While We Were Watching Downton Abbey

by Wendy Wax

  “No, no, it’s nothing like that,” he hastened to reassure her. “I think they’re quite a breath of fresh air to tell you the truth. The Alexander is a beautiful and very regal building, but we wouldn’t want it to get too stuffy now, would we?”

  “No?”

  “No.” He said this as emphatically as he could without frightening her. Although “casual” was not his “go-to” demeanor, he leaned back against the edge of his desk and motioned her to the chair across from it. “Please have a seat, won’t you?”

  He waited for her to be seated though he wasn’t certain that perching that gingerly on the edge of a chair qualified.

  “I’ve actually asked you here to discuss something quite unrelated to the building. The truth of the matter is I have a favor to ask of you.”

  Surprise suffused her face, turning it almost as bright as her hair. “I’m not sure I understand what I could do for you,” she said quietly.

  “I’ve made quite a muddle of this, haven’t I?” He offered his most winning smile. “I think you’ve heard me mention my company, Private Butler?”

  She nodded warily.

  “Well, in addition to the Alexander I’ve been providing concierge services to private clients as well.”

  She nodded again. Her body remained rigid.

  “The thing is,” he said. “Business is growing quite rapidly. But on occasion I get a request that is quite beyond my usual sphere. Or that of the people in my employ.”

  “And you have something in my sphere?”

  “I think so. Or rather, I hope so.”

  She waited, her eyes locked with his. He could read the doubt in them.

  “You see I’ve had a request for a child’s birthday party. More specifically a six-year-old girl’s birthday party. With, um, all the pertinent trimmings.”

  “Seriously?” It was clear that whatever she’d been anticipating, this was not it.

  “Yes,” he replied. “And since you have daughters right around that age I assumed you’d know what would need to be done.”

  She continued to study him, waiting for more. If nothing else, he had her attention.

  “You’d be earning close to five hundred dollars for the planning and implementation. Plus the client will pay all the out-of-pocket expenses.”

  He saw the glimmer of interest that lit her eyes, but wasn’t sure whether money alone would be enough to tempt her out of her comfort zone. “The father is a fairly recent widower and he wants to have his daughter’s party at home in the old-fashioned way. With”—he looked down at his notes—“pin the tail on the donkey and clothespins dropped in milk bottles.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “I’m not sure they make those kinds of clothespins or milk bottles anymore.”

  “Yes, well, I imagine some sort of improvising—or negotiating—may prove necessary. But he felt very strongly about the party feeling . . . homemade. And he’s given us carte blanche to make it feel that way.”

  She looked at him. “Did someone tell you I needed a job?” she asked quietly.

  “No,” he replied, though he had sensed from the day he’d met him that Zachary Mackenzie was not one to treat others as well as he treated himself. He’d had to call on every ounce of training he possessed not to blanch when the man had come in to look at available units for himself and his girlfriend.

  “I’m the one in need, Mrs. Mackenzie. I didn’t want to turn the gentleman down, but I promise you he doesn’t want me showing up to plan and implement this party. It’s very important to him.” He hesitated. “And to his motherless daughter.” He did not look heavenward or cross himself when he said this, but he hoped he’d be forgiven for making so free with the Daltons’ tragedy. “Is this something you would know how to do?”

  “I’ve given parties at home for both the girls. But they were simple, inexpensive things. Nothing special.”

  “Well, that’s exactly what he’s looking for. And I’m sure he’d be perfectly happy with whatever you suggest.”

  “But I . . . I don’t know this man or his daughter. And I’m not really good at . . .”

  “Before you refuse, would you at least meet with him to discuss it?” he asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Her eyes had clouded with uncertainty, but he thought he saw a glimmer of something else there, too.

  “You’d be making a real difference to a little girl who’s lost her mother.” He imagined the lightning bolt he so richly deserved, but forged ahead. “The birthday girl’s name is Marissa Dalton.” He pulled a notepad over and wrote Bruce Dalton’s name, address, and phone number on it. He scribbled Marissa beneath it and ripped the page from the pad.

