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The Gate House :: Demille Nelson
Страница: 33 из 490” Anyway, I didn’t want a German sandwich made in Mexico, so I said, “Just give me a coffee with leche. Milko. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I got my coffee and left.
A few doors down was a new gourmet food shop, and as I sipped my coffee, I moved toward the shop window to look at the menu. Suddenly, the door opened and out walked Susan Stanhope Sutter. I stopped dead in my tracks, and I felt a thump in my chest.
She would have seen me, not twenty feet away, if she hadn’t been talking on her cell phone.
I hesitated. But having thought about this already, I decided to go up to her and say hello.
Susan sat at a small café table in front of the shop and, still talking on the phone, unpacked her lunch bag. Lady Stanhope laid out her paper napkin, plastic utensils, imported water, and salad exactly as it belonged at a well-set table.
It had been four years since I’d seen her, at my aunt Cornelia’s funeral, and her red hair was a little shorter than I remembered, and her tan was browner than I’d ever seen it. She wore a frosty pink gloss on her pouty lips, and those catlike green eyes still looked like emeralds in the sunlight. I found myself thinking of those photographs of her nude on the boat.
I got rid of that image and noticed that she was wearing one of the standard Locust Valley outfits – tan slacks and a green polo shirt in which was hooked a pair of sunglasses. She had on a sports watch, but no other jewelry, not even a widow’s wedding ring, and on the table was what I think was a Coach handbag to complete the look; simple and not too chic for an afternoon in the village. Most of all, it signaled that she was gentry, not townie.
Anyway, I drew a deep breath and took a step toward her, but before I could get into full gear, the shop door opened and another woman came out, glanced at me, then turned to Susan and sat down opposite her.
Susan got rid of her phone call, and she and her lunch companion began to chat.
I didn’t know the lady, but I knew the type. She was somewhat older than Susan, but still dressed preppie, and her name was probably Buffy or Suki or Taffy, and she firmly believed that you can never be too rich or too thin.
I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could tell that Taffy (or whatever her name was) spoke in the local dialect known as Locust Valley Lockjaw. Okay, I’ll tell you.
“Okay.”
I got my coffee and left.
A few doors down was a new gourmet food shop, and as I sipped my coffee, I moved toward the shop window to look at the menu. Suddenly, the door opened and out walked Susan Stanhope Sutter. I stopped dead in my tracks, and I felt a thump in my chest.
She would have seen me, not twenty feet away, if she hadn’t been talking on her cell phone.
I hesitated. But having thought about this already, I decided to go up to her and say hello.
Susan sat at a small café table in front of the shop and, still talking on the phone, unpacked her lunch bag. Lady Stanhope laid out her paper napkin, plastic utensils, imported water, and salad exactly as it belonged at a well-set table.
It had been four years since I’d seen her, at my aunt Cornelia’s funeral, and her red hair was a little shorter than I remembered, and her tan was browner than I’d ever seen it. She wore a frosty pink gloss on her pouty lips, and those catlike green eyes still looked like emeralds in the sunlight. I found myself thinking of those photographs of her nude on the boat.
I got rid of that image and noticed that she was wearing one of the standard Locust Valley outfits – tan slacks and a green polo shirt in which was hooked a pair of sunglasses. She had on a sports watch, but no other jewelry, not even a widow’s wedding ring, and on the table was what I think was a Coach handbag to complete the look; simple and not too chic for an afternoon in the village. Most of all, it signaled that she was gentry, not townie.
Anyway, I drew a deep breath and took a step toward her, but before I could get into full gear, the shop door opened and another woman came out, glanced at me, then turned to Susan and sat down opposite her.
Susan got rid of her phone call, and she and her lunch companion began to chat.
I didn’t know the lady, but I knew the type. She was somewhat older than Susan, but still dressed preppie, and her name was probably Buffy or Suki or Taffy, and she firmly believed that you can never be too rich or too thin.
I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could tell that Taffy (or whatever her name was) spoke in the local dialect known as Locust Valley Lockjaw. Okay, I’ll tell you.