The Gate House (64 page)

But beyond the brainwashing, I think she sees Edward and Carolyn as her opportunity to make up for her failures with John and Emily. And that, too, is a good thing.

As I continued up the tree-lined drive, I asked Carolyn, “Does it feel good to be home?”

She replied, without inflection, “Yes.”

Carolyn actually never cared much for God’s Heaven on Earth, or its inhabitants, or its country clubs, cocktail parties, lifestyles, reactionary politics, or anything about it. Susan and I did, however, make her go to the Debutantes Ball under threat of being grounded for the rest of her life.

She asked me, “Are
you
happy to be home?”

“It’s good.”

I parked the car in the forecourt, and we went to the front door, which I unlocked. Carolyn, perhaps putting this together with the guards at the gate, asked, “Why are you locking the door now?”

I replied, “Republican fundraisers have been walking into people’s houses and writing big contribution checks to the GOP.”

Although Carolyn doesn’t get or appreciate my humor, she did laugh at that.

Susan was upstairs, but she heard us coming in, and she hurried down the steps. Mother and daughter embraced and kissed, and I was smiling.

We went into the kitchen, where Sophie was laying out some fruit, cut vegetables, and to-die-for yogurt dip.

Susan had a bottle of champagne on ice in a bucket, and I popped the cork and poured three flutes of bubbly. I actually don’t like the stuff, but Susan and Carolyn have champagne taste, and I filled my glass and toasted, “To the Sutters.”

We touched glasses and drank.

The weather had cleared a bit, so we went out to the patio and sat at the table.

Susan and Carolyn were current with each other on all the news and happenings, and I realized I was a few months behind Carolyn’s life. I did know that Cliff got dumped, and now I heard about Stuart, her Petrossian date, who also had champagne taste and hopefully the money to afford it.

I wasn’t exactly bored, but I did change the subject to work, and Carolyn said, “Dad, you can’t believe the things I see, read, and hear every day.”

I thought I could. Well, Carolyn was seeing some of the dark side of American society, and this was good for a young lady raised at Stanhope Hall. Susan had never had much exposure to the underbelly of life, but Carolyn had, and with any luck, she knew better than to have an affair with a married Mafia don.

We avoided the subject of G&G, knowing we should save that until Edward showed up.

The portable phone rang, and I took it. It was the ASS guy asking if we were expecting an Edward Sutter, who had arrived by taxi.

I replied, “I believe that’s our son.”

“Just checking.”

We went out to the forecourt and waited for Edward.

A few minutes later, a yellow cab pulled up, and Edward jumped out with a big smile on his face.

Susan ran over to him, and they hugged and kissed. Then it was Carolyn’s turn—ladies first—then my turn. Edward gave me a tight hug and said, “Dad, this is really great.”

“You look terrific, Skipper. Good tan.”

So we all stood there, together as a family for the first time in ten years. I could see that Susan appreciated the moment, and I was sure she thought about her role in why it had taken us ten years to be standing here together, as well as why this moment was close to a miracle. In fact, I could see she was getting emotional, and I put my arm around her and showed the kids what a great and sensitive guy I am.

I was not raised in such a warm and demonstrative family, and neither was Susan, nor anyone we knew. Family relationships, in general, were cooler when we were growing up, and here, in our lofty strata of society, they were closer to freezing.

But the world had changed, and Susan and I had probably overcompensated for our affection-starved childhoods. I hoped that Edward and Carolyn, when they married and had children, would hug and kiss a lot, and not have affairs or kill their lovers.

I asked Edward if he had luggage, and he replied as Carolyn had that he had another wardrobe here, though he didn’t call it a wardrobe. It was stuff.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have enough stuff on him to pay the cab, as usual, so I took care of it with a big tip. The driver said to me, “Thanks. Hey, this is some mansion.”

I didn’t want to tell him that the mansion was up the road, so I said, “Have a nice day.”

Edward remembered his overnight bag in the back seat and stopped the driver and retrieved it. Was I this spacey? I didn’t think so. I should ask Harriet. She’d be honest with me. Brutally honest.

