While We Were Watching Downton Abbey (7 page)

“I met someone just the other day.” She thought about the red-haired woman with the children and the dog that had plowed her down. She’d recognized the harried look in the woman’s eyes. Claire had worn one very like it for most of Hailey’s toddler and elementary school years.

“Maybe you should go to some activity or something.” There was the sound of fingers clattering on a keyboard. “I’m on the building’s website.” More clattering. “Hey, the concierge has posted a calendar for residents. He’s going to be previewing the first two seasons of
Downton Abbey
, Mom. There are a ton of people here on campus who are in love with the series. It’s kind of an Edwardian England soap opera with really great clothes and cool accents that was filmed in a real castle.”

Claire vaguely remembered seeing an invitation in her mailbox, but did she really want to go watch a television show with a group of strangers when she had her very own brand-new flat-screen TV right here? “I don’t need to go to a formal screening. If I want to see the series I can get it from Netflix or download it. Or, I don’t know, my fabulous daughter could give me the DVD for Christmas.”

“Mom,” Hailey said as if talking to a child. “The point isn’t that you have to see the series, although it sounds totally up your alley—I mean, you do write historical fiction. The point is it’s an opportunity to meet people you might like. I’m sure it’ll be mostly women. How bad could it be to spend an hour once a week with a group of women from your building?

“What was it you used to tell me practically every day of my life?” Hailey asked pointedly.

A smile tugged at Claire’s lips. “That you have to put yourself in the right place. That things don’t just happen without effort,” Claire said as she had so many times during Hailey’s angst-filled teenage years. They had been words to live by, but she hadn’t imagined having them turned on her.

“You need new friends,” her daughter said. “This is exactly the kind of situation where you might make some.”

“Honestly, Hailey. This is ridiculous. I don’t need you managing my life.”

“Just trying to return the favor,” Hailey replied crisply. “I say you go tonight and make an effort to meet people or . . .”

“Or what?” Claire asked.

“Or I’m going to post your profile to every dating site I can think of.”

“That’s blackmail,” Claire observed.

“Kind of.”

“There’s no ‘kind of’ about it,” Claire protested. “When did you get so bossy?”

“Well, my mother taught me that sometimes you do have to lead the horse to water and make him drink.”

“I’m not a horse.”

“No,” Hailey conceded. “But you are kind of acting like a horse’s ass about this.”

“I am not. I just . . .”

“I know.” Hailey’s voice turned softer. “I know it’s not all that easy to start over. Especially at your age.”

“I’m not that old,” Claire protested.

“I get it, Mom. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you off the hook,” Hailey said with finality.

“Hailey. I . . .”

“Gotta run, Mom. But I’ll expect a report about the screening tomorrow.”

“I . . .”

“And no Cliffs Notes or Internet watching. I want to hear who was there, what the concierge had to say, and whether he served anything ‘British’ like the description says. Maybe you’ll have tea and crumpets.”

“Hailey!”

“I’m not kidding, Mom,” the steamroller formerly known as Hailey Walker said. “I’ll call Edward Parker myself and ask if you were there if I have to.”

Claire couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. She began a last sputtered protest, but Hailey cut her off.

“It’s
Downton Abbey
screenings on Sunday nights,” Hailey said. “Or Internet dating. The choice is yours.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

S
AMANTHA DIDN’T EXACTLY TRY TO OUTRUN
Edward Parker on her way from the parking garage to the elevators that Sunday evening. But she might have moved a little more quickly than necessary when she saw him crossing the lobby in her direction and realized where he was headed.

She’d had the most amazing weekend. With Jonathan unexpectedly delayed out on the West Coast, her mother- in-law laid up with a head cold, Meredith in New York, and Hunter up at the lake house with friends, Samantha had had the entire weekend to herself; something that had happened less than a handful of times in the last twenty-six years.

Feeling a bit like a soldier who surprises himself by going AWOL, she’d blown off all kinds of things before she’d even realized she intended to. Yesterday she’d skipped a symphony guild committee luncheon in order to have lunch at the Varsity instead. There, she’d pulled up to the curb of the seventy-five-year-old institution near the Georgia Tech campus, let a carhop deliver her chili cheese slaw dog, frozen orange shake, and fried peach pie, and devoured every bite.

Last night she’d dodged a formal fund-raiser in order to stay in and watch a
House Hunters
and
House Hunters International
marathon on HGTV. Today instead of stopping by Bellewood to check on her mother-in-law’s health, Samantha had spent a delicious afternoon at IKEA where she’d covered every inch of every floor of the massive showroom, studying each inexpensive accessory and stick of space-saving furniture with the same fascination she’d once displayed at the Museum of Modern Art, the pyramids at Giza, and the impressionist wing at the Louvre.

She’d dawdled happily for hours, confident she wouldn’t run into anyone she knew, hemming and hawing over a $9.99 desk lamp and a $2.00 mouse pad shaped like a stiletto. Famished from all the delectable dithering, she stopped in the cafeteria where she bought and consumed a huge helping of Swedish meatballs and mashed potatoes buried in cream sauce.

