by Wendy Wax
“I wasn’t the one who wanted out if that’s what you mean. And it’s not like I never worked. I put my husband—or rather my ex-husband—through medical school. And setting up his practice.”
“Wow.” Claire could see the anger and hurt that clouded Brooke’s eyes.
“Yeah,” Brooke said. “But we were up in Boston and my parents and sister were there, so I had child care covered. Here it’s just me. And Zach when he remembers or feels like it.” She took a deep breath like she was trying to calm herself down. Claire remembered all too well how that kind of anxiety felt.
“I know how hard it is to do it alone,” Claire said. “I was an office manager at a communications firm for a lot of years, but I took a lot of extra small jobs to supplement. I even delivered pizzas for a while.” This had ended when she’d seen the discomfort on the faces of Hailey’s friends’ mothers on the occasions when she’d arrived at their doors with their pepperoni pizzas and wings. Every Christmas season she’d worked as many evening and weekend hours as she could get. “I sleepwalked through a lot of those years. But Hailey and I always had each other. I’m not sure who raised whom.”
“Is it true you’re a writer?” Brooke asked.
“Well, I did manage to write and publish two novels,” Claire said. “But I didn’t do it particularly quickly.”
“I think it’s a miracle you did it at all,” Brooke said. “Single mother or not. Are you still writing?”
“Yes.” Or she would be soon. “In fact, this is supposed to be my year of writing full-time.”
“That’s so cool,” Brooke said. “Am I allowed to ask what you’re working on?”
“You are,” Claire said, almost embarrassed by how much more enjoyable it felt to talk about the book than try to write it. “I write historical romance—both of my books were set in seventeenth-century Scotland and so is my new one. It’s about a hero and heroine whose parents have pledged them to each other but who realize they don’t want to get married.”
She watched Brooke Mackenzie’s eyes for a reaction to the story pitch/blurb and was gratified and relieved to see her hazel eyes light with interest.
“That sounds cool,” Brooke said. She leaned forward. “Why don’t they want to get married?”
If Claire knew the answer to that question, she would be up in her condo right now typing her heart out. It took all she had not to ask Brooke what she thought should keep them apart. Claire shifted uneasily in her seat. “Well, I’m still trying to nail down the story details,” she said as if this were not a problem.
Brooke watched her for a long moment as if waiting for more, but Claire had nothing else to offer.
“So was Hailey’s father involved in her life?” Brooke finally asked. “I mean, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“He was. In his way.” Claire knew this was a nonanswer, but Daniel Walker’s approach to parenting and responsibility were even harder to explain than her writing or lack thereof.
Brooke twirled the pen on the paper but made no move to pick it up. “Zachary only takes the girls when his girlfriend has her son. He’s so far removed from the man he was when I married him I hardly know who I’m talking to anymore.”
“People change,” Claire said. “And not always for the better.”
“That’s for sure,” Brooke replied. “But it really, really sucks.”
“I know.” Claire looked at the redhead, who’d let go of the pen and was now fingering a long red curl uncertainly. “Look,” Claire said surprising both of them “I know your girls don’t really know me, but if you need help—well, I’m in the building and I’m sure I could do in a pinch.”
Brooke’s eyes glistened and Claire was afraid the woman was going to cry. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem,” Claire said, fiddling with her straw as a silence fell between them.
Brooke finished her coffee. “Will you be at the screening Sunday night?” she asked.
“I think so,” Claire said. “My daughter’s trying to manage my life from school in Chicago. She threatened me with dire consequences if I don’t attend.”
“How dire?”
“She threatened to post my profile to all the online dating sites. I’m just a mouse click away from the new version of the blind date.”
Brooke laughed. It changed her face completely.
“I’m not planning to let her know how much I enjoyed the screening. I probably would have gone back even without the threats.” Claire finished off her Diet Coke. “To tell you the truth, I can’t wait to see what happens when the Crawleys show up at Downton Abbey. How about you?”
