At the end of the day, she didn’t actually believe that Lane could have hurt Chantal like that—it just didn’t seem possible. But that wasn’t the point.
It didn’t even matter whether or not the woman was pregnant—or whose it was if she were having a baby.
The simple truth was that after nearly a decade with the family, Lizzie had come to realize that they were different from her in a fundamental way—and not because the Bradfords had more money than she would see in several lifetimes. The thing was, where she came from, people got married and had children; they contributed to their 401ks; and they went on one family vacation a year, to a place like Disney or Sandals. They paid their taxes on time, and celebrated marriages and births with potlucks, and they didn’t cheat on their wives or their husbands.
They lived dignified, modest lives unmarked by the kind of crazy drama that went on with the Bradfords.
And the thing was, as much as she was attracted to Lane—hell, maybe she was drawn to the very insanity that also repelled her—she simply didn’t have the energy or the wherewithal to keep going with him in any capacity. She fell too hard, too fast for him—and just as before, what he brought to her life was nothing but a pit in her stomach, more sleepless nights … and a feeling of profound depression.
Some risk pools you couldn’t volunteer for. Whether it was certain cancers, or bad accidents, or other kinds of tragedies, you couldn’t always reduce your chances of getting hurt—because you were alive and that was the reality for all the living things on the planet.
Other problems, issues and dangers, however, you were free to step out of, step away from—and when you were a responsible adult, who wanted to lead a halfway healthy existence, it was incumbant upon you to take care of yourself, protect yourself … nurture yourself.
Clearly, she couldn’t be trusted to keep her head on straight around Lane Baldwine, so she was going to solve the problem of her lack of self-control … with a lack of proximity.
Time to leave.
Like an addict who was going cold turkey, she was just taking off—and no, she didn’t want to talk to him about any of it. That just seemed like a junkie wanting to enter into a deep-and-meaningful with a syringe of heroin. Undoubtedly, Lane was going to have his side of things, but no matter what that was, it couldn’t change the fact that her heart was broken all over again and her decision to quit her job was not subject to negotiation.
And now … she was going to do her best to get on with her day.
Heading down to the greenhouses, she went into the first one she got to and was more than ready to work on the seedlings—which were now not seedlings at all. But before she went over to the supply station to gather her pruning shears, she stopped and took out her phone.
What she did next took no more than a moment.
And was probably a stupid thing to do.
But she transferred seventeen thousand, four hundred, eighty-six dollars, and seventy-nine cents from her savings … to her mortgage account.
Paying off her farm.
Yeah, it was likely not the smartest move, considering she would be selling the thing. Pride, however, made the transaction necessary. Pride, and a sense that she needed to feel that she had achieved the goal she had started with when she’d bought the place.
She had always wanted something that was her own in the world, a home that she established and paid for and maintained without help from anyone else.
The fact that she now didn’t owe a red cent on the land was a counterbalance to everything else she was feeling.
Proof positive that she hadn’t completely failed to look after herself.
Lane returned to Easterly as soon as he was released.
Well, minus the trip back out to Samuel T.’s to pick up his Porsche.
He entered his family’s property via the back way, driving past the fields and the greenhouses for two reasons. One, because there was press at the main gates; and two, because he wanted to see whether Lizzie was on site.
She was. Her maroon farm truck was parked in the lot along with the other vehicles of the staff.
“Damn it,” he exhaled.
Continuing up to the garages, he parked his car under the magnolia tree and went directly to the rear entrance of the business center. After he entered the code Edward had had him use, he yanked open the door and stalked his way to the reception area, passing those offices, that conference room, that dining room.
Men and women in suits looked up in alarm, but he ignored them.
He didn’t stop until he was inside the glass office of his father’s assistant. “I’m going in to see him now.”
“Mr. Baldwine, you can’t—”
“The hell I can’t.”
“Mr. Baldwine, he’s—”
Lane threw the door open and—
Pulled up short. His father was not behind that desk.
“Mr. Baldwine, we don’t know where he is.”
Lane glanced over his shoulder. “What?”
“Your father … he was supposed to be traveling this morning, but he never showed up at the airport. The pilot waited for an hour.”
“You called the house, of course.”
“And his cell phone.” The woman put her hand over her mouth. “He’s never done this before. No one has seen him in the mansion.”
“Shit.”
Dear Lord, now what?
As Lane bolted out of there, the assistant’s voice called after him, “Please tell him to call me?”