by Wendy Wax
One of Cynthia’s eyebrows shot upward. “You have no idea how painful it is for a mother to see her child’s unhappiness and be powerless to stop it.” The comment was more observation than put-down.
“No.” Samantha had no idea whether the fierce protectiveness she’d always felt for Meredith and Hunter differed from what she might have felt for a child of her own. She would never know. She’d been without her own mother for so long that she’d become little more than a comforting memory. “Jonathan’s lucky to have a mother who cares so much about him. But whatever’s wrong between Jonathan and me is up to us to work out. If we can.”
The doorbell rang. Samantha’s heart hammered in her chest until she reminded herself that no matter how long Jonathan had been gone he would not be ringing the doorbell of the home he’d grown up in. Samantha spotted Edward, Brooke, and Claire through the sidelights and stepped out of the way so that Cynthia could open the door.
“Welcome.” Despite the conversation that had been interrupted, Cynthia did a fair impression of a hostess glad to see her guests. Samantha hugged all three of them, even the proper concierge, and introduced them to her mother-in-law.
“Thank you so much for the invitation,” Edward said with a slight bow that only he could pull off. He handed Cynthia a gift bag from the three of them, which she placed on the foyer table. “It’s lovely to be included and I so look forward to experiencing a traditional southern Thanksgiving.” He gave her a dazzling smile. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve appreciated your referrals to Private Butler.”
Cynthia smiled and laced her hands through the concierge’s bent elbow and escorted him into the living room her head tilted at a coquettish angle.
“Did you see that?” Samantha asked.
“The man has some serious skills,” Claire said.
“I’ll say,” Brooke agreed.
The two of them stared at her. “What?” she asked. She knew she didn’t have anything between her teeth because she’d been unable to even swallow toast that morning.
“Are you all right?” Claire asked.
“Of course,” Samantha said brightly.
Claire and Brooke looked at her.
“Or I will be as soon as I have a chance to talk to Jonathan. You don’t have any tranquilizers with you do you?”
They laughed, though Samantha wasn’t sure she’d been joking. If ever a person could use rapid tranquilization, it was she.
That laughter died as footsteps sounded on the marble floor.
“Ladies.” Jonathan’s voice directly behind her made her stiffen. Her breathing grew shallow and rapid. Though she’d been waiting impatiently for this moment, now that it was here she didn’t feel remotely ready. “Samantha.”
“We’ll just go join the others,” Claire said. She and Brooke greeted Jonathan and disappeared.
“Jonathan.” Her voice wasn’t the only thing that shook as she turned and searched his face for some sign of how to proceed. She clasped her hands together to keep them from fluttering about, but wasn’t as successful controlling her inner southern belle, which surfaced without warning. “I swear, you’ve been gone so long I almost forgot what you looked like,” she said with a ridiculously saucy lilt. She barely managed to close her mouth before a “fiddle-dee-dee” escaped.
Jonathan continued to study her and once again she found herself worrying about what she might have said to him during their drunken phone call. A vee of concern formed between his eyebrows. “Mother assured me that you were fine. But you’ve lost weight. And you don’t look good. Have you been sick?” He sounded surprised.
Had he really imagined a month without him would have no impact? The fear and panic twisted inside her and began to grow into something strong and unfamiliar. He’d made it clear he didn’t want her gratitude. At the moment that was fine with her. Because she was beginning to realize just how ungrateful she was that he’d left her without any real explanation and then refused to speak to her for an entire month.
“I’ve been on a diet. And Michael stepped up my workout program,” she lied. He of course looked practically bursting with good health. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal lightly tanned forearms. His blond hair was sun streaked and a fresh smattering of freckles spanned the bridge of his nose. Whatever he’d been doing for the last month it didn’t include pining away over her. “What have you been up to?” She held his blue eyes with her own trying to read his thoughts, still looking for a clue, but he gave nothing away.
