"Gold Coast" - читать интересную книгу автора (Demille Nelson)

CHAPTER 6

The following week passed without incident. I went to my law office in Locust Valley on Monday, then commuted by train to my Manhattan office on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Friday found me back in Locust Valley. I follow this schedule whenever I can as it gives me just enough of the city to make me a Wall Street lawyer, but not so much as to put me solidly into the commuting class. I am a partner in my father's firm of Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds. The firm is defined as small, old, Wasp, Wall Street, carriage trade, and so on. You get the idea. The Manhattan office is located in the prestigious J. P. Morgan Building at 23 Wall Street, and our clientele are mostly wealthy individuals, not firms. The office's decor, which has not changed much since the 1920s, is what I call Wasp squalor, reeking of rancid lemon polish, deteriorating leather, pipe tobacco, and respectability.

The Morgan Building, incidentally, was bombed by the anarchists in 1920, killing and injuring about four hundred people – I can still see the bomb scars on the stonework – and every year we get a bomb threat on the anniversary of the original bombing. It's a tradition. Also, after the Crash of '29, this building chalked up six jumpers, which I think is the record for an individual building. So perhaps along with prestigious, I should add historic and ill-omened. The Locust Valley office is less interesting. It's a nice Victorian house on Birch Hill Road, one of the village's main streets, and we've been there since 1921 without any excitement. Most of the Locust Valley clientele are older people whose legal problems seem to consist mostly of disinheriting nieces and nephews, and endowing shelters for homeless cats.

The work in the city – stocks, bonds, and taxes – is interesting but meaningless. The country work – wills, house closings, and general advice on life – is more meaningful but not interesting. It's the best of both worlds. Most of the older clientele are friends of my father and of Messrs Perkins and Reynolds. The first Mr Perkins on the letterhead, Frederic, was a friend of J. P. Morgan, and was one of the legendary Wall Street movers and shakers of the 1920s, until November 5, 1929, when he became a legendary Wall Street jumper. I suppose the margin calls got on his nerves. My father once said of this incident, "Thank God he didn't hurt anyone on the sidewalk, or we'd still be in litigation."

Anyway, the second Mr Perkins, Frederic's son, Eugene, is retired and has moved down to Nags Head, North Carolina. The Carolinas seem to have become a respectable retirement destination, as opposed to Florida, most of which is considered by people around here as unfit for human habitation. And the last senior partner, Julian Reynolds, is also retired, in a manner of speaking. He sits in the large corner office down the hall and watches the harbour. I have no idea what he's looking at or for. Actually, he occupies the same office from which Mr Frederic Perkins suddenly exited this firm, though I don't think that has any relevance to Julian's fascination with the window. My secretary, Louise, interrupts Mr Reynolds's vigil every day at five, and a limousine takes him uptown to his Sutton Place apartment, which offers an excellent view of the East River. I think the poor gentleman has old-timers' disease.

My father, Joseph Sutter, had the good sense to retire before anyone wanted him to. That was three years ago, and I remember the day with some emotion. He called me into his office, told me to sit in his chair, and left. I thought he had stepped out for a moment, but he never came back. My parents are still alive, but not so you'd notice. Southampton is on the eastern side of Long Island, only about sixty miles from Lattingtown and Locust Valley, but my parents have decided to make it further. There is no bad blood between us; their silence is just their way of showing me that they are sure I'm doing fine. I guess.

As you may have gathered or already known, many white Anglo-Saxon Protestants of the upper classes have the same sort of relationship with their one or two offspring as, say, a sockeye salmon has with its one or two million eggs. I probably have the same relationship with my parents as they had with theirs. My relationship with my own children, Carolyn, age nineteen, and Edward, seventeen, is somewhat warmer, as there seems to be a general warming trend in modern relationships of all sorts. But what we lack in warmth, we make up for in security, rules of behaviour, and tradition. There are times, however, when I miss my children and wouldn't even mind hearing from my parents. Actually, Susan and I have a summer house in East Hampton, a few miles from Southampton, and we see my parents each Friday night for dinner during July and August whether we're all hungry or not.

As for Susan's parents, I call Hilton Head once a month to deliver a situation report, but I've never been down there. Susan flies down once in a while, but rarely calls. The Stanhopes never come up unless they have to attend personally to some business. We do the best we can to keep contact at a minimum, and the fax machine has been a blessing in this regard.

