The Angels' Share

  That trifecta had won his grandfather enough to pay for one whole new barn out at the Red & Black--

  "Are we too late?"

  Lane looked over to the doorway. "Mack, you came."

  "Like I'd miss this?"

  Lane's Master Distiller walked in with a very nice-looking young woman--oh, the assistant, Lane thought. That's right.

  "Mr. Lenghe," Mack said as he went over. "Good to see you again."

  "Well, if it isn't my favorite distiller."

  After the two clapped palms, Mack said, "This is a friend of mine, and my assistant, Beth Lewis."

  Introductions and greetings were made all around, and Lane couldn't resist pumping his eyebrows at the guy behind Beth's back. Which got him flipped off in return.

  "Anyone else coming?" John asked as the group resettled.

  "This is it," Lane said.

  "Heads or tails?"

  "You're the guest, you choose."

  "Heads."

  John flipped a coin in the center of the table. "Heads it is. I deal first. Big blind is one hundred, little blind fifty."

  Lane nodded and watched the guy shuffle the cards. They'd mutually agreed on arbitrary values for the stacks of red, blue, and yellow chips, with both of them having the same number of each. There were going to be no buy-ins--which meant when you were out of chips or couldn't make blind, you were done.

  Lane put in a red chip as big blind, John a blue, and then John was dealing them two cards each. There would be a round of betting based on what they had in their hands, and then the dealer would "burn" a card by putting it aside and lay the next card face-up. More betting. Another "burn" and face-up card. More betting, et cetera, until there was a line-up of five cards that each of them was free to use to complete sequences with the help of whatever they personally had and kept private.

  High card beat fruit salad if nobody had anything. Two pair beat one pair. Three of a kind beat two pair. A flush, which was five cards of one suit, beat a straight, which was five cards in numerical order, regardless of suit. A full house, which was three of a kind and two of a kind, beat a flush. And a straight flush, which was five cards in order of the same suit, beat four of a kind, which beat a full house.

  A royal flush, which was ace, king, queen, jack, and ten, all of one suit, beat everything.

  And probably signified that Miss Aurora did in fact have a direct line to God.

  Assuming Lane held those cards and not Lenghe.

  If John pulled something like that? Well, then his wife was back in Kansas was praying harder than Miss Aurora was here in Kentucky.

  Lane picked up his first hand. Six of diamonds. Two of clubs.

  In short . . . nothing.

  Not even a card high enough to get excited about.

  The flop, which was what the first three face-up cards were called, was his only hope.

  Across the way, John was studying his pair, his eyebrows together, his heavy shoulders curled in like he was getting ready for a tackle. He chewed on his lip a little. Rubbed the bottom of his nose. Shifted in his chair.

  He was more juiced than nervous, though: With so much playing time ahead of them, no pot developed yet, and five cards yet to come, it was too soon on a lot of fronts for the guy to be exhibiting anxiety.

  Lane, on the other hand, was utterly calm, more interested in what was happening in his opponent's chair than even his own cards.

  The key was remembering the ticks and twitches of his opponent. Some of them would fall by the wayside as playing wore on and they got into a groove. One or two the guy would keep, though--or fight not to show.

  Or maybe something else would be revealed.

  But as Lane had learned long ago, there were three things that mattered at the table even more than how much money you or your opponent had at your disposal: the math of the cards in play, which going mano a mano was going to be hard to apply with any specificity because there were no other players making bets; the cards you had and those on the flop; and your opponent's facial and bodily reactions around their betting patterns.

  John might well have been feeling lucky.

  They'd have to see if it was enough.

  *

  Amere ten minutes after Ryan Berkley dropped Gin back at her Rolls behind his store, she pulled the convertible into its bay in the garage and checked her watch.

  Perfect timing. Nine-thirty.

  Richard had told her he had a very important business meeting that was going to go late, and that meant she was home before he knew anything.

