Her laughter escorted him down her stairs and out of the house. And the sight of half that tree on top of her car made his heart skip a beat.
As he took a deep breath, his first instinct was to take out his phone and call Gary McAdams to remove the limb and get that crushed tin can of hers off to a scrapyard. But he stopped himself. Lizzie was not the kind of woman who would appreciate that sort of maneuvering. She would have her own contacts, her own idea of how to handle the problem, her own plan for the Yaris.
Knowing her, she would try to get it back on its feet.
Shaking his head, he walked over to his car. The Porsche had very nearly been destroyed, too, the 911 missed by only a couple of feet. After clearing some leaves off the hood, he got in, juiced the engine, and made his way slowly down the lane, steering around the fallen branches and the divots in the dirt that were full of water. As soon as he hit the asphalt, he made up for lost time, speeding toward Charlemont, ripping across the river, gunning his way up Easterly’s hill.
He was halfway to the top when he had to slow because another car was coming down.
It was a Mercedes sedan. Black S550.
And behind the wheel, in huge dark sunglasses and a black veil like she was in mourning, was his soon-to-be ex-wife.
Chantal did not look over at him even though she knew damn well who she was passing.
Fine. With any luck, she was relocating and they could let the lawyers take it from here. God knew he had enough other stuff to worry about.
Leaving the Porsche out front, he went in through the main entrance and paused when he saw the luggage in the foyer.
It wasn’t Chantal’s. She had matching Louis Vuitton. This was Gucci, and marked with the initials RIP.
Richard Ignatius Pford.
One asshole leaving, he thought. Another coming in.
What the hell was Gin thinking?
Oh, wait. He knew that answer. For a woman with little formal education and no professional skills, his sister had one unassailable talent: taking care of herself.
Spooked about money, she had gone along with their father and latched onto the wealthiest sap in town so that no matter what happened to the family, her style of living wouldn’t be affected. He just hoped that the cost to her didn’t prove to be too high. Richard Pford was a nasty little SOB.
Not his circus, not his monkeys, however. As much as it saddened him, he had long ago learned to give Gin her head and just let her go—there was no other strategy to deal with his sister, really.
Jogging up the stairs, he went to his room and showered, shaved, and seersuckered. It took him two tries to get the bow tie right.
Man, he hated the things.
He took the staff stairs back down, cut through the kitchen, and went to Miss Aurora’s door. As he had when he’d come to see her earlier, he checked that everything was tucked in, buttoned properly, and as it should be before he knocked.
Except then he stilled. For some reason, he had an abject fear that she wouldn’t answer the door this time. That he would rap his knuckles, and wait … and do it again, and wait some more …
And then he would have to break down the panels as he had with Rosalinda’s office—and he would find another dead— The door opened, and Miss Aurora frowned at him. “You’re late.”
Lane jumped out of his skin, but recovered fast. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
Miss Aurora gave him a grunt and patted her bright blue church hat. Her outfit was as brilliant as a spring sky, and she had matching gloves, matching shoes, and a perfectly coordinated pocketbook that was the size of a tennis racquet. Her lipstick was cherry red, her earrings were the pearl ones he’d given her three years ago, and she was wearing the pearl ring he’d gotten her the year before that.
He offered her his arm as she shut her door, and she took it.
Together, they walked out through the front of the house, passing Mr. Harris, who knew better than to say anything about which door they were using.
Lane escorted Miss Aurora to the Porsche’s passenger seat and settled her in the car. Then he went around, got behind the wheel, and restarted the engine.
“We’re going to be late,” she said crisply.
“I’ll get us there on time. Just watch me.”
“I don’t abide by no speeding.”
He found himself looking over at her with a wink. “Then close your eyes, Miss Aurora.”
She batted at his arm and glared at him. “You are not too old to spank.”
“I know you want a seat in the front pew.”
“Tulane Baldwine, don’t you dare break the law.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With a sly grin, he hit the gas, shooting the 911 down the hill—and as he passed a quick glance in her direction? He found that Miss Aurora was smiling to herself.
For a moment, all was right in his world.
FORTY