by Wendy Wax
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
WHEN THE LIGHTS CAME BACK UP EVERYONE else streamed to the back for “afters,” chattering away about the season’s ending and the Downton Abbey holiday party that Edward Parker had announced. Claire, Brooke, and Samantha stayed where they were, watching each other warily, the air a shroud of discomfort around them. Still nobody spoke.
Samantha was ready to turn and flee when Edward arrived. He carried a tray that held an open bottle of brandy, three glasses, and a plate of assorted tarts.
He gave Samantha a steadying look as he set the tray on the coffee table, then pulled a high-backed chair over next to the sofa. Placing a gentle hand beneath Samantha’s elbow he helped her up off the couch and into the chair.
“There,” he said as if that took care of everything. “Now you can look at each other while you talk.”
They watched him pour the brandy and position the plate of tarts where they could all reach it. “Just so you know, none of you are leaving this room until you’ve talked. It’s not really any of my business what you say.” He didn’t look happy about this. “But you need to get past this ridiculous, childish silence. I’m sure we all agree that Hunter has a lot to answer for, but as far as I’m concerned it has nothing to do with my relationship with Samantha.” He looked meaningfully at the three of them then walked back to the rest of the group, many of whom were eyeing them surreptitiously.
Samantha clasped her hands in her lap to keep them still, but she felt like the accused on the witness stand waiting for cross-examination. The silence spooled out between them. “All right,” she said finally. “I get it. If you’re not going to speak to me, I guess I’ll just get going.”
“Were you planning to apologize first?” Claire asked.
Even though this was exactly what she’d come to do, the question hurt. Edward had told her she had nothing to apologize for. But then Edward had not shared the kinds of confidences these women had before her brother ripped them off.
She felt the pinprick of tears against her eyelids as she realized how much Claire and Brooke had come to mean to her and how much she would miss them. Their friendship, her marriage, everything she cared about had collapsed around her, and she had no idea how to put any of it back together. She looked both Claire and Brooke in the eye and began. “I am extremely sorry that Hunter took your money under false pretenses.” She swallowed, her mouth dry and cottony as if all of her despair had settled there. “I hate that he abused Edward’s trust and that he stole from you.”
They watched her carefully but neither of them said a word.
“I’ve told him he has to pay back any investor who wants their money.” She paused, waited for some sort of reaction, got nothing. “But, of course, I have no control over him. I don’t know what made me think I ever did.”
Still they didn’t speak. At the back of the room the crowd had thinned. Isabella and James had begun to pack up the food and drink. Edward stood near the door carefully not watching them.
Claire and Brooke exchanged a look.
Claire said, “That’s not good enough.”
“I agree,” Brooke said. “That’s really not going to cut it.”
“Is that right?” Samantha swallowed back the lump of hurt that rose in her throat. She unclenched her hands, which were slick with sweat. She’d known an apology wouldn’t solve everything but she’d never imagined they’d throw it back in her face. “And that’s because . . .” she asked tersely, ready to get the hell out of there.
“Because we thought we were friends,” Claire said.
“Yeah,” Brooke added. “Good friends.”
“We are. I mean, we were,” Samantha said not following. “At least as far as I was concerned anyway.”
“Well you have a weird way of showing it,” Claire said. “Because friends don’t blow each other off as soon as something goes wrong.”
Samantha didn’t understand where this conversation was going. Or what it was they wanted from her.
“Which means that when your friends ring your doorbell or call you on the phone—and especially when they do this repeatedly—you have to answer,” Claire said.
“Yes,” Brooke agreed. “I’m fairly certain that’s a key requirement. I mean you don’t hurl on a potted palm or cry on an elliptical machine in front of just everyone.” Her lips twitched up at the corners.
“No,” Samantha said as she drew her first easy breath. “You don’t.”
“And not everyone will tell your assholiness of an ex-husband off for you,” Brooke added.
“No,” Samantha said. “Everyone won’t.”