“It looks like Zach will be taking the girls on Sunday nights, so I’m in.” Brooke leaned forward. “Do you think Samantha will be there?”
“I don’t know. She seemed kind of into it, but I’m guessing she has a pretty packed social life already.”
By unspoken agreement they paid their checks and prepared to leave. “I feel kind of bad for calling her a rich bitch,” Brooke said. “I mean she is rich, at least according to my ex-husband who seems to know these things, but she’s a lot nicer than I expected.”
“Yeah,” Claire said though she was still reserving judgment. “I guess she didn’t seem quite as hoity-toity as she looks.”
Out on the sidewalk they said good-bye and headed their separate ways. As she walked north on Peachtree, Claire chewed over the fact that Brooke Mackenzie’s life was far more complicated than she’d suspected. Which meant there was every chance that there was also more to Samantha Davis than expensive clothes, a posh southern accent, and a wealthy husband.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AH, MR. AND MRS. DAVIS,” EDWARD PARKER SAID with a nod of his head. “How are you this fine Sunday afternoon?”
Samantha and Jonathan had just returned from eighteen holes of golf and had only an hour or so before they were to report to Bellewood for Cynthia’s semi-regular weekly Sunday supper.
“Good, Edward.” Jonathan smiled easily at the concierge. “Anytime I’m three strokes or more under par is a good afternoon.”
Samantha considered her husband. Even after all these years she couldn’t understand how he’d turned out so polished but with none of his parents’ superciliousness. He expected and received white-glove treatment in almost every aspect of his life, and therefore never seemed to have to demand it.
“And you, Mrs. Davis?” Edward asked. “Did the greens roll your way?”
“Oh, I squeak by.”
“She underrates herself,” Jonathan said. “Her short game is very impressive.”
Samantha held back a laugh. She played golf because her husband asked her to. And she’d managed to achieve a level of competency that allowed her to avoid embarrassment. When he was in town, Jonathan played in a regular Saturday morning foursome. On Sundays the two of them often did brunch at the club followed by a round of golf together. Samantha played in the occasional charity tournament or when a client wanted to bring his wife along. It could be amusing to play when they traveled. But Samantha could not remember ever waking up in the morning eager to go play golf.
“And will you be able to join us for our Downton Abbey screening this evening?” Edward asked Samantha.
“Oh, I don’t think so, Edward,” Samantha replied. “I only came last week because Jonathan was out of town.” And because the concierge had refused to let her off the hook.
“What’s Downton Abbey?” Jonathan asked.
“It’s a television series,” she said. “From Britain. Edward has started screenings of the first two seasons in anticipation of season three here in the States in January.”
“Oh?” Jonathan asked.
“Yes, it’s set in this fabulous castle in the English countryside. It’s a very elaborately done soap opera with enough history thrown in to make you feel virtuous,” Samantha said, surprised at the enthusiasm she heard in her voice.
“There was quite a nice turnout for the first episode,” E
dward said.
“It was fun,” Samantha conceded. “We had an upstairs maid and a footman serving wine and snacks. And biscuits for dessert.”
“What you would call cookies,” Edward explained to Jonathan.
“It does sound like fun. You should go,” Jonathan said to her.
“Oh, no, I don’t see how. I mean we’re expected at your mother’s.” The only cloud on the Sunday horizon. “You know how she looks forward to seeing you. I mean, us.”
“I imagine something could be arranged,” Jonathan said, his lips quirking. “Unless of course you’d rather go to Bellewood?”
Samantha schooled her features. “I didn’t say that. I mean I don’t . . .” Her voice trailed off. If Jonathan had been her savior, his mother had been her penance. “I mean I know I’m expected,” she said. Like death, taxes, and Wednesday lunches, Sunday supper at Bellewood was something that rolled inexorably around.
“Yes, well. If you’re able to work it out, I know we’d all like for you to join us, Mrs. Davis,” Edward said. “I was very glad to have a board member present last week and would love for that to continue.” He nodded and smiled pleasantly. “If you’ll excuse me?” With a nod, the concierge headed toward the security desk.
