Chantal Baldwine was still every bit as blond as she'd been when Lane had kicked her out--which was to say she was tastefully highlighted. And she'd retained her delicate tan and her short, perfect manicure, and her dress code of Rich, Young, and Socially Superior.
Today's shift, for example, was peach and pink, floaty as a breeze, and fitted like it had been made for her. Which meant it was just ever so tight around her pregnant lower belly.
"May I help you?" Lizzie said evenly.
At the same time, she put her hand on Greta's shoulder and pressed down. The woman had started to get out of the chair, but it was hard to tell whether it was to give Lizzie and Chantal some privacy--or to throat punch the other woman on principle.
"Where's Lane?" Chantal snapped. "I've called him twice. My lawyer has repeatedly asked him to grant me access to my private property, but he has refused to respond. So I'm here now to get my things."
Lizzie gave Greta a sit-stay stare and went over to Chantal. "I'd be happy to escort you upstairs, but I can't leave you unattended on the premises."
"So now you're security, too? Busy, busy. I heard no one came to Mr. Baldwine's visitation, by the way. Such a shame."
Lizzie walked by the woman, giving Chantal no option but to follow. "Do you have moving men? Boxes? A truck?"
Chantal stopped in the middle of the staff hallway. "What are you talking about?"
"You said you were here for your things. How do you intend to move them?"
Okaaaaaaaay. It was like watching a first grader try to do advanced physics.
"Mr. Harris handles all that," was the eventual answer to the question.
"Well, he's not here. So what's your plan?"
When that vacant, calculator-with-no-batteries look returned to that beautiful face, Lizzie was tempted to let the woman just stand there for the next twelve hours and enjoy the brain cramp. But there was too much work to be done, and frankly, having Chantal around was uncomfortable.
"What car did you come in?" Lizzie asked.
"A limousine." As if anything else would be unthinkable.
"Greta?" Lizzie called out. "Would you be able to get some--"
The German came out and headed for the cellar stairs. "--Rubbermaid bins. Ja. Coming."
Clearly, she had been listening, and it had nearly killed her not to solve the problem. With maybe a shotgun.
"Let's go," Lizzie said. "I'll take you upstairs. We'll get this done somehow."
She'd already moved one blowhard out of the house with Mr. Harris's departure. She kept this up, and it was going to become a core competency.
*
"Randolph." Lane started walking toward his car--and his half brother. "How are you?"
"It's Damion, actually." The kid pulled at his open jacket, but given his lanky frame and the fact that it wasn't zippered shut, the thing was not too tight. "And I wasn't following your car. I didn't follow you--well, I was going by on the way to school."
"Which school are you in?" Even though, considering the khaki pants, white shirt, and blue and green tie, Lane knew.
"Charlemont Country Day."
Lane frowned. "Isn't that out of the way?"
The kid looked away. Looked back. "I go the long route because I wanted--I want . . . to see what it's like. You know, the house . . . where he lives. Lived."
"That's totally understandable."
Damion stared at the pavement. "I thought you'd be angry at me or something."
"Why? None of it is your fault. You didn't ask for this, and just because I don't want to deal with some of what my father did, doesn't mean I'm going to be hard on you."
"My grandmother told me you all would hate me."
"I don't know her and I'm not going to disrespect her, but that won't happen. I meant what I said. You come anytime--I'd take you there right now, but I'm meeting someone at the airport."
As Damion glanced up at Easterly's hill, Lane reflected that yes, it was going to be hard to bring the kid into the house with his mother still alive and upstairs. But she couldn't even recognize her own children at this point, and she never really left her room.
"I'm late for a school event, anyway."
After an awkward pause, Lane said, "We're going to be burying him. We were supposed to do it today, but with the weather, and some other things, it's been delayed. How can I reach you? I'll let you know--and you can bring your grandmother, too. Whatever you like."
"I don't have a phone. And I don't know. I don't think I'd want to go. It's too weird. You know . . . I didn't see him much. He didn't really come around at all. You know."
