“No, ma’am.”
“Now eat.”
That command pretty much shut him up for twenty minutes.
Lane was halfway done with his second plate when he had to ask. “You see him lately?”
No reason to specify who the “he” was: Edward was the “he” everyone spoke of in hushed tones.
Miss Aurora’s face tightened. “No.”
There was another long period of silence.
“Y’all gonna go see him while you’re here?” she asked.
“No.”
“Somebody’s gotta.”
“Won’t make any difference. Besides, I should get back to New York. I really came here only to check if you were okay—”
“You’re gonna go see him. Before you go back north.”
Lane shut his eyes. After a moment, he said, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good boy.”
After a serving of thirds, Lane cleared their plates, and had to ignore the fact that Miss Aurora appeared not to have eaten anything at all. The conversation then turned to her nieces and nephews, her sisters and brothers, of which there were eleven, and the fact that her father, Tom, had finally died at the age of eighty-six.
She was called Aurora Toms because she was one of Tom’s kids. Word had it in addition to the twelve he’d had with his wife, there were countless others outside the marriage. Lane had met the man at Miss Aurora’s church from time to time, and he’d been a larger-than-life character, as Deep South as Mississippi, as charismatic as a preacher, as handsome as sin.
Not that he was being arrogant, but Lane knew he had always been her favorite, and he figured that father of hers was the reason she indulged him so much: Like her dad, he’d also been called too handsome for his own good all his life, and he’d sure done his share of womanizing. Back in his twenties? Lane had been right there with good ol’ Mr. Toms.
Lizzie had cured him of all that. Kind of in the way an embankment would stop a speeding car.
“You go up and greet your momma before you leave, too,” Miss Aurora announced after he’d washed and put away their dishes and silverware.
He left the frying pan and the pots on her stove. He knew better than to touch them.
Pivoting around, he folded the dish towel and leaned back against the stainless-steel sink.
She put her palm out from her Barcalounger. “Y’all need to save it—”
“Miss Aurora—”
“Do not tell me you flew over a thousand miles just to look me over like I’m some kind of invalid. That don’t make no sense.”
“Your food is worth the trip.”
“That is true. Now go see your momma.”
I already have, he thought as he stared across at her. “Miss Aurora, are you going to get help for the Derby?”
“What do you think all those fools out in my big kitchen are for?”
“It’s a lot to manage, and don’t tell me you aren’t ordering them around.”
That infamous glare shot his way, but that was all he got and it scared him. Normally, she’d be up from her chair and muscling him out her door. Instead, she stayed sitting. “I’ma be fine, boy.”
“You better be. Without you, I got no one to keep me straight.”
She said something under her breath and stared off over his shoulder—while he just waited in the quiet.
Eventually, she waved for him to come over, and he did right away, striding across the linoleum and getting down on his knees by her chair. One of her hands, her beautiful, strong, dark hands, reached out and ran through his hair.
“You need to get this cut.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She touched his face. “You’re too handsome for your own good.”
“Like I said, you gotta stick around and keep me right.”
Miss Aurora nodded. “Count on it.” There was a long pause. “Thank you for my new car.”
He pressed a kiss to her palm. “You’re welcome.”
“And I need you to remember something.” Her eyes, those ebony eyes he’d stared into as a child, a teenager, a young man … a grown man, roamed around his face, like she was taking note of the changes that gathering age was bringing to the features she had watched for over thirty years. “I got you and I got God. I’m wealthier beyond means—we clear, boy? I don’t need no Mercedes. I don’t need a fancy house or fancy clothes. There is no hole in me that needs filling—you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He closed his eyes, thinking she was the single most noble woman he’d ever met.
Well, she and Lizzie, that was.
“I hear you, ma’am,” he said hoarsely.
About an hour after the lemonade-Lane run-in, Lizzie left the conservatory with two large arrangements. Mrs. Bradford had always insisted that fresh flowers be in the main public rooms and all of the occupied bedrooms—and that standard had been preserved even as she had retreated to her suite about three years ago and essentially stayed there. Lizzie liked to think if she continued the practice, maybe Little V.E., as the family called her, would once again come down and be the lady of the house.
Easterly had a good fifty rooms, but many of them were staff offices, staff quarters and bathrooms, or places like the kitchen, wine cellar, media rooms, or empty guest rooms that didn’t require flowering. The first-floor bouquets were in good shape—she’d already done a run-through and pulled out the occasional withering rose here or there the night before. These new ones were for the second-story foyer and Big Mr. Baldwine’s room. Mrs. Bradford’s vase wasn’t due to be refreshed before tomorrow, as were Chantal’s and …