“Oh, just business. And the occasional golf game.” He shrugged. “I spent time in Chicago going over expansion plans with Andrew Martin. And then I took care of some things for him in Boston. He and his wife both asked about you.”
He was so calm, so casual. Clearly he hadn’t spent this morning with sweating palms and a racing heart. Had she really considered throwing herself into his arms and begging him to just give her another chance? Had she actually imagined it could be that simple?
She pulled herself up and raised her chin. The emotions bubbling inside her separated like an unbound braid and she recognized the steeliest of them as anger. She’d spent four weeks agonizing over how she might fix whatever was wrong between them. But had he really left to let her figure it out? Or had he left to punish her?
“Oh? And what did you tell the Martins?” she asked. “That you’d decided to take a break from your marriage? That you’d told me you weren’t happy and left me sitting alone trying to figure out what I’d done wrong like some child given a time-out by her parents?”
The dinner bell rang. Voices in the living room signaled a move toward the dining room.
“Did you tell them that instead of returning any of my messages you hid behind texts and relied on your mother who barely tolerates me for information about my well-being?” She saw his eyes widen in surprise at her tone and how close she’d come to shouting.
Her chest rose and fell as she tried to regain control. She’d never lost her temper or even raised her voice to him, not once in twenty-five years. But then he’d never abandoned her before. Or refused to communicate. Short circuits of emotion spiked through her.
There were tentative footsteps and the clearing of a throat. “Miz Davis asked me to let you know that supper is being served.”
“Thank you, Zora,” Jonathan said. He crooked his elbow. “If you’re finished, I expect we should go in?” he said to Samantha in the same polite tone he might have used to inquire if she’d like an iced tea or suggested the pecan rather than the praline pie. She might have turned and left if it weren’t for her guests.
They entered the dining room together, but she’d never felt so alone.
* * *
EDWARD AND THE OTHERS HAD JUST TAKEN THEIR seats when Jonathan Davis escorted his wife into the dining room, seated her between Edward and Kyle Bromley, then took his place at the head of the table. His mother, who sat at the opposite end, offered a carefully worded prayer of thanks, welcomed them all, and urged everyone to begin. “Zora will serve the turkey and ham,” Cynthia said. “But please help yourself to the dishes you see on the table. We’re treating this as a family dinner. I hope you won’t mind the informality.”
Davis maintained a pleasant smile as a tall black woman in a white starched uniform carried in a gigantic oval platter. Dishes and serving platters covered the diamond-cut tablecloth. Baskets of warm corn bread and dinner rolls as well as an assortment of gravy boats anchored each corner while pats of butter imprinted with the letter “D” sat on each bread plate.
“You’ll want to try both the corn bread and the oyster stuffings,” Samantha told him. “And the sweet potato soufflé as well as the green bean casserole. And I guess I should warn you that the ham has a Coca-Cola glaze. This is Atlanta after all. And we do love our Coke products.” She smiled but her eyes were guarded. “In fact Asa Candler was a close personal friend of Jonathan’s grandfather.”
“Interesting,” Edward said as a basket of still-warm corn bread and b
iscuits reached him. He felt Hunter’s eyes on him and wondered if the boy was uncomfortable having his employer there.
Samantha nodded to the basket. “Doris’s corn bread and biscuits are completely worth the calories. And you’ll want to leave at least a little room for the desserts.” Samantha kept up a running commentary on the food and its origins, turning occasionally to make sure Meredith’s young man was included, but Edward noticed she put little on her plate and ate even less. Her cheeks remained flushed and though she interacted with Claire and Brooke, who sat on either side of her husband, she never actually addressed or looked directly at him. Davis looked at his wife often but only when her attention seemed placed elsewhere.
Meredith laughed and Samantha smiled. “It’s nice to see Meredith happy.”
Edward nodded and looked more closely at the middle Jackson sibling, whom he’d always considered of average looks. Without her usual expression of pursed-lip disappointment the resemblance to her sister and brother was more apparent.
