Authors: Nelson DeMille
The Gold Coast (51 page)
“No. Do you know why men die before their wives?”
“No, why?”
“Because they want to.”
“I’ll see you later.’’ Susan got out of the car and headed toward the fellowship room, and I headed back to the cemetery.
Funerals are, of course, a time to reflect on your life. I mean, if you need any evidence that you’re not immortal, that hole in the ground is it. So you naturally start to wonder if you’re getting it right, then you wonder why it matters if you do. I mean, if Hunnings and his cohorts have removed the fear of a fiery hell and the promise of a four-star heaven, who gives a damn what you do on earth? Well, I do, because I still believe in right and wrong, and without embarrassment I’ll tell you I believe in a comfortable heaven. I know that George is there even if Hunnings forgot to mention it.
But afterlife considerations aside, one does wonder if one could be getting a little more fun out of life. I mean, I still enjoy life, but I recall very well a time when things were better at home. So, I must answer the age-old question: Do I move or make home improvements?
I pulled into the gate of the cemetery and drove along the tree-shaded lane to the Stanhope section. It was interesting that the Stanhopes, who needed so much land in life, were all comfortably situated on an acre now, with room for more.
I stopped a short distance from the new grave and noticed that the gravediggers were nearly finished covering it. I noticed, too, that Ethel was nowhere to be seen.
I got out of the car and started for the grave to inquire of the gravediggers where she might be. But then I turned toward the south end of the Stanhope section, the older section where weathered marble headstones rose amid thick plantings.
Ethel Allard stood with her back to me at a grave whose headstone bore the name
AUGUSTUS STANHOPE
.
AUGUSTUS STANHOPE
.
I watched for a second or two, but felt as if I’d intruded on a private moment. Though in truth, I hadn’t stumbled upon this scene by accident; I somehow knew that Ethel would be there. I suppose I could have backed off behind the hedges and called out for her, like the old John Sutter would have done, but instead I said, “Ethel, it’s time to go.”
She glanced over her shoulder at me without surprise or embarrassment and nodded. But she remained at the grave for some time longer, then took a white rose that she had been holding and tossed it on Augustus Stanhope’s grave.
Ethel turned and came toward me, and I could see there were tears in her eyes. We walked side by side toward my car and she said to me, “I loved him very much.”
Who
? “Of course you did.”
? “Of course you did.”
“And he loved me dearly.”
“I’m sure he did.’’
Who?
Who?
She began sobbing and I put my arm around her. She actually leaned her head on my shoulder as I led her to the car. She said, “But it could never be. Not in those days.”
Ah.
My God, what funny people we are. I said, “But it’s good that you had
something.
That’s better than nothing.”
My God, what funny people we are. I said, “But it’s good that you had
something.
That’s better than nothing.”
“I still miss him.”
“That’s very nice. Very lovely.’’ And it was, odd as the circumstances were, considering why we were there. And the moral was this: Go for it; it’s later than you think.
I put her in the car and we drove back to the church without exchanging another word.
• • •
The morning after the funeral, Edward and I finished planting the boxtrees. As we dug in the hot sun, he sort of looked at me as if I might keel over myself and die on the spot. He said, “Take a break, Dad.”
“I’m in top shape.
You
need the break.”
You
need the break.”
We sat under the chestnut tree and we drank spring water. Children don’t think much about death, which is as it should be. But when they are confronted with it, it is not always processed properly or understood in its context. Some children shrug it off, others become maudlin. We spoke about death and dying for a while, coming up with no great revelations, but at least talking it out.
