Maybe it had to do with Rosalinda?

“Here,” she said, going over to him. “Do come in. Are you looking for my brother?”

“No, is Chantal Baldwine at home?”

“Most likely.” She opened the grand door, and the deputy took his hat off again as he entered. “Let me find—oh, Mr. Harris. Will you please take this gentleman to my sister-in-law?”

“My pleasure,” the butler said with a bow. “This way, sir. I believe she’s in the conservatory.”

“Ma’am,” the deputy murmured to her, before striding away after the Englishman.

“Well, this should be interesting,” came a dry voice from the parlor.

She pivoted around. “Lane?”

Her brother was standing in front of the painting of Elijah Bradford, and he lifted his squat glass. “Cheers to my divorce.”

“Really.” Gin walked in and got busy at the bar because she didn’t want Lane to focus on her red-rimmed eyes and swollen face. “Well, at least I won’t have to take Mother’s jewelry off her neck anymore. Good riddance, and I’m surprised you don’t want to enjoy the show.”

“I’ve got bigger problems.”

Gin took her bourbon and soda over to the sofa and kicked her stilettos off. Tucking her legs under her seat, she stared up at her brother.

“You look terrible,” she said. As bad as she felt, actually.

He sat down across from her. “This is going to be rough, Gin. The money thing. I think this is really serious.”

“Maybe we can sell stock. I mean, you can do that, right? I have no idea how all this works.”

And for the first time in her life, she wished she did.

“It’s complicated because of the trust situation.”

“Well … we’ll be all right.” When her brother didn’t say anything, she frowned. “Right? Lane?”

“I don’t know, Gin. I really don’t know.”

“We’ve always had money.”

“Yes, that has been true.”

“You make it sound past tense.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Gin.”

Leaning her head back, she stared up at the high ceiling, imagining her mother laying in that bed of hers. Was that going to be her own future, too? she wondered. Was she some day going to retire and pull the curtains so that she could live in a drug haze?

Certainly sounded appealing at the moment.

God, had Samuel T. really turned her down?

“Gin, have you been crying?”

“No,” she said smoothly. “Just allergies, dear brother. Just spring allergies …”

TWENTY-FOUR

Lizzie hustled out of the conservatory with Chantal’s fragrant wrap, all the perfume on the floaty fabric thick in her nose, making her want to sneeze. Funny, she could be surrounded by a thousand real blooms, but this fancy, falsely curated stuff was enough to send her over the Claritin edge.

Off in the distance, she heard Chantal’s unmistakable Virginian drawl and headed in the direction of the dining room to—

“What is this?” Chantal demanded.

Lizzie stopped short and leaned around the heavy molding of the archway.

At the head of the long, glossy table, Chantal was standing next to a uniformed sheriff’s deputy who’d apparently just given her a thick envelope.

“You have been served, ma’am.” The deputy nodded. “Have a good day—”

“What do you mean ‘served.’ What does that—no, you’re not leaving until I open this.” She ripped the envelope apart. “You can stay right there while I …”

The papers came out in a bundle that had been folded three times, and as the woman unfurled them, Lizzie’s heart pounded.

“Divorce?” Chantal said. “Divorce?”

Lizzie rolled out of sight and went flush against the wall. Closing her eyes, she hated how relieved she felt, she really did. But it wasn’t like she could pretend that not being a fool for a second time wasn’t a good thing.

“This is a divorce petition!” Chantal’s voice grew sharp. “Why are you doing this!”

“Ma’am, my job is to serve the papers. Now that you’ve accepted them—”

“I do not accept them!” There was a fluttering sound as if she might have actually thrown them at the man. “You take them back—”

“Ma’am,” the deputy barked. “I’m going to advise you to pick those papers off the floor—or don’t. But any more of that and I’ll drag you down to the courthouse strapped to the hood of my patrol vehicle just for getting aggressive with an officer of the peace. Are we clear. Ma’am.”

Cue the waterworks.

Between sniffles and what had to be a heaving bosom, Chantal backpedaled at a dead run. “My husband loves me. He doesn’t mean this. He’s—”

“Ma’am, that is none of my business and none of my concern. Good day.”

Heavy footsteps sounded out and drifted away.

“Goddamn it, Lane,” the woman hissed with perfect diction.

Guess the acting happened only when there was an audience.

Without warning, the clip-clip-clip of those kitten heels across the floor headed in Lizzie’s direction. Crap, there was no time to get out of the—

Chantal rounded the corner and jumped back when she saw Lizzie.

Even though the woman had turned on the waterworks for that deputy, her eyes were clear and free of tears, her makeup not marred in the slightest.