The Gate House (7 page)

Susan got rid of her phone call, and she and her lunch companion began to chat.

I didn’t know the lady, but I knew the type. She was somewhat older than Susan, but still dressed preppie, and her name was probably Buffy or Suki or Taffy, and she firmly believed that you can never be too rich or too thin.

I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could tell that Taffy (or whatever her name was) spoke in the local dialect known as Locust Valley Lockjaw. Okay, I’ll tell you. This is an affliction of women, mostly, but men are sometimes stricken with it, and it occurs usually in social situations when the speaker’s teeth are clenched, and enunciation is accomplished by moving only the lips. This produces a nasal tone that’s surprisingly audible and distinct, unless the speaker has a deviated septum.

Anyway, Taffy’s lunch consisted of bottled water and yogurt with five grapes that she plucked from a thousand-dollar handbag. She and Susan seemed at ease with each other, and I couldn’t tell if they were talking about something light, like men, or something important, like shopping.

I had this sudden urge to walk over to them and say something uncouth to Taffy, like, “Hi, I’m John Sutter, Susan’s ex-husband. I divorced her because she was fucking a Mafia greaseball, who she then shot and killed.”

But Taffy probably already knew that, since this was not the kind of local gossip one could hide or forget. This place thrived on scandal and gossip, and if everyone who had done something scandalous was ostracized, then the country clubs would be empty, and the house parties would be poorly attended.

There were, however, limits to bad behavior, and the Sutters taking the Bellarosas to dinner at The Creek was one such example. On the other hand, Mrs. Sutter having an affair with Mr. Bellarosa was not likely to get her stricken from the A-List. In fact, her presence at charity events, cocktail parties, and ladies’ luncheons would be most desirable. As for shooting your lover, well, it was not completely unheard of, and with a little spin, a tawdry crime of passion could be repackaged as a matter of honor. Bottom line on this was that Susan Sutter was a Stanhope, a name permanently entered into the Blue Book. Substitute any other local family name—Vanderbilt, Roosevelt, Pratt, Whitney, Grace, Post, Hutton, Morgan, or whatever—and you begin to understand the unwritten rules and privileges.

I watched Susan and Taffy lunching and talking, and I took a last look at Susan. Then I turned and walked to my car.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
he next day, Wednesday, was overcast, so I didn’t mind spending the day in the dining room of the gatehouse, my mind sometimes focused on the paperwork at hand, sometimes wandering into the past that was spread before me.

I still hadn’t burned the nude photos of Susan, and I thought again about actually giving them to her; they weren’t exclusively mine, and she might want them. What would Emily Post say? “Dear Confused on Long Island, Nude photographs of a former spouse or lover should be returned, discreetly, via registered mail, and clearly marked, ‘Nude Photographs—Do Not Bend.’ An enclosed explanation is not usually necessary or appropriate, though in recent years the sender often indicates in a short note that the photographs have not been posted on the Internet. The recipient should send a thank-you note within ten days. (Signed) Emily Post.”

On the subject of communication between ex-spouses, in my phone calls to and from Edward and Carolyn, they’d both given me their mother’s new home phone number and told me that she had kept her South Carolina cell phone number. Plus, I had her e-mail address, though I didn’t have a computer. Susan, of course, knew Ethel’s phone number here, which hadn’t changed since FDR was President. So . . . someone should call someone.

I went back to my paperwork. I found my marriage license and I also found my divorce decree, so I stapled them together. What came in between was another whole story.

Regarding my divorce decree, I’d need this in the unlikely event I decided to remarry. In fact, the lady in London, Samantha, had said to me, “Why don’t we get married?” to which I’d replied, “Great idea. But who would have us?”

I’d spoken to Samantha a few times since I’d left London, and she wanted to fly to New York, but since the relationship was up in the air, Samantha wasn’t up in the air.

I pulled a manila envelope toward me that was marked, in Susan’s handwriting, “Photos for Album.” They hadn’t made it into any album and were not likely to do so. I spilled out the photos and saw that they were mostly of the Sutters, the Stanhopes, and the Allards, taken over a period of many years, primarily on holiday occasions—Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, birthdays, and all that.

The whole cast was there—William and Charlotte Stanhope and their wastrel son, Susan’s brother, Peter, as well as Susan herself, looking always twenty-five years old.

