by J. R. Ward
Lane found himself wanting another drink.
And after a tense moment, he merely muttered, "Are you coming to the visitation?"
"I don't know why I would. I'm not in mourning and I have no intention of paying any respects. No offense."
"None taken and I can understand all that. But Mother will probably come down for it."
"You think so?"
Lane nodded, and waited for his brother to say something further. The man didn't, though. "Listen, Edward . . . I'm really sorry about--"
"Nothing. You're sorry for nothing because none of it, none of this, was your fault. You can only apologize for your own wrongs. Is that all, little brother?"
When Lane couldn't think of anything else, Edward nodded. "That's all, then. Take care, and don't call me if you need something. I'm not the kind of resource you want."
TWENTY-FOUR
The Porsche got a lot of attention as Lane drove through the Rolling Meadows neighborhood, but not because he was going fast. Just the sight of the convertible and sound of the engine were enough to bring out the double takes of the dog walkers, the kids playing in the driveways, the moms pushing strollers. The houses were packed in tight, but they were of good size, most of them brick with cupolas or bay windows on the first floor and dormers or shallow porches on the second to distinguish them--rather like siblings who shared the same coloring but had different facial features. There were Volvos or Infinitis or Acuras parked in short driveways, basketball hoops above garage doors, decks with grills out in back.
With the late-afternoon sun shining down over postcard-worthy trees, and all the lawns glowing green, and all those kids running in packs, it was a throwback to before the iChildhood generation.
With quiet insistence, the GPS on the 911 navigated him through the rabbit warren of streets that were arranged by types of trees, flowers and, finally, fruits.
Cerise Circle was no different from any of the other lanes, roads, and ways in the development. And when he came up to the home he was in search of, there was nothing to distinguish it from its larger gene pool.
Lane let the convertible roll to a stop across the street. With the top down, he could hear the rhythmic dribble of a basketball behind its garage, the bounce-bounce-bounce echoing off the house next door.
Killing the engine, he got out and walked over the pavement toward the sound. The kid who was LeBron'ing it was out of sight around the back, and Lane really wanted to just get back in his damn car and drive away.
But that wasn't because he couldn't stand confronting the living, breathing evidence of his father's infidelities, and he wasn't afraid of looking into a face that was so close to his own, either. And no, the fact that some stranger was his blood and was in the will didn't rock his world.
The bottom line truth to his reticence? He was simply too exhausted to take care of anyone else. The problem was, this poor kid, through no fault of his own, was about to get sucked into the Bradford black hole, and how could Lane not at least try to guide the SOB a little bit.
It was a helluva lottery to win. Especially now that the money was gone.
Not a lot of upside.
The driveway was only about thirty feet long, a mere parking space at Easterly. And as Lane proceeded up, the eighteen-year-old with the basketball was revealed gradually.
Tall. Going to be taller. Dark haired. Big shoulders already.
The kid went up for a dunk, and the ball ricocheted off the rim.
Lane caught it on the fly. "Hey."
Randolph Damion Freeland stopped first because he was surprised. And then because he was shocked.
"So you know who I am, then," Lane said softly.
"I've seen your picture, yeah."
"Do you know why I'm here?"
As the kid crossed his arms over his chest, there was a good deal of space between the pecs and the biceps, but that wasn't going to last for much longer. He was going to fill out and be built strong.
God, his eyes were the exact blue of Lane's own.
"He died," the kid mumbled. "I read about it."
"So you know . . ."
"Who my father was? Yeah." That stare lowered. "Are you going to, like . . ."
"Like what?"
"Get me arrested or something?"
"What? Why would I do that?"
"I dunno. You're a Bradford."
Lane closed his eyes briefly. "No, I came to see you about something important. And also to say that I'm sorry your mother passed."
"She killed herself. In your house."
"I know."
"They say you found her body. I read that in the newspaper."
"I did."
