While We Were Watching Downton Abbey

by Wendy Wax

  “You know how it is,” he said.

  “No,” she said sharply. “Actually I don’t. In fact, I can’t imagine how anyone could forget his children. Or leave their mother in such a difficult situation. Especially not in order to play a round of golf.”

  He fell back a step. “Well, now, I . . . I mean it was Sarah who committed us. I mean we . . .”

  Samantha just looked at him, glad to see Doctor Mackenzie stumble over his words and then grind to a halt.

  “Sarah?” she asked as if she’d never heard the name before.

  “My . . . girlfriend. We live in 1012 now. Just two floors below you and your husband.” He swallowed but stayed where he was. “Maybe the four of us could get together sometime and . . .”

  The man was a social climber and a moron. Who seemed to believe that she and Jonathan had taken care of his children as part of some random act of kindness.

  “Your children are lovely,” she said. “We were glad to have them over.”

  He perked up at that. “Yes, they are sweet aren’t they? But it’s Sarah and I who . . .”

  There was still a small sliver of her brain that knew her anger at Zachary Mackenzie wasn’t only about his bad behavior, but at the moment she didn’t care.

  “Brooke is a friend of mine and I was happy to help her out. In fact, friendship is very important to me. Doing the right thing is very important to my husband. I doubt he’d be interested in socializing with anyone who could allow a round of golf to push their children right out of their mind.”

  He stared at her, speechless, as the elevator reached the lobby.

  When the doors slid open she nodded as regally as she could then swept out of the elevator, channeling not just Scarlett O’Hara, but Downton Abbey’s Countess Cora, Lady Mary, and the dowager countess all rolled into one.

  * * *

  THAT FRIDAY AFTERNOON BROOKE MACKENZIE followed Bruce Dalton into his daughter’s bedroom. She stood beside him and examined the space, taking in the toddler-sized bed with the Kermit and Miss Piggy sheets and the nursery rhyme wallpaper. A Little Tikes table and chairs sat near one wall. An army of stuffed animals littered a Humpty Dumpty area rug.

  “Marissa says it’s a ‘baby room’ and wants a big girl one,” Bruce Dalton said. “I have no idea what that means or where you get one.”

  A smile tugged at Brooke’s lips. “You don’t typically go out and buy a whole room,” she explained. “It’s more a matter of choosing things that she likes and making them all work together. Natalie and I did her room over together when she turned six.” Her smile faltered a bit. The redecorating process had barely begun when Zachary moved out. “Ava’s already started clipping pictures out of magazines to make a poster board of all the things she likes. It’s a fun art project and it’s a good jumping-off point.” She studied Bruce Dalton’s face, liking the simple earnestness to please his child that she saw there. The kindness that seemed to be wrapped up in the brown eyes. His desire to be a full set of parents. “You could probably do it together if you wanted to. I could advise or consult along the way.”

  “I hate to sound like a wuss, but I didn’t even realize until recently that there were so many shades of pink and purple. Chloe was the designer in the family.” His smile faltered. “I know if she were here the room would already be done.” He reached down and picked up a fuzzy white bunny rabbit that had seen better days and set it gently on the bed. “I hate to keep leaning on you, but would you be willing to redecorate the room with Marissa? I know I could hire an interior designer to do it, but you know her better than a stranger. You can help her pick out what she likes, not just what goes together, and you can relate as a mother . . . Does it seem odd to be trying to turn it into a semblance of a mother-daughter experience?”

  “No, of course not. I understand completely. It’s not every man who would be as sensitive to his daughter’s emotional well-being.” She knew this from personal experience.

  “Then you’ll do it?” The relief in his voice was unmistakable.

  “Absolutely,” she said. “And maybe you can come along so that you can share the experience with Marissa. I’m sure she’d be glad to help educate you to the nuances of pink and purple.”

  “Okay,” he agreed. “As long as I’m not the final decorative decision maker, I’m in.”

