“Pretty much. You get this office, too.”

“Can I say no to the moose head?”

He smiled, stood, and threw his cigarette in the sink. “Sure. So?”

“Well… let me think about it.”

“That’s all I want you to do.” He added, “I know you’ll come to the right decision.”

“You can be sure of that.”

“And call Jack Weinstein. He wants to say hello. He’s in Florida. Maybe you want to go down there for a visit.”

I didn’t respond to that, and said, “I’ve got a busy day. Thank you for the ride.”

“Yeah. Go find Tony. He’ll take you home.”

“I need the exercise.”

We both walked into the living room, and I moved toward the exit door. I said to him, “If I take this office, the bookstore downstairs stays. Same rent.”

He didn’t reply.

I asked him, “Did you apologize to that waitress?”

“No.”

“Are you capable of taking any advice?”

“Yeah. When I trust and respect the person giving it.”

“I hope you find that person.”

“I did. Jack Weinstein. And my father. One is dying, and the other is dead. They referred me to you.”

“Okay. And don’t seem too anxious with this realtor. People sense when you want something so badly that you’ll pay anything for it. Make sure this is what you want. And check out his story about the building. Capisce?”

“Capisco.”

I left.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Well, if my arithmetic was correct, I could be a millionaire if I brokered the house deal between Susan and Amir Nasim, then recovered the Bellarosa assets that had been seized by the government.

Neither of these goals seemed attainable, but I did have a solid job offer in hand – consigliere to don Anthony Bellarosa. How would that look on my résumé? Would my law school classmates be impressed at my next reunion?

I’ve known people – like myself – who’ve played by the rules most of their lives, then something awful happened that made them lose faith in the system, or in God or country. These people are then open to temptation and become prime candidates for a fall from grace.

Well, I could justify any behavior or any bad decision, but at the end of the day, I needed to decide who John Sutter was.

But first, I needed to clean the bathroom. Elizabeth Allard would be here soon.

I didn’t grow up cleaning anything – not even in the Army, where I was an officer. I did clean my boat, however, so I was no stranger to Mr. Clean.

I finished the upstairs bathroom, then straightened out my bedroom in case Elizabeth really did want to see her old room.

Assuming we were going to move some items out, I was dressed in jeans, running shoes, and a polo shirt.

The cuckoo clock in the kitchen chimed 4:00, then 4:15. I kept busy by reviewing the pertinent paperwork in the dining room, which kept my mind off… well, Elizabeth.

A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. If my bad luck had returned, it was Susan. If not, it was Elizabeth. Really bad luck would be both of them.

I went to the door, but didn’t look through the peephole to see whom Fate had brought to my doorstep.

I opened the door to – Elizabeth. She smiled and said, “Let’s cut to the chase and have sex.”

Or did she say, “Sorry I’m late, traffic’s a mess”?

Assuming the latter, I replied, “Saturday traffic is always a mess,” then we hugged and air-kissed, and she entered.

She was also wearing jeans and running shoes, and a blue T-shirt that said “Smith,” which I assumed was not her alias, but rather her daughter’s alma mater. She said, “I’m dressed to work.”

“Good. Me, too.”

Then she said, “But I brought a change of clothes if you’ll let me buy you dinner later.”

A kaleidoscope of images raced through my mind – clothes on the floor, the bathroom, the shower, the bedroom, the bed-

“Unless you’re busy.”

“Busy? No. I’m free.” I reminded her, “I just got here.”

She smiled, then glanced around and observed, “Nothing changes here.”

“No. But I was happy to see that.” I said, “I made coffee.”

“Good.”

She put her large canvas handbag on the floor, and I led her into the kitchen. She asked, “How are you getting on here?”

“Fine.” I added, “It was good of your mother to extend an open invitation.”

“She likes you.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

Elizabeth smiled again and replied, “She doesn’t always show her feelings.”

“I have a mother like that.”

I poured coffee into two mugs, and asked, “Cream? Sugar?”

“Black.” She inquired, “How is your mother?”

“We’ve spoken twice since I’ve been back, but I haven’t actually seen her yet.”

“Really? I can’t imagine not seeing either of my children the minute they return from a trip.”

I thought about that and replied, “I haven’t seen Carolyn yet, and she’s a fifty-minute train ride away in Brooklyn.”

“Well, you’ve only been back… how long?”

“About two weeks.” I suggested, “Why don’t we sit on the patio?”

We went out the back door and sat in two cast-iron chairs that had survived the scrap-metal drives of 1942-45. The table was of the same vintage, and I recalled that George used to scrape and paint the furniture every spring.

Elizabeth commented, “Mom and Dad had morning coffee out here nearly every day.”

“That’s very nice.” I asked her, “How is she doing?”

“She looked well this morning. Better than usual.”

In my experience, that’s not always a good sign with the terminally ill, but I said, “I’m glad to hear that.” I added, “I was going to stop by to see her today, but… I had an appointment in Oyster Bay.”

Elizabeth nodded, then looked around and remarked, “It’s so peaceful here.” She informed me, “I enjoyed growing up here. It was like… this secluded place with a wall around it… it kept the outside world away.”

“I guess that’s the point.”

She asked me, “Did you like living in the guest cottage?”

“I did after the Stanhopes moved to South Carolina.”

She smiled, but didn’t say anything like, “What assholes they were.” I suppose after years of living here as the child of estate workers, she’d been conditioned not to say anything derogatory about the lord and lady of the manor. Nevertheless, I continued, “If William hadn’t hit the lucky gene pool, he’d be cleaning toilets in Penn Station.”

“Now, now, John.”

“Sorry. Was that unkind?”

“You’re a bigger person than that.”

“Right. And Charlotte would be turning tricks on Eighth Avenue.”

She suppressed a smile, then changed the subject and said, “The crabapple trees look good.”

“I think Nasim has them pruned, sprayed, and fertilized.”

“I remember picking crabapples for weeks so Mom could make her jelly.”

I actually remembered Elizabeth as a young teenager climbing the trees that summer when Susan and I got married and moved into the guest cottage. I recalled, too, that Elizabeth went to boarding school, so I didn’t see much of her. As for Elizabeth’s tuition at boarding school – as with her college tuition – Ethel was still collecting on her special relationship with Augustus long past the time when the old gent even remembered getting laid.

Anyway, I said, “That reminds me – there are cases of crabapple jelly in the basement for you.”

“I know. I actually don’t like the stuff.” She laughed and continued, “After years of picking, washing, boiling, canning… well, but I’ll take it.”

“I took a jar.”

“Take another. Take a case.”

I smiled.

We sat there for a minute, surveying the grounds, then Elizabeth said, “Mom made me promise to harvest her garden.” She added, “But… she may be gone before it’s ready.” She asked me, “Did you speak to… what’s his name?”

“Amir Nasim. Yes, I did.” I continued, “He seems a decent enough man, and he has no problem with me staying on through the summer, but… he’d like to have his property back by September the first, unless Ethel is still… with us.”