The Gold Coast, Page 2

  I was certain that Bellarosa, like most of his kind, was not as concerned with his privacy as with his personal safety, and I half expected to be confronted by swarthy, slick-haired gunmen in black suits and pointy shoes.

  I continued across the field toward a grove of cherry trees. It was just turning dusk, the weather was balmy, and there was a scent of fresh earth around me. The only sounds were Yankee’s hoofs on the soft turf and birds trilling their twilight songs from the distant trees. All in all, a perfect late afternoon in early spring.

  I took Yankee into the cherry grove. The gnarled and uncared-for old trees were newly leafed and just budded with pink blossoms.

  In a clearing in the grove was a sunken mosaic reflecting pool, filled with dead leaves. Around the pool were toppled classical fluted columns and broken lintels. At the far end of the pool was a moss-covered statue of Neptune, his upraised hand minus his trident, so that he seemed to be halfway through a roundhouse punch. At Neptune’s feet were four stone fish, whose gaping mouths once spouted water. This was one of the classical gardens of Alhambra, built as a mock Roman ruin, now ironically a real ruin.

  The main house of Alhambra is not itself a classical structure, but a Spanish-style mansion of stucco walls, stone archways, wrought-iron balconies, and red-tiled roofs. The four pillars that hold up the arched portico were actually taken from the ruins of Carthage in the 1920s when it was fashionable and possible to loot ancient archeological sites.

  I don’t know what I would do if I had that much money myself, but I like to think I would show some restraint. But then restraint is a condition of our era with its dwindling supply of nearly everything vital to life. Restraint was not what the Roaring Twenties was about. One can be a product only of one’s own era, not anyone else’s.

  I rode across the garden ruins, then up a small rise. About a quarter-mile to the east, sitting in shadow, was Alhambra. A solitary light shone from a second-floor balcony window that I knew to be the location of the library.

  Alhambra’s library, like many rooms in the greatest of the estate houses, had originally existed in Europe. The original owners and builders of Alhambra, a Mr. and Mrs. Julius Dillworth, on a tour of Europe in the 1920s, took a fancy to the hand-carved oak library of their host, an old English peer whose name and title escape me. The Dillworths made an uninvited but spectacular offer for the entire library, and the tweedy old gentleman, probably short of cash as a result of the same World War that had enriched the Dillworths, accepted the offer.

  I watched the library window for a minute or so, then reined Yankee around and rode down the slope, back toward the garden.

  I saw now a white horse nibbling on new spring grass between two toppled columns. Astride the horse was the familiar figure of a woman dressed in tight jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. She turned to me as I approached, then faced away. It was my wife, Susan, but I could tell from her look that she was not herself. What I mean is, she likes to playact. So, to be cooperative, I called out, “Who are you?”

  She turned back to me and responded in an icy voice, “Who are you?”

  Actually, I wasn’t sure yet, but I improvised. “I own this land,’’ I said. “Are you lost or trespassing?”

  “Neither. And I doubt anyone dressed as you are, with so wretched a horse, could own this land.”

  “Don’t be insolent. Are you alone?”

  “I was until you came by,’’ she retorted.

  I pulled in Yankee side by side with the white Arabian. “What is your name?”

  “Daphne. What is your name?”

  I still couldn’t think of a name for me, so I said, “You should know whose land you are on. Get down from your horse.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I said so. And if you don’t, I’ll pull you down and take my switch to you. Dismount!”

  She hesitated, then dismounted.

  “Tether him.”

  She tethered her horse to a cherry limb and stood facing me.

  “Take off your clothes.”

  She shook her head. “I won’t.”

  “You will,’’ I snapped. “Quickly.”

  She stood motionless a moment, then pulled off her turtleneck, exposing two firm breasts. She stood with the sweater in her hand and looked up at me. “Do I have to do this?”

  “Yes.”

  She dropped the sweater, then pulled off her boots and socks. Finally, she slid her jeans and panties off and threw them in the grass.

