Gold Coast

by Nelson DeMille

  I was aware, as I drove over the acreage, that this was no longer Stanhope property, but Bellarosa property, and in fact even my access to Grace Lane was by way of the long driveway that was now Bellarosa’s, though I assumed that whoever had handled the sale for William was bright enough to put an easement clause into the contract. Actually, since I didn’t own the guesthouse, what did I care? Susan and Frank could work out an easement arrangement. How’s that for whiny self-pity? But put yourself in my position: landless, moneyless, powerless, jobless, and cuckolded. But I was also free. And I could stay that way unless I was foolish enough to get myself land, money, power, a job, and my wife back. As I skirted around the plum orchard, however, I noticed a straw sun hat on a stone bench at the edge of the grove, and I stopped the Bronco. I got out and saw that beside the hat was a bouquet of wildflowers, their stems tied together with a ribbon from the hat.

  I hesitated, then went into the grove. The plum trees were planted far apart, and despite the fact that they had grown wild over the years, there was still an openness inside the grove.

  I saw her walking some distance away wearing a white cotton dress and carrying a wicker basket. She was gathering plums, which were few and far between in this dying orchard. I watched her awhile, and though I couldn’t see her face clearly at that distance in the dappled sunlight, she seemed to me downcast. If this whole scene seems to you a bit too set, I assure you the same thought occurred to me. I mean, she told Ethel to have me look for her. On the other hand, Susan is not manipulative, not prone to using feminine wiles, or any of that. So if she had gone through the trouble of setting this up, that in itself said something. I mean, if I’d found her tending the vegetables that Bellarosa had given us, then that, too, would have said something. Right? Well, enough horticultural psychology. She seemed to sense she wasn’t alone, and she looked up at me and smiled tentatively.

  Now picture us running toward each other through the sacred grove, in slow motion, the boughs parting, the wicker basket thrown aside, shafts of sunlight beaming on our smiling faces, our arms outstretched. Picture that.

  Cut to John Sutter, his hands in the pockets of his jeans regarding his wife with cool detachment. Close-up of Susan’s tentative smile getting more tentative.

  Anyway, she moved toward me and called out, “Hello, John.”

  “Hello.”

  She kept coming, the basket swinging slightly by her side. She looked more tan than when I’d seen her five days before, and her freckles were all out. I noticed that she was barefoot and her sandals were in her basket. She looked about nineteen years old at that moment, and I felt my heart thumping as she got to within a few feet of me. She took a plum out of the basket and held it toward me. “Want one?”

  I had an ancestor who once accepted a piece of fruit from a woman in a garden, and it got him into deep trouble, so I said, “No, thanks.”

  So we stood a few feet apart, and finally I said, “Ethel told me you wanted to speak to me.”

  “Yes, I wanted to say welcome home.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not home.”

  “You are, John.”

  “Look, Susan, one of the first things those of us who were not born in a manor learn is that you can’t have your cake and eat it, too. There is a price to pay for indulging yourself. You made your choices, Susan, and you have to accept responsibility for your actions.”

  “Thank you for that Protestant, middle-class sermon. You’re right that I was brought up differently, but I’ve made my adjustments to the new realities far better than you have. I’ve been a good wife to you, John, and I deserve better treatment than this.”

  “Do you? Does that mean you deny any sexual involvement with Bellarosa?”

  “Yes, I deny it.”

  “Well, I don’t believe you.”

  Her face flushed red. “Then why don’t you ask him?”

  “I don’t have to, Susan, since you told him what I said to you. Am I supposed to believe you or him when it’s obvious that you’re both in cahoots? Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  “No, you’re a sharp lawyer. But you’ve become overly suspicious and cynical.’’ She paused and looked at me. “I’ll tell you something, though. Frank and I have become good friends, and yes, we talk, and we talk about you and about things, and I suppose that has the appearance of impropriety. I apologize for that.”