“Which is why when you find people who will do those things you don’t shove them away when things get difficult,” Claire said quietly. “Friendship can’t be one-sided. You can’t only give. You have to accept comfort and support when it’s offered.”
Brooke nodded. She placed one of the brandy glasses in Samantha’s hand. “Are we freaked out about what Hunter did?” she asked. “You betcha. Are we royally pissed off at him and dying to see him punished? Absolutely.” She poured brandy into Samantha’s glass and then into her own and Claire’s. “But it’s not your fault. No matter what you think, your brother is a grown man and no one—but you—is holding you responsible for what he’s done.”
Tears threatened again, but this time they were tears of relief. Claire picked up her glass. No one bothered to make a toast. They simply raised them to their lips and drank.
“We’re mad because you didn’t even give us a chance to tell you that,” Brooke said. “I’d still be wearing beige and scurrying through the lobby afraid of running into Barbie and Ken if it weren’t for the two of you. I haven’t lost it in a potted palm in weeks.”
Samantha swiped at her eyes. This time Claire refilled their glasses. “I guess I’m just used to keeping my thoughts and concerns to myself,” Samantha said. “I’ve never had friends that I could be completely myself with before—without any kind of pretense. I never even really let myself think about who I was or what I wanted to be.” Her vision blurred with tears. “I became responsible for Hunter and Meredith when I was twenty-one and taking care of them was always my focus.” She fingered the stem of her glass staring down into the burgundy liquid. “That and keeping Jonathan happy.” She felt the prick of tears yet again and willed them away. “Because I guess I’ve always seen him as the key to that.”
“All you have to do to keep Jonathan happy is walk in the room,” Brooke said. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
“No,” Samantha said, wishing it were true. “You’re wrong. He stepped in and saved us when we were desperate and he’s stayed because that’s the kind of stand-up person he is.” She lifted her glass, swirled the brandy. “I thought we’d carved out a comfortable life together. But he’s never pretended to anything more than that.” She raised the glass to her lips, not waiting for anyone else.
“That’s ridiculous,” Claire said dismissively. “I’ve written two romance novels and I’d give a lot to be able to capture the way you look at each other when you think no one’s looking.”
“I wish you were right. But . . . he’s moved out. He’s been at Bellewood since Thanksgiving.”
“Well, I don’t believe he’s written off twenty-five years of marriage just like that.” Brooke snapped her fingers.
“He’s got this white-knight complex,” Samantha argued. “I don’t know where he got it from—definitely not his parents—but he’s a caretaker. It’s really not about me.”
Edward appeared with another half a bottle of brandy and the leftover tarts. “Much better. I’m glad to see you three regaining your senses.” He placed a key on the table. “Stay as long as you like. Just lock up when you leave.”
They murmured their good nights and watched him go.
“So what’s supposed to happen now with Jonathan?” Claire asked when they had the room to themselves.
“I don’t know.” Samantha lifted her glass and
took a sip, wanting to add to the warmth she’d begun to feel inside. Hoping it would eliminate the chill she felt even thinking about Jonathan’s absence and what it really meant. “I’ve been so overwhelmed with what Hunter did that I’ve barely been able to think. I’m afraid it’s too late.”
“Well, if he’s staying at his mother’s house and hasn’t taken an apartment or a condo or anything, that’s a sign that he hasn’t really moved on,” Brooke said. “At least he didn’t move into another unit in the building with his girlfriend.” She took a drink of her brandy and reached for a lemon tart.
“He must be waiting for something,” Claire said. She lasered a look at Samantha. “What is it he’s waiting for?”
“I wish I knew.”
“He must have given you some kind of clue,” Claire prodded.
Samantha hesitated, ran a finger around the rim of her glass. “He said he’s tired of me feeling like I have to please him all the time.”
“That would make him the anti-Zachary,” Brooke observed. “But then I guess we already knew that.”
“He said he wants to know what I think and feel,” Samantha went on. “He wants to know what he is to me.”
“Don’t you love him?” Brooke asked quietly. “Is that the problem?”
