by J. R. Ward
"I'm sorry that you have had to be so old," he said.
It was the first time he had tiptoed into any controversial territory. He didn't want to bash Gin. Nothing good was going to come from that, and it wasn't necessary. Amelia had been through what she had; she was well aware of the failures of her mother.
She had had to live with them.
"It's okay." Amelia shrugged. "I see some of my friends, and they're just so flighty and unfocused. It drives me nuts."
"Sixteen-year-olds probably should be that way, though. Or at least be allowed to be. I don't know. I don't have any experience with them."
"Can I ask you something about my mother?"
Samuel T. cleared his throat. "Yes, anything. And I'll do my best to answer it truthfully."
"Were you in love with her? Was she in love with you? You know, when..."
Samuel T. took a deep breath. "Yes, I was. Your mother has been the only woman I've ever met who I can say I was legitimately in love with. But that doesn't mean we're right for each other."
"Why not?"
He took a sip of his bourbon. "Sometimes, the person you have the best chemistry with is not the one you want to try long term with."
Amelia fiddled with her fork, which she had laid in the proper position for someone who had finished with their plate.
"She's so different right now."
"In what way?" he asked.
"She doesn't leave the house." Amelia laughed. "And she's vacuuming. I mean, my mother is working a Dyson in the parlors. It's so bizarre. She also took me to yoga last night and did it with me. She's helping me get a summer job. We're going shopping for bikinis later this week." The girl looked away to the horizon. "She's never wanted to spend any time with me before."
"I'm really glad she's making the effort."
And he prayed the trend continued. With Gin? It was unlikely. Within days, she was likely to get over her maternal kick and return to her lifestyle. But at least he would be here to pick up the pieces.
Then again, Amelia had been hard-honed to take care of herself, so the girl would no doubt roll with the flow.
Which was so sad, he couldn't stand it.
"So, she gave me this safety-deposit key, right?" Amelia glanced over. "Do not tell her I told you this, 'kay?"
He put up his palm. "I swear."
"Before I left to go back to Hotchkiss...she gave me this safety-deposit key and told me I wasn't supposed to use it unless she died. She wouldn't tell me what was in the box." Amelia went back to staring at the fat, low sun that was glowing like a banked fire at the lip of the landscape. "I got Lizzie to take me to the bank today. I had her wait in the car, and I took the key in. I brought my passport with me because I don't have a driver's license, you know. The manager came out of her office. She was so nice, and she helped me sign in and get the box out--but we could barely lift it. I was scared and I made the lady stay in the private little cubicle with me."
"What was in it?" Samuel T. said tightly.
"Gold bars." Amelia looked over. "Like, tons of gold bars."
What the hell did Gin liquidate, Samuel T. wondered.
"There was a letter. I opened it."
When Amelia got quiet, it was as if she regretted taking the story to that particular detail.
"And?" Samuel T. reached over and put what he hoped was a reassuring hand on the girl's forearm. "I won't tell her. I promise."
"In it, she said that if she died, Richard Pford murdered her. And that this was to be my inheritance from her, free and clear." Amelia shook her head again. "The bank manager looked really worried and asked if Mother was okay. I said, yes. That annulment you did for them hasn't been in the paper or anything so the lady didn't know that they'd broken up."
"Did the bank manager tell you when Gin brought it all in?"
"It was newly taken, the box, that is. The only thing the lady said was that Mother had come in with some guy named Ryan Berkley?"
The jeweler, Samuel T. thought. Of course. Gin had sold one of her mother's pieces and put the value in there for Amelia in case the family went totally under.
Not the dumbest thing in the world to do.
"I think your mother is really trying to take care of you," Samuel T. offered. "And if you can, let her. I know there's a lot of history between you, but sometimes people do change."
Amelia nodded, but it was unclear which way she was leaning on that subject.
"So, I got the test results back today," he said.
The girl looked over. "Really? That was fast."
"I have friends in the lab."
"What did they say?" Then Amelia went all Maury Povich: "Are you the father?"
He slid the envelope out of his breast pocket. "I haven't opened it. I was waiting for you."
Samuel T. put the thing between them, the fold in the middle straightening itself out as if reaching for a hand to do the flap duty.
They just stared at the sealed envelope.
"I don't want it to say we aren't related," Amelia mumbled.
Funny, just like that, she was a child, her adult-self veneer vaporizing and revealing someone who was scared and lonely and tired of being brave while she was lost.
And what was truly amazing, in that moment?
As Samuel T. noted those downcast eyes and projected into the future the likelihood of Gin being a reliable, steady influence in the girl's life?
He became a father.
Right then and there.
If one established the definition of a parent as an adult who assumed the responsibility for a minor, seeking to provide them with shelter, guidance, and love? Well, what the hell did blood matter, anyway. There had been loads of examples, many in Amelia's own family, of people who didn't step up even though the DNA was there. And then there were those who provided what was needed, always, even though there was no family tree linking them.
Like Miss Aurora with Lane and his brothers and sister.
Love was what made the difference. Not blood.
Samuel T. cleared his throat and put his hand over the envelope. "If you want me to open this, I will."
"Do you want to open it?"
