While We Were Watching Downton Abbey (25 page)

“To Samantha!” They clinked and drank.

When the pizza arrived, they filled paper plates with slices and carried them into the family room, which was also a sophisticated contemporary showcase built around a massive big-screen television. They settled on the Roche Bobois cream leather sectional and chowed down.

“Wow,” Claire said. “Zach must have hated leaving that television set behind.”

Brooke smiled somewhat grimly. “If he hadn’t had it so completely built in, I’m sure it would have been the first thing he moved upstairs. It’s way too big. Even Winnie the Pooh looks scary at that size.” She looked around and sighed. “Everything about this place is too polished, too cold, and too uninviting.”

Samantha was very careful not to react. She saw Claire doing the same.

“I know,” Brooke said. “Just like Zach.” She held up her slice of pizza. “I have to confess sometimes I get this almost irresistible urge to mess everything up. You know, rub a greasy finger on the leather. Drop a pepperoni in the carpet. Is that childish?”

Samantha edged the glass of red wine she’d set on the cocktail table a little closer to the center. The carpet was a plush pile in a very pale cream.

“When Daniel and I got divorced, I maxed out my credit cards redecorating when I definitely couldn’t afford it. Just to feel like I was starting over,” Claire said. “Which was not only childish but stupid. It took me years to pay off that card.”

Once again Samantha’s thoughts turned to her absent husband. “When Jonathan and I got married I was only twenty-one and he was twenty-seven. And we had my brother and sister to raise. There wasn’t a lot of opportunity for childish behavior.”

“I guess I could have let Zach buy the condo for him and Sarah,” Brooke said. “But as much as this place isn’t me, I couldn’t bear to think of them in it. Plus I had no confidence that we’d be left with enough to buy something else.” Brooke wrinkled her nose again. “Sorry. That’s probably too much information.” She finished off her glass of wine. “I know you didn’t come here to hear all about my ex-husband.”

“Well, I’m happy to hear whatever anyone wants to share,” Claire said. “As long as I don’t have to stare at a blank computer screen while I do it.”

“What does that mean?” Samantha asked.

Claire shook her head. “It means now that I have my editor and agent’s full attention, I can’t seem to think straight enough to figure out the book I thought I was going to write.”

“You mean like writer’s block?” Brooke asked.

“I’d have to have started writing to be blocked,” Claire said. “I can’t even seem to get my idea solidified.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Brooke replied after chewing thoughtfully.

“It’s not. I was a lot more productive when I was working full-time and taking care of a child by myself,” Claire said. “It’s kind of like winning the lottery and then not being able to figure out what to buy with the money. I have all this time now and I can’t seem to stop squandering it.”

Their shoes off, they padded through the deep pile carpet and into the kitchen to refill their plates and glasses.

“How about you, Samantha?” Claire asked, flipping open the pizza box. “We’re both pissing and moaning over here and you haven’t said a word of complaint.”

“That’s because she’s married to a gorgeous and successful man who is willing to read
Stellaluna
multiple times to small children he’s never met before,” Brooke said topping off their glasses and reaching for a slice of pizza. “How many years have you and Jonathan been married?”

“Twenty-five,” Samantha said. “Almost twenty-six.” Once that might have been a boast. Now it sounded long and hollow.

“Wow!” Brooke said.

“You certainly seem to have hit the matrimonial jackpot,” Claire agreed.

“Like I said,” Brooke crowed. “Twenty-five years and no complaints. Maybe we should call Guinness World Records.”

“Or Ripley’s Believe It or Not!” Claire added, looking at Samantha sharply. “What do you say to that, Samantha?”

Samantha smiled and kept silent, which was what she’d always done when Sylvie and Lucy complained about their spouses or their marriages. Even when her mother-in-law had gotten in her swipes at her dearly departed husband. Of course Samantha had nothing negative to say. Because she was too damned grateful to Jonathan for marrying her in the first place.

Claire Walker and Brooke Mackenzie weren’t Sylvie and Lucy. Both of them watched her and waited for her to say something.