  Proceeding around to the front of the house, she passed by the windows of the old game room that wasn't used very much. Through the half-pulled drapes, she saw her brother and an older, gray-haired man she didn't recognize at the poker table, pairs of cards in their hands, stacks of multi-colored chips on the green felt beside them.

  There was a gallery of people lined up watching them, and everyone was so serious. Her brother seemed to have more chips than the other guy, but then . . . no, it looked like Lane's opponent won that one, the man flashing his cards and then dragging the pile in the center toward himself.

  Gin continued on, going around to the grand entrance and looking up to the second floor.

  No light on in Amelia's room.

  Entering the mansion, Gin went into the parlor and sat on the sofa that allowed her to see out into the foyer through the archway.

  She waited.

  And waited.

  And waited some more.

  The sounds of the poker game bubbled through Easterly's silent rooms. There were occasional shouts, a cheer, a curse. Laughter that sounded strange, although only because it seemed like a while since there had been any in the house.

  Dimly, she wondered who Lane was playing.

  She would not go down there, however . . . she had to be here.

  Amelia finally came through the door after God only knew how long. The girl was in blue jeans, pencil ones yet again, and a blousy Stella McCartney top that had blocks of color all over the front and groups of hashtags in the back.

  As she crossed the black-and-white marble floor, heading for the stairs, Gin called out, "A moment, if you don't mind."

  Amelia froze with one flat on the lowest step. "What?'

  "I've been waiting for you. Please come in here."

  "I'm going to bed--"

  "I spoke to your proctor."

  That got the girl's attention and she turned. "What?"

  "Your proctor, Ms. Antler."

  "Okay, that's my dorm parent, Ms. Antle. A proctor is a senior who's like a residential adviser. Which you would know if you'd ever been to my school."

  "Why did you lie about getting kicked out?" Gin put up a hand and idly noted that the fake diamond was looking good. "And I'm not confronting you about it. I'm certain you had your reasons, and I'm curious what they are."

  Amelia marched into the parlor, clearly ready to fight. "I'm not going back there."

  "That wasn't the question I asked."

  "I don't owe you any explanation for anything."

  "True." This seemed to surprise the girl. "But I would like to know why--"

  "Fine." Amelia crossed her arms over her chest and kicked up her chin. "No one called me to let me know Grandfather died. I read about it on the Internet and had to get myself home--and I'm not going back to school. I refuse to. I figured if I told you I quit, you'd make me go back, but if you thought I was kicked out, you'd let me stay."

  "Are you unhappy at Hotchkiss?"

  Amelia frowned. "No."

  "Is there something wrong with the academics? The dorms? Another classmate?"

  "No."

  "Is there another school you'd like to be at?"

  "Yes."

  "And which school is that--"

  "What's wrong with you?" Amelia demanded--and not in a hostile way. More like she was wondering who had kidnapped her actual mother and replaced her with this facsimile. "What's going on?"

  Gin held th
e girl's eyes even though it was hard. "I have not been a mother to you. And I'm sorry about that. I'm very . . . sorry about that. I was so young when I had you, and although you have been doing your job of growing up . . . I can't say the same has been true for myself with respect to maturation. And honestly, when the dorm parent called me, my first thought was to go get Lane and have him deal with you. But the thing is this . . . my father is dead. My mother might as well be. Edward's gone for all intents and purposes. Lane is busy trying to do right by all of us. And Miss Aurora isn't feeling . . . well, anyway, at the end of the day, you and I have each other, and that's it. There isn't anyone else to turn to."

  "What about your new husband?" Amelia said bitterly. "What about him?"

  "He's my problem, not yours. In fact, he's the best example of everything that I've always done wrong, and I need to deal with him."

