While We Were Watching Downton Abbey

by Wendy Wax

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Edward said, cutting him off and handing an assignment sheet across the desk. “Perhaps in another few weeks once you’ve gotten a bit more acclimated, you might share some of your thoughts on marketing with me. But Private Butler will never be franchised. That’s not what this company is about. This business is personal—personal service, personal attention, personal integrity. That’s not something that can be franchised.”

  Jackson’s jaw set and he dropped his eyes to skim the listed dates, times and assignments. Clarence Fitson, who had just turned ninety, needed a ride to his tailor for a fitting. Mimi Davenport had requested a driver/escort to visit her sister in Nashville.

  “What is this?” Jackson bit out. “A remake of Driving Miss Daisy?” Jackson’s calm began to evaporate. It disappeared completely when he reached the final item. “You actually expect me to take someone’s child to Mommy and Me?” he asked. His eyes reflected a toxic mixture of anger and horror.

  “Well, it’s not just anyone’s child,” Edward replied coolly. “It’s a friend of your family. Sylvie Talmadge’s granddaughter, in fact.”

  Jackson’s face turned a mottled red. “You cannot be serious,” he said. “I’ll be a laughingstock.” His gaze sharpened. “This is an attempt to get rid of me, isn’t it? You want to see just how much humiliation I can take before I tell you to, what’s that expression? To sod . . .”

  “Sod off?” Edward completed the phrase for him.

  “I’m telling you, you are completely wasting my talents on this bullshit,” Jackson said. “You can’t possibly expect me to do this crap.”

  Edward noted the double excremental expletive, but said nothing.

  “I could be making you money,” Jackson railed, somehow managing not to raise his voice. “Putting together investors to franchise your business. And you want me to take a child to play with other . . . children?” The last was clearly intended as an expletive. But at least there was no excrement involved.

  “As I said earlier, I might be willing to discuss your ideas in due course,” Edward said reasonably. “Assuming you can follow directions and represent Private Butler in the manner I’ve proscribed. Until then, I need you to simply take care of these clients. And I’d also like you to pinch in for Isabella. She has an audition tomorrow afternoon and needs someone to cover for her. You two seem quite friendly. It occurred to me you might be willing to help her out.”

  The gritting of teeth wasn’t a good look for young Jackson. But he did manage to swallow back whatever invective he’d been planning to hurl. “Is that all?” he asked tightly.

  “Yes, that will do for now,” Edward said unperturbed. He stood, forcing Jackson to do the same and leveled a look at the younger man that said, “I am the boss. You are not.”

  If Hunter Jackson couldn’t come to terms with this, he would be gone.

  Jackson turned and stormed off. But he did it with perfect posture and without uttering a single expletive. Surely that was progress of some kind. Something might be made of the boy after all. Perhaps the rain in Spain didn’t only fall on the plain.

  * * *

  ON THE DALTONS’ DOORSTEP BROOKE RAN A HAND over her hair, which she’d desperately tried to tame, and tugged on the angular hem of her new blouse. It was a little snugger than she was used to with no extra fabric to hide beneath. But its graduated hem hung low on her hips and made her short, stocky body appear longer and leaner. The saleslady had assured her that the drop waist was in fact slenderizing and that the deep gray color turned her hazel eyes to smoke. Brooke had bought it immediately not even caring if the woman was exaggerating; it made her feel attractive and it was a world away from her usual beige.

  An image of the lovely Monica standing on this same welcome mat in her short tennis dress arose in Brooke’s mind and she did her best to banish it. But Brooke was relieved that this was a family dinner and not a date; she sincerely hoped that would keep the comparisons to the casserole women out of her mind and Bruce’s.

  Natalie and Ava juggled magazines and poster board in their arms as Brooke rang the doorbell. Footsteps sounded and the door opened to reveal Marissa. Her father stood behind her.

  The girls’ greetings were hurried and effusive. Before Brooke could gather herself all three of them had raced off to Marissa’s room to help Marissa begin her collage.

  “It doesn’t look like they need us,” Bruce observed as he closed the door.

