While We Were Watching Downton Abbey (17 page)

As the guests arrived Marissa handed each little girl a pink or purple princess scepter and crown, and directed them to the arts-and-crafts tables where they could decorate them. The mothers who stayed congregated around a table Brooke had set with iced tea and fancy finger sandwiches. Many of them seemed keen on getting better acquainted with Bruce Dalton, who at times looked alternately pleased and panicked at their attention.

Marissa’s purple princesses had trounced the pink team in egg carrying and the three-legged race, but lost the sack race when Brooke called a temporary halt to the relay races so that the picnic lunch could be served. The girls buzzed happily as they found seats on the blankets that had been spread beneath the trees.

“You’ve done an incredible job.” The girls were munching on their sandwiches and drinking their lemonades when Bruce Dalton came up beside her. “I haven’t seen Marissa so happy since . . . well, not for a long time. Everything’s been just right.”

Brooke glowed at his praise. The party was going well. She was gratified to see Marissa in the center of what looked like a great circle of friends-to-be; a circle her own two had been cheerfully drawn into.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m so glad she’s having a good time.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw the mothers watching Bruce Dalton and couldn’t blame them. He was a nice man with a gentle, reassuring warmth. As she surveyed the interested females, she hoped he’d fall into sympathetic hands.

“The Princess Wars was sheer genius,” he continued, his eyes on his daughter. “It’s the perfect blend of princess and tomboy.”

Brooke blushed at the compliment but felt an internal glow at the truth of it. Everything about the party, and Bruce Dalton’s approval, made her feel good. “I think it’s time to let Marissa blow out her candles. After the cake we’ll try to burn up a little of the sugar high in the bouncy castle and with one or two more relay events before we declare the winning princesses.”

“Sounds good,” he said, flashing her a smile and motioning to Marissa. Together they led the way to the porch where Brooke lit the sparkler at the top of the cake’s front turret.

Later, when the yard had been cleaned up, the bouncy castle retrieved, and her own children finally convinced it was time to leave, Bruce Dalton and his daughter walked them out to the driveway and helped them load the car.

He watched her strap the girls into their seats, then opened Brooke’s door for her. “Thanks so much,” he said as he closed the door, then leaned in the open window. “We both really appreciate everything you’ve done.”

“It was my pleasure,” Brooke said, meaning it.

“Well, I hope our paths cross again,” he said, his eyes warm. “And I hope it’s soon.”

The Daltons watched as she backed the Volvo down the driveway. They hadn’t even gone a block before Ava’s and Natalie’s heads began to bob with exhaustion. Moments later their chins fell to their chests in sleep. Equally weary, Brooke headed back to the realities that awaited them at the Alexander. She drove slowly and carefully, trying to shore herself up with the satisfaction she’d felt today, knowing she’d need every shred of confidence she could muster.

Turning onto Peachtree, she was relieved to see that there was no evidence of a moving van. As she carried Ava inside and held Natalie’s sticky hand in hers, she told herself she was strong enough to handle whatever lay ahead. She yawned as Natalie pressed a sticky finger to the elevator call button and reminded herself that all was not yet lost.

She might not yet know how to deal with her ex-husband and his girlfriend living a floor away. But she apparently knew how to throw one hell of a princess wars picnic birthday party. Maybe something good could come of that.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

W
ITHOUT A JOB TO GO TO OR A CHILD TO GET
off to school or cook meals for, Claire’s days were large amoeba-like spans of emptiness, which she tried, but failed, to fill. They consisted of long bouts of concentrated procrastination, which Claire told herself were actually opportunities for her subconscious to work out the story problems, but whatever she called the hours she wasted, they did nothing to produce pages or much of anything but panic.

She walked at least once a day, sometimes with Brooke, who was intent on staying out of the building as much as possible and who scurried across the lobby with her head tucked into her shoulders like a turtle afraid of exposing too much of itself out of its shell.

On the bright side, it was October and the leaves had turned vibrant reds and golds and the temperatures were mild so that any sweating over the manuscript was figurative and not literal. She could, and did, spend hours out on her balcony scribbling in her journal and staring out over Peachtree, but the book idea she’d once seen such promise in felt as empty and ill-defined as her days.

The characters that inhabited Downton Abbey had become almost as real to Claire as the women she watched it with. And far more real than her own characters, who refused to be coaxed out of her mind and onto the page. In just a few minutes she’d head to the clubroom for her Sunday-night fix.

Over the last two Sundays she’d watched Anna and Bates fall in love with each other despite some dark secret that kept him from being free, seen sparks fly between Lady Mary and Matthew Crawley, and watched Lady Sybil begin to notice just how attractive the Irish chauffeur was. Then there was poor Edith, who had stirred the pot by writing a letter to the Turkish embassy that would presumably implicate Mary in Kemal Pamuk’s death.

The plot had been thickening and the story lines racing forward at a pace that Claire couldn’t help admiring even as she compared its graceful dance to the fumbling, halfhearted steps of her own manuscript.