  I sidled my horse closer and looked down at her standing naked in the fading sunlight. “Not so arrogant now, are you, Daphne?”

  “No, sir.”

  This is Susan’s idea of keeping marital sex interesting, though to be honest, I’m not complaining about acting out Susan’s sexual fantasies. Sometimes these dramas are scripted and directed (by Susan); sometimes, as with this encounter, they are improv. The locales change with the seasons; in the winter we do it in the stable or, to relive our youth, in front of a fireplace in a deserted mansion.

  This was our first alfresco encounter of the new spring season, and there is something about a woman standing naked in a field or forest that appeals to the most primal instincts of both sexes, while at the same time flouting modern conventions regarding where love should be made. Trust me on this; you get used to the occasional ant or bumblebee.

  Susan asked, “What are you going to do to me?”

  “Whatever I wish.’’ I looked at Susan standing motionless, her long red hair blowing in strands across her face, waiting patiently for a command. She has no acting background, but if she had, she would be a method actress; there was not a hint in her face or bearing that she was my wife, and that this was a game. For all purposes, she was a naked, defenseless woman who was about to be raped by a strange man on horseback. In fact, her knees were shaking, and she seemed honestly frightened.

  “Please, sir, do what you will with me, but do it quickly.”

  I’m not good at the impromptu games, and I’d rather she scripted it so I know who I’m supposed to be or at least what historical epoch we’re in. Sometimes I’m a Roman or a barbarian, a knight or an aristocrat, and she’s a slave, a peasant, or a haughty noblewoman who gets her comeuppance.

  I brought Yankee right up to Susan and reached out and held her upraised chin in my hand. “Are you embarrassed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I should mention that Susan often takes the dominant role, and I’m the one who plays the part of a naked slave at auction or a prisoner who is stripped and given a few lashes, or whatever. Lest you think we are utterly depraved, I want you to know we are both registered Republicans and members of the Episcopal Church, and attend regularly except during the boating season.

  Anyway, on this occasion, I had the feeling we were in the seventeenth century or thereabouts, thus the “Don’t be insolent’’ line and all the rest of the silly dialogue. I tried to think of another great line and finally said, “Are you Daphne, wife of the traitor Sir John Worthington?”

  “I am, sir. And if you are indeed Lord Hardwick, I’ve come to ask you to intercede on my husband’s behalf with his Majesty, the King.”

  I was indeed hardwick at that moment and wished I’d worn looser trousers. “I am every inch Hardwick,’’ I replied, and saw a real smile flit across her face.

  Susan dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around my boot. “Oh, please, my lord, you must present my petition to King Charles.”

  History is not my strong point, but I can usually wing it. History wasn’t the point anyway. I said, “And what favor will you do me in return if I do this for you?”

  “I will do anything you wish.”

  That was the point. And in truth, the playacting usually got me jump-started before Susan, and I wanted to get on with the last scene. “Stand,’’ I commanded.

  She stood and I grabbed her wrist as I took my foot from the stirrup. “Put your right foot in the stirrup.”

  She put her bare
foot in the stirrup, and I pulled her up facing me, both of us tight in the English saddle, with her arms around me and her bare breasts tight against my chest. I gave Yankee a tap, and he began to walk. I said, “Take it out.”

  She unzipped my fly and took it out, holding it in her warm hands. I said, “Put it in.”

  She sobbed and said, “I do this only to save my husband’s life. He is the only man I have ever known.”

  A few clever replies ran through my mind, but the hormones were in complete control of my intellect now, and I snapped, “Put it in!”

  She rose up and came down on it, letting out an exclamation of surprise.

  “Hold on.’’ I kicked Yankee, and he began to trot. Susan held me tighter and locked her strong legs over mine. She buried her face in my neck, and as the horse bounced along, she moaned. This was not acting.

  I was now completely caught up in the heat of the moment. I’m only a fair horseman, and what little skill I have was not equal to this. Yankee trotted at a nice pace through the cherry grove, then out into the pasture. The air was heavy with the smell of horse, the trodden earth, our bodies, and Susan’s musky odor rising between us.

