“You’re a grown woman,” Greta blurted as she looked up from a bouquet. “And I’m sorry. I had no right to … you’re a grown woman and you’re entitled to make your own decisions. I’m really sorry.”
Lizzie released her breath on a oner. “I’m sorry, too.”
Greta pushed her tortoiseshell glasses higher on her nose. “What for? You didn’t do anything wrong. I just—look, I’m ten years older than you. So it’s not just that I have more wrinkles on my face or more wear and tear on my body. I feel like I have to take care of you. You haven’t asked me to, and you probably don’t need it, but that’s how it is—”
“Greta, really. You don’t have to apologize. We’re both under a lot of stress—”
“And besides, I heard he served her with divorce papers yesterday.”
“Word travels fast.” She put her bag down. “How did you find out?”
“One of the maids saw her throw the papers at the deputy.” Greta shook her head. “So classy.”
“I told him not to do it because of me.”
“Well, whatever his reasoning, he followed through on it.” Greta resumed working her way down the tables. “Just promise me something. Watch out for him. This family, they’ve got a history of treating people as disposable, and that never goes well for the toy of the moment.”
Lizzie put her hands on her hips and stared down at her work boots. Which she’d put on in front of Lane—giving him a show that he’d been very vocal about enjoying.
Ouch, she thought. Her chest really hurt at the very salient reminder that with them resuming their physical relationship, things had changed totally … and not at all.
“I just don’t want to see you hurt like that again.” Greta cleared the emotion out of her voice. “Now, let’s get to work—”
“He’s not like his family. He isn’t.”
Greta paused and stared out at the garden. After a moment, she shook her head. “Lizzie, it’s in his blood. He’s not going to be able to help it.”
When Lane got back to Easterly, he parked his Porsche off to the side, in the shadows of the paved lane that led around back to the garages.
“I’m home now,” he said into his phone. “You want me to come up and re-explain the plan?”
His sister took a while to answer him, and he could just picture Gin shaking her head as she pushed her hair over her shoulder.
“No, I think you’ve covered everything,” she intoned.
He repositioned his U of C baseball cap on his head and stared up at the sky so high above. He’d put the top down as he’d left Lizzie’s, and the roar of the wind as he’d sped home had given him the illusion of freedom he’d been looking for.
God … Lizzie. The only reason he was going to get through today in even halfway decent shape was because of the night he’d spent with her. He’d made love to her for hours … and then, as she’d slept, he had stared up at that ceiling of hers and figured out, step by step, how he needed to proceed.
“Are you going to talk to him today?” Gin asked him roughly.
For once, the “him” was not Edward.
“I want to.” Lane ground his molars. “But not yet. I’m not saying one thing to Father until I know the scope of it all. If I have that conversation before I can prove anything? He’s just going to slash and burn whatever he hasn’t shredded already.”
“So when will you get with him?”
He frowned. “Gin, you say nothing. Are we clear? Do not say one goddamn word—especially to Father.”
“I hate him.”
“Then take the long view. If you want him to get what’s coming? You need to let him hang himself. Do you understand what I’m saying? You confront him, you’re actually helping him. I’m going to take care of this, but there’s a process. Gin? Do you hear me?”
After a moment, there was a soft chuckle. “You sound like Edward used to.”
For a split second, he felt a bolt of high-octane pride. Then again, every one of them had always looked up to Edward.
“That’s about the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he muttered gruffly.
“I mean it.”
“So radio silence today, Gin. And I’ll let you know how we’re progressing.”
“Okay … all right.”
“Good girl. I love you. I’m going to take care of us. All of us.”
“I love you, too, Lane.”
Lane ended the connection and kept watching the clouds. Off in the distance, he could hear the patter of talk, and as he leveled his head, he saw down by the garage a vast group of uniformed waiters clustered around Reginald, the lot of them getting their marching orders.
Gin better keep her mouth shut, he thought.
William Baldwine was already going to be twitchy from Rosalinda’s death. If Lane—or God forbid Gin, with the likes of her mouth—came at him? He would hide things, disappear records, destroy details.
Assuming anything like that was left.
Lane lolled his head to the side so that he stared at Easterly. How much of this would be left, he wondered.