Well, for all I knew, Mancuso was retired, transferred, or dead, but if he wasn’t any of those things, then I knew I’d hear from him.

Susan and I went out on the balcony and looked at the ocean. On the distant horizon I could see the lights of great ocean liners and cargo ships, and overhead, aircraft were beginning their descent into Kennedy Airport, or climbing out on their way to Europe, or the world.

Susan asked me, “Do you think you want to sail again?”

I replied, “Well, what good is a yacht club without a yacht?”

She smiled, then said, seriously, “I never want you to sail alone again.”

I hadn’t been completely alone, but I understood what she meant and replied, “I won’t sail without you.”

She stayed quiet awhile, and we listened to the surf washing against the shore, and I stared, transfixed by the night sky and the black ocean.

She asked me, “How was it?”

I continued to look out into the dark, starry night, and replied, “Lonely.” I thought a moment, then said, “It’s easy to imagine out there, at night, that you are the last man left alive on earth.”

“It sounds awful.”

“Sometimes. But most of the time I felt… as though it was just me and God. I mean, you can go a little crazy out there, but it’s not necessarily a bad kind of crazy.” I added, “You have a lot of time to think, and you get to know yourself.”

“And did you think about me?”

“I did. I honestly did. Every day, and every night.”

“So what stopped you from setting a course for home?”

There were a lot of answers to that question – anger, pride, spite, and the total freedom of being a self-exiled man without a country or a job. But, to Susan, I said, “When I know, I’ll let you know.”

We stretched out in the lounge chairs and watched the sky, then fell asleep under the stars.

Through my sleep, I heard the ocean, felt the sea breeze, and smelled the salt air, and I dreamed I was back at sea. But this time, Susan was with me.

The next morning, Tuesday, was partly cloudy, and after a run on the beach and a soul-nourishing spa breakfast, we headed home to Lattingtown and Stanhope Hall. This is a drive of about two hours, and during that time we spoke a little about the last ten years, trying to fill in some of what Susan referred to as “the lost years.” Also lost and missing was any mention of significant or insignificant others, so there were some gaps in the historical record. Sort of like black holes. She did remind me, however, “Call Samantha.”

I thought about asking her when, where, and how she and Frank Bellarosa first hooked up, but she wouldn’t like that question. Also, I realized that this was not bothering me any longer, so maybe I was really getting over it, and getting on with it.

I pulled into the gates of Stanhope Hall, and we noticed a moving van parked to the side of the gatehouse. I also saw Elizabeth’s SUV, so I pulled over, and Susan and I got out and went inside the gatehouse.

Elizabeth, in jeans and a T-shirt, was in the foyer, supervising the move. She saw us and said, “Good morning. I stopped by the guest cottage to tell you I was going to clean out the house, but you weren’t home.” She added, “I thought it would be a good idea to just get this done, so we don’t have to negotiate for time with Nasim after the funeral.” She then looked at me and said, “John, I hope I’m not kicking you out.”

Well, no, but you are burning my bridges, and now I can’t come back here when the Stanhopes arrive.

“John?”

“No. I’m finished with the house.”

“That’s what you said.” Elizabeth offered, “The movers will take all your boxes and files to the guest cottage, if you’d like.”

“Thank you,” I said before she mentioned her previous offer to store me and my files in her house.

Susan asked Elizabeth, “How is your mother doing?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “The same.” She added, “I know the end is near, and I can’t believe it… but I’ve accepted it.” She looked around the gatehouse and said, “They were here for over sixty years… and now… well, life goes on.” She said to Susan, “I asked John if Nasim would consider selling the house, but Nasim wants it for himself.” She pointed out, “We could have been neighbors again.”

Susan replied, in what sounded like a sincere tone, “That would have been wonderful.” She informed Elizabeth, “I was going to have my cleaning lady do some work, and I’m sorry if John left a mess.”

John wanted to say that Elizabeth left more of a mess than John left, but John knows when to keep his mouth shut.

Elizabeth assured Susan, “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m out of here, and Nasim can do what he wants.” She informed us, “He drove by before, and I told him that he could have the house as of now.” She looked at her lawyer and asked, “All right?”

I replied, “You’re the executrix.”

She continued, “He knew from his wife’s conversation with Susan that you’d reunited and were living together in the guest cottage.” She added, “He wishes you both luck and happiness.”

Susan said, “That’s very nice.”

Well, Mr. Nasim could now put security people in the gatehouse, though I would advise him not to use Bell Security. Also, he was probably wondering how this new development would impact on his goal of getting Susan to sell. Maybe I should tell Nasim that we, too, had security problems, and I had a shotgun, so we could join forces and provide supporting fire in case of an attack.

Susan interrupted my strategic thinking and said to Elizabeth, “By the way, we haven’t told my parents yet that we’ve reunited. So, if you communicate with them, please don’t mention it.”

Elizabeth replied, “I understand.”

Susan added, “Same with John’s mother, and Father Hunnings.”

“I won’t mention it to a soul.”

“Thank you.” Susan asked, “Do you mind if I go get my camera and take some photos before everything is moved out?”

Elizabeth informed her, “I’ve already done that, and I’ll send you copies.” She said, “This was the only home I ever knew growing up, and I’m going to miss all the memories that used to come back when I visited Mom.” She glanced at me and smiled, and I thought she was going to tell Susan about her memory of having an adolescent crush on me. But Elizabeth is not a troublemaker, and she concluded, “They were good times when we were all here at Stanhope Hall.”

Susan, who is a sensitive soul, gave Elizabeth a big hug, and they both got misty-eyed.

I never know what to do when women get emotional – do I join in?

The ladies got themselves back together, and Susan said to Elizabeth, “If we’re not home, the movers can leave the boxes in my office. John’s office.” She added, “The door is unlocked.”

Elizabeth replied, “I’ll supervise that.” She reminded me, “I still have that letter that Mom wrote to you, but I don’t feel right about giving it to you until she passes.”

I assured her, “That’s the right thing to do,” though I didn’t think Ethel was going to rally, sit up in bed, and ask, “Can I see that letter again?”

We chatted for a few more minutes, then Susan and I got back in her Lexus, and Susan asked me, “What letter?”

“Ethel wrote me a letter, to be delivered upon her death.”

“Really? What do you think is in the letter?”

“Her recipe for crabapple jelly.”

“Be serious.”

I continued up the tree-lined drive toward the guest cottage and replied, “I don’t know, but we don’t have long to find out.”

Back at the guest cottage, we unloaded our new clothes and spent half an hour getting me more settled in than I’d been. I was actually starting to feel like I was home again, and it was a good feeling.