Edward is fortunate in that he has all four grandparents—well,
fortunate
might not be the right word in the case of those four—but this is more common today as people live longer. And in fact, George Allard’s funeral was the first one Edward had attended. Carolyn, at nineteen, has not gone to a funeral. And, I think, we’ve all, to some extent, come to believe that death is unnatural in modern American society, that somehow the deceased and the family of the deceased have been cheated. I said to him, “Death is the natural order of things. I would not want to live in a world without death, Edward. In the old days, they used to call death the final reward. It still is.”
fortunate
might not be the right word in the case of those four—but this is more common today as people live longer. And in fact, George Allard’s funeral was the first one Edward had attended. Carolyn, at nineteen, has not gone to a funeral. And, I think, we’ve all, to some extent, come to believe that death is unnatural in modern American society, that somehow the deceased and the family of the deceased have been cheated. I said to him, “Death is the natural order of things. I would not want to live in a world without death, Edward. In the old days, they used to call death the final reward. It still is.”
“I guess. But how about when a kid dies?”
“That’s harder to comprehend or deal with. I have no answers for that.”
And so we kicked death around awhile. American parents are obsessed with the First Sex Talk; when it should occur, what should be said. Parents, I think, should give as much time and thought to preparing their children for their first experience with the death of a loved one.
We finished the plantings, and Edward said to me, “Would you mind if I went back to Florida tomorrow?”
“Were you having a good time?”
“Yes.”
“Then get back there. How are the girls?”
“Well . . . okay.”
“You were taught about safe and responsible sex in health class?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else you want to know about safe sex?”
“No. I’ve had it up to here with that subject.”
I smiled. “Anything you want to know about good sex?”
He grinned. “Sure. If you know anything about it.”
“Hey, watch yourself, wise guy.’’ I think I know where this kid gets his sense of humor.
We went back to the house, cleaned up, then went riding, Edward on Zanzibar, me on Yankee. As we crossed Bellarosa’s land, I asked Edward, “Did you ever say anything to Mr. Bellarosa about my having to sell the summer house for tax money?”
He looked at me as we rode. “No. Why would I tell him that?”
“He seemed to know about that.”
“Not from me.”
After a minute, he made an unconscious mental connection and said, “I saw the picture Mom painted. It’s really terrific. You seen it?”
“Not yet.”
We rode until dusk, then we met Susan at a seafood restaurant on the Sound and had dinner together. We talked about the shark that got away, about the submarine sighting, and about dinner at Buddy’s Hole, which was funny and sad at the same time. We spoke about the things that would become family history in this summer of change, growth, and death.
The next morning, I drove Edward to the airport. We don’t see people off at the gate anymore, but I shook his hand before he passed through the metal detector and watched him disappear into the crowd.
• • •
William and Charlotte Stanhope were staying at one of the cottages at The Creek, and not with us, thank you, God. William took the opportunity of George’s funeral to do some business while he was in New York.
At Susan’s suggestion, Squire Stanhope made an appointment with the Bishop of Alhambra. They met at Alhambra first, without me present, then came back to Stanhope Hall, walked around, kicked the bricks, and struck a deal. I didn’t actually see them strike the deal, but I could picture them, standing in the sacred grove, pitchforks in hand, cloven hooves bared, touching horns and wiggling their tails.
Anyway, we had dinner that night in Locust Valley; Susan and John, William and Charlotte. William fittingly picked an Italian restaurant, a very good restaurant, and very expensive. William does have good taste in restaurants as opposed to my parents. But as William is my client, and as we were going to do a few minutes’ worth of business, I was supposed to bill the dinner to Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds. William pulls this every time he’s in town, but my firm has never done a dime’s worth of business with him, and he doesn’t even pay me personally. Therefore, I always pay the bill with my own credit card.
So William gave me the business. “John,’’ said he, “your neighbor bought not only the house, but all the acreage. We’ll draw up a contract tomorrow morning. Two million down, eighteen million at closing. I’ll meet you at ten in the Locust Valley office, and we’ll go over the details. He uses Cooper and Stiles in Glen Cove for real estate deals. You know them, so we won’t have any problems with this deal. Now, let’s close in a few weeks. He’s got the money. No use waiting. You notify the tax people tomorrow that they can take the property off the auction block. They’ll have their money in about thirty days. Do that first thing. And call Cooper and Stiles first thing and tell them to expect to receive and to read the contract by tomorrow afternoon. And I want them to get to their client with the contract the following day. None of this lawyerly foot-dragging. The whole Japanese Empire was surrendered with a one-page document that took five minutes to sign.”