When Jonathan got home tomorrow, their “schedule” and the parameters of their life would snap back into place. But for these last remaining hours she really, really wanted to do more—or was that less—of the same.

“Mrs. Davis?” She’d made it to the elevators and pushed the call button when the concierge’s voice sounded somewhere behind her.

She liked Edward Parker and was genuinely glad that he had been awarded the concierge contract. She was also wholeheartedly in favor of his ideas for enhancing the sense of community in the building. But she was having far too fabulous a weekend flouting her obligations to give in to one now. She didn’t turn around.

The elevator arrived and the door opened with a ding. Samantha stepped on.

“Can you hold the elevator?” Parker’s voice had drawn closer.

Samantha moved a finger toward the “door close” button. Hesitated. Aimed it toward the “door open” button. Pulled it back. She’d already begun imagining lying around the condo in her oldest, most comfortable pajamas, idly flipping through channels while consuming a final high-calorie-artery-hardening meal—maybe even a Double Coronary Bypass Burger from the Vortex down the street.

Still struggling with her conscience, Samantha pushed a button but wasn’t completely sure which one. The doors began to close.

A white-cuffed black-sleeved arm inserted itself between the closing elevator doors. They sprang open and Edward Parker stepped inside. “I was a bit afraid that my arm would go up with you and the rest of me would stay here on the first floor.”

“I’m so sorry,” she began. “I couldn’t seem to get to the ‘door open’ button in time. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I could see there was quite a struggle going on.” His words came out in an amused lilt that matched the knowing look in his eyes.

“Sorry,” she said, trying not to look guilty. “Which floor do you want?”

“Why, eight, of course,” he replied. “Here, allow me.” He reached forward and pressed the button. “I do hope you’re planning to attend the screening.”

She feigned surprise. “Is that tonight?” she asked with a regretful shake of her head. “Oh.” She shook it again for good measure. “I’m so sorry. I completely forgot.” Not quite able to meet his eye, she glanced down at her watch. It was seven forty-five. “I don’t see how I could possibly change and be there by eight.” The elevator began its ascent. “Maybe next week.”

He flashed her a knowing smile and she sighed. For someone who professed to have forgotten a scheduled event, she was embarrassingly aware of the details. “We’re going to socialize a bit before we get started. You can take all the time you need to change, though I think it will be quite casual.”

“Oh, I don’t know . . .”

“And since I’m the emcee and the projectionist I can make sure we don’t begin until you come down.” He smiled at her, un-fooled and unfazed by her excuses. His brown eyes remained warm and slightly amused. A dimple creased his cheek.

They reached the eighth floor and the doors slid open. He pushed the twelfth-floor button for her since she’d completely forgotten to, then kept his finger on the “door open” button; a move that was, of course, far less complicated than she’d tried to make it appear.

“Really,” he said. “I don’t want to be a nuisance about this, but I think your presence would give the activity an important stamp of approval.”

There were voices in the hall. A good-sized gathering of women milled around the clubroom door.

“It looks like you’ve already got a good turnout,” she said, relieved. Surely it wouldn’t matter whether she was there or not as long as there was a crowd.

“Yes,” the concierge said, pleased. “But I’m looking for a cross section of residents and as I said I think it’s a good idea to have a board member participate.” He smiled the warmly elegant smile, then shot her a wink. “I’ll save you a seat and have wine and popcorn waiting.”

The man was smooth. And persistent. But at least he was gentleman enough to keep the triumph out of his eyes.

“I’ll see you in twenty minutes.” She conceded as gracefully as she could. “I prefer red wine. And I’ll be expecting extra butter on my popcorn when I get there.”

“As you wish, madam,” he said with a small bow and a large smile. The elevator doors slid smoothly shut.

* * *

PLEASED WITH THE TURNOUT, EDWARD
contemplated the dozen-plus women who’d come for the screening and took a moment to match up faces with names. He greeted Sadie Hopewell, a sixtyish widow who’d moved to Atlanta to be near her children, and her neighbor Myra Mackelbaum, whose husband had invented some sort of elastic band, and introduced them to the white-haired, and apparently light-fingered, Mimi Davenport.

There was Anna Bacall, a no-nonsense RN who worked the overnight shift at Emory Hospital talking to Melinda Greene and her longtime partner Diana Smith, both of whom taught comparative literature at Georgia State and Georgia Tech respectively.

The twentysomething Ritchie twins, nice-looking girls who’d recently graduated from Savannah College of Art and Design and moved back in with their parents while they looked for jobs, had come with their mother, Rebecca. Thanking them all for coming, he drew Claire Walker, who’d moved into a studio unit and was reported to be a writer, closer to the bar and into conversation with the women in front of and behind her.

In keeping with the
Downton Abbey
theme, he’d dressed two of his staff as servants of the period and brought them up to serve food and drinks. James Hicks wore livery copied from Edward’s grandfather’s actual uniform, and smiled and bowed formally as he poured and offered wine behind the bar. Isabella Morales, an aspiring actress, was dressed as a ladies’ maid and seemed to be having a “go” at a British accent as she passed out bags of popcorn and offered appetizer-sized mincemeat pies.

