He closed his eyes and felt that sensation of falling all over again. "I'll be right there."
FIFTY-FOUR
Easily the longest day of his life.
Then again, Lane thought, as he and Lizzie finally dragged themselves over to Easterly's kitchen door at around seven o'clock that evening, it wasn't often that his brother got arrested for murdering his father or his momma went into a coma.
And yes, once again, they'd had to enter the estate through the back way because there were too many news crews at the main entrance.
"I'm starving, but I don't want to eat," he said, even though complaining hardly seemed fair.
Lizzie had been through as much as he had. Even more so, considering she had been the one to find Miss Aurora.
"I'm exhausted," Lizzie said, "but I don't think I'm going to sleep much--"
As they walked into the kitchen, they both stopped.
A totally amazing smell was coming from the stove, and though it was unfamiliar, if Lane hadn't personally witnessed Miss Aurora lying unresponsive in an ICU bed, he might have thought she was up and about, back where she belonged.
But no. The person in front of the platters of food was . . .
"Jeff?" he said.
The guy wheeled around. "Oh, thank fuck. I didn't think you were going to make it in time."
"For what?" Lane took Lizzie's hand and realized, "Gin? Wait, are you cooking? Amelia? What's going on?"
Amelia spoke up. "It's Seudah Shlishit."
"The third meal of the Sabbath," Jeff explained. "Which I've cooked even though it's Sunday, because I'm feeling religious and this is the way I'm choosing to express it. We're just about to sit down so nice timing."
"My roommate at Hotchkiss is Orthodox," Amelia explained. "So I've done this before."
"She's been a great help."
"And I'm learning," Gin said. "Slowly and surely. By the way, Jeff, I set the dining room table--"
"You set the table?" Lane blurted.
Okay, that was another shocker.
His sister shrugged like the idea an alien had taken over her body and mind wasn't actually that big a deal. "Like I said, I'm learning. Oh, Gary told me he was going to do one more sweep of the grounds for any more of those cameramen. I took the shotgun away from him. We already have one of us up on murder charges, let's not add to that." When everyone looked over at her, she rolled her eyes. "Come on, people, we better start the gallows humor now or this group is not going to make it--"
Maxwell walked in from the front of the house, some napkins in his hand. "Amen to that, sister. Amen to that."
Jeff started carrying in food. "Now, traditionally this is supposed to be a light meal, but we're bending the rules a little. No one's eaten anything all day, and let's face it, my mother isn't here--although she was willing to fly down. Which was kind of scary, actually . . ."
It turned out to be exactly what Lane needed.
As they all sat around the formal dining room table, which Gin had miraculously set to perfection, it was not Lane's tradition, either spiritually or familially speaking, but it was warm, and it was real: It was shelter that had no roof, and sustenance that had no weight, and air that didn't need lungs for the breathing.
And it was exactly what he needed. His heart was mangled, his spirit deflated, his optimism terminated. He had had that one cresting moment at the airport . . . and then once again, he was sunk beneath a crushing burden.
But as he looked around the table, as he reached out and took Lizzie's hand, as he saw his sister and her daughter actually speak without yelling at each other, as he stared at his old friend who was still by his side, and looked at his long-lost brother . . . he knew that he was going to eat this lovingly prepared Jewish food, and he was going to pass out upstairs with his woman . . .
And he was going to get up tomorrow . . .
And fight for his momma to live. And fight for his brother to get treated fairly in prison. And fight to keep the company going. And fight to keep the house and the land of his ancestors.
And fight for his family.
He was a warrior.
He had learned that the hard way.
He had earned that title the hard way.
As Lane accepted the loaf of bread and tore off a piece, he thought of Edward and had to grit his teeth not to tear up all over again. Edward, in making a final sacrifice that was too great to comprehend, too tragic to contemplate, too horrific to ignore, had actually paved the way for all this.
If William Baldwine had still been alive?
None of this would be happening.
It was hard not to be grateful. Even as this miracle had come at too high a price and with a compromise of morality that almost tarnished the love.
Almost.
At the end of the day, though, a cancer had been rid from the family, and yes, they were all better for it. But, God, the way it had happened.
Lane knew he, personally, was forever changed by all this but, ultimately, as difficult as it was, and was going to get, he was improved. No matter the ins and outs, and the drama and the pain, he knew he was better off as a man, a brother, a husband . . . and if God so provided, as a father to his and Lizzie's children if they were granted that gift.
The nature of the aging process was brutal, though, and yes, he felt like he had lost parts of himself along the way.
The angels had to have their share, however, as was their right and their due.
And at least those parts of his soul would be in good hands, forevermore.
Looking at his Lizzie, he waited to catch her eye. After he mouthed "I love you" to her . . . he started to eat.
With the rest of his family.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are far too many people to thank, as always, and that makes me a very lucky person. But I do want to extend my gratitude to Steven Axelrod, Kara Welsh, and Kerry Donovan, and also Craig Burke and Erin Galloway along with everyone else at New American Library. Further, I need to acknowledge my wonderful Team Waud, my immediate family, and my wonderful friends. And also Nomers, my WriterAssistant. Oh, and Go Cards!
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