"The results don't matter to me."
Amelia looked up sharply. "How can you say that?"
"You need a father. I want a daughter." God, it was so strange to say that and mean it. "At the end of the day, is it really more complicated than that?"
An old, worn-out look came into the girl's eyes. "You don't want to get saddled with some other guy's kid for the rest of your life."
"This is an opportunity, not an obligation." He tapped the envelope. "And if we don't open this, if we don't know for sure...then you will never once wonder whether or not I want to be in your life. You will always know that I am choosing you. You will never for a single moment have to worry that you were a mistake that I feel guilty about, or a burden I'm carrying just because one night, sixteen years ago, your mother and I had sex and the birth control failed. I am picking you, Amelia Baldwine, right now--and if you pick me in return, we burn this on the grill over there and neither one of us ever looks back. Deal?"
As the girl sniffled, he eased to the side and took his handkerchief out of his back pocket. She accepted it and dried her eyes.
"Why would you do that for me?" she asked bleakly.
He put his hand on her shoulder. "Why wouldn't I, is the question."
There was a long silence, and Samuel T. gave her all the space she needed.
"Okay," she said eventually. "Let's do it. Let's burn it."
They got out of their seats and went around the table at opposite ends, meeting on the other side and going over to the grill together. Picking up a pair of barbecue tongs, he removed a section of the grate and set it aside. Then he fired up the gas and hit the igniter.
Flames gathered and hissed along the burners, and he held out the envelope.
Amelia gripped it, too...and they put the corner into the heat.
The p
aper caught quick and burned fast, and they had to drop it in or risk getting hurt.
As he watched the results of the DNA test disappear, he had never been more at peace with anything in his life.
When it was done, Amelia turned to him. "What do I call you?"
"What do you want to call me?"
"Dad."
"I'm good with that," he said as he pulled her in close and held her tight. "I'm so good with that...."
--
As Gin drove down the allee of trees to Samuel T.'s farm, her palms were sweating on the wheel of the Phantom and she had a headache.
The last couple of times she had dropped Amelia off here, or picked the girl up, she had felt the same. It was hard, so hard, to look at Samuel T. as if he were a polite stranger.
Oh, who was she kidding.
It was hard to have him look at her that way. But she couldn't blame him. And it was also impossible not to see and appreciate the effect he had on Amelia. The girl was always happy when she was out here, her eyes sparkling, her smile quick to fire, her hands animated.
Gin hit the brakes and put the Rolls in park. When no one came around from the porch, she cut the engine and got out.
Off in the distance, she heard laughter and she debated whether or not it was appropriate to go and find them. It wasn't as if she had anywhere else she needed to be, but sitting on the sidelines and overhearing them made her feel like she was eavesdropping.
She waited for a while. Texted. Didn't get a response.
Shoring up her courage, she walked across the lawn, looking up at the manor house as she went along. She had spent so many years going in and out of the gracious old house, free to come and go as she pleased. Now those liberties would have been inappropriate.
As she came around the corner, she stopped.
Samuel T. and Amelia were playing badminton on the grass, the pair of them wielding the long-handled, tiny-headed racquets with competence.
Amelia saw her and waved. "Hello, Mother!"
Samuel T. turned around and missed a return, the birdie landing at his feet. "Oh, hey."
"I'm sorry." She pointed over her shoulder. "I was out front. I wasn't sure either of you knew? No worries, though. I can keep waiting."
"It's okay." Samuel T. nodded at Amelia. "She was beating the crap out of me."
"You were winning!"
"She lies. What can I say?" Samuel T. indicated the house. "Actually, Gin, I have some paperwork for you about the annulment. Everything's filed and set."
"Oh, thank God."
"Come on up, the stuff's in my study. Amelia, we'll be right back?"
"Okay, Dad, I wanted to go do a fish check on the pond anyway. We on for the day after tomorrow?"
"You got it. I'm not seeing Deadpool II with anyone else."
Dad. Wow, Gin thought.
As they headed up to the porch, she said, "So I guess you got the DNA results back."
"Yes, we did."
Gin took a deep breath. "Good, I'm glad it's settled."
"Me, too."
Samuel T. went ahead and held the door open for her, and as she passed by him, she could smell his cologne, and it made her heart ache.
His study was the same as it had always been, lined by leather volumes that he'd inherited, the hearth set for fall's far-off chill with hardwood logs, the mellow oxblood leather sofa and chairs making the room seem like it was in England rather than Kentucky. Then again, the Lodges had always done things with old-school class--which was what happened when you had generations and generations of people shepherding assets carefully onto their children.
Samuel T. opened his great-uncle's leather briefcase, and as he riffled through whatever was in there, she studied the lines of his face, the strength of his shoulders, the elegance he wore with unconscious grace.
"Okay, so here is a copy of the court-stamped papers. I put a rush on them. The judge wants to go quail hunting with me on my preserve in South Carolina, so he was happy to oblige."
"Is that how you got the DNA results so quickly, too?"
"No, but the lab tech does want to be set up with my intern. So I made that happen and she stayed a little late for me one night in return."
"You are good at getting things done."
