Read Online The Gate House by Nelson DeMille - Free Book Online Page A

here, my neighbors were trying to unload this expense on various local governments, who didn’t seem anxious to bail out the rich sons of bitches of Grace Lane, some of whom were no longer so rich, but who nonetheless remained sons of bitches. The issue seems to have been resolved in my absence because Grace Lane was now well paved.
    I continued south toward the village of Locust Valley, where I needed to stop to buy something for Ethel. One should never arrive empty-handed when paying a visit, of course, but I never know what to bring except for wine, and that wouldn’t be appropriate for this occasion; likewise, flowers might seem premature.
    Ethel enjoyed reading, so I could stop at the bookstore, but I shouldn’t buy anything too long, like
War and Peace
. She also liked fruit, but I shouldn’t buy green bananas. All right, I’m not being very nice, but when faced with the hovering presence of the Grim Reaper, a little humor (even bad humor) helps the living and the dying to deal with it. Right? So maybe she’d get a kick out of a gift certificate to Weight Watchers.
    “Dear Ms. Post, I need to visit an elderly lady in hospice, whose time left on earth could be measured with a stopwatch. Why should I bother to bring her anything? (Signed) COLI. P.S. I don’t like her.”
    “Dear COLI, Good manners don’t stop at death’s door. An appropriate gift would be a box of chocolates; if she can’t eat them, her visitors can. If she dies before you get there, leave the chocolates and your calling card with the receptionist. It’s the thought that counts. (Signed) Emily Post. P.S. Try to make amends if she’s conscious.”
    I turned onto Skunks Misery Road, and within a few minutes found myself again in the village of Locust Valley. I hate shopping for anything, including cards and trivial gifts, so my mood darkened as I cruised Forest Avenue and Birch Hill Road, looking for some place that sold chocolates. I saw at least a dozen white SUVs that could have been Susan’s, and it occurred to me that she was good at this sort of thing, so if I ran into her—figuratively, not literally—I’d ask her for some advice. The last gift advice I’d gotten from her—at Carolyn’s graduation from Harvard Law—was that the T-shirt I’d bought for Carolyn in London, which, in Shakespeare’s words, said, “The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers,” was not a good law school graduation gift. She may have been right.
    Anyway, I gave up on the chocolates, parked, and went into a florist shop.
    A nice-looking young lady behind the counter asked how she could help me, and I replied without preamble, “I need something for an elderly lady who’s in hospice and doesn’t have much time left.” I glanced at my watch to emphasize that point.
    “I see . . . so—”
    “I am not particularly fond of her.”
    “All right . . . then—”
    “I mean, cactus would be appropriate, but she’ll have other visitors, so I need something that looks nice. It doesn’t have to last long.”
    “I understand. So perhaps—”
    “It can’t look like a funeral arrangement. Right?”
    “Right. You don’t want to . . . Why don’t we avoid flowers and do a nice living plant?”
    “How about hemlock?”
    “No, I was thinking of that small Norfolk pine over there.” She explained, “Evergreens are the symbol of eternal life.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes, like, well, a Christmas tree.”
    “Christmas trees turn brown.”
    “That’s because they’re cut.” She informed me, “We deliver a lot of living evergreens to hospice.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes. They smell good. And the family can take them home as a memento afterwards.”
    “After what?”
    “After . . . the . . . person . . .” She changed the subject and asked, “Which hospice is the lady residing at?”
    “Fair Haven.”
    “We can deliver that for you.”
    “Actually, I’m on my way there now and that’s too big to carry, so . . .” I looked around, and