Susan's brother, Peter, never married and is travelling around the world trying to find the meaning of life. From the postmarks on his infrequent letters -

Sorrento, Monte Carlo, Cannes, Grenoble, and so forth – I think he's trying the right places.

I have a sister, Emily, who followed her IBM husband on a corporate odyssey through seven unpleasant American cities over ten years. Last year, Emily, who is a very attractive woman, found the meaning of life on a beach in Galveston, Texas, in the form of a young stud, named Gary, and has filed for divorce. Anyway, on Friday afternoon, I left the Locust Valley office early and drove the few miles up to The Creek for a drink. This is a tradition, too, and a lot more pleasant one than some others.

I drove through the gates of the country club and followed the gravel lane, bordered by magnificent old American elms, toward the clubhouse. I didn't see Susan's Jag in the parking field. She sometimes comes up and has a drink on Fridays, then we have dinner at the club or go elsewhere. I pulled my Bronco into an empty slot and headed for the clubhouse.

One of the nice things about having old money, or having other people think you do, is that you can drive anything you want. In fact, the richest man I know, a Vanderbilt, drives a 1977 Chevy wagon. People around here take it as an eccentricity or a display of supreme confidence. This is not California, where your car accounts for fifty percent of your personality. Besides, it's not what you drive that's important; it's what kind of parking stickers you have on your bumper that matters. I have a Locust Valley parking sticker, and a Creek, Seawanhaka Corinthian, and Southampton Tennis Club sticker, and that says it all, sort of like the civilian equivalents of military medals, except you don't wear them on your clothes.

So I entered The Creek clubhouse, a large Georgian-style building. Being a former residence, there is nothing commercial looking about the place. It has instead an intimate yet elegant atmosphere, with a number of large and small rooms used for dining, card playing, and just hiding out. In the rear is the cocktail lounge, which looks out over part of the golf course and the old polo field, and in the distance one can see the Long Island Sound, where The Creek has beach cabanas. There is indoor tennis, platform tennis, possibly skeet shooting, and other diversions for mind and body. It is an oasis of earthly pleasure for about three hundred well-connected families. Someday it will be a housing subdivision and they will call it The Creek Estates. Anyway, I went into the lounge, which was filled mostly with men who were in that Friday mood that reminds me of grinning idiots at a locker room victory party.

There were the usual hellos and hi, Johns, a few backslaps, and assorted hale-fellow-well-met rituals. More interestingly, I caught a wink from Beryl Carlisle, whom I would dearly love to pop if I weren't so faithful. I looked around the room, assured once again that there were still so many of us left. An Englishman once said that he found it easier to be a member of a club than of the human race because the bylaws were shorter, and he knew all the members personally. That sounds about right.

I spotted Lester Remsen sitting at a table near the window with Randall Potter and Martin Vandermeer.

I thought the best thing to do regarding Lester, whom I hadn't heard from since Sunday, was to just go over and sit down, so I did. Lester greeted me a bit coolly, and I had the impression the other two had just gotten a negative evaluation report on me. The cocktail waitress came by, and I ordered a gin martini, straight up.

Regarding bylaws, the rules of this club, like those of many others, prohibit the talking of business, the original purpose being to provide an atmosphere of forced relaxation. These days we like to pretend that this bylaw precludes members from having an unfair business advantage over people who are not allowed in the club. Americans take their economic rights very seriously, and so do the courts. But the business of America is business, so Randall and Martin went back to their business discussion, and I took the opportunity to address a question to Lester Remsen. "I have a client," I said, "a woman in her seventies, with fifty thousand shares of Chase National Bank stock. The stock was issued in 1928 and 1929 -" Lester leaned toward me. "You mean she has the actual certificates?" "Yes. She lugged them into my Locust Valley office in a valise. They were left to her by her husband, who died last month."

"My Lord," Lester exclaimed. "I've never seen Chase National certificates.

That's Chase Manhattan now, you know."

"No, I didn't know. That's what I wanted to speak to you about." Of course I did know, but I could see Lester's feathers getting smoother and shinier. Lester asked, "What did they look like?"

