“I love you.”

“You, too.”

I said, “Love you.”

Susan hung up and said to me, “They were absolutely thrilled. They really were, John. Could you tell?”

“I could.”

Susan dabbed her eyes again and said, “We have a lot of time to make up for as a family.”

“We do, and I have a lot of catching up to do with them, but this will all be very positive now.”

“It will be.” She thought a moment, then said, “Edward still needs a good, strong male figure in his life. He’s… immature.”

I didn’t think so, and I should have let it drop, but my sarcastic side said, “He’s twenty-seven years old. He can be his own male role model.”

She seemed a little annoyed, then embarrassed, and reminded me, “You know how Edward is.”

“Yes, he’s like me.”

“You’re slightly more organized. And I emphasize slightly.”

Susan had actually been one of the most scatterbrained women I’d ever known, but apparently she’d become more organized since I left. Or at least less scatterbrained.

The problem was, we’d both changed, but the memories had not, or the memories had changed, and we had not. It was going to take a lot of work for both of us to see each other as we were now, not as we were then.

On a more optimistic note, Susan felt so immediately comfortable with me that she didn’t hesitate to point out my flaws and make constructive criticisms when necessary. That was a very short courtship.

She obviously sensed what I was thinking, or she was following up on her last comment, and she informed me, “I love you anyway. I love your boyish charm, your sarcastic wit, your very annoying habits, and even your stubborn, unforgiving nature. I love you unconditionally, and I always have. And I’ll even tell you why – you tell the truth, and you have character, which I don’t see too much of these days, and you have guts, John.” She added, “I’m never afraid when I’m with you.”

I hardly knew what to say, but I could have followed her lead and replied, “You’re spoiled, totally out of touch with reality, slightly bitchy, passive-aggressive, and crazy, but I love you anyway.” That was the truth, but I was afraid it might not come out right, so I said, “Thank you.” I took her in my arms and said, “I love you unconditionally. I always have, and I always will.”

“I know.” She put her head on my shoulder and said, “This is like a dream.”

I could feel her tears on my neck, and we held on to each other.

I don’t know what she was thinking, but I was thinking of dinner with Anthony Bellarosa.

Susan had taken on the formidable task of perfecting me before remarrying me. One of my imperfections was my pale skin, which she’d remarked on in the bedroom, and I agreed that I needed a little color. So we moved two chaise lounges into the sunlight on the patio, took off our clothes, and lay side by side holding hands, I in my boxer briefs and Susan in her bikini panties. The radio in the kitchen was tuned to a classical station, and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, led by Sir Georg Solti, was playing the Flying Dutchman Overture.

The sun felt good on my skin, which hadn’t seen much sun in London for seven years.

On the side table between us was a liter of San Pellegrino, which reminded me of the first time I’d had this sparkling water, with Susan, on our first visit to the Bellarosa house. The second time was a celebratory lunch with Frank Bellarosa at Giulio’s in Little Italy, after our court appearance at which I’d gotten Frank sprung on bail. Perhaps my last bottle of Pellegrino water was also at Giulio’s, some months later. This was a social occasion with our wives, and by that time I was more familiar with Italian cuisine, and I was also fairly certain that my wife, lying now beside me, was having an affair with our host, who was practically ignoring her and being very solicitous of me. What more proof did I need?

So, on that occasion, I was not in the jolliest of moods – I mean, as a lawyer, I’m supposed to screw the client; the client is not supposed to screw my wife – and thinking back on it, I should have said to Anna Bellarosa, as she was eating her cannoli, “Your husband here is fucking my wife.”

And Anna would have turned to Susan and said, “Susan, I have to… but you…?”

Just kidding. In any case, I’ve often wondered how the evening would have turned out if I had confronted them in Giulio’s. Would Frank and I have gone out to the street to see if his limousine was waiting for us? Probably not. I’m certain I’d have been looking for a taxi to take me to the Long Island Railroad station, alone. And would my abrupt departure have thrown off the timing of the planned hit? I don’t know, but I’m sure I wouldn’t have been standing next to Frank when he took two shotgun blasts in his Kevlar vest, and I wouldn’t have been there to stop him from bleeding to death, and he wouldn’t have lived so that Susan could kill him later.

If we are being stalked by Fate, there’s no escape, but even Fate has to have a Plan B to allow for human nature, and Kevlar vests.

Susan said to me, “You’re very quiet.”

“I’m enjoying the moment.”

“Talk to me.”

“Okay… you have beautiful breasts.”

“Thank you. Would you like to see my ass?”

I smiled. “Sure.”

She pulled off her panties and turned on her stomach. “How’s that?”

I turned on my side toward her and replied, “Perfect.”

She suggested, “Take off your shorts. Get some sun on that pale butt.”

I slipped off my shorts, turned on my stomach, and we faced each other.

She asked me, “Can you do it again?”

“Turn again?”

“No, John, make love again.”

“Why would you even ask?”

She smiled, reached over, and pinched my butt cheek. I felt a stirring in my loins, as they say, and the chaise cushion didn’t have much give in it, so to avoid a serious injury I flipped again on my back, and Susan exclaimed, “Oh, my goodness! Hold it right there.”

She scrambled out of her chaise and positioned herself on top of me with her legs and knees straddling my hips, then lowered herself and I slid right in.

We’d done this here before, on the patio, though I think the chaise lounges were different, and we’d only been caught twice – once by the gardener, who never seemed the same to me again, and once by Judy Remsen, a friend of Susan’s who’d stopped by to deliver a potted plant, which she dropped. Our next dinner date with the Remsens had been interesting.

Susan began a slow, rhythmic up-and-down movement, then increased her tempo. Her body arched back, and her face was lifted toward the sun.

Time, which is relative, seemed to stand still, then speed up, then slowed for a very long second as we both reached orgasm together.

Susan rolled forward and fell on my chest, and I could hear her heavy breathing over my own. She slid her hands and arms under my back and squeezed me tightly as she bit gently into my shoulder. She began gyrating her hips, and within seconds she had another orgasm.

I thought she might go for a hat trick, but she stretched out her legs, put her head on my shoulder, and within a minute she was asleep. I can only imagine what my suntan was going to look like. I, too, was sex-and-sun drowsy, and I drifted off, listening to birds singing and Wagner on the radio.

I had a pleasant dream about lying naked on a sunny beach, and when I awoke, I had this good idea that Susan and I should go to the nude beach in St. Martin where I’d spent a few happy days ten years ago.

But as my head cleared, I rethought that and considered the possible pitfalls of suggesting a trip to a place where I’d been during my self-exile. Especially a nude beach. So maybe Susan and I should travel back to Hilton Head with her parents after Ethel’s funeral, and we could begin the process of healing and bonding as a family. The Stanhopes would be delighted that we were together again, and William would grab my shoulders and say, “John, you silly rascal, it’s good to have you back.” And Charlotte would chirp, “My favorite son-in-law is with us again!”