While We Were Watching Downton Abbey (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

E
DWARD PARKER KNEW THINGS ABOUT PEOPLE
that he sometimes wished he didn’t. Within the first week of landing the concierge contract at the Alexander, he knew that Mr. Lombard in 310 had a girlfriend and often didn’t actually leave town on business as he told his wife, but holed up instead in the Vinings condo where the younger, blonder woman had been installed.

Late one Saturday night he discovered that Mr. Morrisey, the prominent investment banker in 212, occasionally went out at night dressed in his wife’s clothing—and that when he did he looked much better in them than she did.

He’d had to hide his surprise one afternoon in his second month when he’d found out that the elderly Mimi Davenport, whose family had donated a wing to the children’s hospital and to Saint Joseph’s, had been caught fleeing from a store security guard, who informed him that Mrs. Davenport was on a store “watch list” because she liked to pinch things that she could have easily bought.

No matter how weird the revelation, Edward never lost sight of the fact that one of a concierge’s most valuable assets was discretion; a trait his grandfather, who’d been “in service” at Montclaire Castle in Nottinghamshire just as his father before him had been, had begun to teach Edward somewhere around his tenth birthday.

Edward reached for his cup of tea; taken at four each afternoon and allowed to go slightly tepid just the way he liked it, and looked around his small office tucked away in a corner of the Alexander’s lobby. He’d hung his black blazer on a hanger on the back of his office door in much the same way that his grandfather had removed and hung his jacket when he went “below stairs” at Montclaire. But Edward had hung his own diploma from the Cornell School of Hotel Administration next to it.

He’d begun to fully understand—and practice discretion—when he landed at a Hilton property in Maui as an assistant manager—a glorious posting from which he’d sent two years’ worth of sun-filled postcards home to the Hungry Fox, the family pub in Newark-on-Trent, upon which Edward estimated some fifty to sixty inches of rain fell annually. It was in the Aloha state that he’d handled his first celebrity peccadillo and learned the art of misdirection and the value of resisting bribes. The lessons—and postcards—continued in big-city hotels in San Francisco, New York, and Miami Beach.

There’d been smaller postings, too; a fancy dude ranch in Montana where he’d fallen in love with the sweeping vistas of the American West and bought a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots that he owned to this day. A charming B and B in the historic heart of Charleston where he’d reveled in the beautifully restored buildings and come to terms with the pairing of shrimp and grits, and enjoyed the languid blend of heat, humidity, and manners.

The Hungry Fox would go to his older brother, Bertie, much as the title and country estates his forebears had served in had gone to oldest sons. But that was all right with Edward, who had pulled plenty of pints behind the Fox’s scarred wood bar but could never imagine staying there; not even to keep the woman he’d loved.

Bertie continued the tradition of mounting Edward’s postcards, which now papered an entire wall of the bar.

The last seven years’ worth had been sent from Atlanta, making the Fox’s patrons among the lucky few in England to know exactly what the Fox Theatre, a restored Egyptian-themed 1920s movie house, looked like. He’d sent postcards of other Atlanta landmarks—like what was left of the apartment Miss Mitchell had written
Gone with the Wind
in; Stone Mountain, Atlanta’s answer to Mount Rushmore with its three-acre mountaintop carving of three Confederate heroes of the Civil War; CNN Center; Turner Field; the World of Coca Cola.

Six months ago he’d sent not a postcard but a sales piece he’d had printed after his newly formed personal concierge company, Private Butler, had been selected by the Alexander’s condo board. It was a wide shot of the Alexander’s Beaux Arts façade, shot from across Peachtree. In one corner of the brochure was the Private Butler logo—the company name wrapped around a photo of Edward’s grandfather, William Parker, in the Montclaire livery he and his twin brother had worn so proudly.

Edward took a final sip of his tea, checked the time, and removed his jacket from its hook. He wanted to do a tour of the fitness room and clubroom/theater. Then he’d take another look at the adjacent pool deck to see what it would need in the way of winterizing.