Samantha felt the oddest urge to tell the truth. To confess that she hadn’t heard from her gorgeous and successful husband in a whole week and that she was afraid that calling him would only make things worse. But a lifetime of holding her fears as close to the vest as she did her feelings smothered that urge. “Are you kidding?” she finally said. “I say it’s time to open another bottle of wine and let the
Downton Abbey
marathon begin.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

B
ROOKE WOKE ON SUNDAY MORNING AND PADDED
into the kitchen to turn on the coffeemaker. Her head throbbed slightly from the wine they’d drunk the night before, her stomach felt unpleasantly full from the steady stream of junk food, and her mouth was as dry as a patch of the Sahara. But while her physical reactions to the late night
Downton Abbey
marathon were negative, they were accompanied by an unexpected and unfamiliar sense of well-being.

With a yawn she wandered into the family room and found Claire and Samantha still asleep on the massive sectional they’d nodded off on. Claire lay on her stomach, her face buried in a silk pillow. Samantha lay on her back on the opposite end of the “L,” her arms thrown out in abandonment, her dark hair hanging off the side. A steady and not exactly ladylike snore escaped her open mouth with each rise and fall of her chest.

Without comment Brooke dropped onto the nearby club chair, propped her bare feet on the ottoman, and drank her coffee while she contemplated the room. Empty wine bottles and glasses littered the cocktail and end tables. The pizza box sat open on the carpet, its lid propped up against a floor lamp. The bakery box, from which every delectable crumb had been scraped clean, lay on the floor near one of Samantha’s hands.

Morning light slatted in through the shutters. Brooke sipped her coffee and considered the mess; she couldn’t help smiling when she imagined leaving the room this way so that Zachary would be forced to see it when he brought the girls back.

They’d watched five of the seven episodes on the
Downton Abbey
DVD, pausing only for food and potty runs. Somewhere around three a.m. Samantha had fallen asleep. Shortly afterward Brooke had returned from the bathroom to discover Claire curled in a ball with her back to the television. Seeing no reason to wake them Brooke had turned off the TV and the lights and gone to bed.

Claire rolled onto her back but her eyes remained closed. “Where am I?” she asked.

“On my couch,” Brooke replied.

“What’s that awful noise?” Claire yawned.

“Samantha.”

“You’re kidding.” Claire’s eyes opened.

“Nope.”

Claire sat up and rubbed sleep from her eyes. “Is it wrong of me to be so tempted to get out my phone and shoot a little video?”

“It is since we promised that ‘what happens while watching
Downton Abbey
stays with
Downton Abbey
,’” Brooke said.

“We’re not actually watching
Downton Abbey
right now,” Claire pointed out with another yawn.

“True,” Brooke agreed as Samantha gave another less than ladylike snort. “But we were. And we still have two episodes to go.” She scrubbed at her own eyes and smiled. “I don’t have anywhere I have to be. Do you?”

“Well, I know where I should be. And what I should be doing there,” Claire said. Her smile dimmed. “But someone would have to drag me out of here first. I made it through the marathon so far. I’m not dropping out now.”

Samantha inhaled sharply, then emitted a final explosive snort. Her eyes blinked open.

Brooke and Claire laughed. “God, Jonathan really is a saint,” Claire said.

“What’s so funny?” Samantha didn’t move, but her eyes were blinking rapidly.

“I just uploaded video of you snoring to YouTube,” Claire deadpanned.

“You did not.” Samantha turned her head and looked at Brooke. “Did she?”

“No, she didn’t. But it’s a good thing you woke up when you did. She was lobbying hard for the opportunity. I’m not sure I could have held her off much longer.” Brooke laughed, almost embarrassed by how great it felt to have friends here in the home that had never felt really hers.

“I can’t believe we slept here,” Samantha said, stifling another yawn. For the first time Brooke noticed dark shadows beneath her eyes. “Did we even talk about going home?”

“No. You just sort of dropped out one at a time. I barely made it to my bedroom,” Brooke said.

“Yeah,” Claire said, hugging a pillow to her stomach. “I think I made it right to the point where Edith was writing the letter to the Turkish ambassador.”