  “You know, I’m really not sure . . .” Brooke Mackenzie was shaking her head, preparing to retreat.

  “Just promise me you’ll call him and set up a meeting to discuss the party with him,” Edward cut in smoothly. “After that meeting, if you feel it’s not something you want to do, I’ll let him know we won’t be able to help him.”

  “I guess I could do that,” she said, though she didn’t look happy about it.

  “Splendid.” He stood and she did the same. He’d learned long ago that once you got what you wanted it was best to conclude the conversation before the other party could change his or her mind. “Here’s his information. Just tell him you’re part of Private Butler and that I asked you to call.”

  “All right.” She held the notepaper by one corner as if it were a telegram from outer space, but she didn’t hand it back. “I’ll call him today. And I’ll let you know what I think after I meet with him.” She hesitated. “But I’m really not certain that I have the skills necessary to represent your company in this kind of a professional capacity.”

  He studied her closely and thought how misleading an exterior could be; how small a part of a person it really revealed. Brooke Mackenzie wasn’t beautiful. She didn’t have a veneer of sophistication, did not possess so much as a hint of swagger. Her eyes were clouded with self-doubt. But buried deep inside there was bedrock, he was sure of this. “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, I think you underestimate yourself, Mrs. Mackenzie.”

  She looked at him oddly, clearly not understanding what he meant.

  “I’m certain you can handle this,” he said gently. “After all it’s not everyone who could handle having her ex-husband and his girlfriend move into her building with such aplomb. You have an amazing amount of self-possession. I’m sure a child’s birthday party is nothing in comparison.”

  “What did you say?” Brooke Mackenzie’s voice didn’t rise above a whisper. But that whisper was fraught with the same horror he now saw reflected in her eyes.

  Good Lord. Edward felt a great deal of horror himself at what was apparently a complete and utter lack of discretion on his part.

  She blinked rapidly. He could feel the effort she was expending not to cry.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said wishing there was something, anything, he might say that would erase his horrible, inexcusable, mistake from both of their memories. “I assumed you already knew that Mr. Mackenzie had purchased the three bedroom on the tenth floor. He and Ms. Grant are scheduled to move into it in two weeks’ time.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ARE YOU SURE?”

  “Absolutely.” Samantha eyed her husband, who was already dressed for their Sunday round of golf. “I do have a bit of a headache and a round of golf and Sunday dinner with you is going to make Cynthia feel like it’s her birthday, Mother’s Day, and Christmas all rolled into one.”

  “I hate to leave you all afternoon when I’m flying out to Boston right after dinner.”

  “It’s okay,” Samantha said. “It’ll be my gift to your mother for arranging an interview for Meredith at the Atlanta Preservation Board. But if you tell her I begged you to stay home and you insisted on asking her to play instead, she’ll enjoy it even more.” She had no doubt that this many hours alone with her son would send Cynthia into the genteel vers
ion of hog heaven.

  “All right. But I’m tempted to tell her the truth so you get at least a little credit.” He leaned down to kiss her.

  “Up to you,” Samantha said as he turned to go. “But why hollow out her sense of victory?”

  After Jonathan left Samantha downed two more Advil and reached for her cell phone. The headache had begun as a small throb behind the eyes the day before when Jonathan had handed her a copy of her American Express bill. He’d said only, “When exactly are you expecting Meredith back?” but his eyes had been carefully blank and the tick in his cheek pronounced.

  Samantha had already been trying to reach Meredith for almost twenty-four hours at that point. Her interview at the Preservation Board was set for Tuesday and Samantha had booked a flight home from New York for her on Monday, but was not at all positive Meredith would be on that flight since she hadn’t yet spoken to her.

  Now, with renewed determination—and desperation—she found Fredi Fainstein’s cell phone number and called it, holding her breath as it rang.

  “’Lo?”

  “Fredi?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Samantha Davis. Meredith’s sister.”