“No. I . . .” The denial sprang to her lips almost as quickly as it sprang into her mind. She’d been denying it for so long. Out of fear that her feelings were unreciprocated. Out of worry that she might rock the precarious boat that she’d been sailing. Out of a certainty that fairy tales were peopled not only with princes and glass slippers but big, bad wolves and houses made of straw.
“I really . . .” She thought back to their wedding and how strongly he’d said his vows when she could barely stammer hers. His sense of adventure. His generosity and warmth. How he made sex feel like making love even though . . . She tried to halt the thoughts, afraid of where they were going. He almost never said the words, but somehow made her feel treasured.
The memory of Jonathan pulling on his tuxedo on his thirtieth birthday to escort a thirteen-year-old Meredith to her first father-daughter dance at the club smote her. She was such a fool.
“I do,” Samantha said. “I do love him.” She quaked inside as the words left her lips. A tear slid down her cheek and she didn’t bother to wipe it away. She’d been in denial for so long.
“Then there is no problem,” Claire said. “Just tell him. I bet he’ll be back home in a New York minute.”
“It’s not that simple,” Samantha said, though she wished it were.
“Why not?” Claire asked.
“Because I don’t know how he feels. How can I tell him I love him when there’s every chance he doesn’t love me?” Samantha asked, her eyes not quite meeting theirs. “He’s only ever said it a handful of times and, well, let’s just say we were always naked when he did.”
Brooke reached out and squeezed her hand. “I think the man’s crazy about you. But if by some weird chance he’s not, wouldn’t it be better to know for sure?”
Even imagining a life that didn’t include Jonathan made Samantha’s heart ache. “Am I allowed to say no?”
“No.” Claire topped off their glasses. “You’re not. He wants to know how you feel and you need to tell him.” She took a sip of her brandy and took a moment to swallow it. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t go about it in some wussy half-assed way.”
“Completely right,” Brooke said. “No mumbling, no trying to trick him into saying it first.” She raised her glass and tilted it toward Samantha.
“This is definitely the time for a clear statement of your feelings accompanied by some kind of grand gesture.” Claire raised her glass in accord.
Samantha’s fingers closed around the stem of her snifter. She raised it, grateful that neither of them commented on the way the burgundy liquid sloshed in the glass. Her hand wasn’t the only thing trembling. “I guess I’m drinking to that,” she said. “But I’d feel a lot better if someone gave me a clue how to say it. Or had some idea about how grand that grand gesture needs to be.”
* * *
AFTERWARD IN HER APARTMENT, CLAIRE SAT IN BED her back against her pillows, the journal propped against her knees. Warmed by the brandy and comforted by their repaired friendship, she wrote her impressions of the evening in full detail until with a final yawn, she closed the notebook and set it on the nightstand. Sleep came quickly and so did her dreams—a vivid mishmash of color and movement that floated on the mournful keen of distant bagpipes.
At three a.m. she jerked awake, her heart racing. She lay in the dark for a time while her breathing slowed, turning over pieces of her dreams in her mind. Highland lords and their ladies; Rory Douglas and the other members of his clan. All of them were characters she’d created in Highland Kiss and Highland Hellion. She recognized the tartans and even gowns she’d once clothed her heroines Brianna and Heather in. But their faces—Claire strained to see them more clearly—had all been pulled not from her novels but from her current life.
Claire studied the soft wash of moonlight on the wood floor and wondered at a subconscious that would take Samantha and Jonathan Davis, Brooke and Zachary Mackenzie, even Hunter Jackson and Edward Parker, dress them in kilts and gunnas and drop them among the craggy peaks of the Scottish Highlands.
“Go back to sleep,” she said aloud as she plumped her pillow purposefully and pulled the covers back up to her chin. But she’d barely closed her eyes when new images assailed her. Hunter Jackson sneering nastily. Edward Parker standing in front of the clubroom’s big-screen TV introducing that week’s episode of Downton Abbey not in his clipped British accent but in a soft Scottish burr. Brooke Mackenzie ushering her girls through the lobby. The looming presence of Pregnant Barbie and Plastic Ken.