“The last thing I remember is Maggie Smith letting Molesley’s father win the flower show.” Samantha hugged her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them. “God, I haven’t been to a slumber party since eleventh grade.” She sniffed. “Is that coffee?”

Brooke nodded. “Can I pour you a cup?”

“God, yes,” Claire said. “But I need sustenance. Do you want me to make a doughnut run?”

They looked at each other. All of them were rumpled. Hair stuck out every which way. No one seemed to care in the least. Brooke’s headache had already begun to recede and she felt the first stirrings of hunger. After last night’s feeding frenzy there seemed no point in counting breakfast calories. “I’m ready to watch
Downton Abbey
,” Brooke said. “If you all can live with toaster waffles, I think I have a box of Eggos in the freezer.”

* * *

AT THE END OF HUNTER JACKSON’S FIRST WEEK AT
Private Butler, Edward felt a little like Rex Harrison’s Professor Higgins in
My Fair Lady
. Only instead of producing a lady from a flower girl he was trying to turn an overprivileged peacock into a self-effacing concierge.

Hunter Jackson had completed all the errands and tasks he’d been assigned. Though Jackson’s automatic response to Edward’s authority too often resembled that of a teenager to an irritating parent, the clients Jackson had been assigned to assist had seemed satisfied. As the week wore on Jackson’s demeanor became quite proper bordering on formal. At times Edward suspected the young man might actually be doing a parody of Edward; that in this case imitation was not the sincerest form of flattery. But it was hard to know for certain. In the end Edward dismissed these thoughts as uncharitable and reminded himself that what Jackson thought was not his concern as long as his actions and behavior remained acceptable.

At the moment, Jackson sat across from Edward’s desk, his back straight, his attention focused on Edward.

“I heard from Mr. Culp,” Edward said. “He tells me that you’ve suggested a party and a private family cruise of the Greek Isles for his wife Alicia’s sixtieth that will include all of their children and grandchildren.”

Hunter nodded. He smiled quite modestly.

“How did you come up with the idea?” Edward asked, curious.

“Actually it was your questionnaire,” the young man said. “I felt kind of silly pulling it out when I met with Jim the first time. But once he started answering the questions it seemed clear that a trip was in order and since money was no object . . .” Jackson shrugged. “Well, I thought why not go all out?”

Edward winced at Jackson’s use of the client’s first name and the allusion to Culp’s wealth. But the younger man had made great strides. And he didn’t think all of his enthusiasm was feigned. “You’ve done well,” Edward said. “But we do need to be careful not to be overly familiar with the clients. And we certainly never call them by their first names.”

Jackson stared at him as if he were daft. But the look was brief. “All right.” Then as Edward reached inside his breast pocket for the week’s assignments, Jackson said, “I have a few ideas about marketing that I thought I’d run by you. And it occurred to me that Private Butler might be a perfect candidate for franchising. I know someone down in the Keys who’s a specialist in that field.” Jackson leaned forward eager to press his point.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Edward said, cutting him off and handing an assignment sheet across the desk. “Perhaps in another few weeks once you’ve gotten a bit more acclimated, you might share some of your thoughts on marketing with me. But Private Butler will never be franchised. That’s not what this company is about. This business is personal—personal service, personal attention, personal integrity. That’s not something that can be franchised.”

Jackson’s jaw set and he dropped his eyes to skim the listed dates, times and assignments. Clarence Fitson, who had just turned ninety, needed a ride to his tailor for a fitting. Mimi Davenport had requested a driver/escort to visit her sister in Nashville.

“What is this?” Jackson bit out. “A remake of
Driving Miss Daisy
?” Jackson’s calm began to evaporate. It disappeared completely when he reached the final item. “You actually expect me to take someone’s child to Mommy and Me?” he asked. His eyes reflected a toxic mixture of anger and horror.

“Well, it’s not just anyone’s child,” Edward replied coolly. “It’s a friend of your family. Sylvie Talmadge’s granddaughter, in fact.”