Some men get excited by Hustler; Lester apparently got excited by old stock certificates. Whatever turns you on, I say. I replied, "They were a light-green tint with ornate black letters and an engraving of a bank building." I described the certificates as best I could, and you would have thought by the way Lester's eyes brightened that I'd said they had big tits.

"Anyway," I continued, "here's the kicker. On the back of the certificates, there is the following legend: 'Attached share for share is an equal number of shares of Amerex Corp.'" I shrugged to show him I didn't know what that meant, and I really didn't.

Lester rose a few inches in his club chair. "Amerex is now American Express, a nothing company then. It says that?"

"Yes." Even I was a little excited by this news.

Lester said, "American Express is thirty-three and a half at today's close. That means…" I could see the mainframe computer between Lester's ears blinking, and he said, "That's one million, six hundred and seventy-five thousand. For American Express. Chase Manhattan was thirty-four and a quarter at the close…" Lester closed his eyes, furrowed his brow, and his mouth opened with the news: "That's one million, seven hundred and twelve thousand, five hundred." Lester never says 'dollars'. No one around here ever says 'dollars'. I suppose if you worship money, then like an ancient Hebrew who may not pronounce the name of God, no one in this temple will ever pronounce the word dollars. I asked, "So these shares are good front and back?"

"I can't verify that without examining them, but it sounds as if they are. And, of course, the figures I gave you don't take into account all the stock splits since 1929. We could be talking about ten, maybe ten point five." This means ten or ten and a half million. That means dollars. This was indeed good news to my client who didn't need the money anyway. I said, "That will make the widow happy."

"Has she been collecting dividends on these stocks?"

"I don't know. But I'm handling her deceased husband's estate, so I'll know that as I wade through the paperwork."

Lester nodded thoughtfully and said, "If for some reason Chase or American Express lost touch with these people over the years, there could also be a small fortune in accrued dividends."

I nodded. "My client is vague. You know how some of these old dowagers are." "Indeed, I do," said Lester. "I'd be happy to send the information to my research department for verification. If you'll just send me photostats of the certificates, front and back, I'll let you know how many times each company's shares have split, what they're worth today, and let you know if Chase or American Express is looking for your client so they can pay her dividends." "Would you? That would be very helpful."

"The shares ought to be examined and authenticated, and they should really be turned in for new certificates. Or better yet, let a brokerage house hold the new certificates in an account. No need to have that kind of money lying around. I'm surprised they've survived over sixty years already without mishap." "That sounds like good advice. I'd like to open an account with you on behalf of my client."

"Of course. Why don't you bring me the actual certificates to my office on Monday? And bring your client along if you can. I'll need her to sign some papers, and I'll need the pertinent information from the estate establishing her ownership as beneficiary and all that."

"Better yet, why don't you come to my office after the close? Monday, four-thirty."

"Certainly. Where are the shares now?"

"In my vault," I replied, "and I don't want them there." Lester thought a moment, then smiled. "You know, John, as the attorney handling the estate, you could conceivably turn those shares into cash." "Now why would I want to do that?"

Lester forced a laugh. "Let me handle the transaction, and we'll split about ten million." He laughed again to show he was joking. Ha, ha, ha. I replied, "Even by today's Wall Street standards, that might be construed as unethical." I smiled to show I was sharing Lester's little joke, and Lester smiled back, but I could see he was thinking about what he'd do with ten million in his vault over the weekend. Lester wouldn't give it to the cats.

After a few more minutes of this, Randall and Martin joined our conversation, and the subject turned to golf, tennis, shooting, and sailing. In most of America that Friday night, in every pub and saloon, the sports under discussion were football, baseball, and basketball, but to the best of my knowledge no one here has yet had the courage to say. "Hey! How about those Mets?" Other taboo subjects include the usual – religion, politics, and sex, though it doesn't say this in the bylaws. And while we're on the subject of sex, Beryl Carlisle, who was sitting with her pompous ass of a husband, caught my eye and smiled. Lester and Randall saw it but did not say something like, "Hey, Johnny boy, that broad is hot for your tool," as you might expect men to say in a bar. On the contrary, they let the incident pass without even a knowing glance. Lester was going on about the damned skeet shooting again, but my mind was on Beryl Carlisle and the pros and cons of adultery.

"John?"

I looked at Randall Potter. "Huh?"

