by Wendy Wax
* * *
SAMANTHA AND THE OTHERS WATCHED IN SILENCE that Sunday night as Downton Abbey was turned into a convalescence home and Thomas, who still plotted with O’Brien, was put in charge. Captain Matthew Crawley and William, the footman, were still missing in action, prompting Mrs. Crawley to head for France to find her son. Ethel, the fired housemaid, showed up pregnant. No one moved for several long moments after the episode ended.
“Gosh, that was intense,” Brooke said finally. “I’m exhausted just from watching it.”
“I know what you mean,” Samantha said, though the truth was she was exhausted from worrying about what she might have said to Jonathan while she was drunk and from pretending that she wasn’t scared to death that life as she’d known it was over forever.
At that Wednesday’s lunch, which Cynthia had refused to let her wiggle out of, Samantha discovered that Jonathan was still in Chicago and would then go on to Boston.
“Thank goodness he’ll be back for Thanksgiving! But I do think he should have flown in the night before rather than the morning of,” Cynthia had said while watching Samantha’s face for a reaction. “Don’t you?”
“It’s wonderful that he’ll be able to get back,” Samantha had said doing her best to hide her hurt and surprise. But the whole time Cynthia nattered on about which pies Doris would make and which silver Zora would be asked to polish, Samantha had fumed. Had he been planning to text her this information from the plane? Or had he thought he’d just show up at Bellewood as if he hadn’t abandoned her for a whole month? And when had he decided to make Cynthia his messenger?
With the exception of their one drunken conversation, Samantha hadn’t heard her husband’s voice for a full four weeks. And she was fairly certain that the only reason he’d answered that night was because he’d assumed that no one—including his wife—would call at two a.m. for anything less than an emergency.
Once again she flushed with embarrassment as she remembered the change in Jonathan’s voice when he’d realized she wasn’t in an ambulance on the way to a hospital. No matter how hard she’d tried to recall their conversation, her only remaining memory was of the blinding headache and vague sense of wrongdoing she’d woken with the next morning.
“Are you up for a brandy and a strawberry tart?” Claire asked as they left their sofa for “afters.”
“Sure,” Samantha said, though she wasn’t certain whether she’d be able to swallow either. Her appetite had pretty much disappeared; even favorite dishes from Atlanta’s finest restaurants seemed unable to revive it.
They were lingering in their usual spot just outside the clubroom near the elevators when Edward Parker came out to join them. “Are both of you ready for next Saturday?” he asked Claire and Brooke.
“Aye, aye, captain.” Claire saluted.
“I seem to be the only person in Atlanta who’s not going to attend or work Alicia Culp’s birthday party,” Samantha said.
“I’m going to be checking guests in when they arrive and Claire’s going to be assisting Hunter with the family, but I think we still need a coat-check person,” Brooke said with a smile.
“The planning has been very impressive,” Edward said. “Hunter’s brought the whole Culp family in as if they’re just here for the party. But after she’s given the weeklong private Mediterranean cruise as her gift, she’ll find out that the whole family is going. They’ll leave for the airport in a procession of limousines just before the party ends.”
“Goodness,” Samantha said. She’d grown up with money and married more, but even she couldn’t imagine spending so much on a single birthday. Leave it to her little brother to spare no expense with someone else’s money.
“Hunter said that with the economic disaster in Greece, everyone is hurting and yachts and captains can be had for a song,” Brooke said.
Samantha felt a small frisson of pride; not something she was used to feeling with either of her siblings. It seemed that tough love had been the right thing after all. Perhaps if she’d cut him off sooner . . . no, there was no point in going there. She’d been carrying around far too much regret already.
“I must say when he puts his mind to it, Hunter is a veritable force of nature,” Edward Parker said.
“I’m so glad to hear it,” Samantha said, relieved. Like a hurricane, her brother could be unpredictable and destructive.
“He’s different than I thought,” Claire said. “He explained the whole European Union crisis and the devaluation of the euro to us. He knows a lot about investments and corporate structure. And the importance of diversification,” she added.