Then there was me, of course, with Edward and Carolyn, and my parents, Joseph and Harriet, and in one of the photos was my sister Emily with her ex-husband, Keith. There was a nice shot of my aunt Cornelia and her husband, Arthur, now both deceased.

It was hard to believe that there was a time when everyone was alive and happy. Well, maybe not that happy, but at least encouraged to smile for the camera, helped along by a few cocktails.

As I looked at the photos, I couldn’t believe that so many of these people were dead, divorced, or, worse, living in Florida.

I noticed an old photo of Elizabeth Allard, and I remembered the occasion, which was Elizabeth’s college graduation party, held on the great lawn of Stanhope Hall, another example of noblesse oblige, which is French for, “Sure you can use our mansion, and it’s not at all awkward for any of us.” Elizabeth, I noticed, was a lot prettier than I remembered her. Actually, I needed to call her because she was the executrix of her mother’s estate.

I pushed the photos aside, except for one of George and Ethel. Longtime family retainers often become more than employees, and the Allards were the last of what had once been a large staff, which reminded me that I needed to go see Ethel. I needed to do this because I was her attorney, and because, despite our differences, we’d shared some life together, and she was part of my history as I was of hers, and we’d all been cast in the same drama—the Allards, the Sutters, and the Stanhopes—played on the stage of a semi-derelict estate in a world of perpetual twilight.

Tonight, I decided, was as good a time as any to say goodbye; in fact, there probably wasn’t much time left.

But that reminded me that I had another date with destiny this evening: Mr. Anthony Bellarosa. I’d thought about canceling that dinner, but I didn’t know how to reach him, and standing him up wouldn’t make him go away.

On the subject of calling people, Ethel’s pink 1970s princess phone was my only form of communication, and I used it sparingly, mostly to call Samantha, Edward, and Carolyn, and my sister Emily in Texas, whom I loved very much, and my mother who . . . well, she’s my mother. As for incoming calls, a few of Ethel’s elderly friends had called, and I told them the bad news of Ethel being in hospice. At that age, this news is neither shocking nor particularly upsetting. One elderly lady had actually called from the same hospice house, and she was delighted to hear that her friend was right upstairs, perched on the same slippery slope.

Ethel had no Caller ID, so each time the phone rang, I had to wonder if it was hospice, Mr. Nasim, Susan, or Samantha telling me she was at JFK. Ethel did have an answering machine, but it didn’t seem to work, so I never knew if I’d missed any calls when I was out.

The idiotic cuckoo clock in the kitchen chimed four, and I took that as a signal to stretch and walk outside through the back kitchen door for some air.

The sky was still overcast, and I could smell rain. I stood on the slate patio and surveyed this corner of the old estate.

Amir Nasim had gardeners who cared for the diminished grounds, including the trees and grass around the gatehouse. Along the estate wall, the three crabapple trees had been pruned, but there would be no crabapple jelly from Ethel this year, or ever.

Beyond the patio was a small kitchen garden, and Ethel had done her spring planting of vegetables before she became ill. The garden was overgrown now with weeds and wildflowers.

And in the center of the neglected garden was a hand-painted wooden sign that was so old and faded that you couldn’t read it any longer. But when it was a fresh, new sign, some sixty years ago, it had read victory garden.

I needed to remember to give that to Ethel’s daughter, Elizabeth.

I could hear the wall phone ringing in the kitchen. I really hate incoming calls; it’s rarely someone offering me sex, money, or a free vacation. And when it is, there are always strings attached.

It continued to ring, and without an answering machine, it kept ringing, as though someone knew I was home. Susan?

Finally, it stopped.

I took a last look around, turned, and went inside to get ready to see an old woman who was going to her final reward, and a young man who, if he wasn’t careful, was going to follow in his father’s footsteps to an early grave.

CHAPTER SIX

A
t 5:00 p.m., I drove through the magnificent wrought-iron gates of my grand estate and headed south on Grace Lane in my Lamborghini. Reality check: not my estate, and not a Lamborghini.

Grace Lane—named not for a woman, or for the spiritual state in which the residents believed they lived, but for the Grace family of ocean liner fame—was, and may still be, a private road, which means the residents own it and are supposed to maintain it. The last time I was here, my neighbors were trying to unload this expense on various local governments, who didn’t seem anxious to bail out the rich sons of bitches of Grace Lane, some of whom were no longer so rich, but who nonetheless remained sons of bitches. The issue seems to have been resolved in my absence because Grace Lane was now well paved.