  She got a bit more caught up in his easy smile than she’d meant to and reached for her tote bag. “Is it all right if I look around and make some notes?” She pulled out her pad and pencil, grateful that this time no half-eaten food fell out.

  “Sure.” His cell phone rang and he glanced down at it. “Sorry, I’ve been waiting for this call. Will you excuse me?”

  Dalton headed out of the room. A door, presumably to his office, closed.

  Brooke studied Marissa Dalton’s bedroom, quietly taking in the space and comparing it to the little girl she’d just begun to know, and jotted down whatever came to mind. In the closet Brooke found the outfits they’d bought on their shopping trip hanging neatly, the new shoes lined up beneath them, and felt a warm glow at the thought of Marissa liking them enough to arrange them with such care.

  The doorbell rang and she hesitated, expecting to hear Bruce head for the door. On the second peal, she debated whether she should answer it. On the third, she headed for the door, her only thought to stop the noise from interrupting his business call.

  The woman on the front step was tall and blond with a perfect pair of breasts and an unlined face that Brooke recognized as the work of a first-class plastic surgeon. She wore a very short tennis skirt that exposed long, muscled legs and a body-hugging sleeveless tee that showed off toned arms and her two best features, which were significant. Like Sarah, she was the anti-Brooke; the very version of womanhood that Zachary created in the operating room and had traded her in for. Apparently the woman also cooked. Though it didn’t look like she ate. She held a disposable casserole dish in her hands. “Is Bruce here?”

  “Yes,” Brooke replied. “But he’s on the phone. Can I help you?”

  The woman looked Brooke up and down. “No, thanks. I’ll just bring this in for him.” She raised the aluminum foil–covered dish. “He and Marissa just love my cheeseburger casserole.” She stepped around Brooke and sashayed into the kitchen. “Are you the new housekeeper?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Because I heard he was looking for one.”

  She set the foil-wrapped offering on the counter. Big blue eyes skimmed over the stainless-steel appliances and the well-appointed family room. An avaricious gleam lit them.

  “Do you have any idea how long he’s going to be on the phone?”

  “No.”

  The blonde looked down at her Rolex and pouted prettily; a look Brooke suspected she used to good effect and as often as possible. Brooke was tempted to warn her that if she kept it up she’d need those collagen injections more frequently.

  The woman sighed in disappointment. “Tell him that Monica stopped by,” she instructed in a tone that indicated that although Brooke might not be the housekeeper, she had ‘employee’ written all over her. “And that I’ll try him again later.” Without waiting for a response, she turned with a swirl of her tennis skirt and showed herself out.

  Brooke, used to being summarily dismissed, jotted a few more notes on her pad and was debating whether to simply leave a note and go when Bruce appeared.

  “Sorry,” he said. His hair stood up on end as if he’d been running his hand through it. His smile was a bit crooked. “I just closed on a commercial building in Smyrna and there were a few details that needed to be clarified.”

  “No problem.” Her eyes met his. There was something endearing about his rumpledness. “Oh, Monica came by to see you. She left a casserole.” She watched him closely interested to see his reaction.

  “Ah,” he said, giving nothing away. “We didn’t know many of our neighbors before Chloe got sick. But the neighborhood caring committee set up food delivery in those last m
onths. Some of them still bring food.” He opened the freezer. Rows of disposable casseroles like the one Monica had delivered were packed tightly inside. “I haven’t had the heart to tell them that I’ve always been the primary cook in the family. They seem so eager to feed us.”

  That wasn’t the only thing Monica was eager about.

  “Truthfully, neither of us have been able to face a casserole since Chloe died. I’m afraid to throw them out in case someone sees them in the garbage.” There was the smile again. “I’d be happy to send some home with you if you think the girls would like them.”

  “Oh.” Brooke could just imagine Monica’s reaction if she ever found out that the “help” had gone home with the cheeseburger casserole meant to win over the handsome widower. “Actually, that would be great. I’m a pretty utilitarian cook—you know, an assembler of ingredients—it would be nice to have a meal ready to pop in the oven. And a man who can cook? I think that belongs in the fantasy category for most women.”