W
e sat on the back patio, Susan and I holding hands on the table, and we had another champagne toast to the Sutters and ate the fruit and vegetables that Sophie had carried out for us. How did I do without a Sophie for seven years in London?

Edward and Carolyn, I should mention, who were raised with household help, never got comfortable with the concept, and always seemed awkward around domestic staff. Susan, on the other hand, had grown up thinking that everyone, including probably the homeless, had at least a maid to clean the refrigerator box they lived in.

I asked Edward, “How was your flight?”

“Okay. But this airport stuff sucks. I got pulled over.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Edward didn’t look like a terrorist, but I took the occasion to remark on his black jeans and black skintight T-shirt. I informed him, “If you put on good trousers and a real shirt and a sports jacket, preferably a blue blazer such as I am wearing, everyone will see you as a person of substance and importance, and they will treat you with courtesy and respect.” I reminded him, “Clothes make the man.”

He replied, “Dad.”

Susan said, “John.”

Carolyn just rolled her eyes.

Then we all laughed.

Edward asked me, “What’s with the guys at the gatehouse?”

I replied, “As your mother e-mailed you, Mr. Nasim has become concerned—perhaps because of 9/11—that there may be people who want to harm him.”

Edward asked, “Who?”

“I think his fellow countrymen.”

“Wow. Can they do that? I mean, like, here?”

“Well . . . times have changed.” I rehashed my joke and said, “I checked the town ordinances, and it says that no political assassinations are allowed Monday to Saturday before eight A.M. or after six P.M. And none on Sunday.”

Edward, at least, thought that was funny. I moved on to the purpose of their visit, and Susan and I told them about the wake the previous night, and she also announced, “We’ll all go tonight for only half an hour, then I hope we can all go to dinner together.”

Everyone seemed agreeable to that, and Susan suggested, “Why don’t we go to Seawanhaka for old time’s sake?”

Carolyn feigned some enthusiasm, and Edward truly didn’t care, so it was settled.

Susan needed to talk about Grandpa and Grandma, and we’d prearranged this, so I poured the last of the champagne into everyone else’s glass and said, “I need to make an important phone call. About fifteen minutes.”

I went inside and made myself an important vodka and tonic, then went to my office.

As I said, this was a Stanhope family matter, and I would leave it to Susan to tell Edward and Carolyn as much or as little as she thought they needed to know.

If she was honest with them, she’d tell them that Gramps and Granny were not thrilled that I was back, and that their kindly old grandparents might threaten to lock Mommy out of the vault if we remarried. Or cohabitated, or if I came within a thousand miles of my ex-wife. And if Susan was completely honest with them, and with herself, she’d alert them that their trust funds and their inheritance were also at risk.

As I said, neither Edward nor Carolyn seem that interested in money, and I think they’d be more hurt about their grandparents’ attitude than about the millions.

Eventually, though, we’d all feel the financial squeeze, but hopefully that would bring us closer together as a family. We could all move into Carolyn’s one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn and sit around the table eating Hamburger Helper while badmouthing Grandpa and Grandma: “I told you he was a scum-sucking pig, kids. Pass the Kool-Aid.”

I checked our telephone messages, and there was one from Mr. Mancuso, who said, “Still no sign of him. I’ll call Mrs. Sutter’s cell phone if that changes. And I’ll call either way Saturday from the cemetery. Also, we spoke to Tony Rosini, and he don’t know nothing. But we’ll keep on that. Also, FYI, Sally Da-da is going about his normal routine—but with extra bodyguards. Call me if you need anything.”

Well, I hope Uncle Sal didn’t take advantage of the family discount and hire Bell Security Service. I’d recommend the ASS men to him, if I saw him.

Regarding Anthony—where the hell
was
this guy? He must know by now, from his friends and employees, that the Feds and the police had been asking about him. Not to mention Uncle Sal, who surely wanted to know where his nephew was. And me, too. The only one who probably didn’t care was his wife.

Anyway, I accessed my e-mail and saw a message from Samantha:
You haven’t called this week and you haven’t e-mailed. What am I to assume from that?

Well, you should assume that this is not a good sign.

Or you could assume that I’m dead. But you would never guess that Bachelor John is engaged to be married.

