"Yes.'' She added, "I love you, John."

"I love you."

She got to her feet and said, "Stand up."

I stood and Susan took my shirt, put it on me and buttoned it, then put my tie on and tied it. Next came my shorts and my socks, then my trousers. She buckled my belt and zipped my fly. Having a woman undress me is very erotic, but only Susan has ever dressed me after sex and I find it a very loving and tender act. She put my shoes on and tied them, then brushed off my jacket and helped me into it. "There,'' she said as she straightened my hair, "you look like you just left church."

"Except my groin is sticky."

She smiled, and I looked at her standing in front of me stark naked. I said, "Thank you."

"My pleasure."

I tried to dress her, but I got the panties on backward and was having trouble with the bra fasteners. Susan said, "John, you used to undress me in the dark with one hand."

"This is different."

We finally got Susan into her clothes and walked hand in hand back to the house in the dark. I said to her, "You're right, you know. I mean your perceptive analysis of how I feel. I don't want to feel bored or restless, but I do."

"Maybe,'' she replied, "you need a challenge. Perhaps I can think of something to challenge you."

"Good idea,'' I said, which turned out to be the stupidest thing I ever said.

Nine.

I skipped church on Holy Saturday, having had enough of the Reverend Mr. Hunnings and the Allards. Susan played hooky, too, and spent the morning cleaning her stables with two college boys home on vacation. I don't do stables, but I did stop by with a cooler of soft drinks. As I pulled the Bronco up to the stable, I was struck by the awful smell of horse manure and the sounds of laughter and groans.

Zanzibar and Yankee were tethered to a post outside, under the huge, spreading chestnut tree, nibbling grass and oblivious to the humans slaving on their behalf. I think horses should clean their own stables. I used to like horses. Now I hate them. I'm jealous.

On the same subject, Susan, who can be cold as Freon to men her own age who show an interest in her, is very friendly to young men. This I'm sure is partly maternal, as she is old enough to be the mother of college-age children and in fact is. It's the part that is not maternal that annoys me. Anyway, they all seemed to be having a grand time in there shoveling shit.

I pulled the cooler out of the rear of the Bronco and set it down on a stone bench.

A pile of manure had risen on the cobbled service court in front of the stable, and this would find its way to the rose garden behind our house. Maybe that's why I don't stop and smell the roses.

I opened a bottle of apple juice and drank, my foot propped on the bench, trying to strike a real-man pose in case anybody came out of the stable. If I had tobacco and paper I would have rolled one. I waited, but the only thing coming out of the stable was laughter.

I surveyed the long, two-story stable complex. The stables are built of brick with slate roofs in an English country style, more matching the guesthouse than the main house. I suppose there's no such thing as beaux-arts stables with Roman columns. The stables had been built at the same time as the house, when horses were a more reliable and dignified means of transportation than automobiles. There were thirty stalls for the riding horses, the carriage horses, and the draft horses, and a large carriage house that probably held two dozen horsedrawn conveyances, including sleds and estate equipment. The second story was part haymow and part living quarters for the forty or so men needed to maintain the animals, buildings, tack, and carriages. The carriage house had become the garage by the 1920s, and the coachmen, grooms, and such had become chauffeurs and mechanics.

Susan and I sometimes use the garage for the Jag, and George always parks his Lincoln there, as he is of the generation that believes in taking care of possessions. The gatehouse, guesthouse, and main house were built without garages, of course, because if one needed one's horse, carriage, or automobile, one just buzzed the carriage house. I have a buzzer marked CARRIAGE HOUSE CARRIAGE HOUSE in my kitchen, and I keep pushing it, but no one comes. in my kitchen, and I keep pushing it, but no one comes.

Anyway, the stables are on Stanhope land, which presents a problem if the land is sold. The obvious solution to this is to construct a smaller wooden stable on Susan's property. I mean, we don't live in the great house; why should the horses live in the great stable? But Susan fears emotional trauma to her animals if they are forced to step down in life, so she wants at least part of the original stable moved, brick by brick, slate by slate, and cobble by cobble to her land. She wants this done soon, before the tax people start identifying assets. Her father has graciously given his permission to move all or part of the structure to her ten acres, and Susan has picked a nice tree-shaded patch of land with a pond for her precious horsies. All that remains to be done is to engage the Herculean Task Stable Moving Company and a hundred slaves to complete the job. Susan says she'll split the cost with me. I have to look at that prenuptial agreement again.

I finished my apple juice and hooked my thumb in my belt, waiting for somebody to push a wheelbarrow full of feces out the door. I found a piece of straw and stuck it between my teeth.

