Friday was Good Friday, and in recent years I've noticed that around here at least, people have adopted the European custom of not working on this solemn day. Even the Stock Exchange was closed, and so, of course, Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds, whose Wall Street office is in lockstep with the Exchange, was shut down. Whether this new holiday is a result of the religious reawakening in our country or a desire for a three-day weekend, I don't know, and no one is saying. But in any event, I had earlier in the week declared the Locust Valley office closed for Good Friday and then surprised the staff and annoyed the Wall Street partners by announcing that the Locust Valley office would also observe Easter Monday as the Europeans do. I'm trying to start a trend. Susan and I, along with Ethel and George, went to St Mark's for the three-o'clock service, which marks the traditional time when the sky darkened and the earth shook and Christ died on the cross. I remember a Good Friday when I was a small boy, walking up the steps of St Mark's on a bright, sunny day that did suddenly turn dark with thunderclouds. I recall staring up at the sky in awe, waiting, I guess, for the earth to shake. A few adults smiled at me, then my mother came out of the church and led me inside. But this day was sunny, with no dramatic meteorological or geological phenomena, and had anything of the sort occurred, it would have been explained on the six-o'clock weather report. St Mark's was filled with well-dressed people, and the Reverend Mr Hunnings, looking resplendent in his Holy Week crimson robes, stuck to business, which was the death of Jesus Christ. There were no social messages in the sermon, for which I thanked God. Hunnings, incidentally, also gives us a guilt break on Easter Sunday and usually at Christmas, except then he goes on a bit about materialism and commercialism.

After the austere service, Susan and I dropped off the Allards, parked the Jag, and took a long walk around the estate, enjoying the weather and the new blooms. I can picture how this place must have looked in its heyday – gardeners and nurserymen bustling around, planting, trimming, cultivating, raking. But now it looks forlorn: too much deadwood and layers of leaves from twenty autumns past. It's not quite returned to nature, but the grounds and gardens, like much around here – including my life – are in that transitional stage between order and chaos.

Edward and Carolyn were not coming home for Easter this year, having made travel plans with friends, and I suppose Susan and I, like many couples who have discovered their children are gone, were reflecting on a time when the kids were kids and holidays were family affairs.

As we walked up the drive toward Stanhope Hall, Susan said, "Do you remember when we opened up the big house and had that Easter egg hunt?" I smiled. "We hid a hundred eggs for twenty kids, and only eighty eggs were found. There are still twenty eggs rotting in there somewhere." Susan laughed. "And we lost a kid, too. Jamie Lerner. He was screaming from the north wing for half an hour before we found him."

"Did we find him? I thought he was still in there, living on Easter eggs." We walked past the great house, hand in hand, onto the back lawn, and sat in the old gazebo. Neither of us spoke for a while, then Susan said, "Where do the years go?" I shrugged.

"Is anything wrong?" she asked.

This question is fraught with all types of danger when a spouse asks it. I replied, "No," which in husband talk means yes.

"Another woman?"

"No," which in the right tone of voice means no, no, no.

"Then what?"

"I don't know."

She remarked, "You've been very distant."

Susan is sometimes so distant I have to dial an area code to get through to her. But people like that don't appreciate it when it's reversed. I replied with a stock husband phrase: "It's nothing to do with you."

Some wives would be relieved to hear that, even if it weren't true, but Susan didn't seem about to break into a grin and throw her arms around me. Instead, she said, "Judy Remsen tells me that you told Lester you wanted to sail around the world."

If Lester were there, I would have punched him in the nose. I said sarcastically, "Is that what Judy Remsen told you that I told Lester?" "Yes. Do you want to sail around the world?"

"It sounded like a good idea at the time. I was drunk." Which sounded lame, so in the spirit of truth, I added, "But I have considered it." "Am I included in those plans?"

Susan sometimes surprises me with little flashes of insecurity. If I were a more manipulative man, I would promote this insecurity as a means of keeping her attention, if not her affection. I know she does it to me. I asked, "Would you consider living in our East Hampton House?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I like it here."

"You like East Hampton," I pointed out.

"It's a nice place to spend part of the summer."

"Why don't we sail around the world?"

"Why don't you sail around the world?"

"Good question." Bitchy, but good. Time to promote insecurity. "I may do that." Susan stood. "Better yet, John, why don't you ask yourself what you're running from?"

"Don't get analytical on me, Susan."

"Then let me tell you what's bothering you. Your children aren't home for Easter, your wife is a bitch, your friends are idiots, your job is boring, you dislike my father, you hate Stanhope Hall, the Allards are getting on your nerves, you're not rich enough to control events and not poor enough to stop trying. Should I go on?"

"Sure."

"You're alienated from your parents or vice versa, you've had one too many dinners at the club, attractive young women don't take your flirting seriously anymore, life is without challenge, maybe without meaning, and possibly without hope. And nothing is certain but death and taxes. Well, welcome to American upper-middle-class middle age, John Sutter."

"Thank you."

"Oh, and lest I forget, a Mafia don has just moved in next door."

"That might be the only bright spot in the picture."

"It might well be."

Susan and I looked at each other, but neither of us explained what we meant by that last exchange. I stood. "I feel better now."

"Good. You just needed a mental enema."

I smiled. Actually, I did feel better, maybe because I was happy to discover that Susan and I were still in touch.

Susan threw her arm around my shoulders, which I find very tomboyish, yet somehow more intimate than an embrace. She said, "I wish it were another woman. I could take care of that damned quickly."

I smiled. "Some attractive young women take me seriously."

"Oh, I'm sure of that."

"Right."

We left the gazebo and walked on a path that led into a treed hollow that lay south of the mansion. I said, "You're not always a bitch. And I don't dislike your father. I hate his guts."

"Good for you. He feels the same way about you."

"Excellent."

We continued our walk into the wooded hollow, Susan's arm still thrown over my shoulders. I'm not usually into self-pity or self-analysis, but sometimes you have to stop and think about things. Not only for yourself, but also so you don't hurt other people.

I said, "By the way, the Bishop stopped by last Saturday. George told him I wasn't receiving."

"George said that to Bishop Eberly?"

"No, to Bishop Frank."

"Oh…" She laughed. "That Bishop." She thought a moment. "He'll be back."

"You think so?" I added, "I wonder what he wanted."

Susan replied, "You'll find out."

"Don't sound so ominous, Susan. I think he just wants to be a friendly neighbour."

"For your information, I've called the Eltons and the DePauws, and they haven't heard from him or seen him."

The Eltons own Windham, the estate that borders Alhambra to the north, and the DePauws have a big colonial and ten acres, not actually an estate, directly across from Alhambra's gates. I said, "Then it appears as if Mr Bellarosa has singled us out for neighbourly attention."