Oh, wait, Samuel Theodore Lodge was behind her in his convertible.

She put her window down and leaned out. “Samuel T.?”

He waved. “Why, Miss Smythe. How do you do?”

Samuel T. was a fashion plate as always, a straw boater with a blue-and-maroon band on his head, aviators shading his eyes, the seersucker suit and bow tie making it look like he was going to the track or had already been.

“All the better for seeing you,” she replied. “Where is everyone? Is this the right time?”

“As far as I know.”

They stared at each other for a moment, asking and answering questions for themselves about the front-page story.

Then Samuel T. said, “Lead the way and I’ll follow.”

Sutton eased back into her Mercedes and nodded. “Let’s go up.”

The limousine started forward, and Sutton rubbed her palms together. They were a little sweaty, and she gave in to the impulse to take a compact out of her purse and check her lipstick. Her hair.

Stop it, she told herself.

As they came around the turn at the top, Easterly was revealed in all its majesty. Funny, even though she had just been to the estate for the Bradfords’ Derby Brunch, she was still impressed. No wonder they put the great white house on their bourbon bottles. It looked like the King of America, if there had been one, lived there.

“Would you like me to wait?” the driver asked.

“That would be lovely. Thank you—no, don’t get out. I’ll open my own door.”

As Don squirmed behind the wheel, she did the duty herself and smiled at Samuel T. and his vintage Jaguar. “Nice car you’ve got there, Solicitor.”

Samuel T. cut his engine and pulled his emergency brake. “I’m rather fond of her. Most consistent woman I’ve had in my life short of my dearest mother.”

“Well, you better put the top up.” She nodded to the thickening cloud cover overhead. “Storms are coming.”

“I thought they were kidding.”

Sutton shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

The man got out and secured the car’s little fabric cover with a couple of tugs and then a clip on each side of the windshield. Then he put the windows up and came around to her, dropping a kiss on her cheek.

“By the way,” he intoned, “you look very well, Madam President—or shall I say CEO. Congratulations on the promotion.”

“Thank you. I’m getting up to speed.” She linked her arm through his as he offered her his elbow. “And you? How’s business?”

“Thriving. There are always people getting into trouble in this town, which is the good news and the bad news.”

Approaching the mansion’s open door, she wondered if Edward would be inside. Surely he wouldn’t miss his own father’s visitation?

Not that she was here to see him.

“Reverend Nyce,” she said as she entered. “How are you—Max! Is that you?”

The two men were standing close together, and Max broke away from what seemed to be a tense conversation with obvious relief. “Sutton, it’s good to see you.”

Boy, had he changed. That beard was a thing. And were those tattoos showing underneath his battered jacket?

Then again, he’d always been the wild one.

Samuel T. stepped up and did his greeting, hands being shaken, pleasantries exchanged … and then the reverend looked back at Max.

“I think you and I are clear on this, aren’t we?” The Reverend Nyce paused for effect. And then he smiled at her. “And you and I have a meeting later next week.”

“That’s right. I’m looking forward to it.”

After the reverend took his leave, there was more conversation between her and Samuel T. and Maxwell—during which she tried not to be obvious as she searched the empty rooms. Where was everyone? The visitation ran until seven. The house should be filled to overflowing.

Looking around the archway into the parlor, she nearly gasped. “Is that Mrs. Bradford? Sitting by Lane?”

“Or what’s left of her,” Max said tightly.

Sutton excused herself and entered the beautifully appointed room—and as soon as Edward’s mother saw her, the woman smiled and reached out. “Sutton. Darling one.”

So frail, yet still so regal and elegant, Sutton thought as she bent down and kissed a powdered cheek.

“Come, sit and chat with me,” Edward’s mother insisted.

Sutton smiled at Lane as she lowered herself onto the silk cushions. “You’re looking well, Mrs. Bradford.”

“Thank you, darling. Tell me, are you married yet?”

From out of nowhere, a strange sort of heat went through her—and Sutton glanced across the way. Edward had come into the periphery of the parlor from the study, his eyes locking on her as he leaned against the doorway for support.

Sutton cleared her throat and tried to remember what she had been asked. “No, ma’am. I’m not married.”

“Oh, how can that be? A nice young lady such as yourself. You should be having children soon before it’s too late.”

Actually, I’m a little busy running a multi-billion-dollar corporation at the moment. But thank you kindly for the advice.

“And how are you, Mrs. Bradford?”

“Oh, I am very well, thank you. Edward is taking good care of me, aren’t you?”

As Mrs. Bradford indicated Lane with her heavily diamond’ed hand, the man nodded and smiled as if he had been going with the misnomer for a while. Covering her surprise, Sutton glanced across the room to that archway again.

The real Edward wasn’t looking very Edward at all, at least not by the standard that Mrs. Bradford clearly recalled of her oldest son.

For some reason, the discrepancy made Sutton tear up.

“I’m sure he’s doing a fine job of seeing to you,” she said hoarsely. “Edward always knows how to handle everything.”

Ladies were supposed to wear panty hose beneath their skirts.

As Gin sat on the edge of the pool in the back garden, she moved her bare feet in lazy circles through the warm water—and was glad she never wore hose. Or slips. Or gloves.

Although the latter two were passé now. Well, arguably the L’eggs stuff was, too, what with Spanx having come along—although women like her mother certainly wouldn’t ever go out without nylons.