  I looked into her eyes and I wanted to believe her, but I had too much circumstantial evidence to the contrary. I said to her, “Susan, tell me you are having an affair with him and I will forgive you. I mean that unconditionally, and we’ll never speak of it again. You have my word on that. But you must tell me now, this minute, with no more lies.’’ I added, “This is a onetime offer.”

  She replied, “I told you the extent of our relationship. It was close, but not sexual. Perhaps it was too close, and I will deal with that. Again, I apologize for confiding in him, and if you’re angry, I understand. You are all the man I need.’’ She added, “I missed you.”

  “And I missed you.’’ Which was true. What was not true was her confession to a lesser crime. It’s an old trick. I could see this was going nowhere. Susan is a cool customer, and if she were on a witness stand for eight straight hours and I were a savage lawyer, I could still not shake her. She’d made her decision to lie, or more accurately, Bellarosa had made it for her, for his own reasons. I felt that if it were anyone else but him, she’d stand up and tell me the truth. But this man had such a hold over her that she could look me in the eye and lie, though it was against everything in her nature and breeding to do so.

  I felt worse at that moment than if she had just said, “Yes, I’ve been screwing him for three months.’’ Actually, I was frightened for her because she was less able to handle Mr. Bellarosa and his corruption than I was. I knew instinctively that this was not the time to push her and continue the confrontation. I said, “All right, Susan. I understand that you were seduced by him in another way. And yes, I am angry and jealous of your relationship with him, even if it’s not sexual. I wish it were simply physical and not metaphysical.’’ This was not true, of course, because I’m a man first, and a sensitive, intellectual, modern husband second, or third, or maybe even fourth or lower. But it sounded like the right response to her confession of emotional infidelity.

  She said to me, “You were seduced by him, too, John.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Well, can we be friends?”

  “We can work on it. But I’m still angry about a lot of things. Maybe you are, too.”

  “Yes, I’m angry that you’ve accused me of adultery and that you’ve been emotionally withdrawn for months.”

  “Well,’’ I said, “maybe we should separate for a while.”

  She seemed to mull that over, then replied, “I’d prefer it if we could work out our problems while living together. We don’t have to sleep together, but I’d like you to live at home.”

  “Your home.”

  “I’ve instructed my attorneys to amend the deed in both our names.”

  Life is one surprise after another, isn’t it? I said to her, “Instruct them not to.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want assets if I have tax problems. And I don’t want your assets under any circumstances. But thank you for the gesture.”

  “All right.’’ She asked, “Well, will you be staying?”

  “Let me think about it. I’m going to spend a few days out on the boat. I’m afraid I won’t be able to come to your unveiling this evening.”

  She replied, “If you’d like, I’ll tell . . . Anna to call it off.”

  “No, Anna would be disappointed. Please pass on my regrets to Anna.”

  “I will.”

  “I’ll see you in a few days.’’ I turned to leave.

  “John?”

  “Yes?”

  “I just remembered. Mr. Melzer came around the other day. Thursday or Friday, I think.”

  “Yes?
”

  “He said you were supposed to make some sort of initial payment on your taxes.”

  “Did you tell him we haven’t gone to closing on the East Hampton house yet?”

  “Yes, I did. He said he’d see what he could do, but he sounded concerned.”

  “I’ll get in touch with him.’’ I hesitated, then said, “Susan, we have a long way to go.”

  She nodded. “Maybe we can go away together as soon as things settle down, John. Just you and I. We can take the boat to the Caribbean if you’d like.”

  She was certainly trying, and I was certainly not. But the hurt was too deep, and the lies were not making it any better. I had the sudden compulsion to tell her I’d slept with a famous TV news reporter, and I might have if I thought it would do either of us any good. But I felt no guilt at all and didn’t need to confess, and Susan didn’t need to hear a confession that was given out of vengefulness.

  “Think about a boat trip, John.”

  “I will.”