“When did you discuss all this?” Edward asked. Which was what Samantha was wondering.
“We had that meeting last week at the aquarium, where the party’s being held, to go over the logistics and timing,” Brooke said. “This event has a lot of moving parts.”
“I’ll say,” Claire agreed.
Samantha tried to absorb the fact that Claire and Brooke now saw her brother in a far better light than they had on that Sunday night outside the clubroom. But then Hunter had always been able to make a good impression when he wanted to. She wondered if he had really changed under Edward’s tutelage. Or had simply figured out how to camouflage his spots.
“When is Mr. Davis due back?” Edward asked.
Samantha flushed. “He’s flying in Thanksgiving morning.”
“Oh, that’s good,” Brooke said. “Do you cook the Thanksgiving dinner?”
Edward Parker, who’d sent runners for replacement dinners on numerous occasions, remained mercifully silent. The man really was the soul of discretion.
“Um, no,” Samantha replied. “Thanksgiving is always at Bellewood.” She’d learned early in her marriage that there was little point in suggesting otherwise.
“What’s Bellewood?” Brooke asked.
“My mother-in-law’s home in Buckhead. It’s where Jonathan grew up,” Samantha explained.
“Ooh-la-la,” Claire joked. “It has a name and everything. It must be fancy.”
“Oh, it is,” Samantha said a little more forcefully than she should have. “And their cook, Doris, does a wonderful traditional southern Thanksgiving spread.” She still couldn’t believe her first time seeing Jonathan would take place with Cynthia’s eyes pinned on them, dissecting their every word to each other—assuming there were any.
“Do you celebrate Thanksgiving, Edward?” she asked, eager to banish the image.
“Well, it’s not a holiday I grew up with, but I have been to some lovely Thanksgiving meals. Only one or two since I came to Atlanta. And my hosts were transplants, so the meals weren’t particularly southern.”
“What are you doing for the holiday?” Samantha asked Brooke and Claire, realizing she hadn’t heard either of them mention it.
“Oh, you know,” Claire said. “Eat a little turkey. Watch Miracle on 34th Street and White Christmas on cable.”
“When will Hailey be home for the Thanksgiving break?” Edward asked.
“She won’t,” Claire said. “She’s going home to Pittsburgh with her boyfriend.”
“You mean you’ll be on your own?” Samantha asked, ashamed that she’d never even thought to ask. She’d been so consumed with her absent husband and forcing herself out of bed every morning that she’d barely thought about the women who’d so unexpectedly become her friends.
Claire and Brooke exchanged looks. “Not exactly. You know Zach is taking the girls up to Boston, so we’re going to do Thanksgiving together.”
Samantha had an image of Brooke and Claire sitting in Claire’s tiny apartment, eating frozen turkey dinners and watching ancient movies on television; what should have seemed pitiful seemed more attractive than the elaborate meal in the sterile environs of Bellewood.
With a warm good night, Edward boarded an elevator. Claire gave them each a hug and headed down the hall to her apartment.
Brooke and Samantha waited for an elevator. When two arrived Brooke
shot her a wink. “Shall we race?”
Samantha smiled back. But she was far too sober and preoccupied to sway or giggle about it.
As she entered the too-silent penthouse, Samantha vowed to call Cynthia and see if there would be room at the Thanksgiving table for Brooke, Claire, and Edward. It would be nice to have some sort of buffer to help smooth over what was bound to be an awkward “reunion” with Jonathan. Assuming it was a reunion at all and she hadn’t said or agreed to anything on the phone that night that she’d have cause to regret.
* * *
ALICIA CULP’S SIXTIETH BIRTHDAY PARTY WAS HELD in the Georgia Aquarium’s Ocean Ballroom. Beneath a blue-lit wavelike ceiling and surrounded by mood lighting, the one hundred and fifty family members and guests must have felt as if they were deep beneath the ocean’s surface. The occupants of the two massive aquarium tanks that pierced two of the ballroom’s walls swam and swirled in the water watching the guests almost as eagerly as the guests watched them.