After a minute or so in this pose, I decided to stop being silly and just go in. But as I walked toward the main doors, a puff of hay flew out of the loft overhead and landed on me. It sounded as if they were having a hay fight. Good clean American fun. Pissed off beyond belief, I spun around, got into the Bronco, and slammed it into gear, making a tight U-turn in front of the main doors. I could hear Susan calling after me from the open loft as I drove right through the pile of manure in four-wheel drive.

That afternoon, after a rational discussion regarding my childishness, we put on our tennis whites and walked down to the courts to keep a tennis date. It was warm for April, and after a few volleys while we waited for the other couple, Susan took off her sweater and warm-up pants. I have to tell you, the woman looks exquisite in tennis clothes, and when she fishes around in her panties for the second ball, the men on the court lose their concentration for a minute or two.

Anyway, we volleyed for another ten minutes, and I was blasting balls all over the place, and Susan was telling me not to be hostile. Finally, she said, "Look, John, don't blow this match. Calm down."

"I'm calm."

"If we win, I'll grant you any sexual favor you wish."

"How about a roll in the hay?"

She laughed. "You got it."

We volleyed a bit longer, and I guess I did calm down a bit, because I was keeping the balls in the court. I was not, however, a happy man. It's often little things, like Susan's horsing around in the hay, that sets you off on a course that can be vengeful and destructive.

Anyway, our tennis partners, Jim and Sally Roosevelt, showed up. Jim is one of the Oyster Bay Roosevelts still living in the area. Roosevelts, Morgans, Vanderbilts, and such are sort of a local natural resource, self-renewable like pheasant and nearly as scarce. To have a Roosevelt or a pheasant on your property is an occasion of some pride; to have one or the other for dinner is, respectively, a social or culinary coup. Actually, Jim is just a regular guy with a famous name and a trust fund. More important, I can beat his pants off in tennis. Incidentally, we don't pronounce Roosevelt Roosevelt the way you've heard it pronounced all your life. Around here, we say the way you've heard it pronounced all your life. Around here, we say Roozvelt Roozvelt, teeth clenched lockjaw style, two syllables, rhymes with "Lou's belt.'' Okay?

Sally Roosevelt was nee Sally Grace, of the ocean liner Graces, and Grace Lane, coincidentally, was named after that family, not after a woman. However, I'm certain that nearly all of Grace Lane's residents think their road is named after the spiritual state of grace in which they believe they exist. Aside from being a Grace, Sally is not bad to look at, and to get even for the hayloft incident, I flirted with her between sets. But neither she nor Susan, nor Jim for that matter, seemed to care. My shots started to get wilder. I was losing it.

At about six P P.M., in the middle of a game, I noticed a black, shiny Cadillac Eldorado moving up the main drive. The car slowed opposite the tennis courts, which are partially hidden by evergreens. The car stopped, and Frank Bellarosa got out and walked toward the courts.

Jim said unnecessarily, "I think someone is looking for you."

I excused myself, put down my racket, and left the court. I intercepted Mr. Bellarosa on the path about thirty yards from the court.

"Hello, Mr. Sutter. Did I interrupt your tennis game?"

"You sure did, greaseball. What do you want?'' No, I didn't actually say that. I said, "That's all right."

He extended his hand, which I took. We shook briefly without playing crush the cartilage. Frank Bellarosa informed me, "I don't play tennis."

"Neither do I,'' I replied.

He laughed. I like a man who appreciates my humor, but in this case I was willing to make an exception.

Bellarosa was dressed in gray slacks and a blue blazer, which is good Saturday uniform around here, and I was quite honestly surprised. But he also had on horrible white, shiny shoes, and his belt was too narrow. He wore a black turtleneck sweater, which is okay, but not tres chic anymore. There were no pinky rings or other garish jewelry, no chains or sparkly things, but he did have on a Rolex Oyster, which I, at least, find in questionable taste. I noticed this time that he had on a wedding ring.

"It's a nice day,'' said Mr. Bellarosa with genuine delight.

I could tell the man was having a better day than I was. I'll bet Mrs. Bellarosa hadn't spent the morning thrashing around in the hayloft with two young studs. "Unusually warm for this time of year,'' I agreed.

"Some place you got here,'' he said.

"Thank you,'' I replied.

"You been here long?"

"Three hundred years."

"What's that?"

"I mean my family. But my wife's family built this place in 1906."

"No kidding?"

"You can look it up."

"Yeah.'' He looked around. "Some place."

I regarded Mr. Frank Bellarosa a moment. He was not the short, squat froggy type you sometimes associate with a stereotypical Mafia don. Rather, he had a powerful build, as if he lifted dead bodies encased in concrete, and his face had sharp features, dark skin, deep-set eyes, and a hooked Roman nose. His hair was blue-black, wavy, well-styled, gray at the temples, and all there. He was a few inches shorter than I, but I'm six feet, so he was about average height. I'd say he was about fifty years old, though I could look it up somewhere-court records, for instance.