  “Oh, Edward and Carolyn both called. They send their love to you. They’re drafting letters, but that might take awhile.’’ She smiled.

  “I’ll call them when I get back. See you in a few days.”

  “Be careful, John. You really shouldn’t go out alone.”

  “I’ll stay in the Sound. Nothing tricky. I’ll be fine.’’ I added, “Good luck tonight.’’ I turned and walked away and heard her call out, “Don’t go to the Caribbean without me.”

  • • •

  I pulled into the yacht club an hour later, having stopped at a deli in Bayville to pick up beer, baloney, and bread. You can live on beer, baloney, and bread for three days before scurvy and night blindness set in.

  I carried the case of beer and the bag of groceries to the boat in one trip and set everything down on the dock. As I was about to jump aboard, I noticed a cardboard sign encased in a sheet of clear plastic, hanging from the bow rail. I bent down and read the sign:

  WARNING

  United States Government Seizure

  This property has been seized for nonpayment of internal revenue taxes due from John Sutter by virtue of levy issued by the District Director of Internal Revenue.

  Persons tampering with this property, in any manner, are subject to severe penalty of the law.

  I stared at the sign awhile, trying to comprehend how this thing got on my boat. After a full minute, I stood and loaded my provisions on board.

  As I went about casting off, I noticed that people in nearby boats were looking at me. I mean, if I needed a final humiliation, this was it. Well, but it could have been worse. Let’s not forget that right here on Long Island in colonial times, people were put in wooden cages and dunked in ponds, they were tarred and feathered, locked in pillories, and whipped in public. So one little cardboard sign was no big deal. At least I didn’t have to wear it around my neck.

  I started the engine and took the Paumanok out into the bay. I noticed that on the door that led below was the same sign as the one on the bow rail. I saw yet another one tied to the main mast. Well, I couldn’t say I didn’t see the sign, could I?

  I cut the engine and let the boat drift with the tide and wind. It was late afternoon, a nice summer Sunday in August, a bit cooler than normal, but comfortable.

  I really missed this while I was in Manhattan: the smell of the sea, the horizons, the isolation, and the quiet. I opened a can of beer, sat on the deck, and drank. I made a baloney sandwich and ate it, then had another beer. After five days of menus, room service, and restaurants, it was nice to make myself a baloney sandwich and drink beer from a can.

  Well, I went through about half the case, drifting around the bay, contemplating the meaning of life and more specifically wondering if I’d done and said the right things with Susan. I thought I had, and I justified my not telling her I didn’t buy her story by reminding myself that she was borderline nuts even under the best of circumstances. I wasn’t looking to destroy her or the marriage. I really wanted things to work out. I mean, on one level, we were still in love, but there’s nothing more awkward than a husband and wife living together when one of them is having an affair, and the other one knows about it. (What I had done is called a fling. Susan was having an affair. Bellarosa had explained that when we were all having dinner at The Creek that night. Right?) Well, you don’t sleep together, of course, but you don’t necessarily have to separate and file for divorce, either. Especially if you’re both still emotionally involved. There are other less civilized responses, I know, like having the big scene, or one or the other spouse’s going completely psychotic and getting violent. But in this case, the entire mess had evolved in such a bizarre way that I felt I shared in the responsibility.

  Actually Susan had not verbally acknowledged that she was having an affair with our next-door neighbor, and that sort of complicated the situation. To make a legal analogy, I had made an accusation but had never presented evidence, and the accused exercised her right to remain silent, sulky, and withdrawn. And in truth, though Bellarosa had tacitly acknowledged the affair, my evidence was purely circumstantial as far as Susan was concerned. So, I think we both figured that if we just avoided the issue and avoided each other, we might eventually both come to believe none of this had happened. It was sort of the reverse, I suppose, of our sexual fantasies; it was using our well-developed powers of make-believe to pretend that what was happening was just another sexual melodrama, this one titled, “John Suspects Susan of Adultery.”