He smoothed his collar, slipped his silenced cell phone into his jacket pocket, and added a stop at the security desk and an assessment of the valet’s uniform to his mental to-do list. He had always taken pride in a job well done, but it had taken the heavy-footed approach of his fiftieth birthday to make him look at building something for himself. Private Butler was a company that he could shape and build; one whose seeds had been sown in his forebears’ years “in service.”

Edward had every intention of making them proud.

* * *

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON AND SAMANTHA STOOD IN
her gourmet kitchen staring into the pan of what was meant to be saltimbocca alla Romana, but which looked like a rolled-up lump of shoe leather—and not the expensive Manolo Blahnik kind.

Damn.

For a few moments she debated whether the veal could be saved. Doctored. Buried in some kind of sauce, preferably bottled, that would disguise its leathery qualities. She went to the pantry and walked inside to peruse the shelves, but unsurprisingly, nothing called out to her.

Her attempts at family dinners had been more laughable than edible when she and Jonathan had first gotten married, but she had kept at it, ignoring the fact that he’d taken Meredith and Hunter out on “errands” after many of those meals and returned smelling like McDonald’s fries or Burger King onion rings.

Then he’d started bringing home takeout a couple of nights a week. But Samantha remained determined to feed her cobbled-together family and she took the series of cooking lessons Jonathan gave her as a joke on their first anniversary very seriously. Just as she did the cooking schools in Tuscany, Provence, and the South Carolina Lowcountry, where she’d failed to master everything from deveining shrimp to whipping egg whites.

With a sigh, Samantha stepped out of the pantry and closed the door behind her. It would take more than a can or jar to save the shriveled, congealing lump now burnt to the roasting pan. Conceding defeat she pulled her cell phone out of her purse and speed dialed the chef at one of Jonathan’s favorite Italian restaurants.

“Giancarlo?” she asked when she heard his voice. “This is an SOS call. What’s the special today?”

“What would you like the special to be,
cara
?” he asked as he always did.

“Well, I was aiming for saltimbocca alla Romana. I’m still thinking veal, but Jonathan will be home by seven and I’d like to have everything, um, in the oven warming before he gets here.”

“Yes, of course.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “How many are you serving?”

“There are four of us, but Jonathan and Hunter can eat enough for two. And it would be good to have leftovers.”

“Perfect. Let me see what I can whip together, hmm? How about a mozzarella and tomato—an insalata Caprese—to start? And perhaps chocolate chip cannoli or tiramisu for dessert.”

“Tiramisu.” She hesitated for a second. “I’ll tell them I stopped to pick up dessert, but can you make sure the rest is . . .”

“Not too perfect.”

“Right.” She began to relax. “You know that I’m in love with you, right?”

“The feeling is most mutual,
signora
. The only thing is I have no one available for delivery and a large party due in when we open.”

“No problem,” she said quickly eyeing the clock and planning it out in her mind. “I’ll have someone there at six thirty if that’s all right with you.”

“Certainly,” he replied. “Tell them to come to the back door. And send your cookware as we did last time.”

“Grazie.”

“Per niente,”
he said gallantly. “It is my great pleasure.”

With a far less harried smile, Samantha pressed speed dial for the concierge. Edward Parker had a wonderful British accent, but the man was a veritable sphinx.

“Edward?” she said when he picked up. “Do you have time to take care of something for me?”

* * *

SAMANTHA’S YOUNGER SISTER MEREDITH WAS THE
first to arrive that night for dinner. At thirty-six, the years of partying and serial dating had begun to take their toll. She was athletic with a swimmer’s shoulders, a strong, straight body, and wavy dark hair that frizzed around a square-jawed face that didn’t make the most of its individual parts. Her temperament was mercurial—one minute sweet and confiding, the next prickly and confrontational. Worse, she was often jealous of what she saw as Samantha’s cushy life and Hunter’s blinding beauty and effortless magnetism; traits he’d inherited from their father and which he wielded with abandon.

