Mack?

He looked over his shoulder. His secretary, Georgie OMalley, who had run his fathers office before Pops had died, had come in behind him without making a sound. At the ripe age of sixty- four, she was forty- one years with the company and showing no signs of slowing down. A self- professed farmers wife who was without a husband or a farm, she was a kindred spirit in the war against the current climate of everything being disposable.

You okay, Mack?

{ 48 }.

Mack looked back up at the angels share wafting in and out of the shafts of light so high above.

The angels share was sacred: Each white oak barrel was charred on its inside before being filled with fifty- three gallons of bourbon. Stored in a place like this, in an environment that was purposely not climate controlled, the wood of the barrels expanded and contracted seasonally, the bourbon inside becoming colored and flavored by the caramelized sugars from that burned hardwood.

A not- insignificant portion of those gallons evaporated and was ab- sorbed into the barrels over time.

That was the angels share.

It was what his father had considered the sacrifice to the past, the serving that went to the forebearers to drink up in Heaven. It was also the pay- it- forward to your own passing . . . the hope that the next shepherd of the tradition would do the same for you when you were dead and gone.

Theres going to be nothing left of us, Georgie, he heard himself say.

Whatchyall talkin about?

He just shook his head. I want you to tell the boys to shut down the sills.

What.

You heard me. Mack lifted his fist over his shoulder so she could see what hed wadded up. Corporates putting a freeze on corn orders for the next three months. Minimum. Theyll let us know when we can make more mash. Any rye, barley, and wheat we got right now is to be repurposed.

Repurposed? What does that mean?

They cant sell it to a competitor. This gets out to people like the Suttons? Or the general press? Its going to make the ten cents they save look like the most expensive fuck- up in company history.

Weve never shut production down.

Nope. Not since Prohibition" and that was only for show, anyway.

There was a long pause. Mack . . . what are they doing?

Theyre going to ruin this company" thats what theyre doing.

{ 49 }.

He walked over to the woman. Theyre going to take us under on the guise of maximizing profit. Or hell, maybe theyre going to do an IPO finally" every other bourbon maker except Suttons is publicly owned now. Maybe theyre trying to artificially inflate profit right before a private sale. I dont know, and I dont care. But Im pretty damn sure Elijah Bradford is rolling in his grave.

As he headed for the exit, she called after him, Where are you going?

To get drunk. On a whole lot of beer.

{ 50 }.

SIX.

A s Lane stood outside of his bedroom and stared down at his wife, he thought, just like Easterly, she was the same, too.

Chantal Blair Stowe Baldwine was, in fact, exactly the same: the whole haircut, spray tan, makeup, and expensive pink clothing routine identical to what hed left behind. And her voice" still right out of central casting under the heading of Genteel Southern Lady of Leisure.

She still babbled, too, words leaving her mouth in a stream with no consideration of rationing for the listeners benefit. Then again, for her, conversation was performance art, her hands moving like the wings of doves, arching up and down, that big diamond shed wanted so badly flashing like a strobe light.

" Derby weekend! Of course, Samuel Theodore Lodge is coming tonight. Gins all excited about seeing him . . .

Unbelievable. They had literally not seen each other or said a word to one another for nearly two years, and she was talking about who was on the guest list for dinner.

What in the hell had he ever seen in her"

Oh, Lisa! Excuse me, could you please ask Newark if this Mr. Bald- { 51 }.

wine could have his car brought around? Were going to the club for lunch.

Lisa? he thought. Then again, there had been staff turnover since hed"

Lane glanced over his shoulder. Lizzie was standing by his fathers bedroom door, two vases of perfectly good, but no doubt freshly re- placed, bouquets in her grip.

Mr Harris is just over there, Lizzie said stiffly.

I dont like to shout. Its not appropriate. Chantal leaned in the direction of the other woman, like they were two girlfriends sharing a secret. Thank you so much, youre such a help"

Are you out of your mind? Lane demanded.

Chantal recoiled, her head rearing back, her eyes going from inge- nue to hired killer in the blink of her false, but tasteful, eyelashes.

I beg your pardon, Chantal whispered to him.

Lane tried to catch Lizzies stare while he muttered, Go tell him yourself.

Lizzie refused to acknowledge him. With a professionally impassive expression, she walked forward, her lithe strides taking her past him and down the long hall to the staff staircase. Meanwhile, Chantal was talking again.

" address me in front of the help like that, she hissed.

Her names Lizzie, not Lisa. Now he was the one leaning in. And you know that, dont you.

Her name is irrelevant.

Shes been here longer than you. He smiled coldly. And Im will- ing to bet shell be here way after youre gone.

What is that supposed to mean?

You dont have to be under this roof and you know it.

Im your wife.

Lane stared down at her" and wondered why in the hell she was still anywhere near his life. The easy answer was that hed been pre- tending that Charlemont didnt exist. The harder reasoning was tied to what she had done.

