"To the beach, my man."

"Yes, madame."

The sun had set now, and here and there I could make out the lights of a big house through the newly budded trees. I got my bearings and headed north through the village of Sea Cliff, then west to Garvie's Point, the former estate of Thomas Garvie, and the site of an old Indian camping ground, now returned again to nature as a wildlife preserve and an Indian museum, which was sort of ironic, I guess.

The park was closed, but I knew a way in through the adjoining Hempstead Harbor Yacht Club, where we parked the car.

I took a blanket from the trunk, and Susan and I held hands as we made our way down to the beach, a narrow strip of sand and glacial rock that lay at the base of a low cliff. The beach was nearly deserted except for a group of people a hundred yards farther up who had built a fire.

There was no moon, but the sky was starry, and out on Hempstead Bay, powerboats and sailing craft headed into the yacht club or continued south toward Roslyn Harbor.

It had gotten noticeably cooler, and a land breeze rustled through the trees at the top of the cliff. We found a nice patch of sand that the outgoing tide had deposited between two large rocks at the cliff's base. It was a well-sheltered spot, and we spread out the blanket and sat looking at the water. There is something about the beach after dark that is both calming and invigorating, and the majesty of the sea and the vast sky makes anything you say sound feeble, yet any movement of the body seems graceful and divinely inspired. We undressed and made love under the stars, then lay wrapped in each other's arms in the lee of the cliff and listened to the sound of the wind through the trees above us.

After a while, we dressed and walked along the beach, hand in hand. Across the bay I could see Sands Point, once home to the Goulds, the entire Guggenheim clan, August Belmont, and one of the Astors.

When I walk this beach and look across to Sands Point, I think of F. Scott Fitzgerald's Jay Gatsby, the location of whose mythical house is the subject of some local theories and literary essays. My own theory, shared by some others, is that Gatsby's house was Falaise, Harry F. Guggenheim's home in Sands Point. The colossal house that Fitzgerald described sounds like Falaise, including the coastline and high bluffs of Sands Point. Falaise is a county museum now, dark at night, but if it were lit in all its glory, I would be able to see it from here.

And on this side of the bay, up the beach on the next point of land, there is a big white colonial house which still stands and which I am i certain is that of Gatsby's lost love, Daisy Buchanan. The long pier behind Daisy's house is not there any longer, but locals confirm that it existed, and the haunting green light at the end of the pier that Gatsby would stare at from his mansion across the water – well, I've seen it from my boat on summer nights, and Susan has seen it, too – a spectral glow that seems to float above the water where the pier must have ended.

I'm not sure what that green light meant to Jay Gatsby nor what it symbolized beyond the orgiastic future. But for me, when I see it, my worries seep away into the sea mist, and I feel as I did as a child one summer night many years ago when from my father's boat I watched the harbour lights playing off the sparkling waters of Hempstead Bay. When I see the green light, I am able to recall that innocent hour, that perfect, tranquil night with its sea smells and soft breezes, and the sound of gentle swells lapping against the swaying boat, and my father taking my hand.

Susan, too, says the green light can bring on a transcendental moment for her, though she won't or can't describe it precisely.

But I want to tell my children about this; I want to tell them to find their green light, and I wish that for one magic hour on a summer's evening, a weary nation would pause and reflect, and each man and woman would remember how the world once looked and smelled and felt and how nice it was to draw such supreme comfort and security by the simple act of putting one's hand into the hand of a father or mother.

The green light that I see at the end of Daisy's vanished pier is not the future; it is the past, and it is the only comforting omen I have ever seen.

CHAPTER 13

By Wednesday, I had gotten the necessary paperwork together to apply to the Village of Lattingtown for a building permit to erect a stable on Susan's property. I did not specifically state that the stable to be built already existed on Stanhope property, as the Stanhopes, of course, owe the village, the township, and the county a lot of money, and I suppose that the part of the stables that we were going to chop off and spirit away could be considered an asset on which there are tax liens. But if it's legal to tear down structures to save taxes, I guess it's legal to move them to property on which the taxes are paid, and will, in fact, go up because of the stables. I honestly don't know how anyone functions in this society without a law degree. Even I, Harvard Law, class of '69, have trouble figuring out legal from illegal, as the laws pile up faster than garbage in the county dump.

Anyway, I also drew up the petition for the variance on which we needed Mr Frank Bellarosa's autograph. Over dinner that Wednesday night, I said to Susan, "It is customary, as you know, to hand the petition to our neighbour and chat for a while about what we intend to do."

Susan replied, "I'll take it over."

"Fine. I'd rather not."

"It's my stable. I'll take care of it. Would you please pass me the meat loaf?"

"Meat loaf? I thought it was bread pudding."

"Whatever."

I passed whatever it was to Susan and said, "I suggest you go to Alhambra tomorrow during the day, so perhaps you can meet and deal with Mrs Bellarosa, who I'm sure is not allowed to go to the bathroom without asking her husband's permission, but who can pass the petition on to II Duce, who can ask his consiglieri what to do."

Susan smiled. "Is that what you suggest, Counsellor?"

"Yes, it is."

"All right." She thought a moment. "I wonder what she's like." I thought she might be like a busty blonde, which is why I was sending Susan and not me. "Could you pass me… that over there?"

"That's spinach. I think I cooked it too long."

"I'll just have the wine."

The next day, Susan called me at my New York office and informed me, "There was no one home, but I left the papers at the gatehouse with a young man named Anthony, who seemed to comprehend that I wanted them delivered to don Bellarosa."

"All right." I asked, "You didn't say don Bellarosa, did you?"

"No. Anthony did."

"You're kidding."

"No, I'm not. And I want George to call us don and donna from now on."

"I think I'd rather be called Sir John. See you about six-thirty." That evening, over one of Susan's special dinners – steak au poivre with fresh spring asparagus and new potatoes, delivered hot from Culinary Delights – I remarked, "I'd call Bellarosa, but he's unlisted."

"So are we. But I wrote our phone number on my calling card." "Well… I suppose that's all right." Susan has calling cards, by the way, that say simply: Susan Stanhope Sutter, Stanhope Hall. This may sound to you like a useless and perhaps even pretentious thing to carry around, but there are still people here who use these cards, leaving them on a silver tray in the foyer after a visit. If the master and mistress are not at home, or are not receiving, the calling card – or visiting card, as it is also called – is left with the gatekeeper, maid, or nowadays anyone who's around to take it. Mr Frank Bellarosa, for instance, should have left his calling card with George when he first learned I was not receiving. I have calling cards, too, but only because Susan got them printed for me about twenty years ago. I've used four of them socially and a lot of them under wobbly table legs in restaurants. As I was contemplating the importance of calling cards in modern society, the telephone rang. "I'll get it," I said. I picked up the extension on the kitchen wall. "Hello."