After dropping her purse on the counter, Meredith walked directly to the drinks cart where the alcohol and mixers awaited. Samantha had opened a bottle of red wine earlier and left an unopened Chardonnay chilling in ice. “Can I pour you something?” Meredith asked.

“No. I’ve got a glass, thanks.” Samantha set out the Caprese salads that Giancarlo had drizzled with a special balsamic vinaigrette. A loaf of crusty Italian bread waited in the warming oven. The veal was in an oven-to-table pan from which she could fill their plates. At the moment, all felt right with the world.

“I haven’t seen you for almost a week,” Samantha said. “What’s going on?” Meredith lived in a Buckhead condo that Jonathan had bought for her. Hunter preferred Midtown and lived just a few blocks away from the Alexander in a unit that had once belonged to Jonathan’s law firm.

“I heard from Fredi Fainstein.” Meredith named a friend from college. “She’s working up in New York now, and she invited me to come visit.”

“For how long?” Samantha was careful not to mention Cynthia’s intention to refer her to the Atlanta Preservation Board in case it didn’t work out, but she didn’t want to see Meredith miss out on the opportunity.

Meredith shrugged her shoulders, which looked even broader in the striped boatneck sweater she wore. It was an unfortunate choice, but Samantha had learned long ago to never comment on any article of Meredith’s clothing, unless it was to tell her how wonderful she looked. “What difference does it make? It’s not like I’m employed at the moment.”

Samantha hated how blasé she sounded about her lack of employment, as if there were nothing wrong with being idle and letting Jonathan continue to foot her bills. “It won’t be too expensive. I can stay at Fredi’s place. And if you loan me some of your frequent-flyer miles,” she said as if she might one day return them, “the trip will hardly cost anything at all.”

“It’s New York City,” Samantha replied. “
Breathing
is expensive there.”

Meredith’s mouth tightened. “You live in the lap of luxury and Jonathan has more money than God,” she said. “What difference does it make if I go to a few restaurants and shows and pick up a few clothes?”

There were footsteps in the foyer. “Did Meredith just refer to me as God?” Jonathan asked as he entered the living room. He leaned down to kiss Samantha and accept the drink she’d mixed for him, then gave Meredith a brotherly hug. When Meredith was little he used to ruffle her hair and treat her like his own sister, something he’d said he was glad to have, given his only-child status and the amount of attention his mother had always trained on him. For a time he’d called her Merry, but the nickname had been more about wishful thinking than reality and it hadn’t survived the turbulent teenage years when Meredith had been anything but.

“Not exactly.” She shot Meredith a disapproving look.

“Not exactly what?” Hunter had come in so quietly that his voice surprised her. It was as rich and smooth as his appearance and was a potent tool or weapon, depending on his mood. He was just shy of six feet with a lean runner’s body, a chiseled face, the Jackson green eyes, and an almost feline grace. He also had glossy black hair that fell onto his forehead and long, thick eyelashes that both of his sisters envied.

“Nothing,” Samantha said. “I hope everybody’s hungry.”

Jonathan looked at her over his highball glass. From the day they’d married she’d made sure that no matter what she’d done that day, she was dressed and made-up when he got home from the office and had a Tanqueray and tonic waiting for him when he walked through the door. When her siblings had gotten old enough to notice, they’d given her a good bit of grief about being stuck in the fifties, but she had seen it as a token of her appreciation for all he did for them.

“What’s for dinner?” Jonathan asked.

“Veal.” Although Samantha hid the evidence that others had cooked, she was always careful not to come out and actually claim that she’d cooked it. “In fact, we’re having saltimbocca alla Romana.”

“Bless you,” Jonathan said. “I was hoping we’d have Italian tonight.”

“Shocker,” Meredith said. “You’d eat an Italian shoe if someone put marinara sauce on it.”