She didn’t reply, so we sat there, then finally she asked me, “Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

I glanced at my watch and said, “I should be going.”

She didn’t seem to hear me.

I stood, but she didn’t, so I said, “I can let myself out.”

Again, no reply.

I understood that it had been an emotionally draining morning for her – and for me. Her confession to me about her real reason for killing the man she loved was enough mental trauma for one day, but then I’d brought up the subject of Amir Nasim and Iranian assassins, and next I reminded her that Frank Bellarosa’s son was in the neighborhood and asking about her. I could only imagine what was going through her mind right now.

She helped me understand her mental anguish by asking me, “Have you learned to like lamb in England?”

“Excuse me?”

“I was thinking of lamb for dinner, but if you still won’t eat it, then I might do veal.”

I cleared my throat and replied, “Lamb would be fine.”

“Good.” She looked at me, and seemed surprised that I was standing, then asked, “Where are you going?”

“I… have a few things to do.” I explained, “I wanted to make my Sunday calls to the children.”

She thought a second, then suggested, “Why don’t we call them together?”

“Well…”

“They’d like that.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t… surprise them. And maybe you need some time for yourself now.”

She ignored that, poured me the last of the water and asked, “Will you come with me to visit Ethel?”

I assumed I was supposed to sit, so I did, and replied, “I really have a lot to do.” And I didn’t want to run into Elizabeth at Fair Haven accompanied by Susan, any more than I’d wanted to run into Susan at Fair Haven accompanied by Elizabeth. And then there was my four o’clock dinner with the Bellarosas if I still wanted to show up. I thought about that, and wondered if going there was a good idea. Keep your enemies close and all that.

I looked at Susan and saw now that she’d opened the envelope and was flipping through the photographs I’d given her. They were mostly family shots, and apparently she hadn’t come to the adults-only photos, because she said, “I like this one of the four of us loading the boat on the dock at Seawanhaka. Who took that?”

“I don’t recall.” I suggested, “You can look at those later. I think I should go.”

She stopped flipping and focused on a photograph, then flipped slowly through a few more, and she smiled and said, “I wondered what happened to these.”

I didn’t reply.

She seemed to be enjoying the photographs, and she had a sort of naughty grin on her face, then she said, “Oh, my…” and pushed a photograph in front of me.

I looked at it and saw it was a timed tripod shot of Susan and me on the rear terrace of Stanhope Hall. The Stanhopes, when they moved, had left behind some outdoor furniture on the terrace, and I remembered that Susan and I sometimes went there for sundown cocktails, and for the view, which was why we’d brought the camera and tripod.

Well, it had been a warm summer day, and after a few cocktails, Susan had suggested a strip version of the game of rock-paper-scissors, with the loser performing oral sex on the other. That seemed like a reasonable suggestion, and a no-lose game, so we began, and Susan had a streak of bad luck and was naked within a few minutes.

The photograph shows me standing against a column with my shorts around my ankles collecting my bet.

Susan observed, “We can’t do that anymore.”

I smiled and replied, “No, I don’t think Mr. Nasim would approve of cocktails on his terrace.”

She smiled, too, and added, “Or blow jobs.”

I realized that Susan was in a different frame of mind than she’d been five minutes before, and I hadn’t been paying attention.

She slid a few more photos toward me, and I assured her, “I’ve seen them.”

“Did you make copies for yourself?”

“I did not.”

“I can do that for you.” She turned her attention back to the photographs and said, “I haven’t gained an ounce.” She glanced at me and observed, “It doesn’t look like you have, either.”

My mouth was dry, and I finished my water and again glanced at my watch, but Susan was staring at six or seven photos that she’d spread out on the table. She looked up at me and said, “This brings back some good memories, John.”

I nodded.

Then she stood, stared at me, and in a tone of voice that left no doubt about her meaning, said, “I’d like to show you what I’ve done to the house.”

Well… why not? I mean, why not? Before I could think of why not, I stood, we reached across the table and held hands, then we walked together into the house.

The tour started and ended in our old bedroom.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The upstairs master bedroom was warm, and Susan lay naked on her back atop the sheets with her legs parted and her hands behind her head. She was awake, but her eyes were closed.

The window and the drapes were open, and daylight lit the room. An oscillating floor fan swept over the bed, and the breeze cooled the sweat from our bodies and stirred her long red hair.

I sat up and looked at her lying beside me. Her skin had a nice early summer tan, including her breasts, but she was milky white where she’d worn a bikini bottom that barely covered her bright red pubic hair.

With her eyes still closed, she asked, “Are you looking at me?”

“I am.”

“How do I look?”

“Like you did the day I first made love to you.” Which was true.

“Thank you. I have good genes.”

Indeed, William and Charlotte were a handsome couple; unfortunately, their brains were scrambled.

Susan opened her eyes, turned toward me, and said, “I haven’t had anyone up here.”

I replied, “That’s your business.”

Still looking at me, she said, “I wanted you to know.” She smiled and added, “It’s been so long since I’ve had sex, I forgot who ties who up.”

I smiled, too, but I didn’t offer any help on that subject, so she asked me, “And you?”

“Well…”

“That’s all right. I don’t want to know.”

Of course she did, so to get it out of the way, I said, “There’s a woman in London.” I remembered to add, “But it’s not serious.”

“What’s her name?”

“Samantha.”

“Nice name.” She suggested, “Get rid of her.”

“Well… all right. But…”

Susan sat up, took my hand, looked at me and said, “We’ve wasted ten years, John. I don’t want to waste another minute.”

“I know… but…”

“Is this too fast for you?”

“Well, it is rather sudden.”

“Do you love me?”

“I do. Always have.”

“Me, too. Forever. So?”

I asked, “Are you sure about this?”

“I am. And so are you.”

Apparently, this was a done deal. But, to be honest, I think I knew that two minutes after walking into this house. I mean, putting aside all my negative thoughts about her, and despite everything that happened this morning, the minute we laid eyes on each other I felt that extraordinary sexual energy that we used to have, and I knew that she did, too. Sex isn’t love, of course, though it will do in a pinch, but in this case the love was already there, and always had been, so all we needed to do was do it. And we did.

It could have been awkward after ten years, but it wasn’t; we were at ease with each other, which is the good part of being with a partner whom you’ve had a lot of practice with. Also, of course, there was an element of newness after all these years, and maybe a slight feeling that this was somehow taboo. You can’t beat that combination.

I said to Susan, “I’ve thought about this.”

“Me, too. Often.” She asked me, “Why did you take so long to call me?”

“I was… well, afraid.”

“Of?”

“Of… well, afraid this would happen, and afraid it wouldn’t.”