At quarter past nine, Ray Charles was singing “Georgia,” and I was still standing in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in my hand.

It was odd, I thought, that I could tell a Mafia don to basically go fuck himself, but I couldn’t get up the courage to make the phone call to Susan.

The last mournful notes of “Georgia” died away, and the mellow-voiced DJ said, “That was beautiful. You’re listening to WLIG, broadcasting to the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

Well, on that inspirational note, I shut off the radio, picked up the kitchen phone, and dialed the guest cottage number that Carolyn had given me. I listened to the phone ring three times and hoped for the answering machine.

Susan must have Caller ID, which showed Ethel’s phone number, because she answered, “Hello, John.”

I felt my heart give a thump at the sound of her voice saying my name, and I almost hung up, but obviously I couldn’t – though maybe I could imitate Ethel’s high-pitched voice and say, “Hello, Mrs. Sutter, I just wanted you to know I’m back from hospice, goodbye,” then hang up.

“John?”

“Hello, Susan.”

Silence.

I inquired, “How are you?”

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“Fine. Good. How are you doing?”

“Still fine.”

“Right… me, too.”

She observed, “You didn’t rehearse this call very well.”

I was a little annoyed at that and said, “I just thought about calling you, and I didn’t have time to make notes.”

“And to what do I owe the great pleasure of this phone call?”

My goodness. I hadn’t expected her to be overjoyed or emotional to hear my voice, but she was distinctly frigid. I had to remind myself that Ethel and Elizabeth had indicated that Susan would welcome a call from me. And Mr. Nasim said that Susan spoke well of me. Even Edward and Carolyn had hinted that Mom wanted to hear from me. So what was this all about?

And the answer was, Susan asking me, “Has your houseguest left already?”

Ah. Before I could reply, she further inquired, “That was Elizabeth Allard’s car there overnight, was it not?”

“Yes, it was. But…” I didn’t fuck her. Honest.

“And how is Elizabeth?”

I really didn’t owe Susan any explanation, but to set the record straight, I thought I should say something – but this had caught me off guard, and I blurted, “She had too much to drink, and she wanted to see her old room, and we had a lot of estate work to do, and I’m the attorney, so she just stayed over, and-”

Before I became even more unintelligible, Susan interrupted and said, “Well, I don’t care. So, what can I do for you?”

“I didn’t sleep with her.”

Silence, then, “I really don’t care, John.” She informed me, “I need to get ready for church.”

Well, having taken the initiative by making this call, I wasn’t going to be blown off that easily, so I said, “I’m coming by now with an envelope for you. I’ll ring the bell. If you don’t answer, I’ll leave the envelope at the door.”

Silence.

I said, “Goodbye,” and hung up.

I put on my blazer, grabbed the manila envelope from the dining room table, and went out the door.

It was a beautiful, sunny day, birds sang, locusts chirped, bees buzzed, and my heart was pounding as I walked up the main drive toward the guest cottage.

I couldn’t understand why I was feeling so tense. I mean, if anyone should be feeling tense or awkward – or guilty – it should be Susan. It wasn’t me who had an affair, then shot my lover.

By the time I covered the three hundred yards to the guest cottage, I was in better control of myself.

As I approached the house, I noticed that the previous owners, to whom Susan had sold the house, had marked the boundaries of their property by planting lines of hedgerows around the ten-acre enclave. When William and Charlotte still lived in the mansion, I’d suggested to Susan that we erect a twenty-foot stone wall with guard towers to cut down on her parents’ unannounced visits, but Susan didn’t want to block her views, so now I wondered if she was going to have these hedges ripped out. I was certain that Amir Nasim was concerned about these thick growths providing cover and concealment for Iranian snipers.

But back to more immediate concerns. I half wanted Susan not to answer the door; then I could get on with my life with no further thought about Susan Stanhope Sutter. On the other hand, I did feel obligated to pass on Nasim’s concerns as well as my concerns about Anthony Bellarosa. Of course, all this could be done in a phone call or a letter, and if she didn’t answer the door, that’s what I’d do.

The other half of me, to be honest, wanted her to open the door and invite me in. If nothing else, I needed to explain Elizabeth’s sleep-over – not because it mattered to me, but it might matter to Elizabeth, so I wanted to clear up that misunderstanding so Susan and I could get on to other misunderstandings.

I walked up the slate path to the large stone guest cottage, and noticed that the ivy hadn’t been cut and was climbing over the windowsills. Also, the gravel driveway and the forecourt in front of the house were in need of maintenance. These used to be my jobs, to do or to hire out. I did notice that the flowerbeds, Susan’s area of responsibility, were picture-perfect. Why was I noticing this?

I stepped up to the front door, and without hesitation, I rang the bell.

I had time for one quick thought before the door opened, or before I left, so I thought back to Susan and Frank screwing their brains out all summer while I was off breaking my butt in the city, while also trying to fight an IRS income tax evasion charge, and in my spare time trying to defend my wife’s boyfriend on a murder charge. All of those happy memories put me in the right frame of mind.

I waited about ten seconds, then put the envelope against the door, turned, and walked away.

About five seconds later, I heard the door open, and Susan’s voice called, “Thank you.”

I looked over my shoulder and saw her standing at the door holding the envelope, dressed in jeans and a pink polo shirt. I said, “You’re welcome,” and kept walking.

“John.”

I stopped and turned around. “Yes?”

“Would you like to come in for a minute? I have something for you.”

I glanced at my watch, then with a show of great reluctance, I said, “Well… all right.”

I walked back to the house, and she disappeared inside, leaving the door open. I entered and shut the door.

She was standing at the far end of the large foyer, near the kitchen, and she asked, “Would you like some coffee?”

“Thank you.”

She disappeared into the kitchen and I followed. The house, from what I could see, looked very much like it did ten years before, furnished mostly with Stanhope family antiques, which I called junk and which she must have taken with her to Hilton Head or put into storage.

The big country kitchen, too, looked very much the same, including the old regulator clock on the wall, and I had that Twilight Zone feeling that I’d just left to get the Sunday newspapers and returned to discover that I’d been divorced for ten years.

Susan, standing with her back to me at the coffee pot, asked, “Still black?”

“Yes.”

She poured coffee into two mugs, turned, and I met her halfway. She handed me the mug, and we looked at each other. She really hadn’t aged, as I’d noticed when I’d seen her from a distance a few days ago, and she hadn’t gained an ounce of weight in ten years, but neither had I. So with obviously the same thoughts in our minds, we said, simultaneously, “You’re looking-” We both smiled involuntarily, then said, “ – well.”

The pleasantries over, I said to her, “I need to speak to you.”

She replied, “If you’ve come here because you’re feeling guilty-”

“I’m not guilty of anything.”