"I said, Lester tells me you actually met Frank Bellarosa." Apparently someone had changed the subject during my mental absence. I cleared my throat. "Yes… I did. Very briefly. At Hicks' Nursery." "Nice chap?"

I glanced at Lester, who refused to look me in the eye and acknowledge that he had a big mouth.

I replied to Randall Potter, "'Polite' might be a better word." Martin Vandermeer leaned toward me. Martin is a direct descendent of an original old Knickerbocker family and is the type of man who would like to remind us Anglo-Saxons that his ancestors greeted the first boatload of Englishmen in New Amsterdam Harbor with cannon fire. Martin asked, "Polite in what way, John?" "Well, perhaps "respectful" is a better word," I replied, searching my mental thesaurus and stretching my credibility.

Martin Vandermeer nodded in his ponderous Dutch manner. I don't want to give the impression that I'm cowed by these people; in fact, they're often cowed by me. It's just that when you make a faux pas, I mean really blow it, like saying a Mafia don is a nice chap and suggesting that you would rather have him as a neighbour than a hundred Lester Remsens, well then, you've got to clarify what you meant. Politicians do it all the time. Anyway, I didn't know what these three were so unhappy about; I was the one who had to live next door to Frank Bellarosa.

Randall asked me, with real interest, "Did he have any bodyguards with him?" "Actually, now that you mention it, he had a driver who put his purchases in the trunk. Black Cadillac," I added with a little smirk to show what I thought of black Cadillacs.

Martin wondered aloud, "Do these people go about armed?"

I think I had become the club expert on the Mafia, so I answered, "Not the dons.

Not usually. They don't want trouble with the police." Randall said, "But didn't Bellarosa kill a Colombian drug dealer some months ago?"

On the other hand, I didn't want to sound like a Mafia groupie, so I shrugged. "I don't know." But in fact I recall the news stories back in January, I think, because it struck me at the time that a man as highly placed as Bellarosa would have to be insane to personally commit a murder.

Lester wanted to know, "What do you suppose he was doing at Hicks'?" "Maybe he works there on weekends," I suggested. This got a little chuckle out of everyone, and we ordered another round. I wanted desperately to turn my head toward Beryl Carlisle again, but I knew I couldn't get away with it a second time.

Martin's wife, Pauline, showed up and stood at the door near the bar, trying to get his attention by flapping her arms like a windmill. Martin finally noticed and lifted his great roast beef of a body, then ambled over to his wife. Randall then excused himself to talk to his son-in-law. Lester Remsen and I sat in silence a moment, then I said, "Susan tells me I made an unfortunate remark last Sunday, and if I did, I want you to know it was unintentional." This is the Wasp equivalent of an apology. If it's worded just right, it leaves some doubt that you think any apology is required.

Lester waved his hand in dismissal. "Never mind that. Did you get a chance to look at Meudon?"

This is the Wasp equivalent of "I fully accept your halfhearted apology." I replied to Lester, "Yes, I took the Bronco over the acreage just this morning. I haven't seen it in years, and it's quite overgrown, but the specimen trees are in remarkably good shape."

We spoke about Meudon for a while. Lester, you should understand, is no nature nut in the true sense, and neither are most of his friends and my neighbours. But, as I said, they've discovered that nature nuts can be useful to achieve their own ends, which is to preserve their lifestyle. This has resulted in an odd coalition of gentry and students, rich estate owners, and middle-class people. I am both gentry and nature nut and am therefore invaluable. Lester proclaimed, "I don't want fifty two-million-dollar tractor sheds in my backyard."

That's what Lester calls contemporary homes: tractor sheds. I nodded in sympathy.

He asked, "Can't we get Meudon rezoned for twenty-acre plots?" "Maybe. We have to wait until the developer files his environmental impact statement."

"All right. We'll keep an eye on that. What's the story with your place?" Stanhope Hall, as you know, is not my place, but Lester was being both polite and nosey. I replied, There are no takers for the whole two hundred acres with the house as a single estate, and no takers for the house with ten surrounding acres. I've advertised it both ways."

