by J. R. Ward
Lane just kept barreling through, until the Rolls was on the cemetery's property.
In the rearview, he checked to see if anyone was bleeding or down on the pavement--or if the security guards were coming after him with guns drawn or something: Nope, although it was going to be a long while before Lane forgot the sight of one of those paparazzi smiling even though he was in the choke hold of one of the guards.
Clearly, the harpy had gotten what he'd been after.
As another of the guards started waving and coming after the car, Lane slowed to a stop but kept his window up.
"We'll hold 'em in place, Mr. Bradford," the man said through the glass. "Y'all just keep on going down to the left. Follow the signs for Fairlawn Lane. You're right there, 'bout halfway down. We gotchu ready at your place."
"Thank you." Lane cursed under his breath. "And I'm sorry about all those reporters."
"Y'all don't worry now, just go on, though. We can't calm them down until you're out of sight."
"How should I leave when we're through?"
"Follow any of the lanes down the hill. It will hook into the back road and take you to where the rear entrance is by the outbuildings."
"Great, thank you."
"Y'all take care, now," the man said with a little bow.
Lane drove on quite a distance before he was confident they were out of telephoto lens reach. "Okay," he said. "The coast is clear now."
The women uncurled themselves, and as he took Lizzie's hand again, he checked on Gin and Amelia in the rearview.
The girl's eyes were shining with excitement. "Oh, my God, that was so cool! That, like, happens to Kardashians."
Lane shook his head. "I'm not sure that's a standard anyone should want to be measured by."
"No, I'm serious, I've seen it on TV."
"I thought Hotchkiss taught you important stuff." Lane frowned as they came up to an intersection. "Like calculus, history--"
He hit the brakes and tried to remember. Left or right? Down the hill? Or over to--was it Fairlawn?
A tinny little horn meep-meep'd behind them. And as God was his witness, Lane was so ready to flip the glove box open, grab the nine that was in there, and start shooting--
"Samuel T.?" he said as he did a double take in the rearview.
Hitting the window button, he stuck his head out and was so glad to see the other guy in that vintage Jag. "That really you?"
Like there could be another classic maroon sports car in this graveyard with a model-worthy Southern gentleman farmer/attorney behind the wheel?
"You lost there, boy?" Samuel T. drawled as he lifted his Ray-Bans. "Need an escort?"
"I do indeed. Lead on, wayward son."
As Samuel T. lowered those dark lenses back into place and headed forward, Gin muttered, "Who invited him?"
Lane shrugged and followed the leader, sticking close to the convertible. "I mentioned it yesterday."
"Next time, perhaps discretion would be appropriate."
"He is my lawyer," Lane said with a smile.
Gin calling for discretion? Huh, he thought. Maybe this all was some kind of a bizarre dream, and he would wake up with the company still okay, Edward out of jail, Miss Aurora back in her kitchen, and Easterly staffed up and ready for a Memorial Day party to beat all others.
He'd keep his happiness with Lizzie, of course.
And...yes, he'd still have his father in the trunk.
In ashes.
--
As Gin sat in the backseat of the Phantom, she couldn't decide whether to shut down or start throwing the f-bomb around like it was confetti.
In the end, she went with the former for two reasons: One, screaming and yelling required more energy than she had, and besides, that former act of hers was getting old; and two, she was concerned about what would come out of her mouth. And not as in the cussing.
There were things Amelia did not know. Things Samuel T. did not know. And Gin could not guarantee that her current bad temper would not make revelations that were best left behind a figurative iron curtain.
What the hell was he here for, anyway.
And while she was at the bitching, she found it sublimely annoying that Samuel T. knew where the Bradford crypt was. Then again, the man never forgot anything that was said or shown to him. He was like a goddamn elephant.
Which was also incredibly irritating.
Many turns and straightaways later, Samuel T. led them to their destination like a bloodhound after a scent, and Lane pulled the Rolls-Royce over to the side behind the Jag. As her brother put them in park, all around doors were opened, but Gin stayed where she was.