“Kyle’s the first person beside Jonathan who’s ever thought to call her Merry.” Samantha’s eyes flickered to her husband then skittered back to her plate.
“My grandfather used to say that ‘every pot has its lid,’” Edward replied.
“I like that,” she said wistfully. “It’s so hopeful. She reached for her glass of wine, her look pensive. “But what happens when the fit isn’t as tight as it’s supposed to be?”
“That I don’t know,” Edward said. “I thought I’d found the right lid once. But it turned out that I was mistaken.”
“I can hardly believe someone who cooks as badly as I do is discussing pots as a metaphor for love,” Samantha said as laughter erupted on the other side of the table.
“But you’ve never stopped trying to cook,” Edward pointed out reflecting on the number of times in the six months since he’d arrived at the Alexander that he’d arranged to have food picked up after a failed attempt. “I think that says something about you.”
“Oh, I’m sure it does,” she replied. “But I’m a little afraid to find out what.”
There was more laughter. More looks aimed their way.
“What’s so funny?” Samantha finally asked.
“Your sister was just telling us a story about the year you cooked the Thanksgiving turkey,” Claire said.
Samantha groaned. Her face flushed with what could only be embarrassment.
“It was the year we were married.” Jonathan looked straight at Samantha for the first time since he’d seated her. “We were coming to Bellewood, but she wanted to contribute something meaningful to the meal.”
“Yes, we were microwaving bits and pieces of that poor bird until almost midnight.” Cynthia’s tone was droll.
“I didn’t find out until after Thanksgiving, when I went in to complain, that a turkey can be labeled ‘fresh’ if it hasn’t been frozen more than once. I thought that fresh meant unfrozen so I didn’t even attempt to defrost it,” Samantha explained. She rolled her eyes at their laughter. “That’s the thing about cooking. The directions often seem unfairly unclear.” Her voice trailed off. Edward followed her gaze and saw Jonathan regarding her with an odd smile on his lips.
“We were afraid none of us would survive when Sam first started trying to cook,” Hunter said.
“Why?” Brooke asked. “What did she make?”
“It didn’t matter,” Meredith said.
“Why not?” Claire asked.
“Because it all looked like hockey pucks in sauce.”
Even Samantha joined in the laughter this time.
“Fortunately, Jonathan was there to save us from starvation,” Meredith said.
“How did he do that?” Edward asked, trying to envision Jonathan and Samantha without the elegant patina of their current life surrounding them.
“Wait a minute,” Jonathan said to Hunter and Meredith. “We made a pact. I believe there was even a vow of secrecy.”
“Right,” Samantha said. “Like I never saw those McDonald’s bags in the trash outside. Or smelled the French fries on all of you when you’d come back from those ridiculous after-dinner errands.”
The conversation moved on, the mood lighter as the table was cleared and the desserts and coffee served. Edward wondered at the furtive looks Samantha and her husband stole at each other. And the careful looks Hunter, who’d begun to regale the table with stories about his first assignments for Private Butler, began to aim at Edward.
“Here, you have to try this chocolate pecan pie and Doris’s praline pumpkin pie with maple rum sauce.” Samantha put a piece of each on a plate and placed it in front of Edward, then prepared similar plates for Brooke, Claire, and Kyle Bromley.
“You should have seen me driving Mimi Davenport to Nashville in her ancient pink Cadillac. Which she refuses to allow to be driven over forty-five miles per hour.” Hunter shook his head with amusement. “‘Young man,’” he drawled with a slight quiver to his voice in a dead-on imitation of the elderly woman. “‘There is no need for undue speed. I would like to survive this trip and return home in one piece.’” He laughed. “And when we stopped for lunch at this broken-down roadside diner outside Chattanooga she put the silverware in her purse.”
Edward’s lips tightened. One didn’t share a client’s behavior with others and certainly not for laughs. “I believe that’s privileged information,” Edward said tightly.
