'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 surburban 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 judgement, 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, this continent was inhabited by Indians, the first Europeans only to kill them to make room for themselves. The succeeding 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.'
I wondered if the horses would like it without oil and vinegar. 'Sure will. Well
– '
'That your daughter?'
Bellarosa was looking over my shoulder, and I glanced back and saw Susan coming down the path. I turned back to Bellarosa.
'My wife.'
'Yeah?' He watched Susan approaching. 'I saw her riding a horse one day on my property.'
'She sometimes rides horses.'
He looked at me. 'Hey, if she wants to ride around my place, it's okay. She probably rode there before I bought the place. I don't want any hard feelings. I got a couple hundred acres, and the horse shit is good for the soil. Right?' 'It's excellent for roses.'
Susan walked directly up to Frank Bellarosa and extended her hand. 'I'm Susan Sutter. You must be our new neighbour.'
Bellarosa hesitated a moment before taking her hand, and I guessed that men in his world did not shake hands with women. He said, 'Frank Bellarosa.' 'I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Bellarosa. John told me he met you at the nursery a few weeks ago.'
'Yeah.'
Bellarosa maintained good eye contact, though I did see his eyes drop to Susan's legs for half a second. I wasn't altogether pleased that Susan hadn't put on her warm-up pants and that she was presenting herself to a total stranger in a tennis skirt that barely covered her crotch.
Susan said to Bellarosa, 'You must forgive us for not calling on you, but we weren't certain if you were settled in and receiving.'
Bellarosa seemed to ponder this a moment. This receiving business must have been giving him problems. Susan, I should point out, slips into her Lady Stanhope role when she wants to cause certain people to be uncomfortable. I don't know if this is defensive or offensive.
Bellarosa did not seem uncomfortable, though he seemed a little more tentative with Susan than he had been with me. Maybe Susan's legs were distracting him. He said to her, 'I was just telling your husband I saw you riding on my place once or twice. No problem.'
I thought he was about to mention the scatological side benefits to himself, but he just smiled at me. I did not return the smile. This was indeed a horse shit day, I thought.
Susan said to Mr Bellarosa, That's very good of you. I should point out, however, that it is local custom here to allow for equestrian right of way. You may mark specific bridle paths if you wish. However, if the hunt is ever reinstated, the horses will follow the dogs, who are, in turn, following the scent. You'll be notified.'
Frank Bellarosa looked at Susan for a long moment, and neither of them blinked. Bellarosa then surprised me by saying in a cool tone, 'I guess there's a lot I don't understand yet, Mrs Sutter.'
I thought I should change the subject to something he did understand, so I held up the plastic bag. 'Susan, Mr Bellarosa grew this lettuce – radicchio, it's called – in Alhambra's conservatory.'
Susan glanced at the bag and turned back to Bellarosa. She said, 'Oh, did you have that repaired? That's very nice.'
'Yeah. The place is coming along.'
'And these seedlings…' I added, indicating the tray on the ground, 'vegetables for our garden.'
'That's very thoughtful of you,' Susan said.
Bellarosa smiled at Susan. 'Your husband told me you eat flowers.'
'No, sir, I eat thorns. Thank you for stopping by.'
Bellarosa ignored the implied brush-off and turned to me. 'What's your place called? It's got a name, right?'
'Yes,' I replied. 'Stanhope Hall.'
'What's that mean?'
'Well… it's named after Susan's great-grandfather, Cyrus Stanhope. He built it.'
'Yeah. You said that. Am I supposed to name my place?'
'It has a name,' I said.
'Yeah, I know that. The real estate lady told me. Alhambra. That's how I get my mail. There's no house number. You believe that? But should I give the place a new name or what?'
Susan replied, 'You may, if you wish. Some people do. Others keep the original name. Do you have a name in mind?'
Frank Bellarosa thought a moment, then shook his head. 'Nah. Alhambra's okay for now. Sounds Spanish though. I'll think about it.'
If we can be of any help with a name,' Susan said, 'do let us know.' 'Thanks. You think I should put up a sign with the name of the place? I see signs on some of the places. You guys don't have a sign.' 'It's entirely up to you,' I assured our new neighbour. 'But if you change the name, notify the post office.'
'Yeah. Sure.'
Susan added – baitingly, I thought, 'Some people just put their own names out front. But others, especially if they have well-known names, don't.' Bellarosa looked at her and smiled. He said, 'I don't think it would be a good idea to put my name out front, do you, Mrs Sutter?'
'No, I don't, Mr Bellarosa.'
