most desirable. As for shooting your lover, well, it was not completely unheard of, and with a little spin, a tawdry crime of passion could be repackaged as a matter of honor. Bottom line on this was that Susan Sutter was a Stanhope, a name permanently entered into the Blue Book. Substitute any other local family name—Vanderbilt, Roosevelt, Pratt, Whitney, Grace, Post, Hutton, Morgan, or whatever—and you begin to understand the unwritten rules and privileges.
I watched Susan and Taffy lunching and talking, and I took a last look at Susan. Then I turned and walked to my car.
CHAPTER FIVE
T he next day, Wednesday, was overcast, so I didn’t mind spending the day in the dining room of the gatehouse, my mind sometimes focused on the paperwork at hand, sometimes wandering into the past that was spread before me.
I still hadn’t burned the nude photos of Susan, and I thought again about actually giving them to her; they weren’t exclusively mine, and she might want them. What would Emily Post say? “Dear Confused on Long Island, Nude photographs of a former spouse or lover should be returned, discreetly, via registered mail, and clearly marked, ‘Nude Photographs—Do Not Bend.’ An enclosed explanation is not usually necessary or appropriate, though in recent years the sender often indicates in a short note that the photographs have not been posted on the Internet. The recipient should send a thank-you note within ten days. (Signed) Emily Post.”
On the subject of communication between ex-spouses, in my phone calls to and from Edward and Carolyn, they’d both given me their mother’s new home phone number and told me that she had kept her South Carolina cell phone number. Plus, I had her e-mail address, though I didn’t have a computer. Susan, of course, knew Ethel’s phone number here, which hadn’t changed since FDR was President. So . . . someone should call someone.
I went back to my paperwork. I found my marriage license and I also found my divorce decree, so I stapled them together. What came in between was another whole story.
Regarding my divorce decree, I’d need this in the unlikely event I decided to remarry. In fact, the lady in London, Samantha, had said to me, “Why don’t we get married?” to which I’d replied, “Great idea. But who would have us?”
I’d spoken to Samantha a few times since I’d left London, and she wanted to fly to New York, but since the relationship was up in the air, Samantha wasn’t up in the air.
I pulled a manila envelope toward me that was marked, in Susan’s handwriting, “Photos for Album.” They hadn’t made it into any album and were not likely to do so. I spilled out the photos and saw that they were mostly of the Sutters, the Stanhopes, and the Allards, taken over a period of many years, primarily on holiday occasions—Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, birthdays, and all that.
The whole cast was there—William and Charlotte Stanhope and their wastrel son, Susan’s brother, Peter, as well as Susan herself, looking always twenty-five years old.
Then there was me, of course, with Edward and Carolyn, and my parents, Joseph and Harriet, and in one of the photos was my sister Emily with her ex-husband, Keith. There was a nice shot of my aunt Cornelia and her husband, Arthur, now both deceased.
It was hard to believe that there was a time when everyone was alive and happy. Well, maybe not that happy, but at least encouraged to smile for the camera, helped along by a few cocktails.
As I looked at the photos, I couldn’t believe that so many of these people were dead, divorced, or, worse, living in Florida.
I noticed an old photo of Elizabeth Allard, and I remembered the occasion, which was Elizabeth’s college graduation party, held on the great lawn of Stanhope Hall, another example of noblesse oblige, which is French for, “Sure you can use our mansion, and it’s not at all awkward for any of us.” Elizabeth, I noticed, was a lot prettier
I watched Susan and Taffy lunching and talking, and I took a last look at Susan. Then I turned and walked to my car.
CHAPTER FIVE
T he next day, Wednesday, was overcast, so I didn’t mind spending the day in the dining room of the gatehouse, my mind sometimes focused on the paperwork at hand, sometimes wandering into the past that was spread before me.
I still hadn’t burned the nude photos of Susan, and I thought again about actually giving them to her; they weren’t exclusively mine, and she might want them. What would Emily Post say? “Dear Confused on Long Island, Nude photographs of a former spouse or lover should be returned, discreetly, via registered mail, and clearly marked, ‘Nude Photographs—Do Not Bend.’ An enclosed explanation is not usually necessary or appropriate, though in recent years the sender often indicates in a short note that the photographs have not been posted on the Internet. The recipient should send a thank-you note within ten days. (Signed) Emily Post.”
On the subject of communication between ex-spouses, in my phone calls to and from Edward and Carolyn, they’d both given me their mother’s new home phone number and told me that she had kept her South Carolina cell phone number. Plus, I had her e-mail address, though I didn’t have a computer. Susan, of course, knew Ethel’s phone number here, which hadn’t changed since FDR was President. So . . . someone should call someone.
I went back to my paperwork. I found my marriage license and I also found my divorce decree, so I stapled them together. What came in between was another whole story.
Regarding my divorce decree, I’d need this in the unlikely event I decided to remarry. In fact, the lady in London, Samantha, had said to me, “Why don’t we get married?” to which I’d replied, “Great idea. But who would have us?”
I’d spoken to Samantha a few times since I’d left London, and she wanted to fly to New York, but since the relationship was up in the air, Samantha wasn’t up in the air.
I pulled a manila envelope toward me that was marked, in Susan’s handwriting, “Photos for Album.” They hadn’t made it into any album and were not likely to do so. I spilled out the photos and saw that they were mostly of the Sutters, the Stanhopes, and the Allards, taken over a period of many years, primarily on holiday occasions—Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, birthdays, and all that.
The whole cast was there—William and Charlotte Stanhope and their wastrel son, Susan’s brother, Peter, as well as Susan herself, looking always twenty-five years old.
Then there was me, of course, with Edward and Carolyn, and my parents, Joseph and Harriet, and in one of the photos was my sister Emily with her ex-husband, Keith. There was a nice shot of my aunt Cornelia and her husband, Arthur, now both deceased.
It was hard to believe that there was a time when everyone was alive and happy. Well, maybe not that happy, but at least encouraged to smile for the camera, helped along by a few cocktails.
As I looked at the photos, I couldn’t believe that so many of these people were dead, divorced, or, worse, living in Florida.
I noticed an old photo of Elizabeth Allard, and I remembered the occasion, which was Elizabeth’s college graduation party, held on the great lawn of Stanhope Hall, another example of noblesse oblige, which is French for, “Sure you can use our mansion, and it’s not at all awkward for any of us.” Elizabeth, I noticed, was a lot prettier
Similar Books