{ 52 }.

Im your wife.

Not for long, he said in a low voice.

Those penciled brows of hers lifted, and instantly, that Persian- cat- dragged- through- a- toilet- bowl expression disappeared: She became as calm and smooth as a mirror. Lets not fight, darling. Our reservation at the club is in twenty minutes"

Let me make myself perfectly clear. Im not going anywhere with you. Except to a lawyers office.

In his peripheral vision, he noted that Mr. Newark or Mr. Harris"

whatever the butlers name was" was pulling a discreet turnaround, whisking Mrs. Mollie, the housekeeper, off in the opposite direction.

Be serious, Tulane.

God, he hated the sound of his full name on Chantals lips: Toooooooouu- layne. For godsakes, it had two syllables, not three hundred.

I am, he said. Its time to end this between us.

Chantal took a slow, deep breath. I know youre upset about poor old Miss Aurora and youre saying things you dont mean. I get it. Shes a very good cook" and they are very, very hard to find.

His molars ground together. You think shes just a cook.

Are you saying shes your accountant?

God, why had he ever . . . That woman means more to me than the one who bore me.

Dont be ridiculous. Besides, shes black"

Lane grabbed Chantals arm and yanked her up close. Dont you ever talk about her with that kind of attitude. Ive never hit a woman before, but I guarantee I will beat the shit out of you if you disrespect her.

Lane, youre hurting me!

At that moment, he realized that a maid was frozen in the doorway of one of the guest rooms, her arms full of stacked, folded towels. As she ducked her head and hustled off, he shoved Chantal away. Jacked up his slacks. Glared at the hallways runner.

Its over, Chantal. In case you havent noticed.

She clasped her hands together as if in prayer" and he didnt buy it { 53 }.

for a second. The fake torture in her voice didnt sway him, either, as she whispered: I think we should work on our relationship.

I agree. This marriage of ours needs to be put out of its misery.

That is the work.

You dont mean it.

The hell I dont. Get yourself a good lawyer or dont" either way, youre out of here.

Cue the tears. Big fat ones that made her blue eyes shimmer like pool water. You can be so cruel.

Not like she could be, he thought, not even close. And for godsake, he really should have followed through with that prenup, but too bad, so sad, whatever. The good news was that there was always going to be more money" even if she sued him for millions, he could make that up in a year or two.

Im going to go speak with Mother, he said. And then call Samuel T. Maybe he can serve you papers over dinner tonight.

Annnnnnd just like that, the iron core came out again, those eyes growing cold. I will ruin you and your family if you go through with this.

What she didnt know was that shed already ruined his life. Shed cost him Lizzie . . . and so much more. But the losses were going to stop there, goddamn it.

Be careful, Chantal. He didnt break the eye contact. I will do anything, in- and outside of the law, to protect whats mine.

Is that a threat?

Just a reminder that Im a Bradford, my darling. We take care of things.

Striding away from the woman, Lane knocked on his mothers door.

Even though there was no answer, he stepped into the fragrant inner reaches of the suite and shut things behind him.

Closing his eyes, he needed a second to dose the fury before he faced off this dubious reunion. Just a second to pull it together. Just . . .

When he reopened his lids, he found yet another stage set that was utterly unchanged.

{ 54 }.

His mothers white and cream room was just as it had always been, huge windows overlooking the gardens adorned with ballgown drapes of blush-colored silk, Maxfield Parrish paintings glowing like jewels worn by the walls, fine French antiques too precious to sit on or use properly in the corners. But none of that was the focal point, as impres- sive as it all was.

The canopied bed across the way was the true showpiece. As re- splendent and awesome as Berninis Baldacchino di San Pietro, the massive steamboat- sized platform had carved columns that rose heavenward and a top that was festooned with waterfalls of that pale pink silk. And there she was, Virginia Elizabeth Bradford Baldwine, laying as still and well preserved as a saint, her long, thin body buried under the profusion of satin comforters and down pillows, her pale blond hair perfectly coiffed, her face made up even though she wasnt going anywhere and wasnt even conscious.

Beside her, on a marble- topped bombe chest, a dozen orange medi- cine vials with white tops and white labels were arranged in neat rows, like a platoon of soldiers. He had no clue what was in them and, likely, neither did she.

She was the Southern Sunny von Bulow" except his father had never tried to kill her. At least not physically.

The bastard had done other kinds of damage, though.

Mother, dear, he said, striding over to her. When he got in range, he took her cool, dry hand with its paper- thin skin and blue veins into his palm. Mother?

Shes resting, came a voice.

A woman of about fifty, with red hair and a white and gray nurses uniform, came in from the walk- in closet. She was a perfect fit for the decor, and he wouldnt have put it past his mother to have hired her on that basis alone.