Greta muttered something in German. Then went out the door into the garden, speaking under her breath.
“What was she saying?” he asked when they were alone.
“I don’t know. Probably something about a piano falling on your head.”
He took a draw off the rim of his glass, sucking the cold bourbon in through his teeth. “That it? I would have expected something more bloody.”
“I think a Steinway dropped from even a short height could do some damage.”
There were half a dozen five-gallon plastic buckets around her, each stuffed with a different kind of flower, and she chose from them as if she were playing notes on a musical instrument: this one, then that one, back to the first, then the third, fourth, fifth. The result, in a short order of time, was a glorious head of petals sprouting above the highly polished silver container.
“Can I help?” he said.
“Yes, by leaving.”
“You’re almost out of those.” He looked around. “Here, I’ll bring you another bucketful—”
“Will you just go back to your dinner,” she snapped. “You’re not helping—”
“And you’re nearly done with these, too.”
He put his glass down on a table full of empty bowls and started hauling the heavy loads over.
“Thank you,” she muttered as he removed the empties, taking them over to the ceramic sink. “You can head off now—”
“I’m getting a divorce.”
Her face showed no reaction, but her hands, those sure, strong hands, nearly dropped the rose she was drawing out of the bucket he’d brought her.
“Not on my account I hope,” she said.
He tipped over one of the empties and sat down on its bottom, holding his bourbon between his knees. “Lizzie—”
“What do you want me to say—congratulations?” She glanced at him. “Or are you in the mood for more of a two-hankie, throw-myself-at-you-in-tearful-relief reaction? Because I’ll tell you right now, that’s the last thing you’re going to get from me—”
“I never loved Chantal.”
“As if that matters?” Lizzie rolled her eyes. “The woman was having your child. So maybe you didn’t love her, but you were clearly doing something with her.”
“Lizzie—”
“You know, that exasperated, be-reasonable tone of yours is really flipping annoying. It’s like you think I’m doing something wrong by not giving you a platform to talk about alllllll the ways you were a victim. Here’s what I know to be true: You came after me long and hard, and I gave in because I felt sorry about what was going on with your brother. At the same time, you were lining up the perfect, socially acceptable beard to hide the fact that you were banging the help. Your problem came when I refused to be your shameful little secret.”
“Goddamn it, Lizzie—it wasn’t like that—”
“Maybe on your side—”
“I have never treated you as an inferior!”
“You’ve got to be kidding. How did you think I was going to feel when you told me you were in love with me and then I read about your engagement in the society pages the next morning?” She threw up her hands. “Do you have any idea what that was like for me? I am a smart woman. I have my own farm that I’m paying for with my own money. I’ve got a master’s from Cornell.” She pounded on her chest. “I take care of myself. And still …” Her eyes shot away from his. “You still got me.”
“I didn’t put that announcement out.”
“Well, it was a great picture of the two of you.”
“It was not my fault.”
“Bullshit! Are you trying to tell me there was a gun to your head when you married Chantal?”
“You wouldn’t speak to me! And she was pregnant—I didn’t want my kid to be born a bastard. I figured it was the only way to be a man in the situation.”
“Oh, you were a man, all right. That was how she ended up carrying your baby.”
Lane cursed and dropped his head. God, he’d wasted so much time wishing he could do things over with Lizzie—starting way before they’d gotten together, when he’d been having casual sex with Chantal and had believed her when she’d told him she was on the pill.
But everyone knew how that had turned out.
And the pregnancy hadn’t been the only surprise Chantal had had in store for him. The second one had been even more devastating.
“So can we be done here?” Lizzie asked as she moved on to the next bowl. “This is really none of my business.”
“Why didn’t I stay here with her?” He leaned forward. “You’ve got this all figured out, so why didn’t I stay here with her—why’ve I been gone for almost two years? And if I wanted a child with her, why didn’t she get pregnant again after she lost the first one?”
Lizzie shook her head and stared at him. “What part of ‘not my business’ are you failing to comprehend?”