“You can sleep with whomever you wish, but try to stay away from my friends, please.”

“Well, then, give me a list of your friends.”

“And you do the same, if you have any.”

Bitch. I put my coffee mug on the table and said, “Before I go, you need to understand that I did not have sex with Elizabeth Allard.”

“I don’t care if you did or didn’t.”

“But you just said-”

“Are you playing lawyer with me?”

Some things never change. Susan is very bright, but no one has ever accused her of being logical or rational. I mean, she can be, but when she’s stressed, she takes refuge in the nutty part of her brain. It’s the red hair. I said, “Look me in the eye.”

“Which one?”

“Look at me.”

She looked at me, and I said, “I did not have sex with Elizabeth.”

She kept staring at me, and we held eye contact. I suggested, “Speak to Elizabeth.”

She nodded, then said, “All right. I believe you.”

So we stood there, and the regulator clock on the wall ticked away, as it did many times when Susan and I passed these deadly silent minutes in the kitchen after a fight. Those fights were usually cathartic, a good sign that we still cared enough to go a few rounds, and more often than not, we kissed and made up, then sprinted upstairs into the bedroom. I was sure she was remembering that, too, but we were not going to the bedroom this time. In fact, I said, “I can come back another time.”

She asked me, “What’s in the envelope?”

I replied, “Some photos, and some papers that you should have, such as Carolyn and Edward’s birth records, which wound up in my storage.”

She nodded, then said to me, “If you have a few minutes, I need to discuss some things with you, and I have a few things to give you.”

“All right.”

She suggested, “Why don’t we sit in the rose garden?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be right out.”

I took my coffee and went out the rear kitchen door into the English rose garden, which was surrounded by a low stone wall, and looked basically the same as I remembered it, except that the cast-iron furniture had been replaced with wicker, which looked not much more comfortable. Women can sit on anything.

The roses were starting to bloom, and I couldn’t remember if this was early or late for the blooms – it depended, I guess, on what kind of spring there had been here on Long Island.

So here I was, home but not home. It all looked familiar, but the slight changes were disorienting. Same with the people. I’d feel more comfortable in a native hut on a Pacific island, where nothing reminded me of my past life.

I recalled something my father had said to me when I was in the Army and about to begin an assignment in Germany. He’d said of his four years away at war, “When I returned, I felt so out of place that I wished I was back with my buddies in a foxhole.” Considering that he’d later met and married my mother, I was sure that was a recurring wish. More to the point, I now understood what he meant.

Anyway, I sat in a chair at a round wicker table and watched the fountain bubbling in the rear of the neat, symmetrical garden with the sundial in the center.

There were a few garden statues scattered around the rose beds, mostly classical figures, and this reminded me of Alhambra’s classical gardens, the reflecting pool, and, of course, my dream. Probably I would never ask her how, when, and where she’d begun her affair with Frank Bellarosa, but if I did ask how it happened, she’d say, “How did what happen? Oh, that. That was so long ago, John. Why are you bringing that up?” And so forth. She’s an accomplished amnesiac, and I was certain that she had no more memory of screwing Frank Bellarosa than she had of shooting him. Well, of course she remembered, but only if someone like me was uncouth enough to mention it.

I recalled the last time I saw her, which was about four years ago at my aunt Cornelia’s funeral. I don’t know why she was there, but because of our children, she was still part of the family in some way. She’d left her new husband back in Hilton Head, so I didn’t have a chance to meet the lucky man, or the opportunity to comment on how old he looked, or how fat he was, or whatever. If she’d married a young stud, you can be sure he’d have been there in a black Armani suit.

Anyway, Susan and I had spoken then, but it had been mostly small talk about Aunt Cornelia, and Cornelia’s deceased husband, Arthur, and their two brainless sons. We spoke, too, about my father, whom Susan had been fond of, but she didn’t mention his funeral that I had missed. I recalled congratulating Susan on her marriage, and I wished her happiness. I think I even meant it.

She’d told me that her husband was a very good man, meaning, I think, that he was not the love of her life.

She hadn’t asked me anything personal, and I didn’t offer any news on my love life.

Also not on the agenda were the last words we’d spoken to each other before we parted, six years before. I had attended her hearing in Federal court in Manhattan to offer testimony as a witness in the death of Frank Bellarosa. As her husband and onetime lawyer, I didn’t have to take the stand, but I wanted to offer some extenuating and mitigating circumstances on her behalf, mostly having to do with her state of mind on the night of the murder, such as, “Your Honor, my wife is nuts. Look at that red hair.” Also I informed the court that I wanted to speak for the record about the FBI pimping my wife for the Mafia don while he was in their protective custody in his mansion, and I definitely wanted to say a few words about the questionable actions of the U.S. Attorney, Alphonse Ferragamo.

Well, as it turned out, the judge and Mr. Ferragamo didn’t want to hear any of that from me, and the closed-door session had ended with the Justice Department concluding that this case would not be presented to a grand jury. A total victory for Susan, and a reaffirmation of the government’s right to cover its ass. As for me, this was the only time I’d ever influenced the outcome of a case by sitting in the hallway with my mouth shut.

I was relieved that Susan had walked, of course, but to be honest, I was also a little disappointed – as a lawyer and as a citizen – that the Justice Department had let her off so easily, without even a slap on the wrist. And as a betrayed husband, I’d wished that Susan had at least been ordered to wear a scarlet A on her prim dress, but then, by extension, I guess I’d be wearing a sign that said cuckold.

Anyway, after the hearing, I had made a point of running into her on the steps of the courthouse in Foley Square, and she’d been surrounded by her happy parents, three relieved lawyers, and two family-retained psychiatrists, which were barely enough for any member of the Stanhope family.

I’d gotten Susan separated from her retinue, and we’d spoken briefly, and I congratulated her on the outcome of the hearing, though I was not entirely happy with that outcome. Nevertheless, I said to her, “I still love you, you know.”

And she’d replied, “You’d better. Forever.”

And my last words to her were, “Yes, forever.”

And her last words to me were, “Me, too.”

So we parted there on the courthouse steps and didn’t see each other for almost four years, when Edward graduated from Sarah Lawrence.

And the last time we’d spoken, at Cornelia’s funeral, the final thing she’d said to me was, “I’ll wish you happiness, John, but before that, I wish you peace.”

I didn’t know why she’d thought I wasn’t at peace – that was my secret – but I replied, “Thank you. Same to you.”

We had parted at the cemetery, and I’d returned to London. Now, four years later, we were about to bury another lady from our past, and if I were in a joking mood I’d say to her, “We have to stop meeting like this.” But maybe, I thought, one or both of our children would finally decide to get married, and Susan and I would meet on happier occasions, such as births and christenings and grandchildren’s birthdays.