Straightening, he brushed a strand of her hair back. "Let me make you breakfast?"
She shook her head. "I'm not hungry. Maybe I'll try some coffee? Or...I don't know. Water."
"You sure?"
"Positive."
She went over and sat on his stool. "Have you been down here long?"
Leaning back against the counter, he shrugged. "A little while."
"Makes sense. This is Miss Aurora's space. If you can't be with her, you might as well be here."
He glanced around for the hundredth time and nodded. "You're too right."
"So are you ready for today?"
With both hands, he rubbed his face until his nose felt chapped. "I mean, yes and no. I want to go visit with her some more. There's no way I'm not going to--but it's so damn hard to see her in that bed with all those machines keeping her alive."
"I was talking about your father's interring?"
Lane frowned and dropped his hands. "Is it--oh, hell. It's today, isn't it." When she nodded, he curled up his fists and wished he could make a big frickin' loud noise. "Guess I've lost track."
What he wanted to say was that the last thing he needed right now was to waste even an hour dealing with his father's ashes. He hadn't respected the man in life. In death? Who the hell cared.
"Are you having a preacher come?" Lizzie asked.
Okay, he had to laugh at that. "I thought about it and decided there was no reason to waste a man of God's time. That sonofabitch is in Hell, where he deserves to be--"
"Huh? And here I thought I was in Kentucky."
At the sound of the male voice, Lane looked over his shoulder. Jeff Stern, his old college roommate, was coming into the kitchen, looking about as fresh as a daisy that had been without a water source for six days. On a windowsill in the sun. After someone had played He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not with all of its petals.
Still, his dark hair was wet from the shower, his big city-chic, rimless eyeglasses were in place, and he was in his uniform of business suit slacks, a button-down with an open collar, and wingtips: Wall Street veteran trying to be casual. The jacket to the suit was draped over his arm and there was no tie to be seen.
"So, boys and girls," Jeff said as he put that jacket down on the counter and checked out the paper. "How we doing--oh, heeeeeey, nice picture of me. That's the one from the bank's annual report. Wonder if they got permission or just stole it."
He unfolded the first section and kept reading with a nod. "Yup, I liked that reporter. I'm going to use her again when I have to lie about what's really going on at Bradford Bourbon."
"How were you untruthful?" Lizzie asked.
"Are you going moral on me?" Jeff smiled and put the paper aside. "This is wartime. Okay, fine, maybe I should have used the word 'spin.' "
Lane shrugged. "He told her that the off-balance-sheet financing my father did was part of an overall strategy of diversification--that just happened not to go well."
"Instead of outright embezzlement." Jeff went over to the refrigerator and grabbed the milk. "Although I declined to name any of the companies, the media will find some of them--and there'll be chatter about how William Baldwine's name is on a lot of assets outside of the BBC. We're not out of the woods on this problem yet."
"Samuel T.'s going to handle everything." Lane took the liberty of heading for the pantry and getting the Raisin Bran. "We're creating a trust for those assets and backdating it. It's going to have all those secondary investments in my mother's name and there will be provisions so the banks can't come looking to the family to satisfy any debts arising from the purchasing of said equity outside of the BBC. It will make the misappropriation look more legal if the Feds come knocking--especially because the company is privately held and we are the sole shareholders."
"When." Jeff snagged two bowls and two spoons. "That would be 'when' the Feds show up. And I'm a shareholder too now, remember."
"Oh, right. Guess I'll give you a cut of the ten cents my father managed to generate--after the banks are finished fighting over it. I swear, that man could pick 'em."
As the two of them lined up at the counter and traded the box of cereal for the Dean's skim milk, Lane could sense Lizzie staring at them.
"You know," she murmured with a smile, "I can picture you boys in college."
"Yeah," Jeff said, "who knew a guy from Jersey and this overbred piece of white bread would end up together."
"Match made in Heaven."
They clinked spoons and went back to eating.
