“I need a drink,” she announced. “And where did Samuel T. go?”
“He’s not alone tonight, Gin.”
“As if that matters?”
When she walked off with her head high and her shoulders back, he felt sorry for that poor blond stewardess. Lane didn’t know who Samuel T’s escort was, but she had certainly gotten the right read on her date: Over at the bar, she’d set herself at his hip like a holstered revolver—as if she were fully aware that she was going to have to protect her turf.
At least he’d have something to watch over dinner.
“Your Family Reserve, sir? Mr. Lodge sends it with his highest regard.”
Lane turned and smiled. Reginald Tressel had been the bartender at Easterly forever, and the African-American gentleman in his black dress coat and shined shoes was more distinguished than many of the guests, as usual.
“Thank you, Reg.” Lane took a squat cut-crystal glass from the silver tray. “Hey, thanks for calling me about Miss Aurora. Did you get my voice mail?”
“I did. And I knew you’d want to come down.”
“She looks better than I thought she would.”
“She puts up a front. You’re not leaving anytime soon, are you?”
“Hey, how’s Hazel doing?” Lane deflected.
“She’s much better, thank you. And I know that you won’t go back up north until things are finished here.”
Reginald gave him a smile that didn’t change the grim light in those dark eyes, and then the man returned to his duties, walking through the crowd like a statesman, people greeting him as an equal.
Lane could remember when he was young people saying that Mr. Tressel was the unofficial mayor of Charlemont, and that certainly hadn’t changed.
God, he wasn’t ready to lose Miss Aurora. That would be like having to sell Easterly—something he couldn’t fathom in a universe that was functioning properly—
The scent of cigarette smoke made him stiffen.
There was only one person allowed to smoke in the house.
On that note, Lane went in the opposite direction.
His father had always been a smoker in the Southern tradition, which was to say that even though the man had asthma, he viewed it as a patriotic right to give yourself lung cancer—not that he was sick, or would get sick. He believed that a real man never let a lady pull in her own chair at a table, never mistreated his hunting dogs, and never, ever got sick.
Good code of conduct. The problem was, that was it. Nothing about your kids. The people who worked for you. Your role as a husband. And the Ten Commandments? Just an old list used to govern the lives of other people so that you weren’t inconvenienced by them shooting one another up.
It was funny. Courtesy of his father, Lane had never smoked—and not as some kind of rebellion. Growing up, he and his brothers and sister had known whenever the man was coming by the smell of tobacco, and it had never been good news. Consequently, he pulled a tensed-up Pavlov whenever anybody lit up.
Probably the only thing his father had contributed to his life in a positive way. And even so, it was a backhanded benefit.
The ice in his glass sounded like chimes as he walked through the house, and he didn’t know where he was going … until he came up to the double doors that opened into the conservatory. Even though they were shut, he caught the scent of the flowers, and he stood for a time staring through the panes of glass into the verdant, now-colorful enclave on the other side.
Lizzie was no doubt in there, arranging the bouquets as she did every year the Thursday before Derby.
Moth to a flame and all that, he thought as he watched his hand reach out and turn the brass handle.
The sound of Greta von Schlieber speaking in that German-tinted voice almost made him turn back around. Courtesy of everything that had gone down, the woman hated him—and she was not one to hide her opinions. She was also likely to have a set of garden shears in her hands.
But the pull to Lizzie was stronger than any urge for self-preservation.
And there she was.
Even though it was past eight at night, she was sitting on a rolling stool in front of a table set with twenty-five silver bowls the size of basketballs. Half of them were filled with pale pink and white and cream flowers, and the others were ready to get their due, wet floral sponges waiting to anchor countless blooms.
She glanced over her shoulder, took one look at him … and kept on speaking without missing a beat. “—tables and chairs under the tent. Also, can you get some more preservative spray?”
Greta was not so phlegmatic. Even though she was obviously on her way out, with a big, bright green Prada bag up on her shoulder, a smaller orange one in her hand, and her car keys dangling from her grip, that glare, coupled with her abrupt silence, suggested she wasn’t heading off anywhere until he went back to his family’s party.
“It’s all right,” Lizzie said quietly. “You can go.”