  “Oh.”

  There was a silence. As if a hand were covering the mouthpiece.

  “Fredi,” Samantha said. “Please put her on the phone now.” She imitated the tone she’d heard Jonathan use when he would brook no argument.

  There was what sounded like a scuffle and then Meredith was on the line.

  “What’s the big emergency?” Meredith asked, her tone belligerent. The clatter of cutlery and laughter-laced conversation sounded in the background.

  “If you’d responded to any of my emails, phone messages, or texts you’d know that Cynthia has arranged an interview at the Atlanta Preservation Board first thing Tuesday morning.”

  Silence.

  “We pay for your phone and Internet primarily so that we have the ability to communicate with you. And yet you don’t respond.” Samantha realized she sounded as sullen as Meredith. No, not sullen. She was well and truly pissed.

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Yes, I realized that when I saw my AmEx bill,” Samantha said.

  “But I don’t want to come back now,” Meredith whined. “Fredi’s been introducing me to absolutely everybody. I met Mary-Kate and Ashley Olson at a party last week. And I sat at a table right next to Ashton Kutcher’s table at this adorable little restaurant in SoHo. Our knees were practically touching.”

  “And this would help you find a job how?” Samantha asked.

  There was a brief pause. “The Frick thing didn’t pan out. But I did meet someone who knows someone at Sotheby’s. I think I might be able to turn that into . . . something.”

  “Meredith. Today is Sunday. The interview is Tuesday. I’ve booked a flight for you out of LaGuardia at ten a.m. tomorrow.”

  Meredith remained silent.

  “The job’s not yours yet. You have to actually show up and impress them.” She backed off a notch. If she made Meredith too angry, there’d be no talking to her. “As you are perfectly capable of doing when you want to.”

  “But I can’t come back now. Not when I’m starting to make inroads here.” There was a pause as Meredith regrouped.

  It was Samantha’s turn to remain silent.

  “It’s not fair. It’s easy there for you married to Jonathan and everything. But I like it up here where things are actually happening. And . . . I met someone, Samantha. I need to stay here and see where it leads.”

  Samantha knew exactly where it would lead if in fact it were even true. She’d heard the same thing far too many times to hold out any real hope that Meredith would ever be attracted to or settle for the kind of man she really needed. Or a life that didn’t revolve solely around herself.

  And whose fault was that? she asked herself. Herself did not answer. “I’m sorry,” Samantha said determined not to be swayed. “But Cynthia’s called in quite a few favors on your behalf. You will be at that interview and you will be charming and professional. Once you have a job and the money to take yourself back to New York for a visit, you’ll go. Or you can invite him down here. We’d all be glad to meet him.”

  Samantha could feel the waves of resentment behind Meredith’s silence. “I’ll be at the airport to pick you up. If you’re not there, your credit cards will be canceled and your bank account closed.” And then because she couldn’t stay on the phone another minute, she said, “Have a nice day,” and hung up.

  Barely thirty seconds later her phone rang. She drew a shaky breath of relief. She’d been afraid Meredith wouldn’t come to her senses. Meredith had never mastered the art of apologizing. Samantha would meet her halfway.

  “Meredith, I’m sorry. I know you didn’t mean—”

  “Sorry,” Hunter’s voice cut in. “Wrong sibling.”

  “Oh.” Samantha hurried to regroup. “What’s going on?” She hadn’t seen Hunter in more than a week. “Is everything all right?”

  “Of course,” he said heartily. Too heartily. “I was just wondering if I could come by and speak to you tonight.”

  Samantha’s antennae quivered. “About what?”

  “Can’t a guy just stop by to see his sister without an ulterior motive?”

  It was possible that some brothers did this. Hunter wasn’t one of them. Hunter Jackson was a weigher of options, a contemplator of angles.

  “Of course,” she said. “I’ve got a screening in the building tonight. And I’m picking Meredith up at the airport around twelve thirty tomorrow, but other than that I’m pretty open.