Her initial burst of anger had shifted to another emotion. One so much more destructive, as far as she was concerned.
Rubbing her suddenly sweaty palms on her skirt, she discovered that her heart was pounding, and she felt dizzy even though there was plenty of air-conditioning left inside the car. And then for some reason, the burns on the insides of her thighs, from when Richard had forced them open, became almost unbearably painful.
Memories of the unpleasantness that had occurred with him were not what weighed on her mind, however.
Instead, she heard Samuel T.'s voice in her head.
I think Richard hits you. I think those bruises came from him, and that you're wearing scarves to cover them up....
She and Samuel T. had met in secret only a few nights before, at the Presbyterian Theological Seminary, in the beautiful darkness of its main gardens. He had called her to come see him there, and even after all their ups and downs, she had never expected what he had said to her.
You can call me. Anytime. I know you and I haven't made sense. We're bad for each other in all the ways that count, but you can call me. Day or night. No matter where you are, I'll come for you. I won't ask for any explanations. I won't yell at you or berate you. I won't judge you--and if you insist, I won't tell Lane or anybody else.
Samuel T. had been dead serious, no evidence of his jocular nature or his usual sexual teasing evident. He had been...sad. Protective and sad.
Looking through the car window, she focused on Amelia.
The girl had walked forward onto the bright green grass, her red and black blouse billowing in the hot breeze, her dark hair whisking off over her shoulder. Ahead of her, looming surely as the burden of their bloodline's legacy did, the great Bradford crypt rose from the earth, a marble monument to the family's greatness, with twenty-foot-tall carved statues on all four corners, a great pediment over the entrance marked with a gold-leafed crest, and iron gates that were every bit as intricate and strong as the ones at the entrance of the cemetery itself.
Amelia stopped at the five steps that led up to the aged brass doors, which remained closed even as those iron bars had been opened for the family.
As the young girl tilted her head back as if to regard the crest overhead, the sun glinting in her hair drew out the same copper highlights that were in Samuel T.'s.
Like father, like daughter--
Gin's door was opened for her and she jumped, putting a palm to her mouth just in case her heart decided to make a run for it up her throat.
As a hand extended into the car for her, she mumbled, "Thank you, Lane."
Accepting the help, she pulled herself up and out--
"Not Lane."
At the low words, she jerked to attention, her eyes flipping up to meet Samuel T.'s. She needn't have worried about encountering his stare, however.
He was looking down and a little to the left...at the marks on her forearm that were exposed by the three-quarter sleeves on her silk dress. As his face darkened to violence, she removed herself from his hold, tucked her clutch into her elbow, and smiled.
"Samuel T. What a surprise. I haven't seen you in forever."
All of that was supposed to come out smooth and steady. Instead, her voice was reedy and insubstantial, and her body began shaking for no apparent reason. She wasn't cold, for heaven's sake.
You're better than this. Your family's glorious past is not worth a man hitting you in the present just because you're afraid you won't be anything without the money. You're priceless, Gin, no matter what's in your bank account.
Stop it, she told herself.
Smiling even more broadly, she expected him to say something and waited for him to play along with the social pleasantries.
As usual, he took his own path.
Samuel T. simply bowed in a gallant fashion, and left her to follow--or not.
Lane had always thought that the family crypt looked sinister, with all its dark eaves and the twisted iron designs over the opaque windows and the ivy choking out the aged white marble. And somehow, the prospect of his father being interred there made all of those Vincent Price prejudices take on an even more dire cast. But where else was he going to put the man? If he disrespected the dead, he was worried Daddy Dearest was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.
As if William wasn't going to do that anyway.