How would you know? You were fishing off Martha’s Vineyard.
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And John, you’ll keep this strictly confidential.”
“Yes, sir.”
William went on, “I think the idiot believes he can subdivide the acreage and make a killing. I want to nail this down before he learns otherwise. You speak to Cooper and Stiles about that without making it obvious what you don’t want them to say to their client. They won’t say anything anyway, because they want the fee.”
“Yes, sir.’’ Frank Bellarosa was many things, but an idiot wasn’t one of them.
“He probably thinks he can bribe or threaten government officials to have the land rezoned. He’s got a lot to learn about how we conduct public affairs here.”
I said, “I think he wants the land to bury bodies.”
William gave me a look of annoyance. He doesn’t appreciate my humor at all, which is probably why I hate him.
He said, “Bellarosa’s deed will include the gatehouse, too, of course. He wasn’t happy about the Allards’ lifetime tenancy. But I told him that if he made the widow a reasonable offer, she’d leave. If
he
can’t get her out, no one can.’’ William nearly smiled, and I nearly put my fist in his mouth. He added, “Meantime, the son of a bitch wants to hold a half million in escrow until the gatehouse is vacated and unencumbered. So put that in the contract, but let’s see if we can get a promise from Ethel to move, and pass that on to Bellarosa.”
he
can’t get her out, no one can.’’ William nearly smiled, and I nearly put my fist in his mouth. He added, “Meantime, the son of a bitch wants to hold a half million in escrow until the gatehouse is vacated and unencumbered. So put that in the contract, but let’s see if we can get a promise from Ethel to move, and pass that on to Bellarosa.”
“Yes, sir.”
He looked at me and said, “I discovered why you didn’t want to dine at The Creek tonight, John. You’re the subject of some heated debate over there. That’s very awkward for me.”
And it will get a lot more awkward for you when your friends find out you sold Stanhope Hall to Frank Bellarosa.
I said, “Yes, sir. I’m sorry about that.”
I said, “Yes, sir. I’m sorry about that.”
He looked at me closely, then said, “I’d like to give you some advice. Don’t get involved with that man.”
“You just sold him Stanhope Hall,’’ I pointed out.
He stopped eating and his yellow eyes narrowed. “That was business.”
“So is my involvement with him, sir. Your daughter handles our social involvements.”
So, there was what you call dead silence for a while, during which time I thought Susan might say something on my behalf. But Susan pays me the compliment of not defending me or speaking for me. I do the same for her.
Charlotte Stanhope finally broke the silence and said, “Poor Ethel. She looked frightful.’’ She turned to me. “Do you think she can manage alone?”
Charlotte has a trilly sort of voice that you think is going to trail off into a series of chirps. She’s well bred, of course, and seems on the surface to be a nice lady, but in her own quiet way, she’s as vicious as her husband.
“John? Do you think poor Ethel can manage alone?”
I replied, “I’ll inquire as soon as a respectable period of time has passed.”
“Of course. The poor dear, she would be so much better situated with her daughter.”
We chatted about this and that while we ate, or at least they did. I was simmering.
William returned to the subject of the sale. He said to my wife, “I’m sorry, Susan, if this sale causes you any inconvenience. But it had to happen. And I don’t think you need worry about houses going up so soon. Now that Bellarosa owns the land, you and I will contribute five or ten thousand to the Preservation Fund, anonymously, of course, so he doesn’t get wind of it. They’ll hold him up in court for years. But meanwhile, Bellarosa assured me that you may continue to use the land in any way you see fit, for riding, gardening, walks, just as if I still owned it. In fact, he’s willing to sign a covenant to that effect.”
“That’s very good of you to think to ask him about that,’’ said Susan to Mr. Thoughtful.
William smiled at his daughter. “It could have been worse, you know. At least you know this fellow. And he speaks well of you.’’ He paused. “He’s quite a character. But not the thug I expected.”
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