Gold Coast

What interested me about this story was not that a lonely young war bride had had an affair with her older employer; what interested me was that Ethel Allard, the good Christian socialist, had done it for the lord of the manor and had perhaps blackmailed him, subtly or not so subtly.

A place like this is rife with interlocking relationships that, if explored, would be far more damaging to the social structure than depression, war, and taxes.

The Allards, by the way, have a daughter, Elizabeth, who looks enough like George to put my mind at ease concerning any more Stanhope heirs. Elizabeth, incidentally, is a successful boutique owner – a shopkeeper, like her maternal grandfather – with stores in three surrounding villages, and Susan makes a point of sending her acquisitive friends to all of them, though she herself is not much of a shopper. I saw Elizabeth's name in the local newspaper once in co

I spent the early afternoon doing errands in Locust Valley, then stopped at McGlade's, the local pub, for a beer. The usual Saturday crowd was there, including the pub's Softball team, back from trouncing the florist's ten pathetic sissies, who were there also and had a different version of the game. There were a few self-employed building-trade contractors who needed a drink after giving estimates to homeowners all morning, and there were the weekend joggers who all seemed to have a suspicious amount of tread left on their hundred-dollar ru

It was too nice a day to spend more than an hour in the pub, so I left, but before I did, I gave my plumber the name of an adoption attorney whose fees are moderate. He gave me the name of a handyman who could try a weld on the pipe. The wheels of American commerce spin, spin, spin.

I got into my Bronco and headed home. On the way back, I passed my office and assured myself it was still there. I thought about the ten million in stocks stashed in the vault. It would not be a problem to have Mrs Lauderbach – that's my client's name – sign the necessary papers for me to liquidate the stocks, and for me to hop on down to Rio for a very long vacation. And I didn't need Lester Remsen's help in this at all. But I've never violated a trust or stolen a nickel, and I never will. I felt very pious. What a day I was having. My mood stayed bright until I approached the gates of Stanhope Hall, when my brow, as they say, darkened. I'd never really noticed it before, but this place was getting me down. The truth, once it grabs hold of you, makes you take notice of the little buzzings in your head. This was not your garden-variety midlife crisis. This was no crisis at all. This was Revelation, Epiphany, Truth. Unfortunately, like most middle-aged men, I had no idea what to do with the truth. But I was open to suggestions.

I stopped at the gatehouse and looked in on the Allards, who were listening to the radio and reading. Ethel was engrossed in a copy of The New Republic, which may have been the only copy in Lattingtown, and George was perusing the Locust Valley Sentinel, which he's been reading for sixty years to keep abreast of who died, got married, had children, owed taxes, wanted zoning variances, or had a gripe they wanted to see in print.

I picked up Susan's and my mail, which is delivered to the gatehouse, and riffled through it on my way out. Ethel called after me, "There was a gentleman here to see you. He didn't leave his name."

Sometimes, as when the phone rings, you just know who's calling. And Ethel's stress on the word gentleman told me that this was no gentleman. I asked, "A dark-haired man driving a black Cadillac?"

"Yes."

Ethel never says 'sir', so George chimed in, "Yes, sir. I told him you were not receiving visitors today. I hope that was all right." He added, "I didn't know him, and I didn't think you did."

Or wanted to, George. I smiled at the image of Frank Bellarosa being told that Mr Sutter was not receiving today. I wondered if he knew that meant 'get lost'. George asked, "What shall I say if he calls again, sir?" I replied as if I'd already thought this out, and I guess I must have. "If I'm at home, show him in."

"Yes, sir," George replied with that smooth combination of professional disinterest and personal disagreement with the master. I left the gatehouse and climbed back into the Bronco.

I drove past the turnoff for my house and continued on toward the main house. Between my house and the main house, on Stanhope land, is the te

The design of the mansion, according to Susan and as described in various architectural books that mention Stanhope Hall, was based on French and Italian Renaissance prototypes. However, the exterior is not European marble, but is built of good Yankee granite. Spaced along the front are attached columns or wall pilasters with Ionic capitals, and in the centre of the house is a high, open portico with freestanding classical columns. The roof is flat, with a balustraded parapet ru