Gary McAdams.

The two met at the head of the stairs that led out into the flowers and the statues, and, oh, how the groundsman stared at Little V.E.: The love and adoration in his eyes was resplendent in his weathered face, the emotion transforming him into a prince in spite of his commoner’s garb.

From behind his back, Gary presented Little V.E. with a single rose, and her smile made her glow. As she accepted it and said something that seemed to make the man blush, Lane was reminded of all the expensive jewels William had given her during birthdays and anniversaries. She had accepted every one, and worn them all, but she had never looked this delighted.

Proof that the love of the giver could elevate the intrinsic value of what was received—and its absence could also render any gift worthless.

Bare feet running into the dining room had Lane glancing over his shoulder.

Lizzie was animated. “Are you seeing this? Are you—”

“Shh. Come here.”

As Lizzie rushed over and tucked herself against him, the two of them watched as Gary offered Little V.E. his arm, and then the pair went down the steps and took to the brick paths, walking side by side.

“That is not the first time they’ve done this,” Lizzie whispered.

“No,” Lane said. “It is not.”

After a moment, Lane steered Lizzie and himself around. Kissing her on the top of the head, he murmured, “Let’s give them their privacy. They’ve earned it.”

FORTY-ONE

The next morning dawned beautiful and clear, and as Lane got dressed in his closet, he picked out black: black for the suit, black for the socks, black for the belt and the tie and the shoes. The only things he had on that were white were his button-down shirt and his boxer shorts.

But he made sure to include a red pocket square.

When he stepped out, Lizzie was coming in from the bathroom and she looked rough—and beautiful in her black dress.

“How bad is it today?” he asked.

“Bad. But that’s good, remember?”

“I brought you up some ginger ale. And saltines. I made sure I put some in the car, too. As well as three Kroger’s bags, a roll of paper towels, a spare toothbrush and toothpaste, some bottled water, and chewing gum—Wrigley’s, your favorite.”

“I love you so much,” she said as she closed her eyes. “How did you get all that done while I was in the shower?”

“Moved fast. Otherwise, you were going to try to do it yourself.”

They met by the bed and embraced for a moment.

“You ready for this?” she asked him.

“As I’ll ever be.”

“I’m with you all the way. Unless I have to throw up. In which case, I’ll be back as soon as I can be.”

“I love you.”

“Me, too.”

They kissed and then it was down to the first floor, where Jeff was dressed in black, Amelia was chilling with her phone on the first step of the stairs, and Gin was not yet around.

“Where’s your mother?” Lane asked casually as he sat next to the girl.

“Grabbing a smoothie, I think.”

Lane leaned in and looked at what was on the phone’s screen. “You’re going to have to show me how to play that game. What’s it called?”

“Dymonds. With a ‘y.’ Here, gimme your cell.”

Lane reached in and took the thing out of his breast pocket. “Password is one, one, one, one.”

The girl rolled her eyes. “Uncle Lane, that is not secure.”

“Nothing in there to hide.”

Amelia started to flip into programs or . . . he didn’t know what, and didn’t care—

“Wait,” he said sharply. “What’s that?”

“I’m downloading the app for you.”

“Lemme see it.”

There, on the app screen, or whatever you wanted to call it, was the title of the game and then the company that made it.

Tricksey, Inc.

“Jeff? Jeff . . . will you look at this?” Lane glanced over at the guy—who had his head buried in his own phone, no doubt analyzing documents on the damn thing. “Jeff. Come here.”

The guy snapped to attention and walked across, bending down as Lane held the screen up. “What the—what am I looking at?” he asked.

“Tricksey, Incorporated.”

Amelia spoke up. “Oh, yeah. That’s the developer of Dymonds. They’ve done a ton of other games. A girl in my dorm is, like, the owner’s niece or something, and she said they were just bought out by—”

Lane bolted up at the same time as Jeff evidently did the same math: Without a word, the two of them scrambled down the hall, punched open the door into the staff wing, and nearly mowed Gin over as they beelined for Greta’s office.

“Where’s the third stack—where’s the—”

The German woman looked up from behind her desk. She had lasted even less than forty-eight hours on her vacation and had arrived back at Easterly at seven a.m. And in order to make sure no information was lost, she had carted all of William’s business files over from his office and was systematically scanning each and every page into her computer.

“Vhat are ve lookink for?” she inquired.

“The third stack!” Lane dropped to the carpet and started pulling files out. “The I-don’t-knows!”

“Here now,” she said. “Do not mess things!”

As a string of no doubt highly uncomplimentary German phrases left her lips, she nonetheless got with the program, pointing the way for him and Jeff in the loads of boxes.

Lane found the agreement in the second box he searched. “I got it, I got it. . . .”

Jeff sank down on the floor next to him as Amelia and Gin and Lizzie came in, and at first, words danced in front of Lane’s eyes. But then . . .

“Forty-nine percent.” Lane looked up at Lizzie, dumbfounded. “Forty-nine percent of the company. William paid a quarter of a million dollars for it three years ago.”

Jeff grabbed the document and looked the thing over. “It’s in force. This is a live agreement.”

Amelia started typing on her phone. And then she said, “Yeah, it’s right here in the New York Times business section, under ‘technology.’ They were bought out for . . .”

“What?” Lane said to the girl. “What were they bought out for?”

The girl slowly raised her head and turned her phone around. “One point two billion dollars.”

No one moved. Or breathed.

“I’m sorry,” Lane interjected. “Did you say billion with a ‘ b.’ ’”

“Yes, it’s all right here.”

As Lane fell back on his ass, Jeff started to laugh. “Looks like Mack gets to keep his new yeast strain.”

Oh, frothy relief. Oh, wonderful, magical, lottery-winning moment.

Someone started cheering, and then Lizzie was down in his arms, and he was laughing his head off. With an interest like that, in a company valued at that level, it was going to be very easy to finance out of the bank debt. And then the BBC could survive, and thrive.

On the day he had to bury his momma, the unexpected windfall was the one thing that could possibly have lifted Lane’s spirits.

And the only thing his father had ever done to help the family.

The Charlemont Baptist Church was located in the West End, and as Lane pulled the Phantom into its parking lot, he put the windows down so everyone in the car could wave at people they knew. The place was packed already, members of the community gathering in their funeral garb to pay their respects. And as he greeted folks and was greeted in return, he reflected on how beautifully everyone was dressed, the gentlemen in suits, the ladies in hats and fascinators, everything black.

Except for pops of U of C red.

Going around to the back, he left the Rolls next to a couple of Mercedes and a Lexus and told Lizzie and the others where to go and sit. Then he joined the other five pallbearers, all of whom were nephews of Miss Aurora’s, by the hearse. Denny Browne, the nice man who’d seen Miss Aurora through the hospital and out into his care, had driven the coffin over himself.

“Would you like to see what she’s in?” he asked after they shook hands.