“I’m not lying. And I’ve wanted to tell you this for nearly two years.” He cursed again. “There’s more, but I don’t want to get into it. It doesn’t affect what’s between you and me.”
Before she was aware of making a conscious decision to sit down, she discovered she was in the rolling seat she’d been using. Staring at her hands, she flexed her fingers, feeling the stiffness in the joints—and for some reason, she thought of Chantal’s perfectly manicured tips and smooth, unmarked palms. Talk about your opposites. The hands she was looking at were a workman’s, with scratches on the backs from errant rose thorns and dirt under the nails that she would get out only when she was home tonight. There were freckles, too, from digging in the sun without gloves on—and absolutely, positively no million-dollar diamonds.
“I married Chantal at the courthouse after you left me,” he said starkly. “It wasn’t the baby’s fault, and having grown up without parents, I wasn’t going to do the same to any kid I had—regardless of how I felt about its mother. But then I just had to get out of town. Chantal didn’t get that the marriage was in name only so I went up north to New York and stayed with a buddy of mine from U.Va. It was shortly after that that Chantal called to tell me she’d lost the pregnancy.”
The bitterness in his voice made the words so low that she could barely understand them.
“She doesn’t love me, either,” he muttered. “Didn’t then, doesn’t now.”
“How can you be so sure,” Lizzie heard herself say.
“Trust me on that one.”
“She seemed pretty excited to have you back.”
“I didn’t come here for her and I made that clear. And that woman is capable of getting attached only to a meal ticket.”
“I thought she had her own money.”
“Nothing compared to mine.”
Yes, she imagined that was true. There were European countries with lesser annual revenue than the Bradfords had.
“You’re the love of my life, whether you’re with me or not.” When she looked up in shock, he just shrugged. “I can’t change what happened and I know there’s no going back … all I ask is that you don’t fall for appearances, okay? You’ve had ten years around this family, but I’ve been with them and the people who surround them all my life. That’s why you’re the one I want. You’re real. You’re not capable of being what they are and that’s a very, very good thing.”
She waited for him to say something else, and when he didn’t, she looked back down at her hands.
For some reason, her heart was pounding, sure as if she were too close to the edge of a cliff. Then again, she supposed that was the truth—because his words were getting into her brain and shuffling her mental decks.
In ways that didn’t really help her.
“I am so terrified of you,” she whispered.
“Why?”
Because she wanted to believe what he was saying with the desperation of an addict.
“Don’t be,” he said when she didn’t reply. “I never meant for any of this to happen. And I’ve wanted to make it right for so long.”
It seemed appropriate that they were surrounded by all the flower bowls that she had been filling. The evidence of her work, of her sole purpose in being on the estate, was a reminder of the divide that would always put distance between them.
And then she took pains to recall that photograph and article in the Charlemont Herald about the marriage, two grand Southern legacies joining in a feudal arrangement. And she remembered the days and nights right after she’d found out about Chantal, all those hours of suffering until she’d felt like she were dying.
Although he was right about one thing. Pride had mandated that she continue working at Easterly, and so she had been on the estate every day but Sunday for essentially the last twenty-four months. Lane had not come back. For two years … he had not come back to see Chantal.
Not much of a marriage.
“Let my actions speak for me,” he said. “Let me prove to you that what I’m telling you is the truth.”
In her mind, she heard her cell phone ringing, over and over again. Right after the break-up, he had called her a hundred times, easy—sometimes leaving messages she never listened to, sometimes not. She had taken two weeks of vacation right after she’d found out, escaping even her farm in Indiana, and going back northeast to Plattsburgh and the apple orchards of her youth. Her parents had been so glad to see her, and she had passed those days tending to McIntosh trees with the other manual laborers.
By the time she had returned, he’d been gone.
The phone calls had dried up after a while. And eventually she had stopped flinching every time a car pulled up to the front court.
“Please, Lizzie … say something. Even if it’s not what I want to hear—”