  God, what a ride, Susan breathing hard on my neck, crying out, me panting, and the wetness oozing between us.

  Susan climaxed first and cried out so loudly she flushed a pheasant from a bush. I climaxed a second later and involuntarily jerked on the reins, causing Yankee to nearly tumble.

  The horse settled down and began to graze, as if nothing had happened. Susan and I clung to each other, trying to catch our breath. I finally managed to say, “Whew . . . what a ride. . . .”

  Susan smiled. “I’m sorry I trespassed on your land, sir.”

  “I lied. It’s not my land.”

  “That’s all right. I don’t have a husband in trouble with the King, either.”

  We both laughed. She asked, “What were you doing here?”

  “Same as you. Just riding.”

  “Did you visit our new neighbor?”

  “No,’’ I replied. “But I saw a light in his window.”

  “I’m going to speak to him.”

  “Perhaps you’d better put your clothes on first.”

  “I may have better luck as I am. Was he good-looking?”

  “Not bad, in a Mediterranean sort of way.”

  “Good.”

  I reined Yankee around. “I’ll take you back to Zanzibar and your clothes.”

  She sat upright. “No, I’ll get off here and walk.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “It’s all right. Hold my hand.”

  She dismounted and walked off. I called after her, “You have no time to talk with Bellarosa. We’ll be late for the Eltons again.”

  She waved her arm to show she’d heard me. I watched my wife walking naked through the pasture until she entered the shadows of the cherry grove, then I turned Yankee and headed for home.

  After a minute or so, I was able to get Lord Hardwick back in his pants.

  I do make love to my wife, Susan Stanhope Sutter, in our bed, and we enjoy it. Yet, I believe that marriages entirely grounded in reality are bound to fail, just as individuals who cannot escape into flights of fancy are bound to crack up. I’m aware that a couple who acts out sexual fantasies must be careful not to step over into the dark side of the psyche. Susan and I have come to the brink a few times but always drew back.

  I crossed from Bellarosa’s land through the white pines to Stanhope. I didn’t much like leaving Susan with darkness coming and with a few hundred yards’ walk in the nude back to her horse, but when she says she’s all right, she means go away.

  Well, I thought, the flowers were bought and planted, the main house resecured, we had chicken Dijon and asparagus delivered from Culinary Delights for lunch, I was able to get into the village to do some errands, and I had my afternoon ride, and got laid at the same time. All in all, an interesting, productive, and fulfilling Saturday. I like Saturdays.

  Four

  The Lord rested on the seventh day, which has been interpreted to mean that His sixth-day creations should do the same.

  George and Ethel Allard take the Sabbath seriously, as do most working-class people from that generation who remember six-day workweeks of ten-hour days. I, on the other hand, have to take care of the Lord’s English ivy creeping over my windowpanes.

  I don’t actually do any business on Sunday, but I do think about what has to be done on Monday morning as I do my Sunday chores.

  Susan and I had cut ivy until about ten in the morning, then got cleaned up and dressed for church.

  Susan drove the Jag, and we stopped at the gatehouse to pick up George and Ethel, who were waiting at their front door, George in his good brown suit, Ethel in a shapeless flower-print dress that unfortunately seems to be making a comeback with women who want to look like 1940s wallpaper.

  The Allards have a car, William Stanhope’s old Lincoln that he left here when he and Charlotte Stanhope moved to Hilton Head, South Carolina, in ’79. George sometimes doubled as the Stanhopes’ chauffeur and is still a good driver despite his advancing years. But as there is now only one service at St. Mark’s, it would seem snooty for us not to offer to drive, and perhaps awkward for us to ask him to drive us. Maybe I’m being too sensitive, but I have to walk a thin line between playing lord of the manor and being George and Ethel’s assistant groundskeeper. We all have so many hang-ups from the old days. Anyway, George isn’t the problem; Ethel the Red is.