"She didn't say good-bye to me. She just left that morning and then she was gone. You know, like, permanently."
Lane shook his head and squeezed the ball between his palms. "I'm really sorry--"
"Don't you dare! Don't you dare!"
An older woman shot out onto the porch with a full head of steam up, her face twisted into the kind of rage that made a handgun unnecessary. "You get away from him! You get away--"
"Granny, stop! He's just talking--"
As the kid got between them, the grandmother was all arms, fighting to get at Lane. "You stay away! How dare you come here--"
"He's an heir. That's why I came."
As the two of them paused in their struggling, Lane nodded. "He got left the house and ten million dollars. I figured you would want to know. The executor is going to be in touch. I don't know how much money there really is, but I want you both to know that I will fight to make sure this house stays in your grandson's name."
After all, there was a scenario whereby it, too, might be liquidated depending on the debt situation. And then where would this kid go?
As the grandmother snapped out of her surprise, she got right back on the hate-train. "Don't ever come here again--"
Lane locked eyes with the boy. "You know where I live. If you have questions, if you want to talk--"
"Never!" the woman screamed. "He will never come to you! You can't take him, too!"
"Babcock Jefferson," Lane said as he put the ball down on the driveway. "That's the attorney's name."
As he turned away, the image of that young kid holding back that old woman was carved into his brain, and God, he hated his father for new reasons in that moment, he really did.
Back at the Porsche, he got behind the wheel and headed off. He wanted to screech out, take the corners hard, hit a couple of parked cars, roll over some bicycles. But he didn't.
He was coming out to the entrance of the development when his phone rang. He didn't recognize the number, but he answered it because even a telemarketer was better than the thoughts in his head.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Baldwine?" a female voice said. "Mr. Lane Baldwine?"
He hit the directional signal to the left. "This is he."
"My name is LaKeesha Locke. I'm the business reporter for the Charlemont Courier Journal. I was wondering if you and I can meet somewhere."
"What is this about?"
"I'm doing a story that the Bradford Bourbon Company is in serious debt and facing a possible bankruptcy. It's running tomorrow morning. I thought you might want to comment."
Lane clenched his jaw to keep the curses in. "Now, why would I want to do that?"
"Well, I understand, and it's fairly self-evident, that your family's personal fortune is inextricably tied to the company, is it not?"
"But I'm not involved in the running of the business."
"So you're saying you were unaware of any difficulty?"
Lane kept his voice level. "Where are you? I'll come to you."
*
The Bradford Family Estate's groundskeeping shed was less like a shed and more like an airplane hangar. Located down below and in the back of the extensive property, it was next to where the staff parking lot was and beside the line-up of fifties-era cottages that had been used by servants, workers, and retainers for de
cades.
As Lizzie walked into the dim gas-and oil-smelling cave, her boots were loud over the stained concrete floor. Tractors, industrial mowers, mulchers, and trucks were parked in an orderly fashion, their exteriors clean, their engines maintained to within an inch of their lives.
"Gary? You in there?"
The head groundskeeper's office was in the far corner, and through the dusty glass, a light glowed.
"Gary?"
"Not in there. Or here."
She changed trajectory, walking around a wood chipper and a couple of snowplow attachments that were the size of her old Yaris.
"Oh, God, don't lift that!" she barked.
Lizzie hurried over, only to be ignored as Gary McAdams hefted part of an engine block off the floor and onto one of the worktables. The feat would have been impressive under any circumstances, but considering the guy had thirty years on her? Then again, Gary was built like a bulldog, strong as an ox, and weathered as a Kentucky fence post.
"Your back," she muttered.
"Is just fine," came the Southern drawl. "Whatchu need, Miss Lizzie?"
He didn't look at her, but that didn't mean he didn't like her. In fact, the pair of them worked well together: When she had started here, she had braced herself for a conflict that had never materialized. The self-professed redneck had proven to be a total sweetheart under that gruff exterior.