I continued south toward the village of Locust Valley, where I needed to stop to buy something for Ethel. One should never arrive empty-handed when paying a visit, of course, but I never know what to bring except for wine, and that wouldn’t be appropriate for this occasion; likewise, flowers might seem premature.

Ethel enjoyed reading, so I could stop at the bookstore, but I shouldn’t buy anything too long, like
War and Peace
. She also liked fruit, but I shouldn’t buy green bananas. All right, I’m not being very nice, but when faced with the hovering presence of the Grim Reaper, a little humor (even bad humor) helps the living and the dying to deal with it. Right? So maybe she’d get a kick out of a gift certificate to Weight Watchers.

“Dear Ms. Post, I need to visit an elderly lady in hospice, whose time left on earth could be measured with a stopwatch. Why should I bother to bring her anything? (Signed) COLI. P.S. I don’t like her.”

“Dear COLI, Good manners don’t stop at death’s door. An appropriate gift would be a box of chocolates; if she can’t eat them, her visitors can. If she dies before you get there, leave the chocolates and your calling card with the receptionist. It’s the thought that counts. (Signed) Emily Post. P.S. Try to make amends if she’s conscious.”

I turned onto Skunks Misery Road, and within a few minutes found myself again in the village of Locust Valley. I hate shopping for anything, including cards and trivial gifts, so my mood darkened as I cruised Forest Avenue and Birch Hill Road, looking for some place that sold chocolates. I saw at least a dozen white SUVs that could have been Susan’s, and it occurred to me that she was good at this sort of thing, so if I ran into her—figuratively, not literally—I’d ask her for some advice. The last gift advice I’d gotten from her—at Carolyn’s graduation from Harvard Law—was that the T-shirt I’d bought for Carolyn in London, which, in Shakespeare’s words, said, “The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers,” was not a good law school graduation gift. She may have been right.

Anyway, I gave up on the chocolates, parked, and went into a florist shop.

A nice-looking young lady behind the counter asked how she could help me, and I replied without preamble, “I need something for an elderly lady who’s in hospice and doesn’t have much time left.” I glanced at my watch to emphasize that point.

“I see . . . so—”

“I am not particularly fond of her.”

“All right . . . then—”

“I mean, cactus would be appropriate, but she’ll have other visitors, so I need something that looks nice. It doesn’t have to last long.”

“I understand. So perhaps—”

“It can’t look like a funeral arrangement. Right?”

“Right. You don’t want to . . . Why don’t we avoid flowers and do a nice living plant?”

“How about hemlock?”

“No, I was thinking of that small Norfolk pine over there.” She explained, “Evergreens are the symbol of eternal life.”

“Really?”

“Yes, like, well, a Christmas tree.”

“Christmas trees turn brown.”

“That’s because they’re cut.” She informed me, “We deliver a lot of living evergreens to hospice.”

“Really?”

“Yes. They smell good. And the family can take them home as a memento afterwards.”

“After what?”

“After . . . the . . . person . . .” She changed the subject and asked, “Which hospice is the lady residing at?”

“Fair Haven.”

“We can deliver that for you.”

“Actually, I’m on my way there now and that’s too big to carry, so . . .” I looked around, and in the corner of the shop was a shelf lined with stuffed animals, including a few Teddy bears, which are big around here because the man who inspired the bear, Teddy Roosevelt, lived in nearby Oyster Bay. I took the best-looking Teddy bear from the shelf, put it on the counter, and said, “I’ll take this.”

“That’s very nice.” She put a pink ribbon around the bear’s neck and stuck a sprig of lavender in the ribbon.

I paid in cash, and the young lady said to me, “She’ll like that. Good luck.”

Back in the car, I headed west toward the hospice house in Glen Cove. I glanced at the fluffy bear sitting beside me, and suddenly I felt a rush of emotion pass over me. It hit me that Ethel Allard was dying, and that so many of the people I once knew were dead, and in an instant I remembered all of them and saw their faces from long ago, smiling, usually in some social setting or holiday occasion, a drink close by, like in the photos I’d just seen.