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.”
FORTY-SIX
That night, Lizzie arrived home to no tree in her front yard. Getting out of her farm truck, she looked around. The Yaris was still where it had been crunched, the mangled little car with its busted-out windows and its soaked and leaf-riddled interior looking like something out of a video game. But the limb was gone, nothing but fresh, sweet-smelling sawdust sprinkling the ground in its place.
Don’t you dare, Lane, she thought.
Don’t you fricking dare try to take care of me now.
She glanced up high and saw that the ragged wound from where the tree had split had been cut with care and sealed up so that it would heal and the magnificent maple would survive the damage.
“Damn you.”
At least he’d left the car where it was. If he’d taken that, too, she would have had to contact him to find out where to reclaim the body, so to speak.
She should have known better than to assume it was over between them.
Marching up to her front porch, she talked at him the entire way—
Lizzie stopped with her foot on the first step. On her screen door, a note had been taped to the wooden frame.
Great. Now what. Some kind of, Now that cooler heads prevail, blah, blah, blah.
He was a sick man.
And she was doing the right thing leaving. As much as it was going to kill her to go, she had to get away from him, from Easterly, from this bizarre stretch of her life that could be described only as a bad dream.
Forcing herself into gear, she went up and tore the paper off the door. She wanted to throw the thing out, but some sick, pick-at-the-wound impulse made that impossible. Opening the note up, she—
Howdy, neigbor. Cows out n all over yur yard. Ruined beds out back. No good with flowers so took care of yur tree. The wife made you a pie. Left on yur counter.
—Buella ’n Ross