  “No,” Brooke agreed, still trying to control, or at least hide, her nervousness. “Natalie and Ava were thrilled with the idea of showing Marissa what to do. I suspect we’ll have to pry them out of her room when dinner’s ready.”

  “Sounds good to me,” he said. “Will you have a glass of wine?”

  “Gosh, we’ve been here at least two minutes,” Brooke teased. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “Come on. You can talk to me while I finish dinner.”

  Following him through the family room, she saw that the kitchen table had been set for five. The silverware and dishes looked like everyday, but a brightly colored cloth covered the table and a vase of fresh picked flowers sat squarely in the middle. Carefully labeled place cards had been written and illustrated for each of them.

  “The table looks lovely,” Brooke said.

  “Marissa was in charge of decorations. And she helped me bake the dessert,” he replied.

  “Homemade dessert?” Brooke said. “I am impressed.” And pleased and thrilled. “What is it?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s a surprise. I had to do a pinky swear that I wouldn’t say anything in advance.”

  “Ah, well,” Brooke said as she slid onto the bar stool and settled in at the kitchen counter. “I know just how binding a pinky swear is. So I won’t even ask if it’s animal, vegetable, or mineral . . .” She raised an eyebrow as if waiting for him to fill in the blank.

  “Sorry.” He mimed zipping his lips.

  “Fine.” She pretended annoyance but was incredibly moved by the idea of a man who would understand the importance of a promise made to a child. “I guess I’ll just have to live with the anticipation.”

  “That can be a good thing,” he said. “White or red?” He held up a bottle of each and she opted for the red. A wheel of warmed Brie surrounded by crackers and apple slices had been arranged on a glass platter. Brightly colored enamel bowls filled with mixed nuts, Goldfish, and other nibbles dotted the counter. He poured them both a glass of red wine. After setting hers in front of her he raised his in salute. “Welcome. I’m very glad you all could join us tonight.”

  “We’re honored to be here,” she said in return. There was something about the sincerity of his smile and the appreciative glint in his eyes that made her feel not only welcomed but attractive. She sniffed appreciatively. The scent was warm and tomatoey with a hint of meat. “Is the main course hush-hush too? Because I think I might be able to guess this one.”

  “Marissa requested my world-famous spaghetti and meatballs.” He turned to her. “It’s not particularly fancy or gourmet. I hope that’s all right with you?”

  “It’s perfect. My girls will love it. We all will.”

  The talk between them was easy and punctuated with appearances from the girls.

  “Look, Daddy! I picked all purple things. Do you like these pillows?”

  Marissa carried the poster over and put it up on the counter. Natalie and Ava were right behind her. “Do you think I could have purple walls, too?” Marissa asked.

  “Well, I personally have always been a big fan of purple. It’s the color of royalty, after all,” Brooke said.

  “Oh, Mommy, we should bring Missa our copy of Princess Prunella and the Purple Peanut to read,” Ava said. “I know she’d like it.”

  When dinner was ready the girls washed their hands without protest and took their seats eagerly. Marissa and her father served and cleared away.

  “No,” Bruce insisted when they tried to help. “You’re gues
ts. The only thing you have to do is enjoy the meal.”

  Brooke felt a goofy smile take over her face. She couldn’t remember a time when Zachary had been remotely tempted to wait on her. “Gosh, I feel like a queen tonight,” she said. “Maybe I should have worn purple.”

  “You deserve to be waited on,” Bruce said.

  She nodded regally. “Why, thank you, kind sir,” she said trying to keep things light. What did that say about her that such simple kindness made her eyes tear up? “I hereby name you the royal chef. You may feed me and my princesses anytime.”

  “Done.” He gave Ava and Natalie a wink then he and Marissa huddled together at the back counter obscuring Brooke, Natalie, and Ava’s view. A few whispered, giggling moments later father and daughter turned. Marissa held a plate aloft. Bruce held two.

  “Your majesties,” he said as they placed the desserts in front of their guests. “Bon appétit.”

  Each plate held a still-warm slice of apple pie topped with a heaping scoop of French vanilla ice cream. “Oh, my gosh.” Brooke closed her eyes as she took the first bites. “This is delicious. Did you two really make this pie?”

