Lizzie forcibly pulled herself back from the brink.
If that good-bye was anything to go by, whether she was in or out of his life didn’t seem to matter to him in the slightest.
Good to know, she thought bitterly. Good to know.
Here was the thing, Lane thought as he got behind the wheel of his 911. There were times in life when, as much as you wanted to fight for something, you just had to let it go.
You didn’t have to like the failure.
You didn’t have to feel really fucking great about the way things turned out.
And you certainly didn’t walk away from the shit scot-free, without being seriously damaged by the loss, crippled even.
But you needed to let that stuff go, because expending the energy wasn’t going to get you anywhere, and you might as well get on with getting used to the loss.
It was the one lesson his relationship with his father had taught him. Would he have loved having a male figure he could look up to, make proud, feel respected by? Hell, yeah. Would it have been awesome to not grow up in a house where the sound of loafers on marble flooring or the whiff of cigarette smoke didn’t make him run for cover? Duh. Could he have used some fatherly advice, especially at a time like this?
Yeah. He really could have.
That wasn’t the way things had worked out for him, however—and he had had to get used to it or go insane negotiating with a failure he was never going to be able to change or improve.
By the same token, if Lizzie King truly believed there was even a possibility, however slight, that he could have taken his hand to a woman like that? That he could have lied to her face about Chantal? That whatever baby the woman was carrying was actually his? Then there was no hope for the two of them. No matter what he said to her or how he tried to explain things … she didn’t really know him, and more to the point, she didn’t really trust him.
The fact that it was all bullshit? The fact that Chantal had cheated him, once again, of the woman he loved?
Tough breaks.
Whaaa-whaaaa-whaaaa.
Go ask Santa for a new father. Get the tooth fairy to bring you a new ex-wife.
Whatever.
Leaving Easterly in the dust, he hopped on the highway and doubled the speed limit on his way to the Charlemont International Airport—not because he was in a hurry or going to be late, but because, what the hell. The car could handle it—and at the moment, he actually was sober at the controls.
The entrance for private arrivals and departures was the first exit off the concourse that circled the enormous facility, and he shot onto a narrow lane that led to a separate terminal. Parking right in front of the double doors, he got out, leaving the engine on.
Jeff Stern was just walking into the luxurious space, and even though it had been mere days, it seemed like a century since Lane had played that poker game and become annoyed by that bimbo—and gotten to his feet to go answer his phone.
Unsurprisingly, his old roommate was dressed like the Wall Street man he was, with his structural glasses, and his dark suit, and his crisp white shirt. He even had a red power tie on.
“You could have worn shorts,” Lane said as they clapped hands.
“I’m coming from the office, asshole.”
That accent, at once foreign and familiar, was exactly what he needed to hear right now.
“God, you look like hell,” Jeff said as his luggage arrived on a cart. “Family life clearly doesn’t agree with you.”
“Not mine at any rate. Tell me, is your plane still here?”
“Not for long. It’s refueling. Why?” When Lane just looked out at the runways, his friend cursed. “No. No, no, no, you did not drag me down here south of the Mason-Dixon just to cry wolf and want to go back to Manhattan. Seriously, Lane.”
For a moment, Lane stood with one foot on each side of the divide: Stay, just to screw his father to the wall on multiple levels; leave, because he was sick and tired of the bullshit.
Guess he and Lizzie had something in common after all.
They both wanted away from him.
“Lane?”
“Let’s go,” he said, tipping the redcap and picking up his old roommate’s two leather suitcases. “When was the last time you were at Easterly?”
“Derby, a million years ago.”
“Nothing has changed.”
Outside, he popped the hood of the Porsche and put the luggage in; then he and Jeff were off, speeding around the airport, shooting out onto the highway.
“So, am I going to meet this woman of yours, Baldwine?”
“Probably not. She’s quitting.”
“Well, that de-escalated quickly. I’m very sorry.”
“Don’t pretend you haven’t seen the news.”
“Yeah, it’s everywhere. I think you are personally responsible for resurrecting the printed newspaper. Congratulations.”
Lane cursed and sped around a semi. “Not an award I was looking for, I assure you.”
“Wait, quitting? You mean she works for your family? Is this a Sabrina thing, old man?”
“Lizzie’s the head horticulturist at the estate. Or was.”
“Not just the gardener, huh. Makes sense. You hate stupid women.”
Lane glanced over. “No offense, but can we talk about something else? Like maybe how my family is losing all its money? I need to be cheered up.”
Jeff shook his head. “You, my friend, lead one hell of a life.”
“You want to trade? Because right now, I’m looking for a way out of all of it.”