.” She pulled up a chair and sat beside me. “Let me help,” she offered.

  “Well . . .” I looked at my watch. “This could take a while, and we should get to the funeral home.”

  “This will take a few minutes.”

  I guess the time had come to burn a bridge that I’d intended to leave standing. So, with Susan’s help, I crafted a very nice, thoughtful, and positive letter to my firm, letting them know what a difficult decision this was for me, and expressing my hope that this did not cause them any inconvenience, and so forth, assuring them that I would be in London in a few weeks to gather my personal items, and brief my replacement, and sign whatever paperwork was necessary for my separation from the firm.

  Susan suggested, “Tell them you’re getting married.”

  “Why?”

  “So they understand why you’re not returning.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “They’ll be happy for you.”

  “They don’t care. They’re British.”

  “Nonsense. Tell them.”

  So I announced my good news, which would get to Samantha, via phone or e-mail, within nanoseconds. Well, it was 2:00 A.M. in London so I had some time tonight to e-mail her.

  I pressed the send button, and off it went to London. These things should have a one-minute delay so you can reconsider, or at least get your wife or girlfriend out of the room.

  Bottom line here was that I had been trying to cover all my bases and play all the angles. But in the final analysis, I needed to take a leap of faith and hope for the best.

  If I had to leave Susan, it would not be because I wanted to leave her. It would be because I had to leave her to ensure her future, and the future of our children. It’s a far, far better thing I do, and all that.

  Or, quite possibly, she’d make the hard decision for those same reasons. A mother’s instinct is to protect her children, and I understood that.

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

  “I’m thinking about you and Edward and Carolyn . . . and how good it is that we have this time together.”

  “We have the rest of our lives together.”

  And that was the other problem.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  We arrived at Walton’s at 8:15, and as always, on the last night of the viewing, everyone who’d put it off was there, plus there was a large contingent of church ladies from St. Mark’s in attendance.

  We went through the usual routine at the coffin—Ethel still looked good—then said hello to the front-row ticket holders, then worked Parlor A again, then checked out the lobby and the sitting room. I had a strong sense of déjà vu.

  William and Charlotte were there, though I didn’t get the opportunity to speak to them. Actually, we avoided one another. My mother, too, was there, and I made sure to say hello.

  Also there was Diane Knight, Ethel’s hospice nurse, which was nice, but I noticed that I never see the deceased’s attending physician at the funeral home. I guess that could be awkward.

  I also spotted Ethel’s accountant, Matthew Miller, and I spoke to him for a minute about getting together for Ethel’s final accounting. I mean, you should not actually do business at the funeral home, but you can make appointments.

  Susan’s luncheon companion, Charlie Frick, was also there, and I introduced myself and told her I’d gone to her museum earlier in the day. I let her know, “Nice place. Lots of artwork.” Then I drew her attention to the dreadful inspirational painting in the lobby, and said, “That would look good in the Frick.”

  She excused herself and moved off, probably to speak to Susan about me.

  I also ran into Judy Remsen, who’d been a good friend of ours in the old days, and she seemed delighted to see me. She already knew our good news and was very happy for us. This is the lady who had caught us in flagrante delicto patio, and I’m sure she remembered that every time she saw me. I didn’t mention the incident of course, but I did say, “Stop by next week and join us for sundowners on the patio.”

  “I . . . yes, that sounds wonderful.”

  “Call ahead.” I smiled.

  She excused herself.

  Then I ran into Lester Remsen, Judy’s husband, who had also been a friend as well as my stockbroker. Lester and I had had a falling-out over my bringing Frank and Anna Bellarosa to The Creek for dinner. Susan had also been at the dinner, of course, but she got a pass on that, as she gets a pass on nearly everything. I’m always the bad guy. But, hey, I just suck it up.

  Lester offered his professional services if I should need them again. Defense stocks and electronic security were hot at the moment. I said, “Hazmat suits. That’s going to be big.”

  I also saw the DePauws, the couple who lived in the house on the hill across from the gates of Alhambra, where the FBI had set up their observation post to photograph cars and guests arriving at Frank’s estate—myself and Susan included—and I asked him if he was still doing that for the FBI.

  He said no, and the DePauws excused themselves.

  Beryl Carlisle avoided me, and Althea Gwynn snubbed me.

  It’s wonderful to be back.

  In the lobby, I spotted the Reverend James Hunnings. This is a man who, as I’ve mentioned, is not my favorite man of the cloth, though he seems to be everyone else’s. So maybe it’s me. But I think it’s him.

  Anyway, he spotted me, walked over, and said in his pulpit voice, “Good evening!”

  “Good evening!” I replied, without, I hope, mimicking him.

  “And how have you been, John?” “

  “Great.” Until five seconds ago. I inquired, “How have you been?”

  “I have been well. Thank you for asking.”

  “And Mrs. Hunnings? How has she been?”

  “She is well, and I will tell her you asked about her.”