Thank God for Jeff, Lane thought. The investment banker was sorting out all the cash-flow problems at the company, working with the board, which Lane and Jeff had bought off, and hiring new senior vice presidents.
There was a chance that at least the Bradford Bourbon Company wasn't going to go down on Lane's watch. As long as Jeff Stern was in place, they might just pull it all off.
The guy was a white knight in shining pinstripes.
In the various branches of the Bradford family tree, there were a total of seven women called Virginia Elizabeth, a phenomenon that resulted from the Southern practice of naming one's sons and daughters after oneself. Three of these V.E.'s, as they were known on the familiar, were still alive: The oldest one, who was ninety, lived independently in a high-rise in downtown Charlemont and still enjoyed regular bridge games and lunches out at the club. The middle one was faring far less well in her sumptuous quarters at Easterly, although given all the prescription drugs she was on, it was probably fair to say that "Little" V.E. was also "enjoying" herself.
And then there was Gin.
The youngest Virginia Elizabeth envied her mother's medicated existence. To be blissfully unaware of the terrible state of affairs was probably a close second to their family's reversal of fortune never happening in the first place. After all, what was it they said about reality? Perspective was everything.
Thus that which one refused to acknowledge did not exist.
As Gin walked into her bath and dressing room suite, she was fresh out of the shower and draped in a monogrammed silk robe the color of the white Frau Karl Druschki roses that bloomed in the gardens below her window. The decor she had chosen for her personal spaces was the same: white, everywhere. White carpeting, white bedsheets and duvets, white balloon drapes around all the windows.
She always preferred to be the splash of color, the gloss amid the matte, the full moon dwarfing the less bright, tiny stars, whether she was at a party, on a plane, in a room, or in repose.
And hadn't that been so much easier to accomplish when money had been no object.
Taking a seat at her makeup and hairstyling bar, she regarded the display of professional products and tools and thanked God she knew how to use them all. She most certainly did not have the three hundred dollars to pay that woman with the spray tan and the bleached teeth and the poorly disguised aspirational affect to come in here and roll brunette locks around a three-hundred-degree wand. And apply all that Chanel. And tender a vote on the outfits for the day.
What time was it, anyway?
Gin picked up her Piaget watch and cursed. Ten eleven. So she had a mere forty-five minutes until she had to leave.
She preferred an hour and twenty to get ready--
"Where is my engagement ring."
Gin looked up into the three-sided, vertically lit mirror. Richard Pford, her husband of just a matter of days, was standing behind her, his Ichabod Crane body in yet another variation of his uniform: Brooks Brothers dark suit, button-down white shirt, club tie.
She was willing to bet he'd come out of the womb wearing that sartorial snooze.
"Welcome back, darling," she drawled. "How was your business trip."
"You mean welcome home."
Gin made a show of unwrapping the towel from her hair, triggering the curling iron, and palming the dryer. She waited for him to speak again.
"Where is the ring--"
She hit the dryer's on switch. And then did that one be
tter by leaning over in the chair and fluffing her damp hair in the blast of hot air.
When Richard yanked the cord out of the wall, she smiled in the midst of her hanging locks.
Flipping herself back up, she gave him a moment to be struck by how beautiful she was: She didn't need the mirror to show her that her shining, thick hair was curling up at the ends, and her skin was glowing, and her eyes were heavy lidded and thickly lashed. And then there was the fact that the robe's slick tie had loosened, the lapels falling open to show her astonishing cleavage and delicate collarbones.
She deliberately crossed her legs, so that the hem was split to reveal her thighs.
Gin had no interest in turning this scarecrow husband of hers on; she put on this show solely to remind him of her hold on him. Richard Pford was a miserly sonofabitch with a bad temper, but after a childhood of being picked last for teams at Charlemont Country Day, his brain was still trained in patterns that supported him believing the truth.
Namely, that he was a loser tolerated by the popular people solely because his family owned the largest liquor distributor in America--and because the cool kids enjoyed picking on him.