Lester nodded in understanding. The future of Stanhope Hall, the main house, is uncertain. A house that size, you understand, may be someone's dream palace, but even an Arab sheik at today's crude oil prices would have a hard time maintaining and staffing a place that's as big as a medium-size hotel. Lester said, "It's such a beautiful house. Got an award, didn't it?" "Several. Town amp; Country noted it best American house of the year when it was built in 1906. But times change." The other option was to tear the place down, as Meudon Palace had been torn down. This would force the tax authorities to reassess the property as undeveloped land. The guesthouse is Susan's, and we pay separate tax rates on that, and the gatehouse where the Allards live is theoretically protected by Grandfather Stanhope's will. Lester said, "What sort of people seem interested in the house?"

"The sort who think five hundred thousand sounds good for a fifty-room house." That's what I'm trying to get for it with ten acres attached. The irony is that it cost five million dollars in 1906 to construct. That's about twenty-five million of today's dollars. Aside from any aesthetic considerations about tearing down Stanhope Hall, my frugal father-in-law, William Stanhope, would have to consider the cost of knocking down a granite structure built to last a millennium and then trucking the debris someplace as per the new environmental laws. The granite and marble used to build Stanhope Hall came here to Long Island by railroad from Vermont. Maybe Vermont wants the rubble back. Susan, incidentally, does not care about the main house or the other structures – except the stables and tennis courts – which I find interesting. Whatever memories are attached to the house, the gazebo, and the love temple are apparently not important or good. She was upset the night that vandals burned down her playhouse. It was a sort of Hansel and Gretel gingerbread house, as big as a small cottage, but made of wood and in bad repair. One can only imagine a lonely little rich girl with her dolls playing lonely games in a house all her own.

Lester inquired, "Did you hear from the county park people yet?" "Yes," I replied. "A fellow named Pinelli at the park commissioner's office. He said he thought the county owned enough Gold Coast mansions for the time being. But that might only be their opening gambit, because Pinelli asked me if the house had any architectural or historical significance." "Well," said Lester, "it certainly has architectural significance. Who was the architect?"

"McKim, Mead, White," I replied. Neither history nor architecture is Lester's strong point, but in addition to becoming a nature nut, he's becoming an authority on the social and architectural history of the Gold Coast. I added, "As for historical significance, I know that Teddy Roosevelt used to pop over from Oyster Bay now and then, and Lindbergh dined there while he was staying with the Guggenheims. There were other noteworthy guests, but I think the county is looking for something more significant than dinner. I'll have to research it."

"How about making something up?" Lester suggested half jokingly. "Like maybe Teddy Roosevelt drafted a treaty or a speech at Stanhope Hall." I ignored that and continued, "One of the problems with selling the estate to the county as a museum and park is that Grace Lane is still private, as you know, and that doesn't sit well with the county bureaucrats. Nor would I be very popular on Grace Lane if a thousand cars full of people from Brooklyn and Queens showed up every weekend to gawk."

"No, you wouldn't," Lester assured me.

"Bottom line, Lester, if the county did make an offer, it would only offer a price equal to the back taxes. That's their game."

Lester did not ask how much that was, because he had probably looked it up in the public record or saw it published in the Locust Valley Sentinel under the heading TAX DELINQUENCIES.

The back taxes on Stanhope Hall, including interest and penalties, is about four hundred thousand dollars, give or take. You can look it up. Well, you might be thinking, "If I owed four thousand dollars, let alone four hundred thousand dollars, in back taxes, they'd grab my house and kids." Probably. But the rich are different. They have better lawyers, like me.

However, I've nearly exhausted all the legal manoeuvres that I learned at Harvard Law, and I can't forestall a tax sale or foreclosure on this potentially valuable property for much longer. I don't normally do legal work for free, but William Stanhope hasn't offered to pay me for my services, so I guess I'm making an exception for my father-in-law. Not only is it true that the rich do not pay their bills promptly, but when they do finally pay, they like to decide for themselves how much they owe.

Lester seemed to be reading my dark thoughts because he said, "I trust your father-in-law appreciates all you've done."

"I'm sure he does. However, he has lost touch with the new realities here regarding land use and environmental concerns. If he can't sell the whole estate intact, he wants it subdivided and sold to developers. Even if I could get the two hundred acres divided, there's the house to deal with. William has the idea that a developer will either tear down the old house or offer it to the new residents as a clubhouse or some such thing. Unfortunately, it's expensive to tear down and much too expensive for twenty new households to maintain it." "It certainly is a white elephant," Lester informed me. "But you are trying to preserve that land if not the house."

