The Creek is a short ten-minute drive from Stanhope Hall, and before I could think of a good reason to turn around, we were headed up the long, tree-lined drive to the clubhouse.

The Creek Country Club is a very pleasant place with a golf course, a beach with a cabana on the Sound, tennis courts, and guest cottages where either the Stanhopes or I would be staying shortly. The clubhouse is an old mansion that still exudes charm and grace, and the food is good after a few cocktails, and gets better after a bottle or two of wine. The service is sometimes off, but that’s part of the charm, which I’d tried to explain to Mr. Frank Bellarosa when he and Anna had been our guests here. Frank hadn’t quite understood the old tradition of so-so club food and quirky service, which marked him as an unsophisticated lout. There were other problems with his visit here that night, of course, including his and his wife’s attire, his snapping at Richard, the old waiter who’d been here forever, and, as I mentioned, his unrealistic and incomprehensible desire to be a member of this club. But thank God I’d avoided that awkward situation when Susan shot him.

I parked in the small lot and we went inside. Susan checked in, and we skipped the bar and lounge, which was crowded and fraught with unpleasant possibilities. The hostess showed us directly to the dining room, seated us at a table for two in the corner, then took our drink orders.

There weren’t many people dining this evening, but I saw a few familiar faces, though no former friends or former clients.

Susan asked me, “Are you happy to be here?”

I replied, “When I am with you, darling, I can be happy anywhere.”

“Good. We’ll take my parents here one night.”

I assured her, “If they are comfortable with that, then I look forward to it.”

She seemed a bit skeptical, but said, “They love me and want me to be happy.”

“Then we all have something in common.”

She suggested, “Maybe we’ll have our wedding reception here.”

“I wouldn’t want to put your father through that expense again. I mean, same husband and all that.”

She informed me, “This one is on us.”

I wondered who paid for Susan’s wedding to Dan what’s-his-name. I suggested, “Let’s keep it small.”

“Maybe we could do it outdoors at the guest cottage.”

“Don’t forget to invite the Nasims. They love a party.”

She reminisced, “Our reception at Stanhope Hall was the highlight of the summer season.”

Susan had apparently forgotten that it was a theme party, and the theme, set by her father, was “Let’s relive World War II” – with food rationing, liquor shortages, and blackout conditions after 10:00 P.M. I said, “It was a night to remember.”

She had a good idea and exclaimed, “John, let’s do it at Seawanhaka!” She looked at me and continued, “That’s where we met, and you’re a sailor, so that would be perfect.”

All this wedding talk was making me jumpy, so to move on, I agreed. “Perfect.”

“Wonderful. I’ll call tomorrow and see what’s available.”

“Call me, too, and see if I’m available.”

She took that well and smiled.

Our waitress came with our drinks – two wimpy white wines – and delivered the menus.

Susan and I clinked glasses, and I said, “Lovelier the second time around.”

“You’re so sweet.”

I scanned the menu to see if they’d added an Italian dish since the celebrity Mafia don had dined here. Veal Bellarosa? The Don’s Famous Machine Gun Meatballs? Shotgun Pasta Made with Real Shells?

Susan said, “Order sensibly.”

“I was thinking of the Chicken Kevlar.”

“Where do you see that?”

“Entrées, third down.”

She looked and said, “That’s Chicken Kiev.”

“Oh… right. Kiev.” I put down my menu and said, “It’s hard to read in this light. You order for me.”

The waitress returned, and Susan ordered chopped salad for two and two poached scrod, which made my mouth water just thinking about it.

Anyway, it was a pleasant and uneventful dinner at The Creek, uninterrupted by anyone we knew, and I was thankful that it was a quiet night in the dining room.

On our way out, however, I caught a glimpse of the bar and lounge and saw a number of people I knew, and a few of them spotted Susan and me. In fact, I saw a lady at one of the tables who reminded me of my mother. Actually, it was my mother, sitting with four ladies of her age.

She hadn’t seen me, so I continued on toward the front door.

I had not seen my mother since Aunt Cornelia’s funeral four years ago, though we’d spoken on the phone about once a month and exchanged appropriate greeting cards. I’d invited her to London, but like many active senior citizens these days, she was too busy. In fact, she was traveling a lot with Elderhostel – not to London, but to exotic places where she could commune with nature and bond with indigenous people who were wise, noble, unmaterialistic, and probably unhygienic. So she was not tempted by my offer to take her to the Imperial War Museum.

Harriet had been a founding member of the Conflicted Socialist Party, refusing, on principle, to join a private club, but not hesitating to be my or someone else’s guest. And now, since my father died, it appeared that she’d become a guest of what some members called the Widows’ Wine and Whine Club. I used to spot these ladies in the cocktail lounge here, sipping their wine or sherry, and speaking of their dearly departed husbands with far more affection than they actually had for them when those pains in the asses were alive.

I continued with Susan out the front door. But then I stopped and said, “The time has come to meet the beast.”

“What do you mean?”

“My mother is in the lounge.”

“John, that’s awful.” She added, “Let’s go say hello.”

We retraced our steps and entered the lounge.

Harriet spotted us as we entered, stood, and let out a screech of joy. “John! John!” She said to her friends, “Girls! It’s my son, John! Oh, what good and blessed fortune has smiled on me tonight.”

Those were not her exact words. In fact, she had no words, so overcome was she with emotion.

I walked to the table with Susan, who took the lead and bent over and exchanged a hug and kiss with her once and future mother-in-law. I did the same.

Harriet introduced us to her friends by saying, “Ladies, this is my son, John, whom I think some of you may remember, and this is his former wife, Susan Stanhope, whom I think you all know, or you know her parents.” She then introduced the four ladies to us, and indeed I remembered the Merry Widows or their late husbands, some of whom appeared to be alive the last time I saw them.

Harriet was dressed chicly in her 1970s peasant outfit, and probably wore the same sandals she’d worn at her first anti-war demonstration. That was before Vietnam, so it was another war, though which one remains a mystery to this day. Harriet has long gray hair that I think she was born with, and the only jewelry she wears is made by indigenous people who’ve been screwed by Western Civilization, and are now returning the favor.

We made idle chatter with the ladies for about one minute, and I could sense that some people at the bar and tables were talking about us. I haven’t had so much attention in a bar since cocktails here with the Bellarosas ten years ago.

Harriet did not invite us to sit, so Susan took the opportunity to say to my mother and her friends, “I’m going to steal Harriet away for a minute, if that’s all right.”

Harriet excused herself, and we went to the lobby. If my mother was wondering why Susan and I were together, she wasn’t bursting at the seams to know, and she just looked at Susan.

Susan said to her, “John wants to tell you something.”

Indeed, I had many things I wanted to tell Harriet, but I resisted the impulse and said, “Susan and I have reconciled.”