Samantha and Jonathan walked to the elevator. When they were inside he said, “You know, I’ve been trying to think of a way to give Mother a little more of my time. Maybe we should change things up a little. Representing the condo board is a valid commitment, which I’m sure she’d understand. Besides you already see her for lunch every week.” He fixed his gaze on hers. “How do you think she’d feel about spending Sunday evenings just with me? Just until the screenings are over?” he asked as they exited the elevator.
“Seriously?” Cynthia Davis would probably be turning cartwheels at the thought. If it wouldn’t have shocked Jonathan to the core, Samantha might have done a few down the newly re-carpeted hall herself even at the idea of being excused from the formal Sunday meal in the dining room that was far too large for the three of them.
“I’m sure she’d love some time alone with you,” Samantha said carefully. Cynthia would have the best of all possible worlds—her son to herself and a legitimate excuse to criticize her daughter-in-law. “But I wouldn’t want her to think that I’m avoiding her.” She waited while he put a key in the lock and pushed the front door open.
“I’ll take care of it,” Jonathan said, following her into the condo, through the kitchen, and back into the bedroom. “I’ll tell her it was my idea and I had to talk you into it.”
She looked at her husband in admiration. “You can be so Machiavellian.”
“I’ve got some skills. But I try not to use them for evil.” He shucked off his golf clothes and reached into the two-person shower to turn on the water. Her eyes strayed to his wide shoulders, then skimmed down to his trim hips and muscled thighs. He turned and caught her looking. His blue eyes darkened.
“Here, let me help you.” His sure fingers unbuttoned her golf shirt, then moved to the waistband of her shorts. A moment later she was down to her bra and panties. “There. Much better.” He unhooked her bra and cupped a breast, skimming the pad of his thumb across her nipple.
Samantha shivered as he removed the rest of her clothing. Sunlight penetrated the clerestory windows and streaked across their naked bodies. “It’s the middle of the afternoon,” she said, feeling deliciously wicked.
“I know.” His lips passed over her bare shoulder on their way to the nape of her neck.
“You’ll be late for supper,” she protested as he brought his lips down on hers and pulled her tight against him.
“She’ll forgive me,” he murmured against her lips. “And it’s not like I can go there without showering first.”
She didn’t understand how he turned her on so easily; a look, a touch—sometimes that was all it took. Was it his knowledge of her body that gave him this power? Or was she simply conditioned to respond to him? She didn’t know. At the moment she didn’t care.
“Come on.” His voice turned husky as he took her hand and led her into the shower. Steamy heat enveloped them. Water sluiced down their bodies, turning them slick and wet. “Come here.” He pulled her up against him. “I’ll scrub your back if you scrub mine.”
* * *
BROOKE COULD HARDLY BELIEVE HOW MUCH SHE was looking forward to that night’s screening of Downton Abbey. For the first time since Zachary had moved out, she had something she wanted to do and people she wanted to do it with.
She made a salad for dinner, picked up the girls’ rooms, then adjourned to the large walk-in closet where she contemplated the sparsely filled space. Her clothes were few and chosen for serviceability; things that didn’t wrinkle or require too much thought or maintenance. Zachary had been the clotheshorse and she’d had no problem with him taking up more than half of the considerable closet space. He’d believed that clothes could, in fact, make the man. And said repeatedly that you only got one chance to make a first impression. Which was, after all, what plastic surgery was all about.
She frowned as she noticed not just how few things there were but how beige those things seemed. Once she’d loved bright colors accented with bold blacks and whites. Somewhere along the way she’d begun to gravitate toward what she’d at first called earth tones, but which actually turned out to be various shades of beige and brown. The boldest thing in her closet was a brown-and-beige striped shirtwaist. She put it on, trying not to look at the way the fabric strained across the bust and waist. In the bathroom she applied more makeup than she’d worn in the last month to no discernible effect—she could still see every freckle that dappled her face. “Oh, stop,” she said to herself. “No one’s going to be looking at you anyway. You’re going to go, watch the program, and leave.” But she hoped Claire Walker would be there so she’d have someone to sit with.
