He answered the call only because it was either that or commit homicide.
The male Southern voice on the other end of the connection said three words: “Your momma’s dyin’.”
As the meaning sank into his brain, everything destabilized around him, the walls closing in, the floor rolling, the ceiling collapsing on his head. Memories didn’t so much come to him as assault him, the alcohol in his system doing nothing to dull the onslaught.
No, he thought. Not now. Not this morning.
Although would there ever be a good time?
“Not ever” was the only acceptable timetable on this.
From a distance, he heard himself speak. “I’ll be there before noon.”
And then he hung up.
“Lane?” Jeff got to his feet. “Oh, shit, don’t you pass out on me. I’ve got to be at Eleven Wall in an hour and I need a shower.”
From a vast distance, Lane watched his hand reach out and pick up his wallet. He put that and the phone in the pocket of his slacks and headed for the door.
“Lane! Where the fuck are you going?”
“Don’t wait up,” he said as he opened the way out.
“When’re you going to be back? Hey, Lane—what the hell?”
His old, dear friend was still talking at him as Lane walked off, letting the door close in his wake. At the far end of the hall, he punched through a steel door and started jogging down the concrete stairwell. As his footfalls echoed all around, and he made tight turn after tight turn, he dialed a familiar phone number.
When the call was answered, he said, “This is Lane Baldwine. I need a jet at Teterboro now—going to Charlemont.”
There was a brief delay, and then his father’s executive assistant got back on the connection. “Mr. Baldwine, there is a jet available. I have spoken directly with the pilot. Flight plans are being filed as we speak. Once you get to the airport, proceed to—”
“I know where our terminal is.” He broke out into the marble lobby, nodded to the doorman, and proceeded to the revolving doors. “Thanks.”
Just a quickie, he told himself as he hung up and hailed a cab. With any luck, he would be back in Manhattan and annoying Jeff by nightfall, twelve midnight at the very latest.
Ten hours. Fifteen, tops.
He had to see his momma, though. That was what Southern boys did.
TWO
Three hours, twenty-two minutes, and some number of seconds later, Lane looked out the oval window of one of the Bradford Bourbon Company’s brand-new Embraer Lineage 1000E corporate jets. Down below, the city of Charlemont was laid out like a Lego diorama, its sections of rich and poor, of commerce and agriculture, of homesteading and highway displayed in what appeared to be only two dimensions. For a moment, he tried to picture the land as it had been when his family had first settled in the area in 1778.
Woods. Rivers. Native Americans. Wildlife.
His people had come from Pennsylvania through the Cumberland Gap two hundred and fifty years ago—and now, here he was, ten thousand feet up in the air, circling the city along with fifty other rich guys in their various aircraft.
Except he was not here to bet on horses, get drunk, and find some sex.
“May I refresh your No. Fifteen before we land, Mr. Baldwine? I’m afraid there’s quite a queue. We could be a while.”
“Thank you.” He drained what was in his crystal glass, the ice cubes sliding down and hitting his upper lip. “You’re timing couldn’t be better.”
Okay, so maybe he would be doing a little drinking.
“My pleasure.”
As the woman in the skirt uniform walked away, she looked across her shoulder to see if he was checking her out, her big blue eyes blooming underneath her fake lashes.
His sex life had long depended upon the kindness of such strangers. Particularly blond ones like her, with legs like that, and hips like that, and breasts like that.
But not anymore.
“Mr. Baldwine,” the captain said from overhead. “When they found out it was you, they bumped us up, so we’re landing now.”
“How kind of them,” Lane murmured as the stewardess came back.
The way she reopened the bottle gave him a clue to how she’d take down a man’s fly, her full body getting into the twist of the cork and the pop free. Then she leaned into the pour, encouraging him to check out her La Perla.
Such wasted effort.
“That’s enough.” He put his hand out. “Thanks.”
“Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No, thank you.”
Pause. Like she wasn’t used to being turned down, and wanted to remind him that they were running out of time.
After a moment, she kicked up her chin. “Very good, sir.”