"Of course. But it's not my land. I'm in the same situation as you are, Lester, living in splendid isolation on a few acres of a dead estate. I'm master of only about five percent of what I survey."

Lester thought about that a moment, then said, "Well, maybe a white knight will come along to save the white elephant."

"Maybe." A white knight in this context is a non-profit group such as a private school, religious institution, or sometimes a health care facility. Estate houses and their grounds seem to lend themselves to this sort of use, and most of the neighbours can live with this arrangement because it keeps the land open and the population density low. I wouldn't mind a few nuns strolling around Stanhope's acres, or even a few nervous-breakdown cases, or, least desirable, private-school students.

Lester asked, "Did you ever contact that real estate firm in Glen Cove that puts corporations together with estate owners?"

"Yes, but there seems to be a glut of estates and a dearth of corporations that need them." I should point out that corporations have bought entire estates for their own use. The old Astor estate in Sands Point, for instance, is now an IBM country club, and one of the many Pratt estates in Glen Cove is a conference centre. Also, one of the Vanderbilt estates, an Elizabethan manor house with a hundred acres in Old Brookville, is now the corporate headquarters to Banfi Vintners, who have restored the sixty-room house and grounds to its former glory. Any of these uses would be preferable to… well, to twenty tractor sheds inhabited by stockbrokers and their broods.

William Stanhope, incidentally, is far enough removed from here not to fully appreciate the fact that my environmental activities and his instructions to me are very nearly mutually exclusive. This is called a conflict of interest and is both unethical and illegal. But I really don't care. He's getting what he's paying for.

My father-in-law, you understand, can, if pushed, come up with the four hundred thousand dollars in back taxes but chooses not to, not until he's got a buyer or until the day before a tax seizure takes place. He fully intends to protect his huge asset unless and until he determines it is a liability and cannot be sold in his lifetime.

If you're wondering what this white elephant is worth to William Stanhope and his heirs and successors, here are the figures: two hundred acres, if they could be rezoned into ten-acre plots, would fetch over a million dollars a plot on the fabled Gold Coast, which amounts to a total of over twenty million dollars before taxes.

Susan, I assume, will eventually inherit enough money to get herself a full-time stable mucker and someone to help me and old George with the gardening. If you're wondering what else is in it for me, you should know that these sorts of people rarely let money get out of the immediate family. In fact, I entered into a prenuptial agreement long before the middle class even knew such a thing existed. William Stanhope and his paid attorney drew up the 'marriage contract', as it was then called, and I acted as my own attorney, proving the adage that a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client. Anyway, William has been getting free legal advice from the fool ever since.

On the brighter side, Edward and Carolyn have a trust fund into which Stanhope monies are deposited. And in fairness to Susan, the 'marriage contract' was not her idea. I don't want the Stanhope money anyway, but neither do I want the Stanhope problems. I said to Lester, "Neither Susan nor I am in favour of suburban sprawl, nor, specifically, the development of Stanhope Hall for monetary gain. But if this paradise is to be down-zoned to limbo, then we each have to decide if we wish to stay or leave. That is also an option." "Leave for where, John? Where do people like us go?"

"Hilton Head."

"Hilton Head?"

"Any planned little Eden where nothing will ever change."

"This is my home, John. The Remsens have been here for over two hundred years." "And so have the Whitmans and the Sutters. You know that." In fact, I should tell you that Lester Remsen and I are related in some murky way that neither of us chooses to clarify.

Families that predate the millionaires can indulge themselves in some snobbery, even if their forebears were fishermen and farmers. I said to Lester, "We're on borrowed time here. You know that."

"Are you playing devil's advocate, or are you giving up? Are you and Susan moving? Is this Bellarosa thing the last straw?"

Sometimes I think Lester likes me, so I took the question as a show of concern and not an expression of desire. I replied, "I've thought of it. Susan has never once mentioned it."

"Where would you go?"

I didn't know five seconds before he asked, but then it occurred to me. "I would go to sea."

"Where?"

"Sea, sea. That wet stuff that makes waterfront property so expensive."

"Oh…"

"I'm a good sailor. I'd get a sixty footer and just go." I was excited now.