  Marissa nodded happily. “I got to peel some of the apples and help make the crust. It was my mommy’s favorite dessert. Daddy always made it for her birthday and special ’kashuns.”

  Natalie and Ava pretty much Hoovered up every morsel of the pie. Brooke saw Ava grasp her plate with both chubby hands and reached out just in time to keep her from tilting it up so that she could lick the last bits of ice cream–soaked crust.

  Holding back a smile, but without saying a word, Bruce cut and served everyone another smaller sliver. Natalie pronounced it the best dessert ever. Ava sent Bruce a look of abject adoration.

  By the time Brooke and the girls had been handed into the car and invited to come back soon, Brooke had experienced more than a few adoring thoughts herself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THE INVITATION TO BELLEWOOD FOR SUNDAY brunch was actually more of a summons than an invitation. Samantha had canceled her regular Wednesday lunch with her mother-in-law pleading a headache, which wasn’t a stretch at all and had known that at some point she’d have to see and speak with Cynthia. But after more than a week with nothing more than the curtest of informational texts from Jonathan, the last thing Samantha wanted to do was spend time with his mother. Nonetheless she dressed and drove to Buckhead, checking both text and email in hopes of a message—a real message—from Jonathan as she drove.

  Jonathan had traveled extensively on business over the years, but his absence had never felt this intentional. Nor had he ever communicated so . . . sparsely. For more than half of her life he’d been there, steady and sure. A sturdy rock to lean on. A port fit to weather any storm. The emptiness inside her had grown so cavernous that she’d begun to imagine she could hear an echo.

  She was relieved when she saw Meredith’s and Hunter’s cars in the drive assuming that with all three of them there, her misery would be easier to hide.

  “Hello, Miz Davis,” Zora said as Samantha stepped into the foyer. “They’re all in the living room. Brunch will be ready in just a few minutes.”

  Samantha caught the scent of biscuits just out of the oven, which Doris, the Davises’ longtime cook, would serve with a choice of honey or sawmill gravy. Samantha knew the sideboard would groan under the weight of chafing dishes filled with scrambled eggs, bacon, ham and sausage, fried potatoes, and cheese grits, all of which would be washed down with copious amounts of chicory-flavored coffee.

  The thought of so much food made her feel physically ill.

  “My, you look done in,” Cynthia said in greeting. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

  “I’m fine,” she said though it had taken double the usual amount of concealer to try to disguise the dark puffy circles under her eyes. “I’m sure it’s just allergies. You know how I react to ragweed.” This was a safe thing to ascribe any illness to in fall in Atlanta; which was second in swollen nasal passages only to the golden shroud of pollen that covered Atlanta every spring.

  Samantha accepted hugs from Meredith and Hunter but was too weary to search their faces for warning signs of unhappiness, irritation, and unknown agendas.

  “Where’s Jonathan?” Meredith asked idly.

  “He’s out of town on business,” Samantha said lightly.

  Cynthia looked at her sharply. “And when do you expect him back, dear?”

  “I’m not sure,” Samantha said.

  Samantha sensed her mother-in-law’s antennae quivering. Hunter, too, was tuned in while pretending not to be.

  They helped themselves from silver chafing dishes on the sideboard and settled into their usual seats. Samantha’s eyes strayed to Jonathan’s empty place at the head of the table. The house she’d grown so used to felt colder and less welcoming without him in it.

  When they’d all been seated, Cynthia lifted her fork in signal that they could begin. “How are things at the Preservation Board?” Cynthia asked.

  “Good,” Meredith replied. “It’s just that compared to New York, Atlanta’s practically provincial. And the preservation laws don’t have the same kind of teeth that Charleston and Savannah’s do.”

  “But still it’s a great opportunity,” Samantha cut in when she saw Cynthia stiffen in her seat. “You’re very fortunate that Cynthia had connections there.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Meredith agreed, though nowhere near as speedily as Samantha would have liked. “Very lucky.”