  Anyway, somewhere around the tenth or eleventh beer, I realized that it was Frank Bellarosa who stood in the way of a real and lasting reconciliation.

  Well, the sky was turning purple, and the gulls were swooping, and it was time to go back. I rose unsteadily, went below, and retrieved a fire ax that was clipped to a bulkhead. I went into the forward head and swung the ax, cutting a five-inch gash in the fiberglass hull below the waterline. I pulled the ax out and watched the sea water cascade down the hull between the sink and shower. I swung the ax a few more times, cutting a good-size hole in the hull. The sea gushed in, swamping the floor and spilling out into the forward stateroom.

  I went topside and opened the flag locker, pulling out seven pennants and clipping them to the halyard. I ran the pennants up the main mast.

  Proud of my idiocy, and with the Paumanok listing to starboard and me listing to port, I lowered myself onto the aft deck and pulled a small inflatable life raft from under the cockpit seat. I put the remainder of the beer aboard the raft along with two small oars, and I sat in the raft. I popped a beer and drank while my boat settled deeper into the water around me.

  The sea came over the starboard side first, sloshed around the tilting deck and raised the life raft a few inches.

  The Paumanok took a long while to sink, but eventually the stern settled into the water and the lifeboat drifted away over the swamped stern. I watched my boat as it settled slowly into the sea, listing at about forty-five degrees to starboard, its bow rising up out of the water and its mast flying the seven signal pennants that proclaimed to the world, Fuck you.

  It was nearly dark now, and as I drifted away, it became more difficult to see my boat, but I could still make out the mast and the pennants lying almost perpendicular to the water. It appeared as though the keel had touched bottom and that she was as far down as she was going to go.

  I drifted with the tide for a while, working on a fresh beer and thinking about this and that. Obviously, what I had done was a very spiteful thing, not to mention a class A felony. But so what? I mean, someone was being very spiteful toward me. Right? I saw Alphonse Ferragamo’s hand in this, and Mr. Novac’s hand, too. And perhaps even Mr. Mancuso’s hand and possibly Mr. Melzer’s influence. No good will come of your trying to take on forces more powerful than yourself. True, but I was enjoying the fight.

  What I didn’t enjoy was the loss of my boat, which in some semimystical way had become a part of me over the years. The Paumanok had always been my ace in
the hole, my rocket ship to other galaxies, my time machine. That’s why they’d taken her from me. Well, as the signal flags said, Fuck you.

  Of course, if I hadn’t been so spiteful and impulsive, I’d have gotten the boat back after I’d come up with the taxes, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that the Paumanok was not going to be used as a pawn or a knife in my ribs. It was a good boat, and it should not suffer the indignity of a government tax-seizure sign on it. So I hoisted a beer to her and lay down in the life raft and drifted around the bay.

  Around midnight, after counting a billion stars and wishing on a dozen shooting stars, I stirred myself and sat up.

  I finished the last half of a beer, oriented myself, and began rowing for shore. As I pulled on the oars, I asked myself, “What else can go wrong?’’ But you should never ask that question.

  Part VI

  At two hours after midnight appeared the land at a distance of two leagues.

  —Christopher Columbus

  Journal of the First Voyage, October 12, 1492

  Thirty-four

  “You gotta try the sfogliatelli,’’ said Frank Bellarosa.

  Susan took the pastry and put it on her plate beside two other “gotta try’’ pastries. Oddly, this woman, who looks like a poster girl for famine relief, packed down an entire “gotta try’’ meal without even turning green.

  Anna Bellarosa was watching her weight, as she announced about six times, and was “just picking.’’ She picked her way through enough food to feed the slums of Calcutta for a week. She also picked out two pastries, then put artificial sweetener in her coffee.

  Where this was taking place was Giulio’s, and it was now mid-September. Actually, it was Friday, September seventeenth, to be exact, and you’ll see shortly why the day sticks out in my mind.