We made brief eye contact, I nodded and replied, “I’ll handle whatever else needs to be done, and if you need anything, call me.”

Susan added, “Call my cell phone or the house, and I’ll get the message to John. And please let us know when Ethel passes.”

“I will.” Then she looked at us and said, “I’m very happy for you both.”

I was sure she was being as sincere as Susan had been in inviting her to dinner.

Anyway, we all hugged and kissed again, and Elizabeth went back in the room to continue her deathbed vigil, and Susan and I went down to the lobby.

On our way out to the parking lot, Susan asked me, “Are you sure you don’t want to wait for your mother?”

I picked up the pace and replied, “We’d be here until sunrise.” I added, “I need a drink.”

“All right… but, I want you to call her and tell her we’re together again.”

I assured her, “I will, but then she’ll call you to try to talk you out of it.”

“John-”

I interrupted, “That was nice of you to invite Elizabeth to dinner.”

“I do like her.”

She wouldn’t have liked her if she’d said yes. Nevertheless, it was a nice gesture, and Susan was always kind to her friends.

Susan commented, “Elizabeth is one of the last of the old crowd.”

I nodded and thought about all the people we’d known who’d died, and those who’d moved away, and I replied, “Indeed, she is.”

Susan added, “There are not too many left, as I’m finding out.”

“Well, I’m back, and you’re back. We’ll make new friends in the subdivisions.”

“I think not.”

We held hands as we walked to the car. Fortune was with me again because we got to the car before I ran into anyone I didn’t want to see. But I knew I’d see them all at Ethel’s funeral. Thinking back, one of the people I had not been looking forward to seeing at the funeral was Susan. And now… well, it’s true – life is just one surprise after another. Some pleasant, and some not so pleasant.

We drove to Centre Island, which is actually a peninsula, but if you live in a ten- or twenty-million-dollar mansion on Oyster Bay or the Sound, you can call it whatever you want.

We drove into the parking field in front of the Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club, and as I expected, the clubhouse looked the same as the last time I’d seen it, and pretty much the same as when it was built in 1892. William Swan, a close friend of Teddy Roosevelt, had been one of the founders of the club and its first commodore, and if he sailed into the harbor today, he’d easily recognize the big, three-story, gabled and shingled clubhouse, with white trim and black shutters. And unless things had changed in my absence, he’d feel right at home inside, as well. The dress code, of course, had changed, but the gentlemen still wore jackets, though ties were not always required, and as for the ladies, they dressed conservatively, but the old boys would still be shocked at the amount of skin showing.

The club was actually founded in 1871, making it one of the oldest Corinthian yacht clubs in America – Corinthian meaning that the yacht owners sailed and raced their own boats, without professional seamen, and this is in the spirit of the ancient Greek Corinthians, who apparently were the first people who competed in amateur racing for fun. The most sailing fun I’ve ever had, incidentally, was watching William and Charlotte puke their guts out aboard the Paumanok during a gale on the Sound. I remember that day fondly.

Susan asked, “What is making you smile?”

“You, darling.”

I parked in the gravel field and noted a lot of vehicles – mostly SUVs – on this pleasant Sunday evening, and Susan informed me, “Tonight is Salty Dog.”

Salty Dog is a barbecue on the lawn, and though I’m not sure where the name comes from, I never ate the spareribs, just to play it safe.

She added, “But I’ve made our reservation for the dining room, so we can be alone.”

“Good.” As we walked toward the clubhouse, I inquired, “Do we own a yacht?”

She smiled and replied, “No. I just wanted to rejoin the club. For social reasons.”

That may have meant meeting people, sometimes known as men. I reminded her, “In the good old days, single women were not admitted as members.”

“Well, thank God those days are over. What would you do without us?”

“I can’t even imagine.”

As we approached the clubhouse, I had second thoughts about coming here. I mean, I’d been asked, nicely, to leave for unspecified reasons, which may have included sinking my own boat, and being publicly identified on TV as a Mafia lawyer, not to mention my wife shooting and killing my Mafia client who was also her lover. On the other hand, Susan had been readmitted, and she had no hesitation about coming here. So maybe everyone had forgotten about all of that unpleasantness. What, then, was I concerned about?

“Dear Ms. Post, Well, I’m back with my ex-wife – the one who killed her Mafia lover – and she wants to take me to dinner at our former yacht club. Considering that we were kicked out for bad behavior (she committed adultery and murder, and I became a mob lawyer, and also sunk my yacht so the government couldn’t seize it for back taxes), do you think the club members will accept us? (Signed) Still Confused on Long Island.”

“Dear… Whatever, I assume one or both of you have been reinstated as members, so if you dress and act appropriately, and your dues and charges are paid up, the other members will be delighted to have such interesting people to speak to. Two caveats: One, do not initiate conversations about the murder, adultery, or being a mob lawyer or sinking the boat; wait for others to bring it up. Two, try to avoid repeating any of the criminal and socially unacceptable acts that got you blacklisted in the first place. Good luck. (Signed) Emily Post. P.S. You two have a set of balls.”

Susan may have sensed my hesitation because she took my hand and said, “I’ve been here twice since I’ve been back, and I haven’t had a problem.” She reminded me, “The membership committee had no problem here, or at The Creek.”

I remarked, “Standards have certainly slipped.” In fact, maybe now I could get Frank Bellarosa into The Creek – if he wasn’t dead.

We entered the clubhouse, turned right into the bar room as we’d done so many times, and went up to the bar.

I was not surprised to see that nothing had changed, including the bartender, a cheerful bald-headed gent named Bennett, who said to Susan, “Good evening, Mrs. Sutter.” He looked at me and, without missing a beat, said, “Good evening, Mr. Sutter.”

“Hello, Bennett.” We both hesitated for a second, then reached out our hands, and he said, “It’s good to see you again.”

“Same here. Good to be back.”

He inquired, “Dark and stormy?”

“Please.”

He moved off to make two dark and stormies, which I actually don’t like, but it’s the club drink, and… well, why upset the universe?

I put my back to the bar and looked around. I recognized an older couple at one of the tables and noted some young couples who seemed to fit in well, though not all the men were wearing blue blazers and tan pants. Also, I couldn’t imagine that some of them knew port from starboard, but, I recalled, that was me once.

Susan asked me, “How does it feel?”

“Good.”

Bennett put the drinks on the bar, and Susan signed the chit.

I surveyed the room again, this time noting the Race Committee pewter mugs lined up in a niche on the wall, one of which had my name engraved on it. Another wall was covered with half-hull models, and there were old pictures on the other walls of people who were long dead and forgotten, but were immortalized here until the end of time, or at least until the female members got their way and redecorated.

Susan handed me my drink, we touched glasses, and she said, “Welcome back.”