The phone rang, the sound so rare that it startled her. “Hello?” she answered tentatively.

“Claire?” The voice was young, with a pronounced New York accent that seemed vaguely familiar.

“Yes?”

“It’s Erin. Erin Galloway. Your publicist at Scarsdale.”

“Oh.” Claire stared out over the balcony railing, trying to make sense of this. All authors at major publishing houses were assigned an in-house publicist. How often you heard from that publicist and what he or she actually did for you depended on how high up you were on the food chain and the publisher’s perception of your potential moneymaking ability. With only two modestly successful books to her credit, Claire figured she was little more than a minnow in the vast sea of publishing. An insignificant form of bait; potential chum for the sharks.

“I’m sorry to bother you on the weekend,” the publicist said. “Especially on a Sunday.”

“Um, no problem.” Claire studied the traffic down on Peachtree, searching for some sign that hell had, in fact, frozen over. But although the light was fading, the sky was still clear. A soft breeze teased at a flag that hung off a nearby building.

“My boss asked me to call you,” Erin continued. “Because there’s a bit of an emergency that we, um, well, that I thought might actually work in your favor.”

Claire was fully tuned in now, though she couldn’t imagine what sort of publishing emergency she might be able to assist with.

“Well, the thing is LeaAnn Larsen is scheduled for a book signing at the Barnes & Noble in Midtown,” the publicist said. “The one at Georgia Tech. I believe that’s somewhere near you?”

“Yes.” Claire still didn’t understand. LeaAnn Larsen was a huge name in futuristic romance. That was to say she was a whale-sized fish in the publishing sea who could draw huge crowds to any bookstore a limo dropped her off at.

“Well, she’s scheduled for a highly publicized signing there on Tuesday night.”

Claire couldn’t imagine what this had to do with her. Larsen was a favorite of women of all ages, who couldn’t get enough of the former Navy SEALs, propelled into the future, who were the heroes of her books.

“That’s great,” Claire said. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was almost eight. She didn’t want to be late for the
Downton Abbey
screening or to claim what had become her, Brooke, and Samantha’s sofa. “But I don’t really understand why . . .”

“LeaAnn’s unable to do the event. We thought you might like to appear in her place.”

Claire waited for clarification, certain she must have misheard or misunderstood. There was nothing but silence on the other end.

“Me?” Claire asked. “You want me to show up in LeaAnn Larsen’s place? You do know who you called, right?” Maybe Erin had dialed the wrong number. There were plenty of better-known writers in Atlanta, at least half a dozen of whom were published by Scarsdale.

“Yes,” Erin replied.

“But why?” Claire asked.

There was another silence.

“Because no one else was available,” Erin admitted, her tone apologetic. “And the bookstore is really upset that they’ve advertised the event so heavily and won’t have an author there.”

Claire left the balcony and went inside. “This doesn’t make sense. We’re not exactly interchangeable. No one who shows up to see LeaAnn Larsen is going to be excited to see me instead. None of them will have ever heard of me. I’m . . .” She stopped just shy of calling herself a nobody, though in reality the minnow analogy might have been an exaggeration. In sea-of-publishing terms she was more like plankton.

They were offering the store a bone. A raggedy, over-chewed, and not very interesting bone, but a bone nonetheless.

“If you can make it, we’ll try to get some extra copies of your books there. And the store will be pulling in whatever copies they have at other Atlanta locations.”

“This really doesn’t seem like a good idea,” Claire said.

Nobody in their right mind would agree to show up to face an unhappy and disappointed crowd. With the event two days away she wouldn’t even be able to rally anyone who’d ever heard of her. Claire could hardly breathe. In the suburbs where she’d lived for so long, given enough lead time, phone calls to friends and acquaintances, and an email to her local readers she might have produced a respectable number of friendly faces. But here in Midtown where she knew practically nobody? She’d be lucky if she could talk the homeless guy on the corner into showing up on such short notice. Even if she threw in a meal and a pack of cigarettes.

“Oh, I don’t think . . .” she began, knowing it would be awful—and the last thing she needed right now was to feel worse about herself. Plus she’d be far better off spending the next two days writing instead of bracing herself to face a hostile and disappointed crowd. “Listen, Erin, I appreciate the thought, but I really don’t think this is going to work.”

“Please?” The woman’s New York accent had softened, the word unaccustomed on her lips. For some reason Claire didn’t understand this was important to the young woman she’d never even met in person. “The thing is, the store has threatened to never host another event for Scarsdale again if we don’t send someone in LeaAnn’s place.” There was a brief pause. “If I don’t get one of our authors there, my days in publicity will be over. My boss has made that pretty clear.”

Claire had no idea what to say to this.

“I mean, it would only be a couple hours of your time.”

Just long enough to be completely humiliated and set her writing back another week or two. As if she were writing now.

“Okay,” Claire said barely able to believe she’d agreed even as the young publicist offered her undying thanks and abject gratitude.

