I didn’t know quite what to say, but I replied, “That’s very nice. I could have used someone to talk to.”

“I know. Mom said you were… withdrawn. But I was married, and I wasn’t sure in my own mind if I was concerned as a friend, or… something else.”

“I understand.” I added, “I’m very flattered.”

“Are you? Well, you’re too modest, John. I think you left here because the women were all over you as soon as you were separated, and you fled for your life.”

“This is true.”

She smiled, then went on, “And here’s the rest of my secret – when I heard that you were about to begin a sail around the world, I wished that you would take me with you.”

I looked at her and our eyes met. I said, not altogether insincerely, “I wish I’d known.”

“That’s very nice of you to say.”

“Well, I’m not just saying it.”

“I know. Anyway, it was just a silly fantasy. I had a husband and two children. Even if you’d asked, I would have had to say no. Because of the children.” She added, “Not to mention Mom. I think she was on to me, and not happy.”

I thought about all of that and about how the course of our lives can change so quickly if something is said, or not said. We feel one thing, and we say another, because that’s how we’re brought up. We have our dreams and our fantasies, though we rarely act on them. We all are, I think, more frightened than hopeful, and more self-sacrificing – the children, the spouse, the job, the community – than selfish. And that, I suppose, is good in the larger sense of maintaining a civilized society. I mean, if everyone acted like Susan Sutter, we’d all be shooting our lovers or our spouses, or both, or just running off to find love, happiness, and a life without responsibilities.

In some odd way, as angry as I was at Susan for her behavior, I almost envied her for her passion, her ability to break with her rigid upbringing and with her stifling social class. Or she was just nuts.

And while she was breaking the rules, she’d also broken the law. Murder. She’d gotten a Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card on that, but Mr. Anthony Bellarosa was holding a past-due bill that he might decide to collect.

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

“About not following the rules. And taking chances. And using more heart and less brain.”

She nodded and said, somewhat astutely, “Susan did that. And so did Tom. I never did, but you did when you sailed around the world.”

“Well, I was put in that enviable position of having nothing left to lose. The only wrong move I could have made was to stay here and go to marriage counseling.”

She smiled, and again with some insight pointed out, “You should try to figure out how your marriage got to that point. And you should make sure you don’t go there again. Assuming you remarry.”

The word “marry,” and all its derivations and synonyms, upsets my stomach, so I changed the subject and asked, “Can I get you more coffee?”

“No, thanks. But let me make you breakfast.”

“That’s all right.”

“I insist. Compensation for last night.”

I didn’t know if she meant compensation for not buying me dinner or for not having sex. I said, “Well, there’s not much in the refrigerator.”

“I saw that. But we can split that English muffin, and there’s crab-apple jelly, club soda, and two beers left.”

“How did that English muffin get in there?”

She stood and said, “I see you didn’t plan on me staying the night.”

“No…” Actually, I did plan on it, but I didn’t plan for it. I said, “We can go to a coffee shop.”

“No. Just relax. I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks.” So I sat there, thinking about our post-non-coital conversation, which was not much different than if we’d done it.

Bottom line on this was that I really liked Elizabeth, and I’d really wanted to sleep with her, but now I was glad I didn’t, and I’d make sure it didn’t happen and we could be just friends.

Maybe I should try that again. I’d have sex with her in a heartbeat. Why is this so complicated?

She reappeared with the coffee pot, refilled my cup, and said, “Breakfast will be served shortly, Mr. Sutter.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth. I like my muffins well done and my crab-apple jelly on the side.”

“Very good, sir.” She bent over, tousled my hair, kissed my lips, then went inside.

I could feel Little John waking up and stretching. Maybe I needed a cold shower.

I sipped my coffee and tried to think about things other than sex, or Elizabeth’s perfect body, or my T-shirt riding up to her smooth, creamy white inner thighs, and her breasts nearly popping out of that bath towel last night, and how they almost fell out of my bathrobe when she bent over just now. Instead, I thought about… well, sex was all I could think about.

Elizabeth returned with a tray on which was the toasted English muffin split in two, an open jar of the jelly, a bottle of my Hildon sparkling water, the coffee pot, and the leftover cheese, crackers, and vegetables from last night. She set the tray on the table and said, “Breakfast is served.”

“Thank you. Will you join me?”

“Oh, sir, that is not permitted. But if you insist.” She sat and poured water into two glasses, saying, “Your breakfast beer is being chilled, sir.”

“Thank you.” I mean, this was a little funny, but hanging over the humor was the not-so-distant past when the Allards waited on the Stanhopes. I was rarely included in this arrangement, but there were a few times, years ago, when I dined with the Stanhopes in the great house, and Ethel, George, and a few of the other remaining servants would cook and serve a formal dinner to the Stanhope clan and their stuffed-shirt guests. In fact, I remembered now at least one occasion when Elizabeth, home from boarding school or college, cleared the table. I wondered if Lord William the Cheap paid her. Anyway, yes, Elizabeth was being funny, and this was a parody, but it made me a little uncomfortable.

Elizabeth spooned some jelly on my muffin and said, “We make this here on the estate.”

I didn’t come back with anything witty.

She placed some cheese on my plate and said, “This has been aged on the coffee table for twelve hours.”

I smiled.

So we had breakfast, made some small talk about her clothing boutiques, and about the changes that had taken place on the Gold Coast in the last decade. She commented on that subject, “It’s more subtle than dramatic. And not as bad as it could be. The nouveaux riches seem happy enough with their five acres and their semi-custom-built tract mansions.” She smiled and said, “Some of the women even dress well.”

I smiled in return.

She continued, “Well, listen to me – the daughter of estate workers. But, you know… I was brought up around the gentry, and I had a very good education, and I feel like part of the old, vanished world.”

“You are.”

“Yes, but I’m from the other part of that world, and now I’m a shopkeeper.”

“Shop owner.”

“Thank you, sir. In fact, three successful shops. And I did marry well. I mean, socially. Next time, I’ll marry for love.”

“Don’t do anything silly.”

She smiled, then said, “Well, at least my children are Corbets, and they’ve been well educated.”

I said to her, “You know, I lived in England for seven years, and I saw the best and worst of the old class system. In the end, what matters is character.”

“That, Mr. Sutter, sounds like bullshit.”

I smiled. “Well, it is. But it sounds good.”

“And easy for you to say.”

“I wasn’t born rich,” I said.

“But you were born into two illustrious old families. Whitmans and Sutters. All or most of whom were college educated, and none of whom were gatekeepers, shopkeepers, or servants.”

That was true, but as far as I knew, none of them had been filthy rich like the Stanhopes. Great Uncle Walt was famous, but poetry didn’t pay that well.