  I never understood why his wife hadn’t had an affair. She was actually quite attractive, and she had a little sparkle in her eye.

  He asked me, “Do you have a moment?”

  “Uh . . . well . . .”

  “I would like to speak to you in private.”

  Well, I was a little curious, but I also wanted to get to my cocktail. Decisions, decisions. I said, “All right.”

  He led me up the stairs of the old Victorian house to a door with a cross on it, which I assumed was reserved for clergy of the Christian faith.

  The room had a desk and a grouping of chairs around a table, and we sat at the table.

  He began, “First, I want to welcome you home.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I hope you will be rejoining the Saint Mark’s family.”

  I guess he meant the congregation. It was hard to follow the newspeak after you’d been gone awhile. Anyway, this was my chance to tell him I’d become a Buddhist, but instead I replied, “I am sure I will.”

  He continued, “I’ve heard, of course, that you and Susan have reunited.”

  “Good news travels fast.”

  “Indeed, it does.” He went on, “I assume you and Susan plan to remarry at Saint Mark’s.”

  “That would be fitting.” Do we get the repeat discount?
r />   “Well, then, I hope you and Susan will consider prenuptial counseling.”

  I’d already gotten that from William, but I replied, “Well, we’ve been married. To each other.”

  “I know that, John, but, if I may be candid, the circumstances of your separation and divorce should be addressed in a pastoral counseling context, which I am happy to provide.”

  “Well . . . you know, Father, it’s been so long since we divorced, that I can barely remember what led us to that decision.”

  He found that a little hard to believe—and so did I—but he advised, “Speak to Susan about counseling, and please get back to me on that.”

  “Will do.”

  He made a final pitch and said, “You want to build on a solid foundation, so your house will not crumble again.”

  “Good analogy.” I had the uncharitable thought that Father Hunnings just wanted to learn all the inside juicy details of Susan’s affair, her murder of Frank Bellarosa, and maybe even our sex lives since then. I gave myself a sharp mental slap on the face and said, “I appreciate your concern.”

  He replied, “I am just doing my job, John, and trying to do God’s work.”

  “Right. Well . . . yeah. Good.” I glanced at my watch.

  He continued, “And speaking of houses, I understand that you and Susan are living together.”

  Who ratted? Well, I knew where this was going, so I replied, “I’m sleeping in a guest room.”

  “Are you?”

  “Of course.” This was really unbelievable, but you had to put yourself in his shoes, I guess. He had to be able to say he’d brought this up with one of the sinners, and that he’d made his disapproval known. I could almost hear him at the dinner table tonight with his wife—What was her name? Sarah? Really attractive.

  “John? I said, This would not be a God-pleasing relationship if you were sharing the same bed.”

  I was starting to feel like I was eighteen, which was kind of fun. I replied, “I understand.”

  “Good.” He then said, “I imagine that Edward and Carolyn are happy for you.”

  “They’re thrilled.”

  He then made some sort of mental leap and said, “Your mother has asked me to speak to you.”

  “About what?”

  He replied, “She mentioned to me that you and she had become estranged.” He added, “She was very upset that you were not here for your father’s funeral.”

  “No more upset than I was when I found out he died.” I added, “I was at sea.”

  “Yes, I know.” He changed the subject and inquired, “If I may ask, how have Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope received this news?”

  That sounded like a question to which he already knew the answer. I replied, “They’re here for the funeral, so you should ask them directly, if you haven’t already.”

  “I saw them here this evening. But we spoke only for a moment.”

  Really? I informed him, “They’re in a cottage at The Creek, if you want to call them.”

  Father Hunnings said, “They were always active and generous members of Saint Mark’s, and I respect them both greatly, and I know that Susan loves them both, so I am concerned for all of you if they have not given you their blessing.”

  I took a deep breath and said to him, “I don’t care about their blessing—or their money. And neither should my mother, if that’s her concern. And if William and Charlotte are still making contributions to Saint Mark’s, then Susan and I can get married elsewhere, if that’s your concern.”

  He held up his hand—Peace? Shut up? He said, “My concern, John, is that your marriage to Susan is not ill-advised, and that it fulfills your expectations and hers, and that you enter into the sacrament of Holy Matrimony with full knowledge of your duties and obligations.”

  There was more going on here, but I wasn’t sure what it was. Though, if I took a wild guess, I’d say that William had already spoken to Father Hunnings, and told him that he and Mrs. Stanhope were vehemently opposed to this marriage, and would Father Hunnings be so kind as to speak to John and to Susan in a counseling session, and then, of course, separately. Divide and conquer. William would undoubtedly tell Father Hunnings that he thought John Sutter was a gold digger. And William might even tell Father Hunnings that John solicited a bribe from him to break off the impending engagement and marriage. And, of course, William would mention offhandedly a generous contribution to St. Mark’s.