“Did you hear that, Jonathan?” Hunter called down the table. “Apparently what a concierge sees is as privileged as information that passes between client and attorney. What do you think of that?”
“I think that if your boss tells you that, you need to listen,” Jonathan replied evenly.
Brooke and Claire shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. Meredith’s forehead wrinkled in consternation. Her boyfriend looked over his shoulder as if scoping out potential escape routes.
“You did such a fabulous job on Alicia Culp’s party,” Samantha said to her brother even as she laid a hand on Edward’s arm. “You have a genius for organization that we never realized. But I can understand how important discretion is in this type of service business.” Her tone grew more adamant, as if she might still convince him of the merits of good behavior. “You can’t just pick and choose which parts of your employer’s instructions you want to pay attention to.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Hunter said. “I’ll tell you what I have learned from the estimable Mr. Parker.” He fixed his green-eyed stare on Edward once more. “I have learned that I can take almost any crap job and make it into lemonade.” His smile conveyed no humor. “But it would take a lot more than I’ve been paid and a sight more respect for my abilities to feel the need to keep my lips sealed.”
Cynthia frowned. “Hunter,” she admonished. “It’s Thanksgiving. And there are guests.”
“I’m sorry,” Hunter said without an ounce of sincerity. “I didn’t mean to spoil dessert.”
An uncomfortable silence fell. Edward could feel Samantha’s distress and Cynthia’s disapproval on either side of him. Jonathan Davis’s eyes were pinned on his brother-in-law as if he’d seen this before and wasn’t looking forward to what was coming.
“What I’m best at is seeing the potential in a business,” Hunter went on as if someone had asked. “Even when its creator doesn’t get it. And I am truly gifted at explaining that potential to investors.”
“Yes,” Claire said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled around the table. “That’s why I invested in Private Butler when Hunter explained the opportunity.”
“Me, too,” Brooke said. “He showed me how to take the equity in my condo and put it to work. Even Isabella and James put money in after Hunter told us he’d signed Mr. Fiston and Mrs. Davenport and James Culp. Everybody wants to put money behind you, Edward.”
Edward felt a brief moment of confusion. It evaporated as Hunter Jackson’s lips curved up in a derisive smile. At the end of the table Jonathan Davis’s eyes close
d briefly.
“Well, that money isn’t actually going into Private Butler,” Hunter said, staring directly at Edward. “Because Edward made it clear he didn’t want investors. Or expansion. Or, to put it bluntly, progress of any kind.”
“I don’t understand then,” Samantha asked on a quick intake of breath.
Edward thought back to James Culp’s comment at his wife’s party and understood all too well.
“The money, almost half a million dollars of it, is going into a private concierge company that I’ve fashioned after Private Butler,” Hunter said. “A company that I’m going to build and then franchise.” Hunter’s green eyes grew even more brittle. “I wish you would have agreed to succeed, Edward,” he said. “I could have raised this money for you and helped you grow your business.”
No one moved or spoke, least of all Edward, as the horror of what had taken place—what Hunter Jackson had done—sank in.
“It was amazing how many of your satisfied clients and employees begged to give me their money when I explained how much could be made building a company like Private Butler. Almost as amazing as how few of them read the fine print on their investment documents.” He shook his head and shrugged as if it was all beyond his control. “I’m not sure if they fully understood that we’re parting ways. They could hardly hand over their money fast enough.”
Edward heard Brooke and Claire’s gasps as they were forced to confront the truth. He felt pretty short of breath himself.
“Well.” Hunter stood, dropped his napkin on the table, and bowed slightly to Edward—a perfect and mocking imitation. “I guess we can consider this my resignation. I appreciate the training and the concept.” He bowed to Brooke and Claire, who were still processing the fact that they’d invested in Hunter and not in Private Butler. “I appreciate your confidence in me and will be sure to keep you posted.”
With a final nod and thanks to Cynthia, Hunter swept out of the dining room. They were still sitting in shocked silence when the front door slammed shut behind him.