Not wanting to be the first to arrive, she watched the clock and waited until exactly eight o’clock before taking the elevator to the clubroom. Hand on knob, she drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she reminded herself. “You live here just like everyone else. All you have to do is smile, eat some popcorn, have a drink, and watch Downton Abbey.” Despite the pep talk, she suspected that if Callan and Logan Ritchie and their mother, Rebecca, hadn’t come up behind her and swept her inside with them, she might have turned and fled.
Edward Parker stood just inside near the bar and food table. The popcorn machine was frantically popping and the smell of fresh buttered popcorn reached her nose. Bags stood at the ready. Appetizers she didn’t recognize had been laid out on the table.
“Welcome, Mrs. Mackenzie. I’m so glad you could make it.”
Brooke smiled at the concierge. “I’m glad to be here. What is that Isabella is dishing up?”
“Angels on horseback—those are oysters wrapped in bacon. We also have miniature Cornish pasties—a pastry shell filled with meat, potato, and onion along with a bit of rutabaga. In their full size they’re a meal all wrapped in one. James is serving shandies tonight—a mixture of lager and lemonade that I think you’ll enjoy. I hope you’ll give everything a try.”
“Absolutely.” Ignoring the feel of the too-tight dress that encased her, she stepped up to the table.
“’Ello, Miz Mackenzie, ’ows ya ’angin’?” Isabella asked brightly as she handed Brooke a plate of hors d’ oeuvres.
Edward winced, but his smile didn’t waver. “A shandy for Mrs. Mackenzie, please, James.”
James, apparently content with a nonspeaking role, gave her a friendly nod and began to pour. When Brooke looked up from her glass she noticed that the concierge was studying her intently. He turned when the door opened. Sadie Hopewell and her neighbor Myra Mackelbaum arrived. Mimi Davenport stepped in right behind them. Diamonds sparkled on her fingers and at her throat.
“Ah, ladies, welcome.” Edward reintroduced Brooke. “You look lovely tonight, Mrs. Davenport. Very sparkly.
”
“Why, thank you, Edward,” the woman drawled. “But I’ve told you to call me Mimi,” the petite woman said with a coquettish smile at the concierge. She offered Brooke a smile. “Very nice to see you again,” the woman said in a blur of long vowels and consonants.
“We’ll get started in about ten minutes,” Edward said to both of them. “So do try the food and drink.”
The professors Melinda and Diana arrived as did the nurse, Anna. As he had with the others, Edward greeted each new arrival, escorted them to the food and drink, and reintroduced everyone, initiating conversation. The noise level began to rise. Brooke had finished the appetizers and her shandy was almost gone. She was weighing the advisability of having another when Claire Walker arrived. Brooke felt her shoulders relax as the woman walked toward her.
“I thought you’d decided not to come,” Brooke said.
“And end up plastered over every dating site known to man?” Claire laughed. “No, there’s just something about living so close that makes me think there’s no rush. I’m just down the hall, so I figured I had plenty of time. What are you drinking?”
“It’s a shandy.” Brooke held up her empty glass. “It’s a combination of lager and lemonade.”
“Really?” Claire wrinkled her nose. “I’m not a big beer drinker.”
“Me, neither, but it’s pretty good,” Brooke said. “Light and tart. I could hardly taste the beer.”
“Sounds . . . interesting.”
They walked to the bar together. James served them with his sweet smile and nod. Raising their glasses in salute, they drank.
“Ummm, that is good,” Claire said.
“Yeah, you don’t want to miss the Cornish pasties or the angels on horseback, either.”
Claire smiled. “This just gets better and better.” Her glass empty, she held it out to James for a refill. Without asking she took Brooke’s glass and set it in front of him then accepted a plate of hors d’oeuvres from Isabella.
“’Ave to pace yourself, mum,” Isabella said with a curtsy. “The drink packs a bigger wollop than ye might think.”