  Gin looked around at the familiar, elegant room and then refocused. "We literally have no one but each other. And you can hate me all you want--I deserve it. I'll take it. I won't question it, and I won't get angry in return. That emotion, though . . . however justifiable it is . . . won't change the fact that if you don't want to be at Hotchkiss, you and I are the only ones who can address that. And if you change your mind and want to stay there? You and I will need to get you back to campus. And if you want to drop out . . . well, I'm not going to let you do that. Because whether or not you respect me, you're a minor and I'm your mother in the eyes of the law if in no other. And you're going to at least get your high school degree. After that? In two more years? I have no right over your life except that which you freely grant me."

  Amelia blinked a couple of times.

  And it was funny; she seemed to grow younger before Gin's eyes, even as nothing particularly changed about her, the largely intangible regression the result of some feelings or thoughts or . . . Gin didn't know what.

  "Talk to me," Gin said after a moment. "Tell me what you're thinking."

  "I'm afraid if I'm up there . . ." The girl looked away. "I'm afraid if I stay up there everyone will disappear here and I'll have nowhere to go. I mean, I know about the money stuff. Will Easterly even stay ours? What about the company? Like, is the power going to be cut off here?"

  "Honestly? I don't know. And I hate that I can't give you an answer. But I promise you it's going to be all right for you."

  "How?"

  Gin reached into her purse and took out the safe-deposit key. "I'm going to give this to you right now. You won't be able to get into the box as long as I'm alive, and if I die, you need to go to your Uncle Lane and tell him that I gave this to you. He's the executor of the will I signed this afternoon. This key goes to a box down at the PNC branch by Taylor's Drugstore. I'm not going to tell you what's in there, and as I said, you won't be able to access it until I'm gone. But what's inside will keep you safe regardless of what happens here."

  When Amelia didn't come over, Gin held it out farther. "Take it. Put it wherever you want, but don't lose it. Go on."

  Amelia approached cautiously, and as she came over, Gin found herself blinking back tears. In all her negligence and selfishness, she had missed the suffering she had caused this innocent child--and the wariness being shown now was such a painful reckoning that Gin could not breathe.

  "I'm sorry," Gin rasped as the key changed hands. "I can't apologize enough, and I won't blame you if you never let me in. But let's . . . for the next two years, let's try and do right for you. Now tell me, what school do you want to go to?"

  Amelia stared at the key for the longest time. "Charlemont Country Day. Field is there. I know a lot of the kids. I like it there."

  "Okay. So here's what I'd like to suggest. I think your Uncle Lane plans on burying Grandfather tomorrow or the day after. Your dorm parent said you can take your exams here or back at school. What do you want to do?"

  "Umm . . ."

  "If you decide you want to take them at school, I'll drive you up after the funeral, or we can fly. If you want to stay home and do them here, I'll get your things and bring them back myself."

  Amelia rolled her eyes. "You would have no idea how to get my stuff organized."

  "Boxes and bags. How hard can it be?"

  "You'd do that? You'd go allllll the way to Connecticut and get my stuff?"

  "Yes."

  "With Uncle Lane, of course--"

  "No, I would do it alone. I can figure it out. So what do you want to do?"

  Amelia went across and sat on the other sofa. As she tucked her legs up under herself, she kept looking at the key. "What's in the safe-deposit box?"

  "I'm not going to tell you. You'll find out when you're supposed to."

  "I think I want to go up and take my exams there. It'll be easier. And I can say good-bye to people in less of a rush."

  "Okay. Then we'll depart together after the funeral. How long do you think the tests will take?"

  "Oh, God, like ten days."

  "All right. I'll come back here and then make another trip up to get you and your things. After that, we'll get you registered at Charlemont Country Day for the fall semester."

  Amelia's eyes were narrowed when she finally looked up again. "What's the catch?"

  "There isn't one. There's no catch at all. And I have no expectations for our relationship, either. Other than making sure you stay in school."

  The girl took a deep breath . . . and tucked the little odd key into her jeans pocket. "Okay. All right. That's . . . our plan."

  Gin closed her eyes in relief . . . as down the hall, a bunch of hollering rolled out from the game room.

  "Good," she whispered to her daughter. "This is good."