  “Well, a little fantasy never hurt anyone.” He smiled. “In fact, why don’t you let me cook you a meal one night?” He must have seen her confusion because he added, “I was thinking something elegant. You know, adult. Just for the two of us.”

  “Oh.” Surprise and pleasure sent heat rushing to her cheeks. She practically felt them turning scarlet, which was not a good look for any redhead. “I don’t know. I haven’t really been . . .” She stopped, horrified that she’d been about to tell him that she hadn’t had a date—or even a real conversation with a man—since Zachary walked out on them.

  “If you’d rather, we can make it a family dinner,” he said. “Maybe next Saturday?”

  “Oh.” Relief and disappointment coursed through her. “Sure. That would be great. Maybe I can bring a poster board and some magazines and Marissa and Ava can work on their room collages.” She flushed, afraid that he’d think she was planning to bill him. Should she tell him that wasn’t what she’d meant? But how exactly would she do that?

  “That sounds perfect,” he said wiping out her worry with the warmth of his smile. “Shall we plan on six o’clock?”

  She stammered her agreement and let him walk her to the door. It was only after she’d settled the two casseroles he’d insisted she take on the floor of the Volvo and backed out of his driveway that she realized that Bruce Dalton—the man who could have, and possibly had had the perfect Monica—had offered to cook for her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE PROBLEM WITH WRITING—OR IN CLAIRE’S CASE not writing—on a full-time basis was that the work never went away. Even on a beautiful Saturday like this one, it sat there waiting for you, haunting you, far too insistent to ignore. She knew writers who, like Nora, met a page count each writing day and then mentally clocked out until the next. Perhaps if she were being at all productive, she, too, might learn to do that. At the moment no matter what she was doing or where she went, she was hyperaware that she had not yet produced pages that she could send to her agent. But no matter how insistently her computer’s blank screen haunted her or how much of the dining room table she littered with scribbled thoughts and notes, she couldn’t fool herself into believing she was actually doing something. You could force a writer’s butt into a chair, but you couldn’t make her think.

  Claire stared out the French doors of her apartment trying to understand how her greatest escape had become the thing she most wanted to escape from. The balcony beckoned, but she’d already spent close to an hour out there this morning catching up her journal and it was easy to get distracted outside. For the next twenty minutes she debated whether to carry her laptop out onto the balcony before finally deciding against it. But though she managed to keep her butt in the chair, she couldn’t resist calling Hailey.

  “Hi, Mom. How’s it going?” The sound of Hailey’s voice was like a gift from the gods. And if she strung out the conversation long enough, she could have a break from pretending to work.

  “Great. It’s really going great.”

  “How many pages did you write today?” Hailey asked.

  Claire hesitated. The few times she’d lied to her daughter it had been to protect or spare Hailey, not to make herself look better.

  “That bad, huh?” her daughter asked. “Maybe you need to go out and take a walk to clear your head?”

  “That’s a good idea, Hailey,” she said. Unfortunately, she’d already done that first thing in the morning when she’d been certain she’d come back energized and ready to get down to work. It was such a glorious day—all bright blue sky and pulled white clouds—that she’d barely been able to force herself back inside. “But what I really want to do is hear about you.”

  As she’d hoped, Hailey was diverted and chatted happily for at least fifteen minutes about her classes, her job in the library, which was apparently still a bit “lame,” and the boy she’d met in her creative writing class, who wasn’t. Claire hung on each word, asking a new question anytime she sensed Hailey bringing the conversation to a close.

  “Sorry, Mom,” Hailey finally said. “I know I’m cutting into your writing time. I’ll let you get back to work.”

  Claire barely resisted begging her daughter not to hang up. “Okay, Hailey. Take care of yourself.”

  “I will, Mom.”

  “And keep me posted.”

