the kitchen. Who’s going to pay for it?”
Gin opened her mouth. And then remembered that Rosalinda was dead. So there was no sense throwing the controller’s name out there.
“We are going to pay for it.” She lifted her chin up. “That’s how it will be covered.”
“I think you better talk with Lane.” Lizzie held up her dirty palms. “And that’s all I’m going to say. If he thinks he can afford all that right now, I’ll be happy to do whatever it takes to make it happen.”
Gin fanned out her hand and inspected her manicure. No chips. Perfectly filed. Red as blood and shiny as a new dime.
“You may be sleeping with my brother, darling, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? You are still staff, and as such, this is none of your business, is it?”
Yes, there were … issues … but surely one small gathering wasn’t going to break the bank? And it was a necessary expenditure. She was a Bradford, for godsakes.
Lizzie looked away, her brows lowering. When her eyes shifted back, she spoke in a soft voice. “Just so you and I are clear, yes, I may be staff, but I don’t need the wake-up call that’s coming your way. I am well aware of the situation this household is in, and if it makes you feel better to play Downton Abbey with me, that’s fine. But it’s not going to change the reality that your ‘modest’ wedding reception is more than you can afford right now. And I’m not ordering so much as a dandelion head without your brother’s permission.”
Gin felt the branches of her extensive family tree straighten her spine. “Well, I have never—”
“Hello, Mother.”
The sound of that insouciant voice was like the claw of a hammer hitting the back of her neck, and Gin didn’t immediately turn around. She focused on the glass panel in front of her, seeing who had come up from behind. The face that was reflected had changed since she’d seen it last in September. The coloring was the same, and the long, thick brunette hair remained just like Gin’s own—and yes, the expression was exactly as one remembered. But those cheekbones seemed higher, either because of the maturation process or because Amelia had lost some weight.
Never a bad thing.
Gin pivoted around. Her daughter was wearing skinny jeans that made her legs look like soda straws, a black Chanel blouse with a white collar and cuffs, and a set of Tory Burch flats.
Say what you would about her attitude, she looked straight off the streets of Paris.
“Amelia. What are you doing home?”
“It’s good to see you, too.”
Glancing over her shoulder, Gin went to tell Lizzie to leave, but the woman had already disappeared out one of the back glass doors into the garden, the exit shutting with a quiet click.
For a moment, images of Amelia growing up bombarded Gin’s mind, replacing the here and now with the then and gone. The past held no improvement on the current estrangement, however, the distance that bred such present hostility forged in the years of Gin behaving like a sister rather than a mother.
A resentful sister.
Even though it was far more complicated than that for her.
Things had certainly been calmer of late, however. Then again, Amelia had been sent off to Hotchkiss not just as a way to further her education, but to quiet the storm that brewed every time she and Gin were in the same room.
“Well, it’s always lovely to have you home—”
“Is it.”
“—but this is a surprise. I wasn’t aware that summer vacation started this early.”
“It doesn’t. I got kicked out of school. And before you try to go parental on me, may I remind you that I’m just following the example you set?”
Gin looked to heaven for strength—and what do you know, as she was in the conservatory, the glass ceiling permitted her to see the blue sky and clouds far above.
Indeed, parenting was so much easier if one personally set any kind of standard at all.
Make that any kind of positive standard.
“I’ll just get settled up in my room,” Amelia announced. “And then I’m meeting friends out for dinner tonight. Don’t worry. One of them is twenty-five and has a Ferrari. I’ll be perfectly fine.”
TWENTY
Following the meeting with Lenghe, Lane walked into Easterly and didn’t get far. Mr. Harris, the butler, strode out of the dining room with a tray in his hands. On it were half a dozen sterling-silver objets d’art, including the Cartier