"Of course. But it's not my land. I'm in the same situation as you are, Lester, living in splendid isolation on a few acres of a dead estate. I'm master of only about five percent of what I survey."
Lester thought about that a moment, then said, "Well, maybe a white knight will come along to save the white elephant."
"Maybe." A white knight in this context is a non-profit group such as a private school, religious institution, or sometimes a health care facility. Estate houses and their grounds seem to lend themselves to this sort of use, and most of the neighbours can live with this arrangement because it keeps the land open and the population density low. I wouldn't mind a few nuns strolling around Stanhope's acres, or even a few nervous-breakdown cases, or, least desirable, private-school students.
Lester asked, "Did you ever contact that real estate firm in Glen Cove that puts corporations together with estate owners?"
"Yes, but there seems to be a glut of estates and a dearth of corporations that need them." I should point out that corporations have bought entire estates for their own use. The old Astor estate in Sands Point, for instance, is now an IBM country club, and one of the many Pratt estates in Glen Cove is a conference centre. Also, one of the Vanderbilt estates, an Elizabethan manor house with a hundred acres in Old Brookville, is now the corporate headquarters to Banfi Vintners, who have restored the sixty-room house and grounds to its former glory. Any of these uses would be preferable to… well, to twenty tractor sheds inhabited by stockbrokers and their broods.
William Stanhope, incidentally, is far enough removed from here not to fully appreciate the fact that my environmental activities and his instructions to me are very nearly mutually exclusive. This is called a conflict of interest and is both unethical and illegal. But I really don't care. He's getting what he's paying for.
My father-in-law, you understand, can, if pushed, come up with the four hundred thousand dollars in back taxes but chooses not to, not until he's got a buyer or until the day before a tax seizure takes place. He fully intends to protect his huge asset unless and until he determines it is a liability and cannot be sold in his lifetime.
If you're wondering what this white elephant is worth to William Stanhope and his heirs and successors, here are the figures: two hundred acres, if they could be rezoned into ten-acre plots, would fetch over a million dollars a plot on the fabled Gold Coast, which amounts to a total of over twenty million dollars before taxes.
Susan, I assume, will eventually inherit enough money to get herself a full-time stable mucker and someone to help me and old George with the gardening. If you're wondering what else is in it for me, you should know that these sorts of people rarely let money get out of the immediate family. In fact, I entered into a prenuptial agreement long before the middle class even knew such a thing existed. William Stanhope and his paid attorney drew up the 'marriage contract', as it was then called, and I acted as my own attorney, proving the adage that a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client. Anyway, William has been getting free legal advice from the fool ever since.
On the brighter side, Edward and Carolyn have a trust fund into which Stanhope monies are deposited. And in fairness to Susan, the 'marriage contract' was not her idea. I don't want the Stanhope money anyway, but neither do I want the Stanhope problems. I said to Lester, "Neither Susan nor I am in favour of suburban sprawl, nor, specifically, the development of Stanhope Hall for monetary gain. But if this paradise is to be down-zoned to limbo, then we each have to decide if we wish to stay or leave. That is also an option." "Leave for where, John? Where do people like us go?"
"Hilton Head."
"Hilton Head?"
"Any planned little Eden where nothing will ever change."
"This is my home, John. The Remsens have been here for over two hundred years." "And so have the Whitmans and the Sutters. You know that." In fact, I should tell you that Lester Remsen and I are related in some murky way that neither of us chooses to clarify.
Families that predate the millionaires can indulge themselves in some snobbery, even if their forebears were fishermen and farmers. I said to Lester, "We're on borrowed time here. You know that."
"Are you playing devil's advocate, or are you giving up? Are you and Susan moving? Is this Bellarosa thing the last straw?"
Sometimes I think Lester likes me, so I took the question as a show of concern and not an expression of desire. I replied, "I've thought of it. Susan has never once mentioned it."
"Where would you go?"
I didn't know five seconds before he asked, but then it occurred to me. "I would go to sea."
"Where?"
"Sea, sea. That wet stuff that makes waterfront property so expensive."
"Oh…"
"I'm a good sailor. I'd get a sixty footer and just go." I was excited now.
"First I'd go down the Intracoastal Waterway to Florida, then into the Caribbean
– "
"But what about Susan?" he interrupted.
"What about her?"
"The horses, man. The horses."
I thought a moment. In truth, a horse would be a problem on a boat. I ordered another drink.
We sat and drank in silence awhile. I was beginning to feel the effects of the fourth martini. I looked around for Beryl Carlisle, but her idiot of a husband caught my eye. I smiled stupidly at him, then turned to Lester. "Nice chap." "Who?"
"Beryl Carlisle's husband."
"He's a schmuck."
Lester picks up words like that where he works. Putz is another one. They seem like excellent words, but I just can't seem to find the opportunity to try one of them.
We sat awhile longer, and the crowd was starting to thin. I wondered where Susan was and if I was supposed to meet her somewhere. Susan has this habit of thinking she's told me something when she hasn't, and then accusing me of forgetting. I understand from friends that this is quite common among wives. I ordered another drink to jog my memory.
Horses and boats went through my mind, and I tried to reconcile the two. I had this neat mental image of Zanzibar, stuffed and mounted on the bow of my new sixty-foot schooner.
I looked at Lester, who seemed deep in his own reveries, which probably ran along the lines of horse-mounted gentry burning down tractor sheds and trampling tricycles.
I heard Susan's voice beside me. "Hello, Lester," she said. "Are you still insulted? You look all right." Susan can be direct at times. Lester asked, "What do you mean?" feigning ignorance.
Susan ignored that and asked, "Where's Judy?"
Lester said with real ignorance, "I don't know." He thought a moment and added, "I should call her."
"First you have to know where she is," Susan pointed out. "What were you and John talking about?"
"Stocks and golf," I answered before Lester could dredge up the subject of Stanhope Hall again, which is not Susan's favourite topic. I said to Lester, "While you're trying to remember where your wife is, would you like to join us for dinner?" I shouldn't have had the fourth or fifth martini. Actually, the fifth was okay. It was the fourth I shouldn't have had.
Lester rose unsteadily. "I remember now. We're having people for dinner."
Susan said, "You must get me the recipe."
Susan was obviously irked at something. Poor Lester seemed muddled. He said, "Yes, of course I can. Would you like to come along? I'll call." Susan replied, "Thanks, but we have dinner plans."
I didn't know if this was true or not, because Susan never tells me these things.
Lester wished us a good evening, and Susan told him to drive carefully. I stood and steadied myself against the wall. I smiled at Susan. "Good to see you."
"How many of me do you see?" she asked.