Jackson’s face turned a mottled red. “You cannot be serious,” he said. “I’ll be a laughingstock.” His gaze sharpened. “This is an attempt to get rid of me, isn’t it? You want to see just how much humiliation I can take before I tell you to, what’s that expression? To sod . . .”

“Sod off?” Edward completed the phrase for him.

“I’m telling you, you are completely wasting my talents on this bullshit,” Jackson said. “You can’t possibly expect me to do this crap.”

Edward noted the double excremental expletive, but said nothing.

“I could be making you money,” Jackson railed, somehow managing not to raise his voice. “Putting together investors to franchise your business. And you want me to take a child to play with other . . .
children
?” The last was clearly intended as an expletive. But at least there was no excrement involved.

“As I said earlier, I might be willing to discuss your ideas in due course,” Edward said reasonably. “Assuming you can follow directions and represent Private Butler in the manner I’ve proscribed. Until then, I need you to simply take care of these clients. And I’d also like you to pinch in for Isabella. She has an audition tomorrow afternoon and needs someone to cover for her. You two seem quite friendly. It occurred to me you might be willing to help her out.”

The gritting of teeth wasn’t a good look for young Jackson. But he did manage to swallow back whatever invective he’d been planning to hurl. “Is that all?” he asked tightly.

“Yes, that will do for now,” Edward said unperturbed. He stood, forcing Jackson to do the same and leveled a look at the younger man that said, “I am the boss. You are not.”

If Hunter Jackson couldn’t come to terms with this, he would be gone.

Jackson turned and stormed off. But he did it with perfect posture and without uttering a single expletive. Surely that was progress of some kind. Something might be made of the boy after all. Perhaps the rain in Spain didn’t only fall on the plain.

* * *

ON THE DALTONS’ DOORSTEP BROOKE RAN A HAND
over her hair, which she’d desperately tried to tame, and tugged on the angular hem of her new blouse. It was a little snugger than she was used to with no extra fabric to hide beneath. But its graduated hem hung low on her hips and made her short, stocky body appear longer and leaner. The saleslady had assured her that the drop waist was in fact slenderizing and that the deep gray color turned her hazel eyes to smoke. Brooke had bought it immediately not even caring if the woman was exaggerating; it made her feel attractive and it was a world away from her usual beige.

An image of the lovely Monica standing on this same welcome mat in her short tennis dress arose in Brooke’s mind and she did her best to banish it. But Brooke was relieved that this was a family dinner and not a date; she sincerely hoped that would keep the comparisons to the casserole women out of her mind and Bruce’s.

Natalie and Ava juggled magazines and poster board in their arms as Brooke rang the doorbell. Footsteps sounded and the door opened to reveal Marissa. Her father stood behind her.

The girls’ greetings were hurried and effusive. Before Brooke could gather herself all three of them had raced off to Marissa’s room to help Marissa begin her collage.

“It doesn’t look like they need us,” Bruce observed as he closed the door.

“No,” Brooke agreed, still trying to control, or at least hide, her nervousness. “Natalie and Ava were thrilled with the idea of showing Marissa what to do. I suspect we’ll have to pry them out of her room when dinner’s ready.”

“Sounds good to me,” he said. “Will you have a glass of wine?”

“Gosh, we’ve been here at least two minutes,” Brooke teased. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Come on. You can talk to me while I finish dinner.”

Following him through the family room, she saw that the kitchen table had been set for five. The silverware and dishes looked like everyday, but a brightly colored cloth covered the table and a vase of fresh picked flowers sat squarely in the middle. Carefully labeled place cards had been written and illustrated for each of them.

“The table looks lovely,” Brooke said.

“Marissa was in charge of decorations. And she helped me bake the dessert,” he replied.

“Homemade dessert?” Brooke said. “I am impressed.” And pleased and thrilled. “What is it?”

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s a surprise. I had to do a pinky swear that I wouldn’t say anything in advance.”

“Ah, well,” Brooke said as she slid onto the bar stool and settled in at the kitchen counter. “I know just how binding a pinky swear is. So I won’t even ask if it’s animal, vegetable, or mineral . . .” She raised an eyebrow as if waiting for him to fill in the blank.