“I did.”

“How was she? Friendly?”

“She was.” But did not send her regards to you.

Susan asked, “How is his wife?”

“She seemed nice enough.”

I recalled, from long ago, that whenever I went someplace without Susan, I got a cross-examination that rivaled anything I’d ever done with a witness. I really needed a drink, so I announced, “I think it’s cocktail time.”

“What did his wife look like?”

“Oh… she was actually pretty.” I added, “But not very refined.”

“Who else was there?”

“Salvatore D’Alessio. Uncle Sal. And his wife, Marie.” I asked, “Did you ever meet them?”

“No. How would I…?” Then, apparently recalling that she’d been a frequent visitor at Alhambra, she thought for a moment about things she’d been trying to forget for ten years, and replied, “Actually, yes. I did meet them. When I was at the house.” She explained, “I was painting in the palm court.” She wanted to end it there, but sensing she should share the entire memory with me, she continued, “They stopped by, and Anna introduced them, but we didn’t speak.”

She concluded, “He was a frightening-looking man.”

“Still is.”

Susan said, “I’ll get you a drink. What would you like?”

“A pink squirrel.”

“How do I make that?”

“You pour four ounces of Scotch in a glass and add ice cubes.”

“All right… I’ll be right back.”

She went inside, and I gave some thought to Susan meeting Salvatore D’Alessio at Alhambra, and I wondered if it ever occurred to her that she had entered a world in which she had no control, and where she was not Lady Stanhope. In fact, she was nothing more than the mistress of the don, and that didn’t bestow much status. It was incredible if you thought about it – and I had – that Susan Stanhope, who’d led such a sheltered and privileged life, and who was so haughty, had debased herself by becoming the sex toy of a powerful but crude man. I mean, history is full of noble ladies who’ve done this – the wife of a Roman emperor became a prostitute by night – and I suppose a clinical psychologist would have a field day with this interesting dichotomy. Maybe Susan was trying to pay back Mommy and Daddy. Maybe I forgot to compliment her on a new dress. Or, most likely, she herself had no idea why she took a criminal as a lover. The mind, as they say, is the most powerful aphrodisiac, and no one knows how it works. In any case, I was fairly sure that Susan had gotten this out of her system. Been there, done that.

Susan returned with a tray on which was a glass of white wine and my Scotch. She set the tray on the table, we raised our glasses, clinked, and she said, “To us.”

I added, “Together, forever.”

I sipped my Scotch, and Susan informed me, “That’s your Scotch. I’ve had it since… I moved.”

I guess none of her gentlemen friends or her late husband drank Dewar’s. Or she was telling me a little white lie to make me feel that the last ten years were just a small pile of crap on the highway to a lifetime of happiness. Nonetheless, I said, “It’s improved with age.” I was going to add, “and so have you,” but with women, you need to be careful with those sorts of compliments.

She asked me, “How does that pink squirrel differ from a Scotch on the rocks?”

“Mostly, it’s the spelling.”

She smiled and said, “It’s going to take me a while to get used to your infantile humor again.”

“Infantile? I’ll have you know-”

She planted a kiss on my lips and said, “God, I missed you. I missed everything about you.”

“Me, too.”

So we held hands and stood there, looking out at the sunny garden, sipping our drinks. After a minute or so, she asked me, “How was their house?”

“Not too bad, but I didn’t stop at the sales office.” I wanted to return to a previous subject, so I asked her, “Did you know that Salvatore D’Alessio was the prime suspect behind what happened at Giulio’s?”

She glanced at me and replied, “No. You mean… his own brother-in-law?”

“That’s right. You never heard that?”

“Where would I hear that?”

Well, from the intended murder victim, your lover, for one. But I replied, “The newspapers.”

She didn’t respond for a few seconds, then said, “I didn’t follow it in the news.”

“That’s right.” In fact, I seem to recall that she hadn’t even followed the bigger story, a few weeks later, about Susan Stanhope Sutter killing Frank Bellarosa – and that wasn’t because she couldn’t bear to read about it; that was more about Susan’s deeply ingrained lack of interest in, and disdain for, the news in general. Her motto had been the famous observation that if you’ve read about one train wreck, you’ve read about them all. Of course, if you were in the train wreck, you might find it interesting to read about it. In any case, coupled with her lack of interest in the news was her upbringing in a social class that still believed that the only time a woman’s name should appear in the newspapers was when she was born, when she married, and when she died. So that didn’t leave much room for stories about killing your lover. In any case, I believed her when she said she had no knowledge that Salvatore D’Alessio had been the man who ruined our evening in Little Italy. In fact, I’d never mentioned it to her myself.

She asked me, “Why did you bring that up?”

I replied, “Because I think that… Anthony Bellarosa may harbor a grudge against his uncle. Also, his uncle may want to finish with Anthony what he started at Giulio’s with Frank.”

She didn’t reply for a long time, then pointed out, “But they… they were having dinner together.”

“Well, the D’Alessios didn’t stay for dinner, but I’m sure they have all dined together.” I explained, using Frank Bellarosa’s own words on this same subject, “One’s got nothing to do with the other.”

“Well, of course, it does, John. If that man tried to kill-”

“Susan, don’t even try to understand.” I thought about using an example of me taking out a contract on her father, but that was more of a fantasy than a good analogy, so I said, “The point is, I think this… vendetta has been on hold for ten years, and it may come to a head soon. So Anthony may be very busy for a while, trying to stay alive, and at the same time probably making plans to see that his uncle doesn’t.” Susan didn’t respond, so I concluded, “At least that’s what I think.”

She stared off into the rose garden, then finally said, “That’s unbelievable.”

“I just wanted to make you aware of what may happen.” And wake you up a little. “But this only concerns us to the extent that Anthony may not be living next door for long.” Or living at all. “So, the subject is closed.” I asked her, “Any word about Ethel?”

“No… John, what exactly did you say to Anthony, and what did he say to you?”

“I’ll tell you about it over dinner.”

“All right…”

“What’s for dinner?”

She informed me, “I’ve made my specialty. Reservations.”

“Great. What time?”

“Seven. Did I tell you I canceled your seven o’clock dinner with Elizabeth?”

“Yes, and I already left her a message about that.”

“Well, she hadn’t gotten it when I spoke to her.”

“Right. You spoke to her first. So where are we going?”

“I thought you would like to have dinner at Seawanhaka.” She added, “For old time’s sake.”

I thought about my former yacht club, and to be truthful, I had mixed emotions about seeing it again. On the one hand, there were good memories attached to the club – parties, weddings, the annual Fourth of July barbecue on the lawn overlooking Oyster Bay Harbor, and also the fact that this was where Susan and I had first met at the Guest wedding. Aside from that, my best memories were of the great sailing in my thirty-six-foot Morgan, the original Paumanok, which I’d loved so much that I’d scuttled her in the bay rather than let the IRS seize her for back taxes. There were no bad memories attached to my yacht club, other than that final sail on the Paumanok. But I didn’t know if I wanted to go back there; I wanted to leave it as it was.