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The Gate House :: Demille Nelson
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Well, no, I didn’t, but to validate that, I said, “You see why I spent three years on my boat.”
She didn’t reply to that.
I got the shotgun and the carbine out of my closet and leaned the shotgun against her nightstand, and the carbine against my nightstand.
As I started to get undressed, she said to me, “I’m sorry you had to see him on TV.”
“Don’t worry about it. In fact, do not talk about it.”
She didn’t respond.
To change the mood and the moment, I said to her, “Do you remember that time we went to Paris, and sat in that little café… where was that?”
“On the Ile de la Cité. And you were flirting with the waitress.”
“Oh, well… do you remember that dinner we had in Le Marais, and you were flirting with the sommelier?”
“You’re making that up.”
I got into bed, kissed her, and said, “This was the best Father’s Day I’ve had in ten years.” Not so good for Uncle Sal, or anyone else in Giovanni’s, but…
“Me, too.”
“And thanks for the yacht.”
“We are going to buy a sailboat.” She turned off her lamp and said, “Good night.”
I turned off my lamp and said, “Sweet dreams.”
Then I lay awake, thinking of this day, and of tomorrow, and of Tuesday in London. Hopefully, when we got back, Anthony Bellarosa would be in jail or dead, and if not, there was nothing keeping us from taking up residence in my London flat until Anthony was no longer a threat. But first, we had to get on that plane.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
M onday morning. It was a bright, beautiful day.
We were up early to see Edward off, and Susan made him a hearty breakfast of ham and eggs – which I helped him eat – and at 7:30 A.M., a car and driver came for him. I would have driven him to the airport, but he didn’t want to say goodbye at JFK. I remember a time when airports were like train stations or ship piers, and your friends or family walked you to the gate and could practically get on the plane, and could definitely get on the ocean liner to see you off with cocktails. But those days were long gone, and Edward had no memory of that simpler time. It occurred to me that there was a whole generation who accepted this war without end as normal. In fact, it was now normal.
Susan, Edward, and I stood in the forecourt, and I noted that Edward hadn’t forgotten his overnight bag. I asked my son with the genius-level IQ, “Do you have money?”
“Mom gave me money.”
“Good.
Well, no, I didn’t, but to validate that, I said, “You see why I spent three years on my boat.”
She didn’t reply to that.
I got the shotgun and the carbine out of my closet and leaned the shotgun against her nightstand, and the carbine against my nightstand.
As I started to get undressed, she said to me, “I’m sorry you had to see him on TV.”
“Don’t worry about it. In fact, do not talk about it.”
She didn’t respond.
To change the mood and the moment, I said to her, “Do you remember that time we went to Paris, and sat in that little café… where was that?”
“On the Ile de la Cité. And you were flirting with the waitress.”
“Oh, well… do you remember that dinner we had in Le Marais, and you were flirting with the sommelier?”
“You’re making that up.”
I got into bed, kissed her, and said, “This was the best Father’s Day I’ve had in ten years.” Not so good for Uncle Sal, or anyone else in Giovanni’s, but…
“Me, too.”
“And thanks for the yacht.”
“We are going to buy a sailboat.” She turned off her lamp and said, “Good night.”
I turned off my lamp and said, “Sweet dreams.”
Then I lay awake, thinking of this day, and of tomorrow, and of Tuesday in London. Hopefully, when we got back, Anthony Bellarosa would be in jail or dead, and if not, there was nothing keeping us from taking up residence in my London flat until Anthony was no longer a threat. But first, we had to get on that plane.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
M onday morning. It was a bright, beautiful day.
We were up early to see Edward off, and Susan made him a hearty breakfast of ham and eggs – which I helped him eat – and at 7:30 A.M., a car and driver came for him. I would have driven him to the airport, but he didn’t want to say goodbye at JFK. I remember a time when airports were like train stations or ship piers, and your friends or family walked you to the gate and could practically get on the plane, and could definitely get on the ocean liner to see you off with cocktails. But those days were long gone, and Edward had no memory of that simpler time. It occurred to me that there was a whole generation who accepted this war without end as normal. In fact, it was now normal.
Susan, Edward, and I stood in the forecourt, and I noted that Edward hadn’t forgotten his overnight bag. I asked my son with the genius-level IQ, “Do you have money?”
“Mom gave me money.”
“Good.