Gold Coast

For all the European detail, there are distinctly American features to the house, including large picture windows in the rear, a greenhouse-style breakfast room to capture the rising sun, a solarium on the roof, and an American infrastructure of steel beams, heating ducts, good plumbing, and safe electricity.

But to answer Lester Remsen's question, there is nothing architecturally significant or unique about this misplaced European palace. Had McKim, Mead, or White designed a truly new American house, whatever that might have been in 1906, then the landmark people and all the rest of the preservationists would say, "There is nothing like this in the whole country." But the architects and their American clients of this period were not looking into the future, or even trying to create the present; they were looking back over their shoulders into a European past that had flowered and died even before the first block of granite arrived on this site. What these people were trying to create or re-create here in this new world is beyond me. I can't put myself in their minds or their hearts, but I can sympathize with their struggle for an identity, with their puzzlement which has troubled Americans from the very begi

Well, what do I know about that? Actually, my ancestors were mostly farmers and fishermen, and fishing I do understand, but my ability to coax things from the ground is limited to inedibles, as Mr Bellarosa pointed out. I recalled his red wagon filled with vegetable seedlings, purchased at top dollar from an upscale nursery, and I decided he was a sham, too.

This whole silly Gold Coast was a sham, an American anomaly, in a country that was an anomaly to the rest of the world. Well, no one ever said the truth would make you happy – only free.

Of course, there were other yet undiscovered truths, and there were other people's truths, but that was yet to come.

I looked out at Stanhope Hall and beyond. The large gazebo, another American accoutrement, was visible on the back lawn, surrounded by overhanging sycamores, and in the distance was the English hedge maze, a ridiculous amusement for young ladies and their fatuous beaux, all of whom should have spent more time in the love temple and less time ru

The purpose of this place mystifies me, but there were a number of them built on the more lavish estates. I can only conjecture that classical nudity was acceptable; Greco-Roman tits and ass was not just art, it was one of the few ways to see T and A in 1906, and only millionaires could afford this expensive thrill.

I don't know if young women, or even mature ladies, ventured into the plum grove to see this porn palace, but you can be sure that Susan and I make good use of it on summer evenings. Susan likes being a vestal virgin surprised by John the Barbarian while praying in the temple. She's been deflowered about sixty times, which may be a record.

The temple may be a sham, but it is a beautiful sham, and Susan is no virgin, and I'm an imperfect barbarian, but the heart-stopping orgasms are real, and real things happen to real people even in Disney World. I knew right then that despite my recent disenchantment with my enchanted world, I was going to miss this place.

I got back into my Bronco and headed home.

CHAPTER 8

Lester Remsen showed up at my Locust Valley office on Monday afternoon to take care of Mrs Lauderbach's ten-million-dollar problem. The actual figure according to Lester's research department was, as of three P.M. that day, $10,132,564 and a few cents. This included about sixty years of unpaid dividends on which, unfortunately, no interest was given.

Mrs Lauderbach had a hairdresser's appointment and could not join us, but I had power of attorney and was prepared to sign most of the brokerage house's paperwork on her behalf. Lester and I went to the second-floor law library, which had been the study of the Victorian house on Birch Hill Road. We spread out our paperwork on the library table.

Lester commented, "This is one for the books. Good Lord, you'd think she'd be interested in this."

I shrugged. "She had grey roots."

Lester smiled and we began the tedious paperwork in which I had less interest than Mrs Lauderbach. I ordered coffee as we neared the end of the task. Lester handed me a document and I handed him one. Lester seemed not to be focusing on the task at hand, and he laid down the paper, stayed silent for a moment, and said, "She's how old? Seventy-eight?"

"She was when we started."

Lester seemed to miss my drollness and asked, "And you're also the attorney for her will?"

"That's correct."

"Can I ask who her heirs are?"

"You can ask, but I can't say." I added, however, "She has three children." Lester nodded. "I know one of them. Mary. She's married to Phil Crowley. They're in Old Westbury."

"That's right."

"I never knew the Lauderbachs had so much money."

"Neither did the Lauderbachs."

"Well, I mean, they always lived well. They used to own The Beeches, didn't they?" He looked at Mrs Lauderbach's address on a document. "But they've moved to a house in Oyster Bay village."

"Yes."

"They sold The Beeches to an Iranian Jew, didn't they?" "I didn't handle that. But yes, they did. They got a fair price, and the new owners are maintaining the property quite well."

"Hey, I don't care if they're Iranian Jews," Lester smiled. "Better than a Mafia don."

Better than twenty Lester Remsens. The Lauderbachs, incidentally, had used a large law firm with no co