"So you know about the visitation," she said.
"I do, yup."
Popping herself up on the worktable, she let her feet dangle and watched as his callused hands made sense of the piece of machinery, moving fast and sure over the old metal. He didn't make a big deal of his competence, though, and that was so him. From what Lizzie understood, he had started working in the fields when he was twelve and had been here ever since. Never been married. Never took vacation days. Didn't drink. Lived down in one of the cottages.
Ruled over the thirty or so workers under him with a fair but iron fist.
"You need the wrench?" she asked.
"Yup, I do."
She handed him what he required, took it back when he was finished, got him something else before he had to ask for it.
"Anyway," she continued. "The visitation will be tomorrow, and I just want to make sure we've got a fresh mow up the main entrance the morning of, a trim on the boxwoods down at the road this afternoon if we can make it happen, and a blow all over the front steps and courtyard."
"Yes'um. Anything you need in the back gardens?"
"I think we're in good shape. I'll go through them with Greta, though."
"One of m' boys'll do a mow out there by the pool."
"Good. Socket?"
"Yup."
As they traded tools again, he asked, "It true what they say you found?"
"Greta found it. And yes, it is."
He didn't shift his eyes from his work, those thick-fingered, heavily veined hands of his never missing a beat. "Huh."
"I don't know, Gary. Up until now, I've been thinking, just like everyone else, that he jumped. But not anymore."
"The police come?"
"Yes, a couple of homicide detectives. The same ones who were here for Rosalinda's death. I talked to them for a while this morning. They're probably going to want to interview you and anyone else who was on the grounds around the time he died."
"Sad business."
"Very. Even though I never liked the man."
She thought about the reading of the will. God, that was like something out of an old movie, the heirs gathered in some fancy room, a distinguished lawyer reciting the provisions in a Charlton Heston voice.
"What they ask you? Them detectives?"
"Just how we found it. Where I was the last couple of days. Like I said, they're going to be talking to everyone, I'm sure."
"Yup."
She handed him a pair of pliers. "Staff are invited, too."
"To the visitation?"
"Uh-huh. It's for everyone to pay their respects."
"They don't want no grease monkey like me in that there house."
"You'd be welcomed. I promise. I'm going."
"That's a'cuz it's your man's poppa."
Lizzie felt the blush hit her cheeks. "How did you know about me and Lane?"
"Ain't nothing that happens 'round here that I don't know about, girl."
He stopped what he was doing and picked up an old red rag. As he wiped his hands, he finally looked over, his weathered face gentle.
"Lane better do right by you. Or I got places to put the body."
Lizzie laughed. "I would hug you right now, but you would faint."
"Oh, I don't know 'bout that." Except he was shuffling his weight around like she'd embarrassed him. "But I think he's probably all right--or you wouldn't be with him. Besides, I've see him look at you. The boy's had love in his eyes for years when it come to you."
"You are much more sentimental than you let on, Gary."
"I didn't get schooled, remember. I don't know the meaning of those big words."
"I think you know exactly what they mean." Lizzie punched him lightly in the arm. "And if you do decide to come to the visitation, you can hang out with me and Greta."
"I got work to do. Don't have time for none of that."
"I understand." She hopped down off the worktable. "Well, I'm going to head out. I've got everything ordered, and Miss Aurora's on the food, of course."
"How's that fool butler doing?"
"He's not so bad."
"Depends on what you're using as a comparison."
With a laugh, she lifted her hand over her shoulder as a good-bye and headed for the bright outdoors. But she didn't get far before he spoke up again.
"Miss Lizzie?"
Turning around, she retucked her polo into the waistband of her shorts. "Yes?"
"They doing anything for Little V.E.'s birthday this year? I need to be getting anything done for that?"
"Oh, God. I'd forgotten that was coming up. I don't think we did anything last year, did we?"
"She's turning sixty-five. That's the only reason I asked."