With the urn held like a football in the crook of his arm, Lane walked across the grass, the broad leafy branches of sycamores and beech trees filtering the bright sunshine, creating a ripple effect underfoot that would have been cheerful in other circumstances. As promised, cemetery staff had unlocked the deadbolts and muscled open the great sets of bars, leaving the brass double doors undefended and ready to be put to use. Instead of handles or knobs, there were a pair of heavy brass rings, and as he went up the low steps and reached for the one on the right, he was reminded of the time he had come here as a boy with his grandfather.
Just as Mother's father had done back then, he rotated the ring on its base, the mechanism clanking in a way that echoed in the interior. Hinges as big as his forearms creaked as he pulled the great weight open, and the rush of cool, dry air smelled of autumn leaves and a century's worth of dust.
The interior was a forty-by-forty-foot perfect square topped by a dome of translucent glass panels that let in more than enough light with which to read the plaques on the walls. In the center, two marble sarcophagi were aligned side by side, the first Elijah Bradford and his beloved Constance Tulane Bradford lying in prominent view, surrounded by the lineage they had created. And in spite of how eternal their repose appeared to be, he understood that this crypt was actually their second burial place. The pair evidently had been dug up and relocated from somewhere on Easterly's property when this awe-inspiring monument had been constructed in the mid-1800s.
As the footfalls of the others shuffled in, he looked around at the markers that were mounted in orderly rows on the walls, the block lettering on the old brass plaques detailing who had been put into what space at what time. And yes, a vacancy had been prepared for William Baldwine: Across the way, there was a single opening in the lineup of compartments, one that had been revealed by the removal of a square of the marble veneer.
Going over, Lane placed the urn into the darkness and was impressed by how precisely it fit within the confines of the hole, the lid having only an inch to spare.
Stepping back, he frowned, the enormity of the death dawning on him for the first time. Ever since he had come back to Charlemont, it had been one crisis after another, his attention drawn from emergency to emergency. That chaos, coupled with the fact that he had never felt close to his father--and in fact had disliked and mistrusted the man--had made William's passing almost a footnote.
Now, the reality that he would never again see the man or smell that trademark tobacco scent or hear that commanding stride in Easterly's corridors, or anywhere else, struck him as...not sad, no. Because he honestly did not mourn the loss as one would somebody they loved and cared about.
It was more surreal. Unfathomable. Unbelievable.
That somebody with that big an effect on the world, albeit a negative one, could be gone in the blink of an eye--
Heavy footfall on the marble steps outside the entrance made him turn around, and before he recognized the tall figure cutting a black shadow in the sunlight, his brain tricked him into thinking that it was his father, back from the dead.
His brother Maxwell's deep voice cleared up any confusion. "I'm late again, huh."
That lazy drawl suggested the guy didn't care if he'd offended anyone, but that was Max's way. He excelled at convincing himself and everyone around him that he didn't give a shit about anything.
And a lot of times, Lane supposed, it was true. Still, he had showed up, hadn't he.
"I just put Father's urn in," Lane remarked as he nodded at the compartment.
"He doesn't deserve to be here. He's not part of this family."
Naturally, Max was not in a suit, but rather wearing a biker jacket and jeans. With his beard, and the tattoos on his neck, he appeared to be exactly the rebel he in fact was, a man tied to no one and nowhere.
And for no apparent reason, Lane remembered something Edward had said when he'd been making that confessional to the police at the Red & Black: They're going to try to tell you I had an accomplice, but I didn't. I worked alone.
Lane narrowed his eyes on his brother.
"What?" Max demanded.
In the periphery, Gin glanced across sharply, and that was a perfect reminder that they were hardly alone--and especially with Amelia around, this was no place to bring up touchy subjects like, Hey, did you team up with Edward to murder our pops?
"Will you help me put that in place?" Lane said as he pointed to the marble slab that was in the corner.
"Trying to be sure he stays where he's supposed to?"
"Can you blame me?"
"Not in the slightest. I only came to make certain the bastard was ashed."
The two of them went over and bent at the knees around the three-by-three-foot section of marble. Lane had only asked Max to help with the stone as a way of covering up the awkward moment, but it turned out he needed the extra pair of hands. The white veneer was attached to steel backing that weighed a bloody ton, and both of them grunted as they got the thing up off the floor.