Annnnd here it was again. Another son living in pain thanks to that man.
Lane cursed in his head. "I'm really sorry. He was . . . a very complicated man."
Read: asshole and a half.
"I might want to go later though."
"How about this." Lane leaned into the car and got the wrapper from his sausage and biscuit. "You got a pen?"
"Yeah." The kid brought his backpack around and pulled out a Charlemont Country Day pencil. "Here."
Lane wrote down his number. "Call me when you're ready. And I'll tell you exactly where he's interred. Also, let me know when you want to come to the house."
Yes, Easterly was his mother's legacy, but William Baldwine had lived there for decades upon decades. If Lane were in the kid's position, and barely knew his sire, he would want to see where the guy had worked and where he had slept, even if it was only after the man was dead.
"Okay." Damion looked at the wrapper. Then he put it in his backpack. "I'm sorry."
Lane frowned again. "About what?"
"I don't know. I guess because you've got a mom, too. And she . . . he . . ."
"A piece of advice that you can take for what it's worth." Lane gave the boy's shoulder a squeeze. "Don't try to own problems or faults that aren't yours. It's not a good long-term strategy."
Damion nodded. "I'll call you."
"Do that."
Lane watched the kid mount up and pedal off. And for some reason, when it dawned on Lane that there wasn't a helmet on that head, he wanted to call Damion back and drive him safely to school.
But maybe he should follow his own advice. Damion had a guardian, and he had, hypothetically, ten million dollars, depending on how things turned out. Lane's plate, on the other hand, was full to breaking, no more space left on the porcelain of his attention span and capabilities.
Getting behind the wheel, he cranked the engine and sped out onto Dorn, taking the surface road to the airport so he avoided spaghetti junction. When he finally pulled through the gate to the private jet tarmac, John Lenghe was just disembarking. Wow. The golf shorts this time were made from fabric with a pattern of grass on it. Bright green blades on a black background. Like a thousand of them.
It was a look that only someone with his net worth could carry off.
The man waved with his free hand, the other locked on the handle of a beaten-up old suitcase.
"Figured I might get stuck here," the guy said as he came over to the Porsche and indicated his luggage. "Best to pack a toothbrush given the weather."
"We've got plenty of bedrooms. And my momma cooks the best soul food anywhere. Do you like soul food?"
Lenghe put his case in the six-inch-sized backseat. "Is Jesus my Lord and Savior?"
"I like your style."
As the man got in, he looked at Lane's linen jacket and pressed slacks. "Really? You sure about that, son?"
Lane put the car in gear and hit the gas. "I'm not saying I could wear your wardrobe. But on you? It works."
"You're a smooth one, you know that?" Lenghe winked. "You well rested? Ready to play some poker?"
"Always, old man, always."
Lenghe barked out a laugh, and as Lane took them back to Easterly, the conversation was surprisingly relaxed. As they waited at the bottom of the hill for the gates to open, Lenghe sat forward and looked up at Easterly's white expanse.
"Ju
st like what's on the bottles." He shook his head. "I have to give you guys credit. This is quite a spread."
Especially if we manage to keep it in the family, Lane thought wryly.
The rain started to fall just as they crested the top--but Lane forgot about the weather as he saw a long black limousine parked right across the front entrance.
"Who the hell is that?" he said aloud.
After John got out with his piece of luggage, Lane put the top up and went over to the uniformed driver.
As the window went down, Lane didn't recognize the chauffeur. "May I help you?"
"Hello, sir. I'm here with Chantal Baldwine. She's picking up her things."
Sonofabitch.
FORTY-FIVE
"No, I'm not using tissue paper."
As Lizzie opened drawer after drawer of clothes, she thought to herself, Not only am I not wrapping your stuff in frickin' tissue paper, but you're lucky that I don't just open a window and start pitching things on top of your limo.
"But the wrinkles."
Lizzie cranked her head in Chantal's direction. "Are the least of your problems. Now, come on, get working. I'm not doing this on my own."