  I wouldn’t put any of this past Wily Willie. But I really didn’t think Father Hunnings would go along for the whole ride; he’d just take it as far as he could, and maybe see if William Stanhope had legitimate concerns. Or he’d take it to the next level and ask me about soliciting money from William. And maybe he’d even plant some seeds of doubt in Susan’s head.

  William was a ruthless, Machiavellian prick, but rather than point that out to Father Hunnings, who thought well of William, I said, “Susan and I have decided to remarry, and that should not be anyone else’s business.”

  “Of course,” he allowed, but then continued, “it’s just that this is so sudden after all these years of being apart, and you’ve only been together for . . . what? A week?”

  “Since Sunday.” I added, “About noon.”

  “Well, I am sure you will not rush into marriage without allowing some time to get to know each other again.”

  “Good advice.” At least he could tell William he gave it a good shot. I stood and said, “Well, Susan and the children are probably wondering where I am.”

  He stood too, but he was not finished. He said to me, “I visited with Mrs. Allard often while she was in hospice.” He let me know, “She was a lady of great faith and spirit.”

  “She was one of a kind,” I agreed.

  “She was. And she mentioned that you’d had a good visit at Fair Haven.”

  “I’m sorry I missed you there.”

  He continued, “She confided in me, as her priest, that she’d written you a letter.”

  I looked at him, but did not respond.

  He went on, “She told me in very general terms of the contents of that letter and asked if I thought she should give it to you.”

  Again, I didn’t respond, so he said, “I believe Elizabeth was to give you the letter on Ethel’s death.” He asked, “Did she?”

  I said, “I’d rather not discuss this.”

  He nodded and said, “As you wish.” He glanced at his watch and said, “Oh. It’s almost time for prayers.”

  We walked to the door together, and he said, “I hope you will be staying to pray with us.”

  “I wish I could.”

  We walked down the stairs, and I took the opportunity to tell him, “I am the attorney for Mrs. Allard’s estate, as you know, and while the will has not been admitted into probate as yet, I think I can reveal to you that Mrs. Allard has made a generous contribution to Saint Mark’s.”

  We reached the bottom of the stairs, and Father Hunnings nodded and said, with a good show of disinterest, “That was very beneficent of her.”

  What was that word? I assured him, “The bequests should be distributed within eight weeks. If you’d like to be at the reading of the will, I’ll notify you of the time and place.” Or I’ll just put the five-hundred-dollar check in the mail, minus the postage.

  Father Hunnings was trying to figure out how much money Ethel Allard could possibly have, and also if her beneficence to the church would significantly cut into her family’s share of the loot. He wouldn’t want to be sitting with them if he was going to be hauling away a good part of their inheritance. I’d seen this before.

  Finally, he replied, “It’s not necessary that I be there.”

  “If you change your mind, let me know.” I inquired, “Do you like cats?”

  “Uh . . . not actually. Why?”

  “Well . . . Mrs. Allard . . . but we can discuss that another time.”

  We bid each other good evening.

  I saw Susan in the lobby, and she informed me that h
er parents had left to have dinner with friends. This surprised me—not that they weren’t going to join the Sutters for dinner, but that they had friends.

  Nevertheless, I said, “I’m surprised and annoyed that they passed up an opportunity to be with their grandchildren.”

  Susan replied, “Well, they did speak to Edward and Carolyn.”

  “And was it a happy reunion?”

  “It seemed to be.”

  That didn’t sound real positive. I said, “Your parents are avoiding me, and are sulking. And they know that Edward and Carolyn are very happy for us. Therefore, your parents are not happy with Edward and Carolyn.”

  “John, let’s not overanalyze this.”

  “All right. What are we doing now?”

  “Do you want to stay for prayers?”

  “I thought we could pray privately at a local bar.”

  She smiled and said, “Let’s go to McGlade’s. We haven’t been there in a while.”

  About ten years, actually. I said, “Sounds good.”

  We rounded up the kids, and Susan passed on our destination to a number of people. Funeral customs vary widely in America, but around here, some people like to hit a bar after the last evening viewing of the body—especially if it’s a Friday night. What better place to deal with your grief?

  So the Sutters made the two-minute trip to McGlade’s Pub in Station Plaza, where there was a lively Friday night crowd.

  We gave the hostess our name and bellied up to the bar.

  Susan and I chatted with some patrons, a few of them from Walton’s, Parlor A and Parlor B, and I was nice to almost everyone.

  Edward and Carolyn spotted a few people their own age whom they knew, and they all gathered in a group at the far end of the bar.

  The jukebox was playing sixties stuff, and the place was lively, and filled with commuters, townies, and assorted others of all social classes, which is the mark of a good pub. In fact, on the menu, as I recalled, it said, “McGlade’s—Where Debutantes and Mountain Men Meet.” Susan used to say that was us.

  As the designated driver, I stuck to my light beer while Susan morphed from Lady Stanhope to Suzie, and banged down a few vodka and tonics. I could see that she was very popular, and it occurred to me that if I hadn’t come along when I did, she wouldn’t have been a widow for long.