  “And how is that young man in New York?” Cynthia inquired casually. Except that Samantha knew it for the jab that it was. “Do you think he’ll be coming down to visit?”

  “Maybe later this fall,” Meredith said. “It doesn’t look like he’ll be able to get away from work as soon as he’d hoped.”

  Hunter raised an eyebrow at his sister, a silent taunt.

  “Oh, and your relationships are so significant?” Meredith’s chin shot out mulishly. “When’s the last time you dated anyone with enough brain cells to carry on a conversation?” She paused briefly as if the question were something other than rhetorical. When she got no reply she continued. “And frankly, your current job is driving and errand running. You have no room to talk.”

  “That shows what you know,” Hunter retorted. “I’ve already spoken with Edward about the concept of franchising Private Butler. The service sector is the only one on the rise in this economy. There’s real money to be made for the smart investor.”

  For once Samantha let the barbs fly without any effort to stop or soften them. In truth they barely registered. For the moment her siblings were employed and not in crisis mode; which was more than could be said for her.

  “I ran into Sylvie Talmadge the other day and she told me how impressed she was with the company Hunter’s with,” Cynthia said. “What is it called again?”

  “Private Butler,” Samantha said. “Edward Parker, the Alexander’s concierge owns it.”

  “Hmmm,” Cynthia said. “Private Butler. It has a nice ring to it.”

  “Well, I ran into Shelby Holcomb,” Meredith said naming Sylvie’s daughter. “She told me Hunter took her daughter Riley to Mommy and Me.” She laughed derisively. “And didn’t you drive some ninety-year-old man to his tailor?”

  “That ninety-year-old man has a major stake in Coca-Cola and the Home Depot,” Hunter shot back. “He understands investments.” Hunter laid down his fork and knife. “Edward and I agreed I’d get the feel of the day-to-day of the business first as a prelude to building the brand and other . . . opportunities.”

  Samantha was relieved that Hunter seemed so positive about the work he was doing. Maybe this association with Edward Parker and Private Butler would be just what her brother needed. Her eyes strayed to Jonathan’s empty seat and she wished again that her husband were here. As she moved the food around on her plate, she reminded herself that the phone worked both ways. She could call Jonathan from the car on the way home and at
least hear his voice. Except that she was afraid he wouldn’t answer; or worse, fail to return her call.

  Samantha looked up, caught her mother-in-law watching her, and slid a large bite of egg and grits into her mouth, then tried to look happy—and hungry—while she chewed it.

  “You willingly escorted that little terror to a playgroup and hung out with the other mothers?” Meredith asked Hunter in disbelief.

  “Research, my dear sister. Research. That’s the key to finance and business development; an important step, which is so often overlooked. And which you clearly know nothing about.”

  “Well, then,” Cynthia said, turning her attention back to the others, “if you’ll bring me some cards, Hunter, I might begin making some referrals when it seems appropriate.” She smiled quite regally. “Now that we’ve sorted all that out, perhaps we should have some of Doris’s peach cobbler?”

  With the meal finished and the plates cleared, Hunter and Meredith kissed Samantha and Cynthia good-bye and departed. Samantha stood in the massive foyer preparing to do the same. Her mother-in-law laid a hand on her arm as Samantha reached for the door. “I hope you’ll forgive my butting in,” Cynthia said in an apologetic tone that was most unlike her. “But I heard from Jonathan yesterday. I’ve never heard him so uncertain about his travel plans.”

  “Yes.” Samantha searched her mother-in-law’s face for some sign of what Jonathan might have said even as Cynthia searched hers.

  “I know from personal experience that it can be dangerous to leave even the most steadfast of husbands too long on their own,” Cynthia finally said as if Samantha had been invited and refused.

  “I’m sorry?” Wherever this conversation was headed, Samantha was pretty certain she didn’t want to go there.

  “Yes, dear, so am I.” Her tone had turned alarmingly sincere. “I never wanted him to take on so much responsibility at such an appallingly young age and certainly not after your father practically destroyed the firm,” she said. “Jonathan never could resist an injured animal. Or a pretty girl in distress.” She sighed. “But still, one hates to see any marriage founder.”