Her marriage was a fundraiser for herself and her lifestyle, nothing more. And in return, Richard got her, the ultimate trophy he had sought in high school, his ticket, at least in his own mind, to the status he could not achieve on his own, no matter how much cash he and his family had.
Unfortunately, the arrangement had come with some hidden costs to her.
But it was nothing she couldn't endure--
Couldn't handle, she corrected.
"I'm sorry, were you saying something?" she inquired in a pleasant tone.
"You know damn well I was. Where is my ring?"
"Why, right there on your finger where it belongs, dearest." She smiled sweetly and nodded at his hand. "See?"
With a curse, he reached out and grabbed some of her hair. Twisting it in his fist, he forced her head to the side, the pain lighting up down into her neck and opposite shoulder.
Boy, that ugly flush on his hollow cheeks was unattractive.
"Do not toy with me, Virginia."
Gin smiled brightly, the very worst part of her reveling in the discord, that appetite for destruction she had fed off of for so long seeking more, more, more of the conflict--until one or both of them snapped.
Even as she had resolved to change, her relationship with Richard was so deliciously familiar and fun.
"May I remind you," she gritted out, "that the last husband who mistreated his wife under this roof ended up with his ring finger cut off and his body on the wrong side of the falls. Perhaps you should recall this before you go grabbing at me?"
Richard hesitated. And she was almost disappointed as he released his hand and stepped back. "Where is it?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"I've been gone for two days. It occurred to me, given your family's financial situation, that you might sell it and pocket the cash to go buy another Birkin bag."
"I already have twenty of them. Including ones in crocodile, alligator, and python."
"If you do not tell me where that ring is, I'm going to pull out the contents of each and every drawer, and all of the closets, in this dressing room until I find it."
For a moment, she got excited at the prospect of watching him trash the place, all red-faced and uncoordinated and furious. But then she remembered that they'd had to let all the help go--and given that she hated things out of place, she knew that she would have to be the one to clean it all up.
There was no way she was going to be his maid. Ever.
"It's in the silver dish between the sinks in my bath." She plugged the dryer back in. "Go see for yourself."
As he turned around, she noted how baggy the jacket was, how loose the pants were. No matter how much the man paid to have his clothes altered, he always ended up looking like he was wearing his father's suits. In a wind tunnel.
She turned the hair dryer on again, but kept her head level. Pushing her foot against the cabinet under the counter, she turned the chair so that she could watch him in the mirror's left flank. Now her heart beat faster.
She'd taken her engagement ring off and put it where she had so that no soap got under the basket of prongs. She had to keep that stone as clean as possible, for occasions just such as this.
Because, yes, she had done exactly what he had said. She had taken out the stone, sold it, and replaced it with a fake--although not for a Birkin bag.
For something so much more important than that.
Richard came back over like a lion tamer. "Put it on."
Or something to that effect. She couldn't hear him over the din.
"What?" she said.
As he threw his hand out like he was going to rip the plug free again, she turned off the dryer herself. She wasn't sure where to find a new one if he broke it. Or how much the damn thing cost.
And who in the world ever thought those two things would ever be an issue for her.
"Put. Your. Ring. On."
"I have my wedding band on already." She held up her middle finger. "Oh, sorry."
As she corrected her "mistake," he went for her wrist and yanked her arm out at a bad angle. Forcing the enormous solitaire onto her finger, he managed to draw blood across the top of her knuckle.
"Both of them stay on. Next time I catch you not wearing it--"
"You'll what." She stared up at him with boredom. "Hit me again? Or do worse? Tell me, do you really want to end up a murderer like my brother? I don't imagine Edward is enjoying jail very much. Unless your goal is, in fact, to find yourself in the communal showers with a bunch of men?"
"I own you."
"My father tried that approach. It did not work well for him."
"I am not your father."
"You know, your voice is too high for Darth Vader impressions and that line's wrong anyway. Although you're correct, he never was a father--and neither shall you ever be."