  “Tomorrow could be too late,” he said curtly. Which pretty much eliminated the possibility that this bore any resemblance to a casual drop-in. “I’m getting ready to board a flight back from DC and I need to stop off at my apartment when I get in,” he said. “Can’t you just go to whatever you’re doing after we talk?”

  Samantha’s jaw clenched. As always, he expected her to drop whatever she was doing simply because he wanted or needed something. But she’d been looking forward to the Downton Abbey screening and it was clear that whatever he wanted to talk about was not going to put a smile on her face. Still agitated from her argument with Meredith, she wasn’t inclined to humor him.

  “I’m going to be in the clubroom on the eighth floor,” she said, making up her mind. Maybe if she spoke to him in a public place it wouldn’t be as bad as she was starting to fear it would be. “It’s right across from the fitness room on the way to the pool. Just come in and get me.”

  “Okay.” His agreement was grudging. She could tell he was surprised that she would put her own plans before his needs. Once again she had to ask herself whose fault was that? Once again her “self” didn’t want to answer.

  Just before eight, Samantha took the elevator down to the clubroom, where a definite party atmosphere prevailed. Some of the women had already moved to their chairs and couches. She spotted the tops of Brooke and Claire’s heads on the sofa they’d claimed for their own and was pleased to see the seat between them open. Edward shot her a smile when she entered, James handed her a glass of wine, and Isabella cocked her head and said, “The yooshall, me’lady?”

  “Yes, thanks.” She accepted the bag of popcorn and made her way down toward the front of the room.

  “Is this seat taken?” she asked when she reached the sofa.

  “Only by you,” Claire said with a tap of the cushion. Brooke gave her a shy smile as she settled in between them.

  “I see we’re back to wine,” Samantha said to Claire. “I think you scared Edward away from the shandies and back to the straight and narrow.”

  “Works for me,” Claire said. “I’m not planning to let any beer of mine get in the same room as a glass of lemonade anytime soon.”

  Brooke raised an eyebrow and smiled. But the smile was fleeting. Her brow furrowed.

  Edward Parker took his place in front of the screen. “Welcome, ladies
,” he said, raising his arms and his voice above the din. Conversations ended and all eyes turned to the concierge. “I don’t think you need any introduction from me tonight, but I do hope you’ll stay for a bit afterward. We’ll be having apple crumble for ‘afters’ with a choice of brandies.”

  There were murmurs of pleasure as Edward aimed the remote at the DVD player. “So now without further ado,” he said. “I bring you episode three.”

  The theme music swelled as the concierge stepped out of the way. Downton Abbey appeared on the screen. Samantha gave a mental heave, trying to push Meredith and Hunter from her mind as she and every other person in the room leaned forward, eager and ready to be transported.

  * * *

  KEMAL PAMUK, THE TURKISH DIPLOMAT LADY MARY had been flirting with since they met at the hunt earlier that day, appeared in Mary’s bedroom. Was he going to harm her? Was she actually going to flout propriety and . . .

  The tap on Samantha’s shoulder yanked her out of Lady Mary’s bedroom with a gasp. Heads turned her way but only briefly. Even she was having a hard time tearing her eyes from the screen.

  “Hey,” Hunter whispered.

  It took her a moment to come back to the present. When she did she could see what looked like panic in her brother’s eyes. Worry creased his face. “Hey,” she whispered back even as she girded her loins.

  Claire and Brooke tore their gazes from the screen to look at her.

  “Be right back,” she said and hoped this would be the case.

  Samantha bent down so she wouldn’t block anyone’s view and led Hunter toward the door. No one paid them any mind. It seemed that Lady Mary was about to have sex with Pamuk. Samantha couldn’t believe she was going to miss it.

  When Hunter hesitated near the bar, she shook her head and motioned him out into the hall. He hugged her a trifle too hard.

  She looked steadily at him, her heart already pounding with dread. “What’s wrong,” she asked. “Are you ill?”

  “I wish.” He said this quietly. A small snort of laughter followed.