The Gate House (57 page)

William, I noticed, really hadn’t aged much in ten years, and he had a full head of hair and was still using the same hair coloring. Charlotte’s face had aged a lot, with a network of deep wrinkles that looked like cracked house paint. She’d let her hair go naturally bright red, and she was wearing earrings, a necklace, and a bracelet all made of coral and seashells, giving her the appearance of a dry aquarium. Neither one of them had gained much weight, and both of them were amazingly pasty-faced for golfers, as though they used whitewash for sunblock.

I said to them, “You’re both looking very well.”

William did not return the compliment but said, “Thank you. We feel well.”

It’s here where the senior citizen usually gives you a complete medical report, and while this usually bores me senseless, in this case I was anxious to hear about any ailments, no matter how small or insignificant; you never know what could develop into something fatal at that age. But they weren’t sharing their medical history with me, except that Charlotte said, “Our internist said we could live to be a hundred.”

That bastard.

Susan addressed the big subject and said, “John, I’ve told Mom and Dad that we are getting remarried, and I also told them how happy Edward and Carolyn are for us.”

I said to Mom and Dad, “My mother, too, is delighted. And Ethel, right before she passed away said to us, ‘Now, I can go in peace, knowing—’” I felt Susan’s nails dig into my hand, so I cooled that, and said, “Susan and I have thought long and hard about this”—since we had sex on Sunday—“and we’ve discussed all aspects of our remarriage, and we are certain this is what we want to do.”

Susan reminded me, “And we’re in love, John.”

I said, “And we’re in love.”

Neither Mom nor Dad had anything to say about any of that, so Susan continued, “As I said to you before John joined us, I understand that this comes as a surprise to you, and I understand why you have some doubts and reservations, but we are certain about our love for each other.”

William and Charlotte sat there as though their hearing aids had died, and they simultaneously reached for their martinis and took a good slug.

Susan continued, “John and I have discussed all that happened in the past, and we’ve put that behind us, and we hope that we can all move forward. We feel that the past has taught us what is important, and whatever mistakes we’ve made have taught us invaluable lessons, which we’ll use to strengthen our love and our family.”

William and Charlotte finished their martinis.

I guess it was my turn, so I said, “I’m sure you want Susan to be happy, and I believe I can make her happy.” It was time for my mea culpa, and I said, “I made many mistakes during our marriage, and I take most of the blame for what happened between us, but I want you to know, I’ve grown as a person, and I’ve become more sensitive to Susan’s needs and wants, and I’ve strengthened my coping skills, and learned how to manage my anger, and—” Again, the nails in my hand. So I concluded, “I could give you a
hundred
million
reasons”—or half of that—“why I think I can be a good husband to Susan, and a hundred million reasons why—”

“John.”

“What?”

“I think Mom and Dad may want you to address what happened the last time we were all together.”

“Right. I was getting to that.” As I recalled, we were in an Italian restaurant in Locust Valley, and William had just sold Stanhope Hall to Frank Bellarosa, and William was asking me to draw up the contract of sale, for free, and then he was going to stick me with the restaurant bill, as he always did, and I’d had about all the crap I was going to take from him, so I called him—

“John.”

“Right.” I looked at William, then at Charlotte, and said, “One of the major regrets of my life has been my words to you, William, when we last had dinner together. My outburst was totally unacceptable and unprovoked. My words, which spewed forth from my mouth, like . . . well, that bad fra diavolo . . . anyway, if I could take those words back—or eat them—I would. But I can’t, so I can only offer my most sincere and abject apology to you and to Charlotte for you having to hear that stream of vile obscenities, and to Susan, too, for having to witness the three people she loved most . . .” I was losing the sentence structure, so I concluded, “Please accept my apology.”

There were a few seconds of silence, then William said, “I have never been spoken to like that in all my life.”

Really?

Charlotte said, “That was so hurtful.”

Maybe they needed another martini. Well, I’d promised Susan I’d apologize, and I did, but these two shitheads were having none of it. Nevertheless, I gave it the old Yale try and said, “You don’t know how many times I sat down to write you a letter of apology, but I could never form the words on paper that were in my heart. But now that I can deliver these words of apology to you—from the same mouth that disgorged those coarse, vulgar, crude, and profane words . . . now, I hope that you can see and hear that my apology is from my heart.” I pointed to my heart.

I could see that William, even with two martinis in his dim brain, was sensing that I was having a little fun with this. Charlotte, who is truly dim, takes everything literally.

Finally, William said, “I was stunned, John, that a son-in-law of mine, a man whose parents I respect, would use that kind of language—in a public place, or anywhere for that matter, and to use it in the presence of ladies.” And so forth.

I hung my head and listened to him go on. Obviously, William had hoped for this day, and he was going to squeeze every ounce of petty pleasure out of it.

Finally, Susan interrupted him and said, “Dad, John has asked you to accept his apology.”

William looked at her and then at me and said, “Charlotte and I will discuss this. And be aware, John, that we don’t dispense forgiveness as easily and as lightly as do so many young people today.” He let me know, “Forgiveness can be asked for, but it has to be earned.”

I took a deep breath and replied, “I hope I can earn your forgiveness.”

“It’s not a matter of
hope
, John, it’s a matter of working at it.”

All right, fuckhead. “That’s what I meant.”

Susan said, “Let me freshen your drinks.” She took their glasses and said to me, “Give me a hand, John.”

I stood and followed her into the kitchen.

She said to me, “Thank you.”

I didn’t reply.

“I know that was difficult, but you did it.”

“It came from my heart.” I pointed to my heart.

“I think it came from your spleen.”

“I thought you said they mellowed.”

“No, I
told
you I lied about that.”

“Right.”

Susan took the Boodles out of the freezer and said, “This stuff isn’t working.”

“It will. One martini, two martini, three martini, floor.” I said, “There’s no vodka in my tonic.”

“You will thank me for that.”

“I just need one more to get through this.”

“You’re doing great.”

“Really?”

“Yes. But don’t overdo it. You’re borderline sarcastic.”

“Me?” I asked her, “Would we be going through this if they weren’t rich?”

She poured the gin into both glasses and replied, “If they weren’t rich, they wouldn’t be so difficult.”

“We’ll never know.”

“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.”