The Bourbon Kings

Fifteen minutes of choosing, clipping, and arranging later and she had a passable bunch shoved into wet foam in a silver bowl.

Greta appeared in front of her and held out her hands, that big mine-cut diamond ring flashing. “Let me take it out.”

“No, I got this—”

“You aren’t going to want to deal with her today.”

“I never want to deal with her—”

“Lizzie.”

“I’m okay. Honest.”

Fortunately, her old friend bought the lie. The truth? Lizzie was so far away from “okay,” she couldn’t even see the place—but that didn’t mean she was going to wimp out.

“I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be counting the peonies.”

“Everything’s going to be fine.”

She hoped.

As Lizzie headed for the double doors that opened into the garden, her head really started to thump, and getting hit with a solid wall of hot-and-humid as she stepped outside didn’t help that at all. Motrin, she thought. After this, she was going to take four and get back to the real work.

The grass underfoot was brush-cut cropped, more golf-course carpet than anything Mother Nature dreamed up, and even though she had too much on her mind, she still made a mental To Do list of beds to tend to and replantings to be done in the five acre enclosed garden. The good news was that after a late start to spring, the fruit trees were blooming in the corners of the brick-walled expanse, their delicate white petals just beginning to fall like snow on the walkways beneath their canopies. Also, the mulch that had been laid down two weeks before had lost its stink, and the ivy along the old stone walls was sprouting new leaves everywhere. In another month, the four squares marked with Greco-Roman sculptures of robed women in regal poses were going to be all pastel pinks and peaches and bright whites, offering a contrast to the sedate green and gray river view.

But of course, it was all about the Derby right now.

The white clapboard pool house was in the far left corner, looking like a proper, doctor/lawyer/family-of-four Colonial as it sat back from an almost Olympic-sized aquamarine body of water. The loggia that connected the two was topped by a controlled wig of wisteria that would soon enough have white and lavender blooms hanging like lanterns from the green tangle.

And beneath the overhang, stretched out in a Brown Jordan recliner, Mrs. Chantal Baldwine was as beautiful as a priceless marble statue.

About as warm as one, too.

The woman had skin that glowed, thanks to a perfectly executed spray tan, blond hair that was streaked artfully and curled at the long ends, and a body that would have given Rosie Huntington-Whiteley an inferiority complex. Her nails were fake, but perfect, nothing Jersey about either their length or color, and her engagement ring and wedding band were right out of Town & Country, as white and blinding and big as her smile.

She was the perfect modern Southern belle, the kind of woman that people in the Charlemont zip code whispered about having come from “good stock, even if it’s from Virginia.”

Lizzie had long wondered if the Bradfords checked the teeth of the debutantes their sons went out with—like you did with thoroughbreds.

“—collapsed and then the ambulance came.” That heavily diamonded hand lifted to that hair and pushed the stuff back; then brought the iPhone she was talking into over to her other ear. “They took her out the front door. Can you believe it? They should have done that around the back—oh, aren’t those lovely!”

Chantal Baldwine put her hand in front of her mouth, all geisha-demure as Lizzie schlepped over to the marble-topped bar and set the blooms on the end that was out of the direct sun. “Did Newark do that? He is so thoughtful.”

Lizzie nodded and turned back around. The less time wasted here, the better—

“Oh, say, Lisa, would you—”

“It’s Lizzie.” She stopped. “May I help you with something else?”

“Would you be so kind as to get me some more of this?” The woman nodded to a glass pitcher that was half full. “The ice has melted and the flavor’s become watered down. I’m leaving for the club for lunch, but not for another hour. Thank you so much.”

Lizzie shifted her eyes over to lemonade—and really tried, honest-to-God tried, not to imagine dousing the woman in the stuff. “I’ll have Mr. Harris send someone—”

“Oh, but he’s so busy. And you can just run it in—you’re such a help.” The woman went back to her iPhone with its University of Charlemont cover. “Where was I? Oh, so they took her out the main front door. I mean, honestly, can you imagine …?”

Lizzie walked over, picked up the pitcher, and then strode back across the gleaming white terrace to the green grass. “My pleasure.”

My pleasure.

Yeah, right. But that was what you were supposed to say when the family asked you to do something. It was the only acceptable response—and certainly better than, “How ’bout you take your lemonade and shove it where the sun don’t shine, you miserable piece of veal—”

“Oh, Lisa? It’s a virgin, okay? Thank you.”

Lizzie just kept on going, tossing another “My pleasure” grenade over her shoulder.

Approaching the mansion, she had to pick her point of entry. As a member of the staff, she wasn’t allowed to enter through the Four Mains: front, side library, rear dining room, rear game room. And she was “discouraged” from using any other doors but the kitchen’s and utility room’s—although she got a pass if she was delivering the three-times weekly house bouquets around.