Chantal looked affronted as she stood over the five Rubbermaid containers Greta had brought into the walk-in wardrobe. "I don't usually do things like this, you know."
"You don't say."
Grabbing one of the bins, Lizzie began to transfer folded things--pants, jeans, yoga gear--in a steady stream. Then she moved on to the next drawer. Underwear. Jeez, she remembered going through these before, when she'd snuck in to match the lingerie she'd found under William Baldwine's bed to something that Chantal owned.
Surreptitiously, she glanced over to the make-up table.
The blood on the cracked mirror had been cleaned up. But the glass was still broken.
She could only imagine the fight William and Chantal had had. But that was not her business. What was her biz? Getting this woman as far away from Lane and Easterly as she could get her.
It was kind of like weeding an ivy bed, she decided. Get out the bad, keep the good.
"Start on the hanging things," she ordered the woman. "Or I'll strip them off that rod on a oner."
That got Chantal moving, her manicured hands opening the glass doors and taking garments out hanger by hanger. But at least she made a pile to be carried from the suite.
Lizzie was on the third bin when Lane strode into the dressing room.
Chantal turned, looked at him . . . and put her hand on her lower abdomen.
Yeah, yeah, we all know you're pregnant, sweetie, Lizzie thought to herself. Like we would forget?
"These are my things," Chantal said with self-importance. "And I shall remove them."
Like she was Maggie-frickin'-Smith--
Okaaaay, maybe someone needed a Snickers bar, Lizzie decided. And it wasn't yonder beauty queen.
After all, there was no reason to get bitchy. It wasn't going to improve the situation and God knew there was enough of that under this roof already.
"Yup," Lane said, coming in. "You really should get them out of my house."
He walked over to one of the glass-fronted closets, threw the doors open, and put his entire upper body into the line-up of hangered clothes. When he reemerged, his strong arms were full of colorful, expensive swaths of silk, taffeta and organza.
"John!" he called out. "We need an extra pair of hands in here!"
"What are you doing!" Chantal rushed forward. "What are you--"
A stocky older man came in wearing . . . wow, an absolutely amazing set of golf shorts there. Who knew you could make clothes out of grass?
"Hey, there," the guy said with a flat Midwestern accent and a wide-open smile. "How can I help?"
"Grab some and carry it down to the limo."
"Sure thing, son."
"You can't! You won't! I can't--"
"Oh, and this is my fiancee, Lizzie." Lane smiled in her direction. "I don't think you've met her before."
"Fiancee!" Chantal stamped her stiletto. "Fiancee?"
As she stamped her actual foot again, Lizzie thought, Wow, she'd always assumed that move was reserved for Friends episodes.
"This is my friend John," Lane said to Lizzie. "You remember, the Grain God?"
"Hi." She offered the man a wave. "Thanks for helping."
"I'm a farmer, ma'am. I'm not afraid of work!"
The guy looked at Chantal, who was still going firecracker, and then he stepped around her, opened the next compartment, and strong-armed about two dozen full-length gowns.
It was like he was hugging a rainbow.
As the two men left with the clothes, Chantal followed after them, tripping over the padded hangers that fell to the floor in their wakes, a trail of sartorial bread crumbs.
Lizzie smiled to herself and went back to her packing.
Man, it felt good to clean house.
*
Outside of Gin's bedroom, some kind of commotion was making its way down the corridor.
She was too busy trying to find her cell phone to care, however. Last time she had used it . . . the pilots. She had used it when she'd been in the cockpit of Richard's jet. Had she lost the thing?
It wasn't on the bed stand. Nor under the bed. Nor on top of the decorative bureau.
And it wasn't in her purse.
Distantly aware of a rising panic, she went into her dressing room. The mess she'd made at the make-up station was tidied up--and for a moment, she stopped to think of what might have been involved in the cleaning of it all. There had been powder everywhere on the rolling table, streaks of eye pencil, tubes of lipstick and liner left out. So, in addition to putting everything that was still usable back in its place, Marls must have had to get glass cleaner or something, paper towels . . . who knew what.