Determined not to think about the potential fiasco she’d just agreed to, Claire grabbed her purse. Eager to lose herself in the world of
Downton Abbey
, which was far, far, more attractive than her own, Claire closed and locked her door behind her and headed down the hall.

* * *

WHEN BROOKE ARRIVED IN THE CLUBROOM JUST
after eight Isabella, James, and Edward Parker greeted her warmly. “Welcome, Mum,” Isabella said with a proper curtsy and an elegant, “it’s quite lovely to see you again.” James handed her a glass of wine with a formal bow.

“You made quite an impression on Mr. Dalton,” Edward said as Brooke took a small sip of wine and contemplated the tiny mincemeat and shepherd pies that had been set out on the table. “He and his daughter were absolutely thrilled with the princess picnic birthday party yesterday. In fact, I believe he’d like to hire you to handle some other things. Would you be open to that?” His brown eyes were warm, his smile friendly.

“Oh, yes.” Brooke felt her cheeks heat at the thought. Bruce Dalton’s compliments and Edward Parker’s confidence in her were a balm to her bruised and battered ego.

The Ritchie twins and their mother arrived, flashing their identical smiles of hello. The feisty Mimi Davenport followed. Soon they were talking, heads bent, to Sadie Hopewell and Myra Mackelbaum.

The door opened and Samantha Davis entered. “Hey,” she said with a smile that managed to include both Brooke and Edward Parker.

At a raised eyebrow from the concierge a glass of wine and a plate of appetizers were quickly placed in Samantha’s hands. “Thanks,” Samantha said easily, not at all surprised by the prompt attention. Together they headed toward the sofa, which Claire had already claimed.

“How did the party go yesterday?” Claire asked as they settled into their usual spots.

“Great,” Brooke said.

“And the
doctor’s
move into the building?” Samantha asked.

“Well, fortunately I missed it,” Brooke replied. “But we bumped into them in the lobby this morning fresh from their run. Their exercise clothes are color coordinated. They looked like Workout Barbie and Marathon Ken.”

Samantha grimaced. “I do not understand why that woman would want to live in the same building as her boyfriend’s ex-wife.

“To rub Brooke’s nose in it?” asked Claire.

“Her mere existence already does that,” Brooke said. “And honestly, I don’t see either of them wasting a moment’s thought on me. I seem to be a nonentity in both of their minds.” Oh, God, was that her sounding so pathetic?

“It sucks,” Samantha agreed. “But I think we should try our best to look at the positives in the situation.”

“Which are?” Brooke asked.

“Well, it’s certainly going to make it more likely that Natalie and Ava will spend time with their father,” Samantha said.

“And the drop-off/pickup time will be way shorter,” Claire added.

“True,” Brooke agreed. And if she did find a job or accepted more projects for Private Butler, Zachary might be more flexible about taking the girls if they were just a floor away.

“The building’s pretty spacious,” Samantha pointed out. “There are lots of people I never see coming or going.”

Brooke nodded, but she knew how these things worked. Just because she didn’t want to see either of them she was bound to run into Barbie and Ken every time she stepped out of her apartment.

“Is everything okay with your brother?” Claire asked Samantha and Brooke realized that Samantha hadn’t so much as mentioned him since the night two weeks ago when they’d argued in the hall.

“No, not really,” Samantha said, a frown creasing her forehead, something Zachary would have been quick to discourage.

Brooke waited for an explanation but that appeared to be it on the subject. Samantha Davis had proved surprisingly friendly and interested in her and Claire, but she didn’t offer a lot of details about herself. Once again she deflected and turned the subject. “You have a strange look on your face,” she said to Claire. “Is everything okay?”

Claire drained her glass and set it on the cocktail table, but she didn’t go for another. Brooke had noticed that ever since the shandies, she’d been careful about her alcohol consumption. “Yes.”

“But?”

Claire just looked at her.

“The way you said that it sounded like a disclaimer was coming,” Samantha said with a shrug.

Brooke nodded her agreement.

Claire sighed. “Well, for one thing my book isn’t moving forward anywhere near as quickly as I’d hoped.” She hesitated before continuing. “And I’ve been asked to do a book signing Tuesday night at the Georgia Tech B&N.”

“But that’s good, right?” Brooke asked, not understanding why Claire seemed so uncomfortable. “Isn’t that how authors promote a new book?”

“Yes,” Claire said. “But my last book came out more than a year ago. The only reason they asked me is because LeaAnn Larsen had to cancel at the last minute.”

“I think I’ve heard of her,” Samantha said. “She’s a pretty big name, isn’t she?”

Claire nodded, her expression glum.

“I love her books,” Brooke said. “Those Navy SEALs are . . . dreamy.”

“I know,” Claire said. “My daughter used to devour them. But I don’t write Navy SEALs past, present, or future. I write romances set in seventeenth-century Scotland.”

“So why is this happening?” Samantha asked.

“We’re with the same publisher, although, that’s kind of like saying we’re both cars when I’m a PT Cruiser and LeaAnn Larsen is a Rolls-Royce. But somehow the store thinks any author is better than no author.”