  “Good luck with the proposal. I know it’ll be great.” Hailey hung up.

  Claire looked at the blinking cursor. All alone in the top left corner of the great big blank screen. Her brow furrowed. Was that an SOS it was blinking out?

  She pulled up Facebook mostly just to fill the screen, posted something cheerily vague to her author page, then clicked through her personal page.

  Standing, she paced the apartment first in one direction and then the other. She stood for a few minutes with her nose pressed against the glass of the French door. But she was very careful not to step outside.

  She was trying to force herself back to the computer when she saw a message arrive.

  Are you working? Karen’s message asked.

  Yes! she typed back, exclamation point and all.

  Don’t lie to me. I can tell. Karen had been writing two books a year for the last four years, each one better than the last. As her body of work grew, so did her readership. Claire was really excited about her longtime critique partner’s success, but her productivity level left Claire feeling like a slug in comparison.

  Not lying, Claire lied. Writing up a storm. My fingers are practically falling off.

  Then why are you answering messages?

  Only yours, Claire replied. I seem to remember a blood oath never to ignore communication from my critique partners.

  Karen ignored this. Crap can be fixed, blank page can’t. Get to work.

  Okay, Claire typed. Will vomit heart and soul onto many pages ASAP.

  Too messy, Karen typed back. Use fingers. Easier to read.

  Ha, Claire typed back, getting into the conversation. Now you tell me!

  Claire waited for a response, but Karen was gone. Undoubtedly to finish the day’s chapter. Or possibly the second.

  Susie’s message arrived about ten minutes later. She knew this because she’d been staring at the screen watching the minutes elapse. Susie tended to lean toward positive motivation rather than tough love, and she had a penchant for inspirational quotations.

  Waiting for pages to critique, Susie typed. How’s it going?

  I’m too busy staring at screen to write, Claire typed quickly. Hoping for inspiration.

  Jack London says not to wait for inspiration. Advises you go after it with a club.

  Are Jack and club available? Claire replied.

  Ha!

  She was considering adding an LOL, but Susie was gone almost as quickly as Karen. Undoubtedly to write a chapter that Claire would wish she’d written when she read it.

  Claire groaned aloud just so she’d feel like something was happening. She emitted a primal scream, but kept it quiet
so she didn’t bother any neighbor who might be taking a late-afternoon nap. This thought had her eyeing her bed. Which would be the perfect place for a person who felt as slug-like as she did right now. She could just lie there for a little bit reading one of the Downton Abbey books. Surely that would inspire her.

  Her cell phone rang and she practically leapt on it. “Hello?”

  It was Brooke. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “No,” Claire said too quickly. “Not at all. What’s going on?”

  “You won’t believe this,” Brooke said almost as quickly. “Because I don’t. But Zachary just showed up out of the blue an hour ago and asked if he could take the girls for the weekend. The whole weekend.”

  “But why?” For the first time that day Claire’s brain seemed fully engaged.

  “I don’t know. But he was apologizing all over himself for screwing up and forgetting to pick them up on Wednesday. He claimed he wanted to make it up to them. And me. I think they’re going up to the mountains.”

  “Seriously?” Claire asked.

  “Yes. And then he told me to be sure to let my friend Samantha know. Probably still trying to kiss her ass. But it’s weird, huh?”

  “It is, but in a good way.”

  “So, all the sudden I have all this free time,” Brooke continued. “And I’m kind of going through Downton Abbey withdrawal.”

  Claire laughed, her mood lifting. “I know what you mean.”

  “So I was thinking it might be fun to borrow the season one video from Edward and maybe order pizza for dinner.” There was a pause. “Unless you’re going out. Or really busy working. I mean I know this is last minute and everything.”

  Claire was almost embarrassed by how wonderful this sounded and how eager she was to have a reason to stop pretending to work. Pretending to work was even more exhausting than the real thing. “I’m in,” she said. “And I’ve got a bottle of white wine I can bring. Did you call Samantha?”