Shuffling back to where the urn was sitting rather unceremoniously in its hole--sort of like a soup can on a shelf, actually--they hefted the square up and fitted the thing into place.
Stepping away, Lane wondered if it just sat like that...? Or did it need to be bolted in?
"Is it going to fall out?" Max said.
"I don't know. I mean, it's heavy as hell. I didn't see a latch on the back or anything, did you?"
"I wasn't really looking." Max glanced around. "Are they all just sitting in there like that? 'Cuz one good earthquake and those urns are going to go flying--and this place is gonna need a Dustbuster and a half."
Lane laughed first. And then Gin joined in. When Amelia, Lizzie, and Samuel T. followed suit, it was pretty clear they all needed a release of tension as they stood around the sarcophagi.
"So this is it?" Gin murmured as everyone quieted down again.
"So surreal." Lane put his arm around Lizzie and drew her in close. "Like some kind of dream."
"Not a nightmare, though." Max shook his head. "Not for me, at least."
"Nor I," Gin agreed. "Are you going to get him a plaque?"
"I don't know." Lane shrugged. "I don't really want to."
"Let's leave it." Max crossed his arms over his chest. "He's already getting more than he deserves. I would have scattered his ashes in the cornfield before we laid the manure--"
As another figure came into the tomb's open doorway, Lane noticed the intrusion first--and instantly recognized who it was.
Chantal.
His curse brought everyone else to attention.
"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" she demanded.
In the back of his mind, Lane heard Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction: "I'm not going to be ignored, Dan."
Who in the good God had told her about this? he wondered.
As Chantal came inside, her perfume was an assault on the sinuses, a fake bouquet that made him want to sneeze. And her brightly colored blouse
and white jeans were utterly out of place.
"Well?" she said. "I have a right to be here, too, Lane."
When she put her hand on her belly, he rolled his eyes. "Let's not play this game, shall we. You're not any more of a mourner than we are."
"I'm not? Says who. I loved your father--"
Lane looked over at Samuel T. "Would you be so kind as to escort my sister and her daughter out of here?"
"Of course." The lawyer turned to Gin. "Let's go."
"As his attorney, wouldn't you prefer to stay?" Gin said dryly. "And you only have a two-seater. What are you going to do with the both of us?"
"I'll take Amelia on my bike." Max put his hand on his niece's shoulder. "I got another helmet. Come on. Let's give the grown-ups some privacy. You want ice cream on the way home?"
"I'm sixteen, not six." Amelia tilted up her chin exactly the way her mother did. "And I want Graeter's double chocolate chip. In a cone. With sprinkles."
"Whatever you like." As Max came up to Chantal, he dropped his voice--but not by much. "You either get out of my way or I'm going to push you back until you fall on your ass."
"Your father always said you were an animal."
"And you've been a gold-digging bitch since birth. So there's that."
Chantal was so flabbergasted at the insult, she tripped out of his path. Then again, anyone who had ever met Max knew better than to take him on, and Lane's soon-to-be ex-wife was no dummy.
"Come on, Gin," Samuel T. said as he took her elbow.
Lane stared at his sister and tried to will her to be reasonable and leave. The last thing they needed was her going wild card here.
For once in your life, he thought at her, just back the hell off. Please.
--
As Gin felt Samuel T.'s hold on her elbow tighten, she smiled across at her brother Lane's biggest mistake: Chantal Baldwine was second tier, all the way. The only thing that was first place on her?
Social ambition.
"Gin," Samuel T. prompted. "Shall we?"
For a moment, Gin enjoyed the tension that sprang up in the crypt, each one of them wondering what in the hell she was going to do next. Except she wasn't going to bicker with Chantal.
No, she was better than that.
"But of course, Samuel," she said sweetly.
She could practically feel the easing in his and Lane's bodies, and that was exactly what she was after.