He had a soft smile that seemed incongruous with his hard eyes and with his violent history. Except for that smile, there was nothing in his looks or manner that suggested a bishop. I didn't think the guy was particularly good-looking, but my instincts told me that some women might find him attractive.

Frank Bellarosa turned his attention back to me. "Your guy-what's his name ... ?"

"George."

"Yeah. He said you were playing tennis, but I could go on in and see if you were done. But that I shouldn't interrupt your game."

Mr. Bellarosa's tone told me he wasn't happy with George.

I replied, "That's all right.'' George, of course, knew who this man was, though we never discussed our new neighbor. George is the keeper of the gate and the keeper of the long-dead etiquettes, and if you were a lady or a gentleman, you were welcome to pass through the main gates. If you were a tradesman on business or an invited killer, you should use the service entrance down the road. I thought I should tell George to lighten up on Mr. Bellarosa. I asked, "What can I do for you?"

"Nothing. Just wanted to say hello."

"That's good of you. Actually it was I who should have paid a call on you."

"Oh, yeah? Why?"

"Well ... that's the way it's done."

"Yeah? No one's stopped by yet."

"Now that's odd. Perhaps no one is sure you're there.'' This conversation was getting weird, so I said, "Well, thanks for coming by. And welcome to Lattingtown."

"Thanks. Hey, you got a minute? I got something for you. Come on.'' He turned and motioned me to follow. I glanced back at the tennis court, then followed.

Bellarosa stopped at his Cadillac and opened the trunk. I expected to see George's body, but instead Bellarosa took out a flat of seedlings and handed them to me. "Here. I bought too much. You really don't have a vegetable garden?"

"No.'' I looked at the plastic tray. "I guess I do now."

He smiled. "Yeah. I gave you a few of everything. I left these little signs on so you know what they are. Vegetables need good sun. I don't know about the soil around here. What kind of soil you got here?"

"Well ... slightly acid, some clay, but good loamy topsoil, glacial outwash-"

"What?"

"Glacial ... silty, pebbly in places-"

"All I see around here is trees, bushes, and flowers. Try these vegetables. You'll thank me in August."

"I thank you in April."

"Yeah. Put that down. Not on the car."

I put the tray down on the ground.

Bellarosa pulled a clear plastic bag from the trunk, inside of which was a mass of purplish leaves.

"Here,'' he said. "This is radicchio. You know? Like lettuce."

I took the bag and examined the ragged leaves with polite interest. "Very nice."

"I grew it."

"You must have warmer weather over there."

Bellarosa laughed. "No, I grew it inside. You know, my place has this room-like a greenhouse ... the real estate lady said it ..."

"A conservatory."

"Yeah. Like a greenhouse, except it's part of the house. So I got that fixed up first thing in January. Every pane was broken, and the gas heater was gone. Cost me twenty thousand bucks, but I'm getting onions and lettuce already."

"Very expensive onions and lettuce,'' I observed.

"Yeah. But what the hell."

I should tell you that Bellarosa's accent was definitely not Locust Valley, but neither was it pure Brooklyn. Accents being important around here, I've developed an ear for them, as have most people I know. I can usually tell which of the city's five boroughs a person is from, or which of the surrounding suburban counties. I can sometimes tell which prep school a person has gone to, or if he's gone to Yale as I have. Frank Bellarosa did not go to Yale, but occasionally there was something odd, almost prep school, in his accent if not his choice of words. But mostly I could hear the streets of Brooklyn in his voice.

Against my better judgment, I asked, "Where did you live before Lattingtown?"

"Where? Oh, Williamsburg.'' He looked at me. "That's in Brooklyn. You know Brooklyn?"

"Not very well."

"Great place. Used to be a great place. Too many ... foreigners now. I grew up in Williamsburg. My whole family is from there. My grandfather lived on Havemeyer Street when he came over."

I assumed Mr. Bellarosa's grandfather came over from a foreign country, undoubtedly Italy, and I'm sure the old Germans and Irish of Williamsburg did not welcome him with hugs and schnitzels. When this continent was inhabited by Indians, the first Europeans had only to kill them to make room for themselves. The succeeding waves of immigrants had it a little rougher; they had to buy or rent. I didn't think Mr. Bellarosa was interested in any of these ironies, so I said, "Well, I do hope you find Long Island to your liking."

"Yeah. I know Long Island. I went to boarding school out here."

He didn't offer any more, so I didn't press it, though I wondered what boarding school Frank Bellarosa could possibly have attended. I thought that might be his way of saying reform school. I said, "Thanks again for the lettuce."

"Eat it quick. Just picked. A little oil and vinegar."