"That is a milestone." Lizzie thought of Lane's birth mother up in that bedroom. "I'll ask. And shoot, I need to freshen her flowers tomorrow."
"There are some early peonies coming in."
"I was thinking the same thing."
"Let me know if you be wanting anything else done."
"Always, Gary. Always."
TWENTY-FIVE
When Lane finally got back to Easterly, after what had felt like years in the presence of that reporter, he went directly to the second floor, bypassing the dinner that had been served in the formal dining room and ignoring Mr. Harris's fussing about something or another.
At his grandfather's door, he knocked once and opened it wide--
Over on the bed, Tiphanii sat up fast and took the covers with her, hiding that which was very clearly naked.
"Please excuse us," he told her. "He and I have some business."
Jeff nodded at the woman to leave, and God love her, she took her frickin' time, sauntering around with that sheet while Jeff pulled the duvet over himself and sat up.
After a trip into the bathroom, she reemerged in her uniform and disappeared out the door, although Lane was very sure she purposely left her black panties behind on the floor at the foot of the bed.
"It was totally consensual," Jeff muttered. "And I am allowed to come up for air--"
"The local newspaper knows everything. Everything."
As Jeff opened his mouth, Lane barked, "You didn't have to fuck me like that!"
"You think I talked to the press?" Jeff threw his head back and laughed. "You actually think I dropped a dime and gave them anything--"
"They have the information you're working from. Page for page. Explain how that happened. I thought I could trust you--"
"I'm sorry, are you accusing me of malfeasance after you blackmailed me into doing this for you? Really?"
"You screwed m
e."
"Okay, first of all, if I were going to fuck you like that I would have gone to the Wall Street Journal, not the Charlemont Herald Post Ledger or whatever the hell it's called. I can name half a dozen reporters in the Big Apple. I couldn't tell you who to call down here in goddamn Kentucky. And more to the point, after this little nightmare is over, I'm going back to Manhattan. You think I couldn't use a couple of favors owed to me? The shit about your family and your little bourbon business is big news, asshole. Bigger than some Podunk, USA Today wrapper of a daily. So yeah, if I were going to leak anything, I would want some upside for me personally."
Lane breathed hard. "Jesus Christ."
"I also wouldn't call him. But that's because I'm a Jew."
Dropping his head, Lane rubbed his eyes. Then he walked around, going between the bed and the desk. The desk and one of the long-paned windows. The window and the bureau.
He ended up back at the windows. Night had yet to fall, but it was coming soon, the sunset scrumming down at the horizon, making the curve of the earth bleed pink and purple. In his peripheral vision, all of Jeff's work, the notes, the computers, the printouts were like a scream in his ear.
And then there was the fact that his old college roommate was naked across the room, staring at him with a remote expression: Behind all that anger that had just jumped out of Jeff's mouth, there was hurt, real hurt.
"I'm sorry," Lane breathed. "I'm sorry . . . I jumped to the wrong conclusions."
"Thank you."
"I'm also sorry that I'm making you do this. I just . . . I'm losing my damn mind over here. I feel like I'm in a house that's on fire, and every way out is nothing but flames. I'm burning and I'm desperate and I'm sick of this shit."
"Oh, for fuck's sake," his old friend muttered in his New Jersey accent. "See, there you go."
Lane glanced over his shoulder. "What?"
"Being all nice. I hate that about you. You piss me off and drive me crazy, and then you get all honest and it becomes impossible for me to hate your sorry, white-privileged ass. FYI, I was enjoying being furious at you. It was the only exercise I was getting--well, Tiphanii notwithstanding."
Lane smiled a little and then refocused on the view. "Honest, huh. You want honest? As in something I haven't told anybody?"
"Yes. The better I know what's happening here, the more I can help and the less I resent being trapped."
Off in the distance, a hawk soared on invisible currents, riding the sky with sharp corners and fast straightaways, like the gloaming was full of highways and byways that only birds could see.