Brooke greeted each guest and made sure they had their table assignments while Claire spent much of the night following in Hunter’s wake, receiving and communicating lastminute changes and instructions.
After drinks, passed hors d’oeuvres, and a sumptuous Mediterranean-themed dinner, the crowd watched a television-worthy video of Alicia Culp’s life to date. This was followed by ribald toasts and poignant testimonials from the people who were closest to her. But the pièce de résistance was the small fleet of limousines that pulled up at midnight to whisk Alicia and her family to the Learjet that would fly them to Greece for their weeklong private cruise.
Edward watched Alicia Culp’s face as Hunter Jackson assured her that this was no joke, that her family was coming with her, and that her suitcases were already packed. By any standard the party and the cruise that was about to follow were a resounding success.
“Thank you so much. I can’t get over how spectacular an evening it’s been,” a tear-streaked but smiling Alicia Culp said to Edward as her husband handed her into the lead limo.
“That boy of yours certainly knows how to deliver the goods,” Jim Culp said. “And he knows how to sell a concept. I’m thrilled to be in on the ground floor of a company as impressive as Private Butler. And I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if most of our guests feel the same.”
“Thank you.” Edward watched Hunter Jackson as he orchestrated the group farewell with lots of personal smiles and politician-worthy handshakes to some of Atlanta’s wealthiest and most influential citizens. Despite the amount of work he’d done, he still looked—and acted—far more like one of Alicia and James Culp’s guests than one of the employees. “He does have a decided flair,” Edward said.
“And he knows how to spend money,” Culp said. “Lots of it. Had to talk me into some of the expenditures. But every one of them was worth it.” Culp slid into the backseat next to his wife. With impeccable timing Jackson stepped up, leaned into the backseat to offer the couple a personal farewell. The moment he closed their door the limousine driver and the string of perfectly matched Lincolns drove off.
“Well, you certainly made an impression on James and Alicia Culp,” Edward said to Hunter as the last taillight disappeared from view.
“Is there something that didn’t satisfy you?” Jackson’s question seemed both idly curious and slightly taunting. Edward chastised himself for being stingy with his praise. Jackson had done an impeccable job. He simply had no interest in mastering the demeanor of a concierge whose only true goal was the customer’s satisfaction.
“To the contrary,” Edward said. “I apologize if I’ve seemed at all unappreciative of what you’ve accomplished. I’m hugely impressed. You’ve managed to exceed both my and the client’s expectations.”
Jackson smiled what might have been the first real smile Edward had ever seen cross his face. Edward was struck with how many potent personal weapons Mother Nature had put in Hunter Jackson’s arsenal. But he couldn’t completely shake the feeling that Jackson might not have the restraint required to avoid a total nuclear meltdown.
CHAPTER THIRTY
LIKE A FOOTBALL PLAYER PREPARING FOR A BIG bowl game, Samantha spent the days before Thanksgiving “suiting up” for her first encounter with Jonathan in thirty days.
The fact that this encounter would play out in front of Cynthia, Hunter, Meredith and the unexpected New York boyfriend, as well as Claire, Brooke, and Edward both comforted and terrified her.
She’d been threaded, waxed, shaped, plucked, manicured, pedicured, Botoxed, massaged, colored, and cut. All she needed now was a coach to give her a pep talk and tell her which “play” had the best chance of success though she was no longer certain whether a clear victory was even possible.
She was so nervous the night before that she barely slept and awoke at six a.m. on Thanksgiving to once again debate her clothing options. The red Kamali suit would say “confident but attractive” while the Stella McCartney dress whispered “soft and sexy.” She liked the navy-and-white St. John knit but was afraid it would make her look like his mother.
She alternated closet dithering with apartment pacing and coffee drinking until she was a jangling, caffeinated mess. No matter how many times she told herself, “This is Jonathan, you’ll know what to say when you see him,” she felt like an unprepared rookie about to go into a title-clinching game.