"First I'd go down the Intracoastal Waterway to Florida, then into the Caribbean

– "

"But what about Susan?" he interrupted.

"What about her?"

"The horses, man. The horses."

I thought a moment. In truth, a horse would be a problem on a boat. I ordered another drink.

We sat and drank in silence awhile. I was beginning to feel the effects of the fourth martini. I looked around for Beryl Carlisle, but her idiot of a husband caught my eye. I smiled stupidly at him, then turned to Lester. "Nice chap." "Who?"

"Beryl Carlisle's husband."

"He's a schmuck."

Lester picks up words like that where he works. Putz is another one. They seem like excellent words, but I just can't seem to find the opportunity to try one of them.

We sat awhile longer, and the crowd was starting to thin. I wondered where Susan was and if I was supposed to meet her somewhere. Susan has this habit of thinking she's told me something when she hasn't, and then accusing me of forgetting. I understand from friends that this is quite common among wives. I ordered another drink to jog my memory.

Horses and boats went through my mind, and I tried to reconcile the two. I had this neat mental image of Zanzibar, stuffed and mounted on the bow of my new sixty-foot schooner.

I looked at Lester, who seemed deep in his own reveries, which probably ran along the lines of horse-mounted gentry burning down tractor sheds and trampling tricycles.

I heard Susan's voice beside me. "Hello, Lester," she said. "Are you still insulted? You look all right." Susan can be direct at times. Lester asked, "What do you mean?" feigning ignorance.

Susan ignored that and asked, "Where's Judy?"

Lester said with real ignorance, "I don't know." He thought a moment and added, "I should call her."

"First you have to know where she is," Susan pointed out. "What were you and John talking about?"

"Stocks and golf," I answered before Lester could dredge up the subject of Stanhope Hall again, which is not Susan's favourite topic. I said to Lester, "While you're trying to remember where your wife is, would you like to join us for dinner?" I shouldn't have had the fourth or fifth martini. Actually, the fifth was okay. It was the fourth I shouldn't have had.

Lester rose unsteadily. "I remember now. We're having people for dinner."

Susan said, "You must get me the recipe."

Susan was obviously irked at something. Poor Lester seemed muddled. He said, "Yes, of course I can. Would you like to come along? I'll call." Susan replied, "Thanks, but we have dinner plans."

I didn't know if this was true or not, because Susan never tells me these things.

Lester wished us a good evening, and Susan told him to drive carefully. I stood and steadied myself against the wall. I smiled at Susan. "Good to see you."

"How many of me do you see?" she asked.

"I'm quite sober," I assured her, then changed the subject. I said, "I see the Carlisles here. I thought we'd ask if they could join us for dinner." "Why?"

"Isn't she a friend of yours?" I asked.

"No."

"I thought she was. I rather like…" – I couldn't remember his name – "her husband."

"You think he's a pompous ass." She added, "We have dinner plans."

"With whom?"

"I told you this morning."

"No, you didn't. With whom? Where? I can't drive."

"That's obvious." She took my arm. "We're having dinner here." We made our way through the house to the opposite wing and arrived at the largest of the dining rooms. Susan directed me toward a table at which sat the Vandermeers, of all people.

It was obvious to me that Martin's wife had also failed to inform him of the evening's plans.

Susan and I sat at the round table with the white tablecloth and exchanged small talk with the Vandermeers. Sometimes I think that Eli Whitney got his idea of interchangeable parts from upper middle-class society where all the people are interchangeable. Everyone in that room could have switched tables all night, and the conversations wouldn't have missed a beat.

I realized that my growing criticism of my peers was more a result of changes within me than any changes in them. What had once made me comfortable was now making me restless, and I was, quite frankly, concerned about the compromises and accommodations that had taken over my life in insidious ways. I was fed up with being the caretaker of Stanhope Hall, tired of everyone's obsession with the status quo, impatient with the small talk, annoyed at old ladies who walked into my office with ten million dollars in an old valise, and generally unhappy with what had once made me content.

Oddly enough, I didn't recall feeling that way the week before. I wasn't certain how this revelation came about, but revelations are like that; they just smack you across the face one day, and you know you've arrived at the truth without even knowing you were looking for it. What you do about it is another matter. I didn't realize it then, but I was ready for a great adventure. What I also didn't know was that my new next-door neighbour had decided to provide one for me.