The Bourbon Kings

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Gin was still standing underneath the magnolia tree where Samuel T. had left her when a vehicle came up the winding front drive. It wasn’t until the SUV stopped in front of her that she realized it was from the Washington County Sheriff’s department.

 

Good God, what was her father trying to get her arrested for now: Courtesy of this morning’s awful field trip downtown, her first instinct was to run, but she was in high heels, and if she really wanted to get away from the officer, she was going to have to bolt through a flower bed.

 

Breaking her leg was not going to help her in jail.

 

Deputy Mitchell Ramsey got out with a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Ma’am,” he said, nodding at her. “How are you?”

 

He didn’t take out any handcuffs. Didn’t seem more than politely interested in her.

 

“Are you here for me?” she blurted.

 

“No.” His dark eyes narrowed. “Are you okay?”

 

No, not at all, Deputy. “Yes, thank you.”

 

“If you’ll excuse me, ma’am.”

 

“So you’ve not come for me?”

 

“No, ma’am.” He walked up to the front door and started to ring the bell. “I have not.”

 

Maybe it had to do with Rosalinda?

 

“Here,” she said, going over to him. “Do come in. Are you looking for my brother?”

 

“No, is Chantal Baldwine at home?”

 

“Most likely.” She opened the grand door, and the deputy took his hat off again as he entered. “Let me find—oh, Mr. Harris. Will you please take this gentleman to my sister-in-law?”

 

“My pleasure,” the butler said with a bow. “This way, sir. I believe she’s in the conservatory.”

 

“Ma’am,” the deputy murmured to her, before striding away after the Englishman.

 

“Well, this should be interesting,” came a dry voice from the parlor.

 

She pivoted around. “Lane?”

 

Her brother was standing in front of the painting of Elijah Bradford, and he lifted his squat glass. “Cheers to my divorce.”

 

“Really.” Gin walked in and got busy at the bar because she didn’t want Lane to focus on her red-rimmed eyes and swollen face. “Well, at least I won’t have to take Mother’s jewelry off her neck anymore. Good riddance, and I’m surprised you don’t want to enjoy the show.”

 

“I’ve got bigger problems.”

 

Gin took her bourbon and soda over to the sofa and kicked her stilettos off. Tucking her legs under her seat, she stared up at her brother.

 

“You look terrible,” she said. As bad as she felt, actually.

 

He sat down across from her. “This is going to be rough, Gin. The money thing. I think this is really serious.”

 

“Maybe we can sell stock. I mean, you can do that, right? I have no idea how all this works.”

 

And for the first time in her life, she wished she did.

 

“It’s complicated because of the trust situation.”

 

“Well … we’ll be all right.” When her brother didn’t say anything, she frowned. “Right? Lane?”

 

“I don’t know, Gin. I really don’t know.”

 

“We’ve always had money.”

 

“Yes, that has been true.”

 

“You make it sound past tense.”

 

“Don’t kid yourself, Gin.”

 

Leaning her head back, she stared up at the high ceiling, imagining her mother laying in that bed of hers. Was that going to be her own future, too? she wondered. Was she some day going to retire and pull the curtains so that she could live in a drug haze?

 

Certainly sounded appealing at the moment.

 

God, had Samuel T. really turned her down?

 

“Gin, have you been crying?”

 

“No,” she said smoothly. “Just allergies, dear brother. Just spring allergies …”

 

 

 

 

 

TWENTY-FOUR

 

 

 

 

Lizzie hustled out of the conservatory with Chantal’s fragrant wrap, all the perfume on the floaty fabric thick in her nose, making her want to sneeze. Funny, she could be surrounded by a thousand real blooms, but this fancy, falsely curated stuff was enough to send her over the Claritin edge.

 

Off in the distance, she heard Chantal’s unmistakable Virginian drawl and headed in the direction of the dining room to—

 

“What is this?” Chantal demanded.

 

Lizzie stopped short and leaned around the heavy molding of the archway.

 

At the head of the long, glossy table, Chantal was standing next to a uniformed sheriff’s deputy who’d apparently just given her a thick envelope.

 

“You have been served, ma’am.” The deputy nodded. “Have a good day—”

 

“What do you mean ‘served.’ What does that—no, you’re not leaving until I open this.” She ripped the envelope apart. “You can stay right there while I …”

 

The papers came out in a bundle that had been folded three times, and as the woman unfurled them, Lizzie’s heart pounded.

 

“Divorce?” Chantal said. “Divorce?”