As their father entered, William Baldwine’s tall body blocked the view of Edward.

“What are you doing?”

Same words, same tone, deeper bass.

Edward turned around calmly. With the liquor bottle in his hand and Lane’s nearly full glass front and center on the cart.

“Answer me,” their father said. “What are you doing?”

He and Max were dead, Lane thought. As soon as Edward told the man what had been going on down here, William was going to go on a rampage.

Next to Lane, Maxwell’s body trembled. “I shouldn’t have done this,” he whispered—

“Where’s your belt,” Edward countered.

“Answer me.”

“I did. Where is your belt.”

No! Lane thought. No, it was us!

Their father strode forward, his monogrammed silk robe gleaming in the light, the color of fresh blood. “Goddamn it, boy, you’re going to tell me what you’re doing here with my liquor.”

“It’s called Bradford Bourbon, Father. You married into the family, remember?”

As their father lifted his arm across his chest, the heavy gold signet ring he wore on his left hand glinted like it was anticpating the strike—and looked forward to making contact with skin. Then, with an elegant, powerful slice, Edward was struck with a backhanded slap that was so violent, the cracking sound ricocheted all the way out into the ballroom.

“Now, I’ll ask you again—what are you doing with my liquor,” William demanded as Edward stumbled to the side, clutching his face.

After a moment of heavy breathing, Edward straightened. His pajamas were alive from his body’s shaking, but he remained on his feet.

Clearing his throat, he said thickly, “I was celebrating the New Year.”

A trail of blood seeped down the side of his face, staining his pale skin.

“Then do not let me ruin your enjoyment.” Their father pointed to Lane’s full glass. “Drink it.”

Lane closed his eyes and wanted to vomit.

“Drink it.”

The sounds of choking and gagging went on for a lifetime as Edward consumed nearly a quarter of a bottle of bourbon.

“Don’t you throw that up, boy,” their father barked. “Don’t you dare …”

As the jet bumped down on the tarmac, Lane jolted out of the past. He was not surprised to find that the glass he was holding was shaking, and not because of the landing.

Putting the No. 15 on the tray table, he wiped his brow.

That hadn’t been the only time Edward had suffered for them.

And it wasn’t even the worst. No, the worst one had come later as an adult, and had finally done what all the lousy parenting had failed to do.

Edward was ruined now, and not just physically.

God, there were so many reasons Lane didn’t want to go back to Easterly. And not all of them were because of the woman he loved but had lost.

He had to say, however … that Lizzie King remained at the top of that very long list.

THREE

The Bradford Family Estate, Charlemont

The Amdega Machin Conservatory was an extension of Easterly’s southern flank, and as such, no cost had been spared when it had been added back in 1956. The construction was a Gothic-style masterpiece, its delicate skeleton of white-painted bones supporting hundreds of panes and panels of glass, creating an interior that was bigger and more finished than the farmhouse Lizzie lived in. With a slate floor and a sitting area with sofas and armchairs done in Colefax and Fowler, there were hip-height beds of specimen flowers down the long sides and potted greenery in each of the corners—but that was all just for show. The true horticultural work, the germination and the rehabilitation, the nurturing and pruning, was done far from the family’s eyes in the greenhouses.

“Wo sind die Rosen? Wir brauchen mehr Rosen …”

“I don’t know.” Lizzie popped the top off another cardboard box that was long as a basketball player’s leg. Inside, two dozen white hydrangea stalks were wrapped individually in plastic, their heads protected with collars of delicate cardboard. “This is the whole delivery, so they’ve got to be in here.”

“Ich bestellte zehn weitere Dutzend. Wo sind sie—?”

“Okay, you need to switch to English.”

“This can’t be everything.” Greta von Schlieber held up a bundle of tiny, pale pink blooms that was wrapped up in a page of Colombian newspaper. “We’re not going to make it.”

“You say that every year.”

“This time I’m right.” Greta pushed her heavy tortoiseshell glasses up higher on her nose and eyed the stack of twenty-five more boxes. “I’m telling you, we’re in trouble.”

Annnnnd this was the essence of her and her work partner’s relationship.

Starting with the whole pessimism/optimism routine, Greta was pretty much everything Lizzie wasn’t. For one, the woman was European, not American, her German accent cutting into her pronunciation in spite of the fact that she’d been in the States for thirty years. She was also married to a great man, the mother of three fantastic children in their twenties, and had enough money that not only did she not have to work, but those two boys and a girl of hers didn’t have to, either.

No Yaris for her. Her ride was a black Mercedes station wagon. And the diamond ring she wore with her wedding band was big enough to rival a Bradford’s.

Oh, and unlike Lizzie, her blond hair was cut short as a man’s—which was something to envy when you were stuck pulling your own back and tying it with whatever you could get your hands on: trashbag twist ties, floral wire, the rubber bands off bunches of broccoli.