She nodded, then asked me, “Did you ask him if he wanted to sell the gatehouse?”

“I did. He wants to use it himself.”

“Well, that’s too bad. I mean, sitting here, I’m getting nostalgic… I really loved this place.” She asked, “Do you think he’d change his mind?”

I saw no reason to keep Nasim’s concerns in confidence, so I replied, “He has some security issues.”

“What does that mean?”

“I think it means he believes that people from the old country may want to harm him.”

“My goodness… where’s he from? Iran?”

“Yes.” I offered my thoughts and said, “He may be paranoid. Or, if he’s correct, then the gatehouse may become available when he’s assassinated and they settle his estate.” I smiled to show I was joking.

Elizabeth pondered all that, then said, “That’s unbelievable…”

“I think so, too. But in any case, I believe he wants to put his security people in the gatehouse.” I thought about telling her of Nasim’s desire to buy Susan’s guest cottage, but I decided not to bring up Susan’s name at all. Instead, I kept it light and asked, “Isn’t there a local ordinance against political assassination?”

She forced a smile, but clearly she was disturbed by this news, and disappointed that the gatehouse was not for sale.

I stood and said, “Wait here.” I went into the overgrown kitchen garden and came back with the wooden sign and held it up by its half-rotted stake. I asked, “Do you remember this?”

She smiled and said, “I do. Can I have that?”

“Absolutely.” I laid the sign on the table, and we both looked at the faded and peeling paint. The black lettering had nearly disappeared, but it had left its outline on the white background and you could make out the words “Victory Garden.”

Elizabeth asked me, “Do you think I should put this on Mom’s grave?”

“Why not?”

She nodded and said, “That entire World War Two generation will be gone soon.”

“True.” I was especially anxious for William Stanhope to be gone. I mean, I didn’t wish him any harm, but the old bastard was in his late seventies, and he’d outlived whatever small usefulness he might have had.

On that subject, William had actually shown up for World War II, making him a member of the Greatest Generation, though barely. He didn’t talk much about his wartime experiences, but not because he’d been traumatized by the war. In fact, as I’d learned from Ethel Allard, William Stanhope had a rather easy war.

As Ethel related the story to me once, her employer and benefactor Augustus Stanhope had sold his seventy-five-foot motor yacht, The Sea Urchin, to the government for a dollar, as did many of the rich along the East Coast during this national emergency – you couldn’t get fuel anyway – and The Sea Urchin was refitted by the Coast Guard as an anti-submarine patrol boat. Then Augustus’ dilettante son, William, joined the Coast Guard, and in what could be described as a startling coincidence, Lieutenant (j.g.) William Stanhope was assigned to duty aboard the former Stanhope yacht. In another stroke of good fortune, The Sea Urchin was berthed at the Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club, and William, not wanting to use up scarce government housing, patriotically billeted himself at Stanhope Hall. William did go out on anti-submarine patrols and, depending on whom you speak to – William the Fearless, or Ethel the Red – he did or did not encounter German U-boats. Most likely not, and most probably he spent a good deal of shore time on Martha’s Vineyard and the Hamptons.

Meanwhile, George was fighting the more dangerous war in the Pacific, and William’s father, Augustus, took the opportunity to shag Ethel, who helped the war effort by growing her own vegetables in the Victory Garden.

And here we are now.

In some ways, we are coming to the end of an era, but these old dramas do not really end, because as someone wisely said, the past is prologue to the future, and short of a meteor strike and mass extinction, the dramas of each generation roll on into the next.

Elizabeth asked me, “What are you thinking about?”

“About… the generations who’ve lived here, in war and peace.”

She nodded and commented, “Who would have thought, in 1945, that we’d be surrounded by subdivisions, and that an Iranian would be living in Stanhope Hall?”

I didn’t reply.

She asked me, “Did you see what happened to Alhambra?”

“I caught a peek of it.”

“It’s awful.” She asked, “Do you remember the estate-? Oh, I forgot… sorry.”

“It really doesn’t bother me.”

“Good.” She looked at me, hesitated, then said, “I think it does.”

“Maybe because I’m back.”

“Are you staying?”

Again, the threshold question, and as with Anthony Bellarosa, the answer would partly determine whether Elizabeth and I had any serious business to discuss. I replied, “I’m going to give it a few months, then I can make a more informed decision.”

“And what do you think is going to happen in a few months to help you with this informed decision?”

“Are you making fun of me?”

She smiled. “No, but that’s so typically male. Informed decision. How do you feel? Right now.”

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

She laughed. “All right. I don’t mean to pry.”

“Good.” I stood and asked, “Ready to wade through paperwork?”

She stood also, and as we moved toward the kitchen door, she asked, “How long will this take?”

“Less than an hour. Then maybe an hour to pack your car with any personal items you may want to take now.”

She glanced at her watch and said, “I’d like to have a drink in my hand by six o’clock.”

“That’s part of my service.”

I opened the screen door for her and she went inside.

As I followed, it occurred to me that we both had so many memories of Stanhope Hall – good and bad – that whatever happened today – good or bad – would be emotional and partly influenced by other people, living and dead, who were still here, in one form or another.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

We sat side by side at the dining room table, and I, in my organized and professional manner, identified documents, presented them to Elizabeth for reading, and explained the obtuse language when necessary. She was wearing a nice lilac scent.

She said to me, “I’m happy that it’s you who are doing this, John.”

“I’m glad I’m able to do it.”

“Did you come back just for this?”

“Well, I came to see your mother, of course.” I added, “And I need to move my things out of here.”

Without hesitation, she offered, “You can move your things into my house. I have plenty of room.”

“Thank you. I may take you up on that.”

She hesitated, then said, “I’d offer you a room, but my divorce settlement makes my alimony dependent on me not cohabitating.”

I joked, “Let me see that divorce settlement.”

She smiled, then clarified, “I mean, we wouldn’t be cohabitating – I’d just make a room available to you… the way Mom did. But Tom would jump on that as soon as he found out.”

“You could tell Tom that I’m on his team.”

She laughed and said, “You have a reputation as a notorious heterosexual.”

I smiled.

She stayed silent awhile before thinking out loud, “Well… it’s a measly alimony, for only a few years…” She said to me, “If you really need a place, you’re welcome to use my guest room.”

“Thank you.” I added, “I would insist on paying you a rent equal to your measly alimony.” I reminded her, “I have this place for a while, then I need to return to London to tidy up things there.”

She nodded, and we went back to the paperwork.

I came across a deed dated August 23, 1943, conveying a life tenancy from Mr. Augustus Phillip Stanhope, property owner, to Mrs. Ethel Hope Allard, domestic servant, and her husband, Mr. George Henry Allard, then serving overseas with the Armed Forces of the United States.