“Not anymore.”

Again, she nodded, then said, “At least Carolyn is close. But I haven’t seen much of her. She’s very busy.”

“Being an assistant district attorney is a lot of hours, and very stressful.”

“I know. She tells me.” Susan looked at me and asked, “Aren’t you proud that she followed in your footsteps?”

Carolyn was not exactly following in my footsteps; I had been a Wall Street attorney and I made a lot of money. Carolyn was working for peanuts, as many trust fund children do, and she was prosecuting criminals, which sort of surprised me because she once held an idealistic view of the rights of criminal defendants. But perhaps three years in the criminal justice system had opened her eyes a bit. Maybe someday she’d be on the prosecution team in the case of The State v. Anthony Bellarosa. I said, “I am proud of her.”

“Do you think there’s any possibility of her joining your old firm?”

There was no possibility of me joining my old firm, and I didn’t think the remaining partners of Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds wanted an actual Sutter to replace the dead one or the disgraced one. They’d kept the name, of course, so as not to incur the expense of changing it, and also my father was legendary on Wall Street. As for me, well… my fall from grace had begun with the lady who was now asking me about getting her daughter a job. Ironic. Also silly. Carolyn’s next move would not be to an old Wall Street law firm; it would be to some sort of civil liberties group, or some do-gooder firm. And that was okay; someone in this family needed to have a heart. Plus, it would piss off William. But to address Susan’s question, I said, “I will make inquiries.”

“Thank you.” The subject was employment and the law, so she asked me, “How are you doing in London?”

“Fine.”

“Can you be absent from your job until September?”

“I’m on sabbatical.”

“So you’ll return?”

My future plans seemed to interest a lot of people more than they interested me. Maybe, though, it was time to verbalize my thoughts, and to be truthful and unambiguous, so I said, “When I left London, I honestly thought I would return. But now, being here, I’ve decided to stay in the U.S. Beyond that, I have no definite plans. But I have gotten a job offer.”

She stayed silent awhile, then said, “I’m happy to hear that.” She asked, “What sort of offer?”

Rather than say, “Consigliere to the new don Bellarosa,” I said, “It’s bad luck to talk about it before it happens.”

She glanced at me, probably wondering when I became superstitious. She said, “Let me know if it happens.”

“I will.”

She advised me, “But you should take the summer off.”

Susan, like most people who are born into old money, was mostly clueless about that subject, so it never occurred to her that I might not be able to afford three months of working on my tan. I mean, if you’re a little short on cash, just sell an annuity. What’s the problem?

Also, regarding the subject of Stanhopes and money and work ethic, Edward and Carolyn received annual trust fund distributions and really didn’t need to work, but they did, to give meaning to their lives, and to do something interesting, or something useful for society.

Susan’s brother, Peter, however, was a totally useless human being, who’d spent his life and his trust fund distributions on perfecting the art of indolence, except for tennis, golf, and surfing, which at least kept his body in good shape while his brain atrophied. Peter was not a good role model for his niece and nephew, but thankfully, they knew that.

And then there was William, who’d managed to reach retirement age without working a day in his life, except for managing the family money. Well, to be fair, there was his two-year stint in the Coast Guard, which had been mandatory because of that annoying world war.

And let’s not forget Charlotte, who had been both a debutante and a dilettante before marrying William and becoming a full-time socialite. I suppose that could be a lot of work, but Charlotte would be hard-pressed to fill in the “state your occupation” box on an income tax form unless she wrote “Occupied with lazy household staff.”

As for Susan, she’d mostly followed in her brother’s footsteps, but then she’d embraced the newly enlightened concept of getting a job, and when I’d met her, she was working as the private social secretary for a fabulously wealthy publishing company heiress in Manhattan. This is a very acceptable job for a young lady of Susan’s social class, sort of like a lady-in-waiting for royalty.

We’d met, incidentally, at a summer wedding held under the stars at the Seawanhaka Corinthian Yacht Club. The bride was a Guest, or as I said to Susan that night, a Guest at her own wedding. That got a little chuckle out of her, and we danced. The rest, as they say, is history.

The Stanhopes, at first, accepted me because of my lineage, though they had concerns about my net worth. But in their world, it’s more about who your parents are, where you went to school, your accent, and your social skills. Money is good, but money without pedigree is too common in America, so if you’re William and Charlotte Stanhope, and you’re trying to marry off your daughter, you go for the pedigree and punt on the bucks, which was why Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope, Dad and Mom, gave us their blessings. They soon discovered, however, that they didn’t actually like me. The feeling was mutual, but it was too late; Susan and I were madly in love.

It had been a very good marriage, by any objective standard, including good sex, so if anyone had asked me what went wrong, I wouldn’t be able to answer, except to say, “She was screwing a Mafia don.” Of course, she was also a bit off her rocker, and I admit I can be a little sarcastic at times, but mostly we were happy with our lives and our children and each other.

I think, though, that Frank Bellarosa was like a malevolent force that entered Paradise, and no one was prepared for that. To continue the biblical theme, but with a different story line, Eve killed the serpent, but Adam stayed pissed off about her seduction and filed for divorce.

We walked in silence for a while, and I was sure that she, too, was thinking about the past, and I’d have liked to be able to read her mind, to see if her memories and mine had any similarities. Probably not; I was still dwelling on the negatives, and I was sure she was thinking happier thoughts.

I said to her, “Would you like to go back to the house?”

She replied, “No, I’m enjoying this walk.” She added, “Like old times, John.”

Indeed, if we could erase or forget that half year that ruined all the years before and the decade after, it would be better than old times; it would be just another summer Sunday together.

So we walked on, like old times, except we weren’t holding hands any longer.