Sometimes, in moments like this, I ask for divine intervention, so I did that, but the kitchen door stayed closed. “Come on, God.”

Pride goeth before a fall.

“Thanks for the tip.”

Say it with flowers.

“What…?” Then I suddenly recalled being here before, literally and figuratively, and I remembered how we sometimes made a peace offering without too much loss of pride.

I went back into the garden and found her rose clippers on a potting bench, and cut a dozen red roses, and put them on the round table, then I walked toward the gate and opened it.

“John.”

I turned and saw her at the door. She called out, “Are you leaving?”

“I… I was…”

“How can you just-?” She saw the cut roses and walked to the table. She picked up a stem and looked at it, then looked at me. We stared at each other across the garden, then I walked slowly back toward the house.

She watched me as I approached, and I stopped at that well-defined midpoint where sparring spouses and exes are neither too close nor too far, but just right for comfort.

She asked me, “Why were you leaving?”

“I thought you wanted me to leave.” I reminded her, “You got up and left.”

“I said, ‘Excuse me,’ not goodbye.”

“Right. Well, I wasn’t sure… actually, to be truthful, I wanted to leave.”

“Why?”

“This is painful.”

She nodded.

So we stood there, neither of us knowing what to say next. She’d asked me to forgive her, and after ten years, I should just say, “I forgive you,” and move on. But if I said it, I’d have to mean it, and if I didn’t mean it, she’d know it.

Susan and I had both grown up in a world and a social class where things like sin, acts of redemption and contrition, and absolution were drummed into us in church, at St. Paul’s, at Friends Academy, and even at home. That world may have vanished, and we may both have strayed so far off course that we’d never see land again, but we were still middle-aged products of that world. So, knowing she’d understand what I meant, I said to her, “Susan, I can and do accept your apology for everything. I really do. But it isn’t in my heart, or my power, to forgive you.”

She nodded, and said, “I understand. Just don’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You did.”

“I never did. I told you… on the courthouse steps… remember?”

“I do.” She reminded me, “You told your sister you were going to sail to Hilton Head. I waited for you.”

This was getting painful again, but it needed to be painful before it finally stopped hurting. I said, “I did sail there… but I turned around.”

“And sailed off to see the world.”

“That’s right.”

“You could have been lost at sea.”

“That wasn’t my plan, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“You said it, I didn’t.”

“Subject closed,” I said.

“Everyone was worried. Your parents, your children-”

“That wasn’t part of the plan, either. It was just an exquisite act of irresponsibility and self-indulgence. Nothing more.” I added, “I deserved it.” I reminded her, “Subject closed.”

“All right.” She picked a lighter subject and said, “Thank you for the flowers.”

“They’re actually your flowers,” I pointed out.

“I know that. But thank you for the gesture.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m touched that you remembered.”

I was still bothered by her suggestion that I’d sailed off around the world because I was a distraught, self-pitying, heartbroken, sympathy-seeking, suicidal wreck of a man. Women just don’t understand irresponsible behavior, so I returned to the closed subject and said, “It was also a challenge.”

“What was?”

“Sailing around the world in a small boat.”

“Oh… I thought you said the subject-”

“Men enjoy the thrill of danger.”

“Well… I don’t think the people waiting at home enjoy it, but you did it, and I hope you’ve gotten it out of your system.”

“Maybe.” On that note, I decided to quit while we were still speaking, so I said, “I don’t want to make you late for church. So, why don’t we meet tomorrow?”

“I don’t think I’m in the mood for meeting people at church.”

I didn’t think the purpose of church was meeting people, and I don’t know what sort of mood you needed to be in to meet them there, but I said, “You may feel better if you go to church.”

She ignored that and asked, “Why don’t we take a walk?”

I thought about that, then said, “All right…”

I took off my blazer and hung it on the chair, then we headed out through the garden gate. Susan carried along a rose stem.

It was just like old times, except it wasn’t. And it never would be again. We were not going to get back together, but this time when we said goodbye, we could also say, “Stay in touch.” There would be more funerals and weddings, births and birthdays, and there would be new people in our lives, and that would be all right, and we could be in the same room together, and actually smile; our friends and family would like that.

That was as good as it was going to get, and after ten years, considering all that had happened and could have happened in our lives, it was a small miracle that we were here now, speaking, and taking a walk together.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

We walked across the rolling lawn toward the hedgerow in the distance.

Susan was barefoot, which was how she liked to walk around the property, and I wondered if Amir Nasim would approve of bare feet. But we were still on Susan’s property, so it was moot until we crossed into Iranian territory.

Susan made small talk about the property as we walked and said, “The Ganzes… they were the couple I sold the house to… Diane and Barry Ganz – did you meet them?”

“Briefly, after you left. They’d call about once a week to ask me questions about how things worked, or why things didn’t work.”

“Sorry.”

“I tried to help, but I reminded them that I did not sell them the house.”

She didn’t reply to that, then said, “That was an impulsive move. Selling the house. But I was… distraught. And my parents were urging me to join them in Hilton Head.”

With William and Charlotte, urging meant pressuring, and I wondered if Susan had figured out the difference in the last ten years.

Also, her selling the house and moving basically killed any chance that we would reconcile, which was one reason the Stanhopes wanted her to move.

Plus, of course, Susan had whacked a Mafia don, and it’s always best to leave the neighborhood when you do something like that.

Susan, however, had another explanation for me and continued, “The government had taken over Stanhope Hall from… well, you know that. And I wasn’t sure if I’d be surrounded by a subdivision, as was happening… next door… so I sold the house.”

I didn’t reply, but I noted that she avoided uttering the name Frank Bellarosa, or Alhambra. Maybe she couldn’t recall her lover’s name, or where he’d lived. Or, more likely, Susan thought, correctly, that I did not want to hear the name Frank Bellarosa, or Alhambra. But that was not the last minefield we would encounter on this walk, so to show I couldn’t be wounded anymore, I said, “I saw the houses at Alhambra,” and in a poor choice of words, I added, “Frank Bellarosa must be rolling over in his grave.” I further added, “Sorry.”

Susan stayed silent awhile, then returned to the Ganzes and said, “They took good care of the property, but they planted these hedgerows for privacy, and they block my views. But now that Stanhope Hall is occupied, they do give me some privacy. So I don’t know if I should take them out. What do you think?”

“Live with them for a year, then decide.”

“Good idea.” She informed me, “I sunbathe on the lawn, and that could be an issue with the new owner.”

“I know that.”

“Oh, have you met him?”