  The Allards climbed in, and we all agreed it was another beautiful day. Susan swung south onto Grace Lane and floored it. Many of the roads around here were originally horse-and-buggy paths, and they are still narrow, twist and turn a bit, are lined with beautiful trees, and are dangerous. A speeding car is never more than a second away from disaster.

  Grace Lane, which is about a mile long, has remained a private road. This means there is no legal speed limit, but there is a practical speed limit. Susan thinks it is seventy, I think it’s about forty. The residents along Grace Lane, mostly estate owners, are responsible for the upkeep of the road. Most of the other private roads of the Gold Coast have sensibly been deeded to the county, the local village, the State of New York, or to any other political entity that promises to keep them drained and paved at about a hundred thousand dollars a mile. But a few of the residents along Grace Lane, specifically those who are rich, proud, and stubborn (they go together), have blocked attempts to unload this Via Dolorosa on the unsuspecting taxpayers.

  Susan got up to her speed limit, and I could almost feel the blacktop fragmenting like peanut brittle.

  High speeds seem to keep older people quiet, and the Allards didn’t say much from the back, which was all right with me. George won’t discuss work on Sundays, and we had exhausted other subjects years ago. On the way back, we sometimes talk about the sermon. Ethel likes the Reverend James Hunnings because, like so many of my Episcopal brethren, the man is far to the left of Karl Marx.

  Each Sunday we are made to feel guilty about our relative wealth and asked to share some of the filthy stuff with about two billion less fortunate people.

  Ethel especially enjoys the sermons on social justice, equality, and so forth. And we all sit there, the old-line blue bloods, along with a few new black and Spanish Episcopalians, and the remaining working-class Anglos, listening to the Reverend Mr. Hunnings give us his view of America and the world, and there is no question-and-answer period afterward.

  In my father’s and grandfather’s day, of course, this same church was slightly to the right of the Republican Party, and the priests would direct their sermons more toward the servants and the working men and women in the pews, talking about obedience, hard work, and responsibilities, instead of about revolution, the unemployed, and civil rights. My parents, Joseph and Harriet, who were liberal for their day and social class, would gripe about the message from the pulpit. I don’t think God meant for church services to be so aggra
vating.

  The problem with a church, any church, I think, is that unlike a country club, anyone can join. The result of this open-door policy is that for one hour a week, all the social classes must humble themselves before God and do it under the same roof in full view of one another. I’m not suggesting private churches or first-class pews up front like they used to have, and I don’t think dimming the lights would help much. But I know that years ago, it was understood that one sort of people went to the early service, and the other sort of people to the later one.

  Having said this, I feel I should say something in extenuation of what could be construed as elitist and antidemocratic thoughts: First, I don’t feel superior to anyone, and second, I believe fervently that we are all created free and equal. But what I also feel is socially dislocated, unsure of my place in the vast changing democracy outside these immediate environs, and uncertain how to live a useful and fulfilling life among the crumbling ruins around me. The Reverend Mr. Hunnings thinks he has the answers. The only thing I know for certain is that he doesn’t.

  Susan slowed down as she approached the village of Locust Valley. The village is a rather nice place, neat and prosperous, with a small Long Island Railroad station in the middle of town, from which I take my train into New York. Locust Valley was gentrified and boutiquefied long before anyone even knew the words, though there is a new wave of trendy, useless shops coming in.

  St. Mark’s is on the northern edge of the village. It is a small Gothic structure of brownstone with good stained-glass windows imported from England. It was built in 1896 with the winnings of a poker game playfully confiscated by six millionaires’ wives. They all went to heaven.

  Susan found a parking space by hemming in a Rolls-Royce, and we all hurried toward the church as the bells tolled.

  • • •

  On the way back, Ethel said, “I think Reverend Hunnings was right and we should all take in at least one homeless person for Easter week.”

  Susan hit the gas and took a banked curve at sixty miles per hour, causing the Allards to sway left and quieting Ethel.