Even the carpet underneath, the white carpet, was pristine.
"Thank you," she whispered, even though she was alone.
Walking over to the open shelves where she kept her collection of Gucci, Vuitton, Prada, and Hermes bags, she tried to remember what she'd taken with her--
The sound of ringing snapped her head around.
Tracing the ding-a-ling-a-ling across to the hanging sections of the room, she opened the panel closest to the noise . . . and pulled out a pink, white, and cream Akris silk coat.
She found the phone in the pocket and answered the call even though whoever it was didn't register in her contacts.
Maybe it was God, letting her know what to do next.
After all, it was entirely conceivable that Miss Aurora might have that kind of pull.
"Hello?"
"Ms. Baldwine?" a female voice said.
"Yes?"
"Hi, I'm Jules Antle. I'm the house parent on your daughter's floor at her dorm?"
"Oh. Yes. Yes, of course." This explained the 860 area code. "Are you. looking for me to make arrangements to pick up Amelia's things?"
Shit, Mr. Harris had left. Who could handle--
"I'm sorry? Pick up her things?"
"Yes, I shall have someone collect her things immediately. Which dorm is she in again?"
"The semester's not over with."
"So you would prefer us to wait until the other students leave?"
"I'm--please forgive me, but I'm not following. I called to see when she was coming back. I took the liberty of speaking with her professors, and if she needs to take her finals from home after the study break, she's more than welcome to."
Gin frowned. "Exams?"
Ms. Antle, or Jules, or Mrs. House Parent, slowed her speech down, like maybe she thought Gin had cognitive difficulties. "Yes, the tests before summer break. They're going to be taken soon."
"But why would she . . . I'm sorry, it was my understanding that Amelia was asked to leave school."
"Amelia? No. Why would she have been? In fact, she's one of our favorites here. I could see her being a proctor when she's a senior. She's always helping people out, genero
us with tutoring, always there for anybody. But that's probably why she was elected class president."
Gin blinked and became aware that she'd turned such that she could see her own reflection in one of the mirrors by the hairdressing chair. Dear Lord, she looked awful. But then she'd fallen asleep with all her make-up on, so that although her hair wasn't that much of a tangle, her face looked like an evil clown with haunted eyes.
Rather ironic that she appeared such a mess while finding out her daughter's life was actually going quite well.
"Hello?" Miss Antlers or Anteater or whatever her name was prompted. "Ms. Baldwine?"
There was no reason to go into the lie with the woman. "I'm sorry. There's a lot going on here."
"I know, and we're so sorry. When Amelia learned that her grandfather had died, she really wanted to go home for the funeral. And again, if she would like to stay and be with family, we understand and are willing to make accommodations. We will need to know what she's going to do, however."
"I'll speak with her," Gin heard herself say. "And call you back directly."
"That would be great. Again, we think the world of her. You're raising a wonderful young woman who's going to do a lot of good in the world."
As Gin ended the call, she continued to stare at her reflection. Then she went over to the hair and make-up chair and sat down.
How she wished there was a guru you could go to and have everything put to rights in your life. One could try different styles of fixes: Caring Mother; Charismatic Professional; Sultry, But Not Morally Corrupt Thirty-Three-Year-Old.
There was no Chanel counter to go to for what ailed her, however.
And, yes, she supposed she could follow through on her first impulse, which was to go to Lane and have him firstly find out why Amelia had thought it was a great idea to lie about leaving school and then leave him to deal with getting the girl back to Hotchkiss to finish her finals . . . but abruptly that lacked appeal.
God, she didn't even know where the school was really, just its area code.
She certainly didn't know where her daughter was.
Going into her contacts, she found Amelia and initiated a connection. When she got voice mail, she hung up without leaving a message.
Where was the girl?
Getting to her stocking feet, Gin padded out into her bedroom and opened the door to the main upstairs corridor. Whatever drama had been going on had found a resolution or a different location, so she was alone as she went down and knocked on Amelia's door.