He was surprised, but glad, to see that Brooke Mackenzie had come. She sat on the edge of one of the sofas clutching the arm as if for support. He knew her husband had left her soon after he’d moved the family into the building and he’d seen the uncertain desperation in her face as she’d ridden out the divorce that had quickly followed. He suspected the tears in the fitness room were but a drop in the bucket she’d shed. He carried a bottle of wine over. “I’m so pleased you could join us. May I refill your glass?”

“Oh, I don’t know if I should,” she said immediately, shaking her head.

“That’s one of the advantages of coming to an event in the building,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about drinking and driving, do you? What do you say? May I?” He laid on the accent a bit. In his experience some people found it oddly reassuring.

She smiled and held up her glass.

“There you are,” he said as he poured. “I’ll ask Isabella to bring you a spot of popcorn, too. Do you mind saving the seat next to you? Another resident asked me to reserve her a space as well.”

“Sure.” Her face brightened and a faint blush spread across her cheeks, blending the relief map of freckles into a becoming pink. Her hazel eyes were quite nice when she wasn’t casting them down.

At the bar he instructed Isabella to give Samantha Davis wine and popcorn when she arrived and then escort her down to the seat next to Brooke Mackenzie.

“Aye, I will, cap’n,” she said with real Cockney fervor. “Ye can be sure o’ that.”

“Not bad,” he said. “You might want to aim for the accent of someone bent on improving herself and rising professionally by imitating her mistress’s accent. Rather than emulating a pirate in a Walt Disney film.”

“Right, cap’n.”

He raised an eyebrow, careful not to laugh.

“I mean, yes, milord.” She curtsied.

“Better,” he said. “You do have an ear, Isabella. You just have to be careful what you’re listening to.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Better still,” Edward said. “You’ll see what I mean when the program airs. Pay careful attention to Joanne Froggatt, who plays Anna. She’s nailed the part of a person in her station perfectly.”

Shortly after eight he invited everyone to find a seat and made sure no one sat off alone. Once everyone was settled, all eyes turned to him expectantly. The room fell silent.

“Thank you so much for coming tonight,” he said. “I believe I’ve met all of you since taking on the Alexander six months ago. I love this building and am very happy to be serving as your concierge. I hope that you’ll let me know if there’s anything I, or the rest of the building staff, can do to make things more comfortable. My firm, Private Butler, also works with individual clients, so if anyone should need more than the building provides, please let me know.”

The door opened and Samantha Davis stepped into the room. He nodded to Isabella and she did as he’d asked, though in what sort of accent he didn’t know. Brooke Mackenzie’s eyes went wide with apprehension as Samantha was shown to the seat next to her. Hoping that he hadn’t erred in placing them together, Edward gave them both a nod and a smile, then resumed his introduction.

“I suggested screening
Downton Abbey
, which airs here on PBS in the winter after showing first in England, because it’s all the rage—I believe it’s showing in some one hundred countries. I also chose it because I feel a special affinity for the production. As some of you may have noticed, I’m British.” He paused for the laughter. “Shocking, I know.

“
Downton Abbey
is a beautifully done Edwardian drama. Like the earlier Upstairs Downstairs series of the 1970s, it chronicles the life of an important English estate both above and below stairs.

The thing is a number of generations of my family were ‘in service.’ In fact, both my grandfather and great-grandfather were valets to the Earls of Montclaire in Nottinghamshire, which is very near where my family still lives. My great-uncle Mason was a footman.

As those of you who’ve seen my résumé know, after a long career in hotel management, I wanted a more personal experience more closely based on what my ancestors had done. I became a concierge—which a lot of my colleagues saw as a step backward—and now I’m applying many of the things my forebears learned and passed on regarding enhancing the quality of life for others.”

He watched their faces and saw their interest. It was time to let the program speak for itself.

“My father owns and runs a pub, so I also know the importance of a generous ‘pour.’ Who else would like their drinks topped off or more popcorn before we begin?”

There were murmurs and glasses raised. It was clear most of the crowd had come intending to enjoy themselves. “Good,” he said. “I’ll pour while Isabella refills popcorn.”

He picked up a bottle each of red and white, then began to move about the room. He kept an eye on Samantha Davis and Brooke Mackenzie as he made sure everyone was comfortable and settled in. The two had nodded to each other when the latecomer had been seated, but they looked horribly stiff. Almost, he thought, as if someone had run a broomstick up their backsides. If they didn’t watch out, someone, possibly him, might accuse them of being closet Brits.

* * *

KEEPING HER BACK STRAIGHT, BROOKE LEANED
away from Samantha Davis and into the arm of the sofa. She did this carefully so as not to appear rude and in order to avoid jouncing the other woman’s arm as she drained the glass of red wine. Brooke had only come tonight because the apartment had felt so empty without the girls. She’d needed to be somewhere else for at least a little while; somewhere with people who wouldn’t see her as Zachary did. But this woman in her designer clothes and expensive hair, who could show up late and be led to a front-row seat, had seen her at her absolute worst.