I really liked Samantha, and I wanted to be totally honest with her, but the problem was that she knew people in my office. And if I told her that I was never coming back, then that would get back to my employers, who promised, in writing, that my position in the firm was secure until September 1.

Meanwhile, back at the estate, it appeared that my job offer with La Cosa Nostra was off the table, my first clue being that the CEO who interviewed me now wanted to kill me. Plus, Mr. Nasim’s offer to me of a ten percent commission if I could facilitate the sale of the guest cottage to him might also be off the table, as a result of my marrying the property owner. I could see why he’d think there was a conflict of interest there, and why he’d just wait until Susan and I had more security hassles than we wanted.

The bright spot here was William’s offer to buy me out. So, to crunch some numbers, I had the impression from Susan that her allowance was about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year—which was considerably more than the five bucks a week that I used to get from my parents. But the cost of living has gone up, so maybe Susan’s five thousand dollars a week is a reasonable allowance. Plus, if William gave me a million, paid in ten annual installments, he’d have to clip one hundred thousand dollars off Susan’s allowance every year to make it up, and to teach her a lesson. But if he didn’t want to do that, then it came out of his own pocket. Ouch!

Also, I didn’t think he’d be around for ten years, unless he cut back on the martinis. Or was that what was keeping him alive?

Actually, this was all moot. I really wasn’t going to take his money. I was going to take his daughter. And I didn’t care if he cut her off. I didn’t want
his
or
her
money. But what about Edward and Carolyn?

And for that matter, what about Susan? Was she
really
ready to stand shoulder to shoulder with me, raise her middle finger to Mom and Dad, and join me in yelling,
“Vaffanculo!”
?

And was I ready to let her do that?

Those were the questions of the moment, so I didn’t know if I needed a return ticket to London.

I e-mailed Samantha:
I apologise (with an s), and I have no explanation for my lack of communication. We do need to speak, and I will call you Monday, latest.
I left it unsigned, and without a closing sentiment, as she had done.

Well, that was a step in the right direction. I was never sure about Samantha anyway—I date women I couldn’t possibly marry, or who announced early that they wouldn’t marry me if their lives depended on it. It’s worked well so far.

The intercom buzzed, and I picked it up. Susan said, “I’m still on the patio with Edward and Carolyn, if you’d like to join us.”

“Be right there.”

I left my vodka in the office, went back to the patio, and took a seat.

Susan said, “I think I’ve explained the situation correctly and clearly to Edward and Carolyn, and we’ve agreed that us being a family again is our only consideration.”

I looked at Edward, then at Carolyn, and back to Susan. I really did hope that she explained the situation correctly and clearly. And I’m sure she did, in regard to her own possible financial punishment for remarrying Dad. But I wasn’t certain that she’d taken the next step and explained that Grandpa might extend the punishment of their mother on to them.

I said, “All right.” I added, “Subject closed. Who wants more champagne?”

Susan and Carolyn did, and Edward and I opted for Irish champagne—beer.

Susan and Carolyn volunteered to get drinks, and Edward and I sat there.

He looked at me and said, “I can’t believe Grandpa would do that.”

I replied, “We don’t know
what
he’s going to do.” I added, “His bark is worse than his bite.” Which was totally not true; the old bastard bit hard.

Edward, sensitive soul that he is, said, “He should be happy that Mom is happy.”

“He might be. We don’t know.” I suggested, “Why don’t we all put this out of our minds and just have a nice family reunion?” I added, bluntly, “Be nice to Grandpa.”

“Okay.”

I still didn’t know if Susan had told the children that they might have to live on their salaries for the rest of their lives. That didn’t bother me as much as the thought of Peter Stanhope, useless turd and soon-to-be brother-in-law, getting it all. Well, if the time came, I might be able to scare him into handing over some bucks to his niece and nephew, which was better for him than John Sutter holding him up in court for ten years.

Edward said, “Mom really loves you.”

“That’s why I’m here, Skipper.” I added, of course, “I love her.”

The object of my affection came out carrying an ice bucket with a bottle of bubbly, and Carolyn had the beer and glasses on a tray.