What if her mind went blank? What if she’d studied the wrong playbook? Deep down she was afraid that she’d already lost the most important contest of her life without even knowing she’d entered it. Jonathan had told her that attempting to be the “perfect wife” wasn’t enough, but she still didn’t know what was.
With trembling fingers she showered, put on makeup, and blow-dried her hair. After retrying all three outfits, she finally decided on a ruched black matte jersey dress. Its square neck and three-quarter sleeves made it casually stylish, and she was counting on its wide leather belt to keep it from hanging like a sack and disguise the shrinking of her curves.
She spent the drive to Bellewood in her own pregame pep talk so that by the time she got there all she wanted to do was tackle Jonathan, pin him to the ground, and demand to know what it was he wanted to hear. Only Jonathan hadn’t arrived yet. Nor had he seen fit to text her his arrival time. She’d slit her own wrists before she asked Cynthia what time he was expected.
At the drinks cart in the living room she found Hunter, Meredith, and Meredith’s friend from New York. “I’ve missed you two,” she said, hugging her brother and sister. “How’ve you been?”
“Good,” Meredith said as she reached toward the stranger. “Samantha, this is Kyle Bromley.” A small smile played on her lips; her usual air of dissatisfaction was noticeably absent. “Kyle, my sister Samantha Davis.”
“Hello, Mrs. Davis.” Bromley put a hand out to shake hers. “It was so nice of you and your mother-in-law to extend the invitation for Thanksgiving. I didn’t know until the last minute whether I’d be able to get down to visit Merry.”
Hunter coughed into his palm. Samantha started at the nickname she hadn’t heard, let alone thought, since Meredith had hit puberty. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. How long will you be in town?”
She smiled and nodded in what she hoped were the right places as he answered, but her attention was focused on listening for any hint of Jonathan’s arrival. “And you, Hunter, I heard how fabulous the Culp birthday was. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” He smiled and shrugged as if it were no big deal.
“I can’t wait to hear more about the party. Edward Parker and my friends Claire and Brooke should be here soon.”
Hunter’s face registered surprise and something else she didn’t take the time to try to analyze. Clearly her siblings were doing far better without her intervention and supervision. She felt a tiny loosening of the band around her chest. But she couldn’t stop listening for the sound of a car. Or worrying about why Jonathan had chosen not to fly in until this morning.
Saman
tha wandered into the kitchen, which was redolent with warm and wonderful smells. “There you are!” Doris wiped her brow with a handkerchief and enveloped Samantha in a big puffy hug. “I’m gonna make sure you get extra today; you look like you’ve started wasting away.”
“You know I’ll never be able to pass up your oyster stuffing,” Samantha said.
“No, ma’am, you better not. I’m gonna have to give Mr. Jonathan a piece of my mind for letting you get this skinny.”
“I’ve always heard a woman can never be too thin,” Samantha said, running a nervous finger under the belt at her waist.
“Humpf.” Doris went back to basting her turkey as Samantha greeted Zora, who was dressed in a crisp white uniform.
Reluctantly she went in search of her mother-in-law and found her in the foyer examining herself in the large gilt mirror. “Hello, Cynthia,” she said, offering a dutiful hug and accepting air kisses to both cheeks.
“Hello, Samantha. Jonathan’s due any minute,” she said happily. “He texted just after he landed.”
Samantha tried not to blanch at the fact that his mother had flight information while she’d been left in the dark.
Cynthia looked Samantha directly in the eye. “I’m glad he’s finally come home,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to see anything or anyone drive him away again.”
They stared at each other. Samantha refused to be the first to look away. “Then we have the same goal.”
Cynthia’s lips thinned, but for once Samantha didn’t care. She’d come here determined to straighten things out with Jonathan; she could not allow Cynthia to deter or distract her.
“So maybe we should try playing on the same team for a change,” Samantha said, apparently unable to let go of the football metaphor. “Because frankly I think that if you stopped rooting for our marriage to fall apart, all of us—including your son—would be a lot better off.”