behavior; but even today adultery isn’t acceptable, and carries a high price tag. Ask Susan Sutter. Or John. Or Frank Bellarosa . . . Well, he’s not talking.
Elizabeth said to me, “Now that Mom is . . . at the end . . . I’m thinking more about Dad. I really miss him.”
“I do, too.”
George Allard and I could have been considered friends, except for the artificial and anachronistic class barrier, which was enforced more by George than by me. George, like many old-school servants, had been more royal than the King, and he truly believed that the local gentry were his social superiors; however, whenever they slacked off or behaved badly (which was often), George respectfully reminded them of their obligations as gentlemen, and he would gently but firmly suggest corrections to their behavior and manners. I think I was a challenge to him, and we didn’t become close until he gave up on me.
Elizabeth suggested, “If you have time, why don’t you come up with me—or wait for me? I’m staying only fifteen minutes tonight. Then, if you’d like, we can go for a drink.” She added, in case I was misinterpreting the offer, “I’d like to speak to you about Mom’s will, and whatever else I need to speak to you about.”
I replied, “I do need to speak to you. You are, as you know, the executrix of her estate, and her sole heir, aside from a few minor bequests. But unfortunately, I have plans this evening.”
“Oh . . . well . . .”
Actually, I had time to at least walk her to the front door, but I kept thinking that Susan, my mother, or Father Hunnings might pull up. On the other hand, that might not be a bad thing. I could imagine some interesting reactions from my ex-wife, ex-mother, and ex-priest if they saw me talking to the attractive divorcée.
To get another rumor mill going, I should have said, “I’m having dinner with a Mafia don,” but, in a Freudian slip, I said, “I’m having dinner with a business prospect.”
“Oh. Does that mean you’re staying?”
“I’m not sure.” I suggested, “How about tomorrow night? Are you free?”
“No . . . I’m having dinner with friends.” She smiled. “Thursday is ladies’ night out. But you’re welcome to join us for a drink.”
“Uh . . . perhaps not.” I considered asking her to dinner Friday night, but that would sound like a weekend date instead of a weekday business dinner, so I said, “I’d like you to do a quick inventory of the personal property—Mom and Dad’s—and look over some paperwork. Also, your mother asked that you . . . find the dress she wants to wear . . . so, why don’t you come to the house on Saturday or Sunday?”
“Saturday afternoon would be good. Would four o’clock work?”
“Yes. I’ll be sure my estate gate is open.”
She smiled and said, “I have the code.” She informed me, “You are sleeping in my room.”
“I know.”
“I’d like to see it, one last time. Is that all right?”
“Do I need to clean it?”
“No. If it was clean, I wouldn’t recognize it.”
I smiled. She smiled.
I suggested, “If you have a van or station wagon, we can get some personal things moved out.”
She replied, “I have that.” She nodded toward a big SUV of some sort. Maybe these things ate the other cars. She asked, “Will that do?”
“It should. Or we can make a few trips.” I added, “You should arrange for a mover for the furniture.”
“All right.” She suddenly asked me, “John, do you think I should buy the gatehouse? Is it for sale?”
“I don’t know. I’ll ask Mr. Nasim. Why would you want to buy it?”
She shrugged. “Nostalgia. Maybe I’d live there. I don’t need the big house in Mill Neck. The kids are gone. I got the house in the divorce. Tom got my shoes and purses.” She smiled and said, “Or I could rent the gatehouse to you, if you stayed.”
I smiled in return.
She looked at her watch and said, “I should go. So, I’ll see you Saturday, about
Elizabeth said to me, “Now that Mom is . . . at the end . . . I’m thinking more about Dad. I really miss him.”
“I do, too.”
George Allard and I could have been considered friends, except for the artificial and anachronistic class barrier, which was enforced more by George than by me. George, like many old-school servants, had been more royal than the King, and he truly believed that the local gentry were his social superiors; however, whenever they slacked off or behaved badly (which was often), George respectfully reminded them of their obligations as gentlemen, and he would gently but firmly suggest corrections to their behavior and manners. I think I was a challenge to him, and we didn’t become close until he gave up on me.
Elizabeth suggested, “If you have time, why don’t you come up with me—or wait for me? I’m staying only fifteen minutes tonight. Then, if you’d like, we can go for a drink.” She added, in case I was misinterpreting the offer, “I’d like to speak to you about Mom’s will, and whatever else I need to speak to you about.”
I replied, “I do need to speak to you. You are, as you know, the executrix of her estate, and her sole heir, aside from a few minor bequests. But unfortunately, I have plans this evening.”
“Oh . . . well . . .”
Actually, I had time to at least walk her to the front door, but I kept thinking that Susan, my mother, or Father Hunnings might pull up. On the other hand, that might not be a bad thing. I could imagine some interesting reactions from my ex-wife, ex-mother, and ex-priest if they saw me talking to the attractive divorcée.
To get another rumor mill going, I should have said, “I’m having dinner with a Mafia don,” but, in a Freudian slip, I said, “I’m having dinner with a business prospect.”
“Oh. Does that mean you’re staying?”
“I’m not sure.” I suggested, “How about tomorrow night? Are you free?”
“No . . . I’m having dinner with friends.” She smiled. “Thursday is ladies’ night out. But you’re welcome to join us for a drink.”
“Uh . . . perhaps not.” I considered asking her to dinner Friday night, but that would sound like a weekend date instead of a weekday business dinner, so I said, “I’d like you to do a quick inventory of the personal property—Mom and Dad’s—and look over some paperwork. Also, your mother asked that you . . . find the dress she wants to wear . . . so, why don’t you come to the house on Saturday or Sunday?”
“Saturday afternoon would be good. Would four o’clock work?”
“Yes. I’ll be sure my estate gate is open.”
She smiled and said, “I have the code.” She informed me, “You are sleeping in my room.”
“I know.”
“I’d like to see it, one last time. Is that all right?”
“Do I need to clean it?”
“No. If it was clean, I wouldn’t recognize it.”
I smiled. She smiled.
I suggested, “If you have a van or station wagon, we can get some personal things moved out.”
She replied, “I have that.” She nodded toward a big SUV of some sort. Maybe these things ate the other cars. She asked, “Will that do?”
“It should. Or we can make a few trips.” I added, “You should arrange for a mover for the furniture.”
“All right.” She suddenly asked me, “John, do you think I should buy the gatehouse? Is it for sale?”
“I don’t know. I’ll ask Mr. Nasim. Why would you want to buy it?”
She shrugged. “Nostalgia. Maybe I’d live there. I don’t need the big house in Mill Neck. The kids are gone. I got the house in the divorce. Tom got my shoes and purses.” She smiled and said, “Or I could rent the gatehouse to you, if you stayed.”
I smiled in return.
She looked at her watch and said, “I should go. So, I’ll see you Saturday, about
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