Neither have you, Ethel. Neither has anyone else around here. Just then, I would have given anything to go back to April when the world was safe and dull. Anyway, I really didn't want to see Susan; I wanted to see my boat, but I couldn't very well ignore Ethel's message, so I said, "Thank you. I'll take a look around." I got back into the Bronco, turned around, and headed back up the long drive.

I drove to the stable and looked inside, but Susan wasn't there, though both horses were. I put the Bronco into four-wheel drive and drove across the property to Stanhope Hall, but I didn't see her tending her vegetables in the terrace gardens. I drove past the gazebo and the hedge maze, but there was no sign of her.

I was aware, as I drove over the acreage, that this was no longer Stanhope property, but Bellarosa property, and in fact even my access to Grace Lane was by way of the long driveway that was now Bellarosa's, though I assumed that whoever had handled the sale for William was bright enough to put an easement clause into the contract. Actually, since I didn't own the guesthouse, what did I care? Susan and Frank could work out an easement arrangement. How's that for whiny self-pity? But put yourself in my position: landless, moneyless, powerless, jobless, and cuckolded. But I was also free. And I could stay that way unless I was foolish enough to get myself land, money, power, a job, and my wife back. As I skirted around the plum orchard, however, I noticed a straw sun hat on a stone bench at the edge of the grove, and I stopped the Bronco. I got out and saw that beside the hat was a bouquet of wildflowers, their stems tied together with a ribbon from the hat.

I hesitated, then went into the grove. The plum trees were planted far apart, and despite the fact that they had grown wild over the years, there was still an openness inside the grove.

I saw her walking some distance away wearing a white cotton dress and carrying a wicker basket. She was gathering plums, which were few and far between in this dying orchard. I watched her awhile, and though I couldn't see her face clearly at that distance in the dappled sunlight, she seemed to me downcast. If this whole scene seems to you a bit too set, I assure you the same thought occurred to me. I mean, she told Ethel to have me look for her. On the other hand, Susan is not manipulative, not prone to using feminine wiles, or any of that. So if she had gone through the trouble of setting this up, that in itself said something. I mean, if I'd found her tending the vegetables that Bellarosa had given us, then that, too, would have said something. Right? Well, enough horticultural psychology. She seemed to sense she wasn't alone, and she looked up at me and smiled tentatively.

Now picture us running toward each other through the sacred grove, in slow motion, the boughs parting, the wicker basket thrown aside, shafts of sunlight beaming on our smiling faces, our arms outstretched, picture that. Cut to John Sutter, his hands in the pockets of his jeans regarding his wife with cool detachment. Close-up of Susan's tentative smile getting more tentative.

Anyway, she moved toward me and called out, "Hello, John."

"Hello."

She kept coming, the basket swinging slightly by her side. She looked more tan than when I'd seen her five days before, and her freckles were all out. I noticed that she was barefoot and her sandals were in her basket. She looked about nineteen years old at that moment, and I felt my heart thumping as she got to within a few feet of me. She took a plum out of the basket and held it toward me. "Want one?"

I had an ancestor who once accepted a piece of fruit from a woman in a garden, and it got him into deep trouble, so I said, "No, thanks." So we stood a few feet apart, and finally I said, "Ethel told me you wanted to speak to me."

"Yes, I wanted to say welcome home."

"Thank you, but I'm not home."

"You are, John."

"Look, Susan, one of the first things those of us who were not born in a manor learn is that you can't have your cake and eat it, too. There is a price to pay for indulging yourself. You made your choices, Susan, and you have to accept responsibility for your actions."

"Thank you for that Protestant, middle-class sermon. You're right that I was brought up differently, but I've made my adjustments to the new realities far better than you have. I've been a good wife to you, John, and I deserve better treatment than this."

"Do you? Does that mean you deny any sexual involvement with Bellarosa?"

"Yes, I deny it."

"Well, I don't believe you."

Her face flushed red. "Then why don't you ask him?"

"I don't have to, Susan, since you told him what I said to you. Am I supposed to believe you or him when it's obvious that you're both in cahoots? Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"No, you're a sharp lawyer. But you've become overly suspicious and cynical." She paused and looked at me. "I'll tell you something, though. Frank and I have become good friends, and yes, we talk, and we talk about you and about things, and I suppose that has the appearance of impropriety. I apologize for that." I looked into her eyes and I wanted to believe her, but I had too much circumstantial evidence to the contrary. I said to her, "Susan, tell me you are having an affair with him and I will forgive you. I mean that unconditionally, and we'll never speak of it again. You have my word on that. But you must tell me now, this minute, with no more lies." I added, "This is a onetime offer." She replied, "I told you the extent of our relationship. It was close, but not sexual. Perhaps it was too close, and I will deal with that. Again, I apologize for confiding in him, and if you're angry, I understand. You are all the man I need." She added, "I missed you."

"And I missed you." Which was true. What was not true was her confession to a lesser crime. It's an old trick. I could see this was going nowhere. Susan is a cool customer, and if she were on a witness stand for eight straight hours and I were a savage lawyer, I could still not shake her. She'd made her decision to lie, or more accurately, Bellarosa had made it for her, for his own reasons. I felt that if it were anyone else but him, she'd stand up and tell me the truth. But this man had such a hold over her that she could look me in the eye and lie, though it was against everything in her nature and breeding to do so. I felt worse at that moment than if she had just said, "Yes, I've been screwing him for three months." Actually, I was frightened for her because she was less able to handle Mr Bellarosa and his corruption than I was. I knew instinctively that this was not the time to push her and continue the confrontation. I said, "All right, Susan. I understand that you were seduced by him in another way. And yes, I am angry and jealous of your relationship with him, even if it's not sexual. I wish it were simply physical and not metaphysical." This was not true, of course, because I'm a man first, and a sensitive, intellectual, modern husband second, or third, or maybe even fourth or lower. But it sounded like the right response to her confession of emotional infidelity. She said to me, "You were seduced by him, too, John."

"Yes, that's right."

"Well, can we be friends?"

"We can work on it. But I'm still angry about a lot of things. Maybe you are, too."

"Yes, I'm angry that you've accused me of adultery and that you've been emotionally withdrawn for months."

"Well," I said, "maybe we should separate for a while." She seemed to mull that over, then replied, "I'd prefer it if we could work out our problems while living together. We don't have to sleep together, but I'd like you to live at home."

"Your home."

"I've instructed my attorneys to amend the deed in both our names." Life is one surprise after another, isn't it? I said to her, "Instruct them not to."