"I do all right." He gave her another set of papers. "Also, because of the high value of the engagement ring, I had Pford execute a title for it, granting the thing to you free and clear. Probably overkill, but that way, you don't have to worry about him bugging you about it later."
"Oh, thank you." She looked the documents over. "This is great."
"I know you really wanted that diamond," he said dryly.
"Well, yes, I'd taken the stone out and replaced it with a fake one. It would have been awkward to give him back a cubic zirconia."
Gin was vaguely aware of Samuel T. going still as he stared at her, but she didn't dwell on it.
Time to go.
"Thank you again," she said, "and I assume you'll be picking up Amelia for the movie. If you'd like me to bring her out here, though, I'm happy to. Just text me."
Gin started to walk out, but Samuel T. took her arm. "What did you say?"
"I'll bring Amelia to you--"
"No, about the ring."
"Oh. I sold the stone. For Amelia. Don't tell anyone this, please--although as my attorney, I don't think you can, can you? Anyway, if I'd had to give the ring back, Richard would have found that out and demanded the money. Which I don't have." She shrugged. "I just decided it was about time I started assuming the care of my daughter--our daughter."
She waited a moment for him to respond. When he just looked at her, she gave him a wave and took her leave.
Out on the porch, she called Amelia over, and as the girl came loping up the lawn from the pond, Gin was glad for the way things had ended.
Not between her and Samuel T., of course. But really, how else were things going to go between them?
No, Gin was glad that the girl knew her father and that from now on Amelia was going to have a mother who did her best to show up. At the close of the day, that was not a bad setup, at all.
And she could certainly learn to exist without the love of her life. People did that all the time, in one form or another.
Besides, she needed to pay a penance--and losing Samuel T. was probably the only thing that could come close to be being painful enough.
Something woke Lane up out of a deep sleep, his lids flipping open, his body on instant-alert. Without moving, he glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Just after two a.m.
What had disturbed him?
He listened for a minute and heard nothing but Lizzie's even breathing: no sounds of anyone moving around Easterly's second floor, no creaking of doors opening or closing, nothing out in the hall.
There was a temptation to roll over and resume the work of being asleep, but nope. He had to get up and go to the window.
Sonofabitch, he thought as he looked down below.
There was someone in the garden again: In the darkness, in between the fruit trees, a person was crouched and coming at the house. At two in the goddamn morning.
For the love, Lane thought as he pulled on boxer shorts and got his gun from that drawer. Someone was definitely inside the walls and moving around--and he knew it wasn't Gary McAdams this time.
None of the gas lanterns were off in the back of the house, and Lane and Lizzie had been in the pool before bed. Those mechanicals were working just fine now.
"Lane? Where are you going?"
He hid the gun by his thigh. "Somebody's in the garden. It's probably--I don't know, maybe it's Jeff."
Lizzie started to get out of bed.
"No, you stay here."
"Should I call Deputy Ramsey?"
"I don't want to disturb him and his wife. Maybe it's...I don't know. But I'll handle it."
Lizzie got up and went to the window as he headed out into the hall. And in a replay of however many nights before, he didn't hear
any alarm going off--because he hadn't set the damn thing, again--and as he descended the grand stairs, the mansion likewise seemed silent.
When he got down to the foyer, he stopped. Frowned. And went into the parlor, following the scent of fresh air.
The French doors way at the back of the downstairs room were wide open, a lovely night breeze curling into the house, carrying the scents of the sleeping garden.
Check the house? Or check the outside, he wondered.
Would a thief really leave his ingress so obvious?
Shit, he should have told Lizzie to lock herself in.
Lane moved quickly through the downstairs rooms, looking for someone trying to steal silver or portable electronics or...
When he got to the rear of the dining room, he slowed...and stopped. Through the glass panes, he stared, transfixed, at a scene he could not comprehend.
But instantly understood.
It was his mother, in one of her diaphanous white nightgowns, out once more on the terrace at night, the gas lanterns down the back of the mansion illuminating her ethereal beauty and turning her into an apparition of loveliness.
She was not alone.
A man was coming up the stone steps, a man with broad shoulders and common work clothes, a man who took a cap off his head in deference to her presence.
Gary McAdams.
The two met at the head of the stairs that led out into the flowers and the statues, and, oh, how the groundsman stared at Little V.E.: The love and adoration in his eyes was resplendent in his weathered face, the emotion transforming him into a prince in spite of his commoner's garb.
From behind his back, Gary presented Little V.E. with a single rose, and her smile made her glow. As she accepted it and said something that seemed to make the man blush, Lane was reminded of all the expensive jewels William had given her during birthdays and anniversaries. She had accepted every one, and worn them all, but she had never looked this delighted.
Proof that the love of the giver could elevate the intrinsic value of what was received--and its absence could also render any gift worthless.
Bare feet running into the dining room had Lane glancing over his shoulder.
Lizzie was animated. "Are you seeing this? Are you--"
"Shh. Come here."
As Lizzie rushed over and tucked herself against him, the two of them watched as Gary offered Little V.E. his arm, and then the pair went down the steps and took to the brick paths, walking side by side.
"That is not the first time they've done this," Lizzie whispered.
"No," Lane said. "It is not."