At four she gave up and turned on the lights, trying to separate distant past from present day, truth from fiction. Something niggled at the back of her mind. Some message she was supposed to receive; a task she was meant to complete.
Her gaze settled on her laptop, skittered away, returned.
An unseen hand propelled her to her “desk” where she lifted the lid of her Mac and waited impatiently for it to awaken. The screen roused. Unsure why, she clicked on Word and opened a new page but did not pause to set margins or tabs or anything else that might require conscious thought or decision.
Her friends’ faces swam before her. Her story and theirs. In present day and present tense. Intertwined.
She saw herself selling the house in River Run. Carting her things into the Alexander ready to start her new life even as Hailey began hers. It was a tiny life; one that expanded to include Brooke and Samantha and Edward Parker. Brought together by Sunday nights, held together by mutual need.
Her fingertips settled lightly on the keyboard as she at last understood the months of failure and frustration.
She had spent years writing stories of romantic love set against a historic backdrop in order to escape the unromantic realities of single motherhood. But that life was over; she’d created a new reality. From which she had no desire—or need—to escape.
She wanted to write about real people, with real issues. About imperfect love whether it be mistaken love like hers, unreciprocated love like Brooke’s, or even sublimated love like Samantha’s. Her fingers began to move across the key – board, tentatively at first and then with growing certainty.
The words came more quickly. They poured out onto her screen in a torrent. She didn’t know where they came from and for the first time in a long time she didn’t care.
When the sun rose at seven fifteen she was still typing. When she stopped to use the bathroom and forage for something to eat it was late afternoon, but within thirty minutes she was seated again her fingers already curling over the keys, a smile tugging at her lips, her “well” unexpectedly full to overflowing with an almost but not quite forgotten joy.
* * *
BROOKE STOOD IN THE CENTER OF HER CLOSET surrounded by a
pile of rejected clothing—most of it beige and unexpectedly large. A smaller pile of things she thought might be altered sat folded neatly on her dresser.
She wasn’t sure how many pounds she’d lost or even how, but she’d begun to use the time she used to spend catering to Zachary doing odd jobs for Edward and had learned to subdue the panic over the money she’d lost to Hunter Jackson on long, rambling walks with Darcy that they’d both grown to love.
Right now she was thinking a brief after-dinner walk. She dialed Claire’s cell phone to see if she wanted to join them.
“It’s me,” she said when Claire answered. “I’m headed out with Darcy and the girls—we’re going to walk down to the park and back. Want to come?”
“Can’t,” Claire said quite happily. “I’m working.” Her statement was followed by what might have been a chortle of glee.
“Okay,” Brooke said, slipping on her shoes and moving to the family room to round up the girls. “Have you heard anything from Samantha?”
“No,” Claire said. Brooke could hear the sound of fingers clattering on a keyboard in the background. “But I think tonight’s the night.”
Brooke smiled and hung up, hoping to hell she hadn’t been mistaken about Jonathan Davis’s feelings for his wife.
“Come on, girls.” She hooked Darcy’s leash to her collar and waited for Ava and Natalie to put on their coats. “When we get back we can make some hot chocolate.”
“With mush mellows?” Ava asked.
“Absolutely. And when you’re done with your homework we can work on our Christmas cards.” She’d decided that given the need to economize she and the girls would make their own this year and had convinced Bruce Dalton and his daughter to do the same.
They went down in the elevator in a whirlwind of pulling on mittens and arguing over who got to push which button. Brooke was calling after them not to run in the lobby when they sprinted right into Zachary and Sarah’s path.
“Crap.” She shortened Darcy’s leash and hurried toward the girls. Zachary greeted her arrival with a disapproving stare. Sarah was beautifully made-up and her hair looked freshly styled but her over-plumped lips turned downward and she looked a bit like a sausage trying to break out of its casing. The area under her eyes looked dark from lack of sleep.