  FIFTY-ONE

  It was the most expensive game of seesaw Lane had ever been associated with.

  And John was a hell of a poker player, amazingly composed, especially as he settled in. He was smart, decisive, never lost his temper--and one hundred percent a rule abider.

  Gave you a good idea of why he was so successful at his business.

  In the end, after hours of playing, they were neck and neck. Lane was making no mistakes, but neither was John. There had been straights and flushes, a three of a kind, two pairs, full houses . . . the tide rolling in one direction before self-correcting and changing course.

  Over in the line-up of witnesses, Lizzie was clearly exhausted. And Miss Aurora was even holding on to Lizzie's forearm as things appeared like they were going to go on forever.

  But the end did come--and seemingly from out of nowhere.

  "My deal," the Grain God said as he gathered the cards from his latest winning hand. "You ready for me?"

  "Always."

  John dealt the cards, and Lane looked at what he got.

  He had . . . the two of hearts. And . . . the ace of spades.

  Okay, so maybe he was working a flush here. At the very least, he had a high card.

  He put in his big blind. John did the same with the little blind. And then there was a knock from John. Lane held tight and knocked as well.

  First of the flop was a ten of diamonds.

  Second of the flop was the eight of diamonds.

  Fuck.

  Then the ace of diamonds landed--which was good news. Kind of.

  And yup, John liked that card, too, or at least seemed to, going by his nod. "Okay. I'm going to . . ."

  Lane's heart started beating. And he knew it before the guy even said the words.

  "I'm going all in."

  So he had a flush. Which beat a pair of aces every day of the week and twice on Sunday. Also beat three of a kind. Lane's only chance was a full house.

  As the people in the room gasped, Lane was dimly aware of Gin and Amelia coming in and finding seats. They both seemed surprised as there was some whispering as people brought them up to speed--and then the two of them looked downright shocked as they clearly got the full story.

  "I'll see you," Lane said as he pushed his chips forward. "Let's get the turn and the river and let God de
cide."

  "Amen to that."

  John put his two cards down, and yup, his king and two of diamonds were a powerful twosome. In response, Lane shared his ace and two of hearts.

  "Not bad," John murmured.

  "That's 'cuz you're winning," Lane said with a wink.

  Next card up was . . .

  An ace of clubs.

  "Oh, lookey-lookey." John sat back, bracing the hand that wasn't holding the deck on the table. "That's a big one."

  "Depending on what the last one is, yessir."

  Lane was aware of his heart beginning to skip behind his sternum. There was no reason to hide any reaction on his part because the bets were in and the outcome predetermined at this point: there would be a card burned, and then whatever was up next was going to be the decider. End of story, no need to try and poker face this one.

  And yet he didn't want to let anything out, not the dread nor the excitement, superstition locking him in place as if his emotions might tip luck in a bad way for him.

  Glancing over at Lizzie, he found that she was focused on him, not the cards--like maybe she'd been waiting for him to look her way. And when she mouthed, I love you, all he could do was smile at her and marvel that for a man who had grown up with great wealth . . . that woman he had picked was one who reminded him over and over again that money didn't matter. Possessions weren't the thing. The car you drove and the house you lived in and the clothes you wore . . . were nothing but vocabulary. They weren't the true communication that mattered, they weren't the connections that were important.

  He thought of that moment when he'd fallen off the bridge. Funny, he'd been braced for the hard impact of the water below, tucking into himself to withstand, to survive, the hit that he'd been convinced would kill him.

  In reality, the fall was what was dangerous, though. Not the river.

  The river had saved him.

  I love you, too, he mouthed back.

  And then he heard himself say, "Next one?"

  The Grain God burned a card . . .

  Everyone gasped.

  The ace of hearts.

  "Sonofa . . ." Lenghe didn't finish the curse, though, as was his way.

  And Lane? He looked at Miss Aurora. The woman wasn't focused on the game. Her eyes were closed and her head was back and her lips were moving.