She cued the hair dryer back on and met Richard's eyes steadily in the mirror. When his mouth began to move again, she smiled some more. "What? I can't hear you--"
"What are you doing today?" he shouted. No doubt because he needed to let his temper out as much as he wanted to be heard.
Gin took her sweet time, allowing him to steam. When she was good and ready, she cut the dryer and put it aside.
Fluffing her hair, she shrugged. "Lunch at the club. Manicure. Sunbathing--which is cheaper than a tanning bed and to hell with skin cancer. Surely you will appreciate the cost savings in that."
"You forgot something."
"Not your ring," she said dryly.
Richard closed in on her like a storm, his rough hands dragging her out of the chair and pushing her down to the white carpet. She had been expecting this. It was why she had goaded him.
She didn't care what he did to her body, and he seemed to recognize this.
Thus, enduring him in this fashion was yet another way of remaining one up on him, unreachable even as he put his clawing mitts all over her.
--
Samuel Theodore Lodge III left the woman he had been with all night in his bed and walked naked into his bathroom, closing the double doors behind himself.
He had no interest in showering with her. He was finished, their energetic escapades during the dark hours certainly appreciated and enjoyed, but that was that. She would drive herself home, and he would put off her inevitable phone calls and invitations for as long as it took her to understand that there was no emotional potential going on here. No trajectory for a relationship. No hope of her ever becoming the grand dame of this gracious old manor house with its eight hundred acres of prime Kentucky farmland.
Turning on the six-headed shower, he looked out the bank of windows over the tub. The sun was well-risen above the verdant rolling hills, the intersecting lines of leafy trees delineating crop plots that he had left uncultivated. Perhaps when he retired from the law, some thirty
or forty years hence, he would once more call forth from the good earth rows of corn and clutches of soybeans and fat, squeaky-leafed tobacco plants.
For now, however, he was resolute in his destiny to follow the well-trodden legal path of so many men in his long, proud Southern lineage.
While he drank enough bourbon to pickle his liver.
Which was another fine Kentucky tradition.
As he was not a person to move quickly or without deliberation, at least not while sober--or nearly sober--he took his time under the steaming hot rush. He did not shave until afterward, and when he did, it was at his sinks, using a cake of soap, a horsehair brush, and a straight-edged razor that he sharpened on a strop.
With a clean face and body, he felt far more awake, and he went into his dressing room and pulled on one of his monogrammed white button-downs. On the left, his lineup of hanging suits was a subdued collection of grays, blues, and blacks, but not all was dour. On the other side, he had sport coats and seersuckers in every color under the sun.
Today, he wore black, and not with one of his hundreds of bow ties.
No, today, the tie he wore was also black. As were his polished shoes and his nameplated belt.
Back out in his bedroom, he went over to his very messy bed and smiled at his overnight guest. "Good morning, lovely one."
He used the term of endearment because he couldn't remember whether she was Preston or Peyton. She'd been given her grandfather's surname, he recalled that much, but she hailed from Atlanta, which was not where his people were from--so the particulars of the story hadn't sunk in.
Dark-blond lashes lifted from a smooth cheek and bright blue eyes drifted over. "Good morning yourself, kind sir."
Her accent was smooth as a sweet tea, and just as pleasing as when she had been gasping his name in his ear.
The woman went for a stretch and strategically pulled the sheets back with her manicured toe. Her body was as supple and well bred as any thoroughbred mare's, and he quite imagined she would be a fine match for him in so many ways. He could provide her with the Lodge name as well as sons and daughters to carry on the traditions so important to both their families. She would age appropriately and nip and tuck only when necessary, recognizing that the best plastic surgery was that which was never noticed. She would join the gala committees of Steeplehill Downs, the Charlemont Museum of Art, and Actors Theatre of Charlemont. Later, when their kids were off to U.Va., his alma mater, the two of them would travel the world, winter in Palm Beach, and summer in Roaring Gap.