The Bourbon Kings
Page 27

The scent of cigarette smoke made him stiffen.
There was only one person allowed to smoke in the house.
On that note, Lane went in the opposite direction.
His father had always been a smoker in the Southern tradition, which was to say that even though the man had asthma, he viewed it as a patriotic right to give yourself lung cancer—not that he was sick, or would get sick. He believed that a real man never let a lady pull in her own chair at a table, never mistreated his hunting dogs, and never, ever got sick.
Good code of conduct. The problem was, that was it. Nothing about your kids. The people who worked for you. Your role as a husband. And the Ten Commandments? Just an old list used to govern the lives of other people so that you weren’t inconvenienced by them shooting one another up.
It was funny. Courtesy of his father, Lane had never smoked—and not as some kind of rebellion. Growing up, he and his brothers and sister had known whenever the man was coming by the smell of tobacco, and it had never been good news. Consequently, he pulled a tensed-up Pavlov whenever anybody lit up.
Probably the only thing his father had contributed to his life in a positive way. And even so, it was a backhanded benefit.
The ice in his glass sounded like chimes as he walked through the house, and he didn’t know where he was going … until he came up to the double doors that opened into the conservatory. Even though they were shut, he caught the scent of the flowers, and he stood for a time staring through the panes of glass into the verdant, now-colorful enclave on the other side.
Lizzie was no doubt in there, arranging the bouquets as she did every year the Thursday before Derby.
Moth to a flame and all that, he thought as he watched his hand reach out and turn the brass handle.
The sound of Greta von Schlieber speaking in that German-tinted voice almost made him turn back around. Courtesy of everything that had gone down, the woman hated him—and she was not one to hide her opinions. She was also likely to have a set of garden shears in her hands.
But the pull to Lizzie was stronger than any urge for self-preservation.
And there she was.
Even though it was past eight at night, she was sitting on a rolling stool in front of a table set with twenty-five silver bowls the size of basketballs. Half of them were filled with pale pink and white and cream flowers, and the others were ready to get their due, wet floral sponges waiting to anchor countless blooms.
She glanced over her shoulder, took one look at him … and kept on speaking without missing a beat. “—tables and chairs under the tent. Also, can you get some more preservative spray?”
Greta was not so phlegmatic. Even though she was obviously on her way out, with a big, bright green Prada bag up on her shoulder, a smaller orange one in her hand, and her car keys dangling from her grip, that glare, coupled with her abrupt silence, suggested she wasn’t heading off anywhere until he went back to his family’s party.
“It’s all right,” Lizzie said quietly. “You can go.”
Greta muttered something in German. Then went out the door into the garden, speaking under her breath.
“What was she saying?” he asked when they were alone.
“I don’t know. Probably something about a piano falling on your head.”
He took a draw off the rim of his glass, sucking the cold bourbon in through his teeth. “That it? I would have expected something more bloody.”
“I think a Steinway dropped from even a short height could do some damage.”
There were half a dozen five-gallon plastic buckets around her, each stuffed with a different kind of flower, and she chose from them as if she were playing notes on a musical instrument: this one, then that one, back to the first, then the third, fourth, fifth. The result, in a short order of time, was a glorious head of petals sprouting above the highly polished silver container.
“Can I help?” he said.
“Yes, by leaving.”
“You’re almost out of those.” He looked around. “Here, I’ll bring you another bucketful—”
“Will you just go back to your dinner,” she snapped. “You’re not helping—”
“And you’re nearly done with these, too.”
He put his glass down on a table full of empty bowls and started hauling the heavy loads over.
“Thank you,” she muttered as he removed the empties, taking them over to the ceramic sink. “You can head off now—”
“I’m getting a divorce.”
Her face showed no reaction, but her hands, those sure, strong hands, nearly dropped the rose she was drawing out of the bucket he’d brought her.
“Not on my account I hope,” she said.
He tipped over one of the empties and sat down on its bottom, holding his bourbon between his knees. “Lizzie—”
“What do you want me to say—congratulations?” She glanced at him. “Or are you in the mood for more of a two-hankie, throw-myself-at-you-in-tearful-relief reaction? Because I’ll tell you right now, that’s the last thing you’re going to get from me—”
“I never loved Chantal.”
“As if that matters?” Lizzie rolled her eyes. “The woman was having your child. So maybe you didn’t love her, but you were clearly doing something with her.”
“Lizzie—”
“You know, that exasperated, be-reasonable tone of yours is really flipping annoying. It’s like you think I’m doing something wrong by not giving you a platform to talk about alllllll the ways you were a victim. Here’s what I know to be true: You came after me long and hard, and I gave in because I felt sorry about what was going on with your brother. At the same time, you were lining up the perfect, socially acceptable beard to hide the fact that you were banging the help. Your problem came when I refused to be your shameful little secret.”