While We Were Watching Downton Abbey (15 page)

“Thanks for checking on me,” she said to the two women. Her voice sounded wooden in her ears. “I’ll be in in a minute.”

“All right,” Brooke said. “We’ll get you an apple crumble and save you a seat.”

“Thanks.” She watched them leave. Through the glass she could see them go up to Edward Parker. All three of them watched from within for several long moments.

“That was weird,” Hunter said dismissively.

“No,” she said. “I believe that was friendship.” She was too bent on standing firm with Hunter to question why people she’d known for such a short time would wade into the middle of something even she didn’t want to be a part of.

“So will you speak to Jonathan?” Hunter asked. “Just this one last time? I promise I’ll never . . .”

She’d heard this promise far too many times to allow herself to believe it. “No.”

“But you have to,” he remonstrated. “I’ll be finished. Ruined. We’ll all be in the papers.”

She looked him in the eye, forced herself to speak. “How could you do this? Have you even stopped to think what an investigation like this might mean to Jonathan and the firm?”

“But, the money would buy us time and it might help make that go away. And Jonathan knows a good opportunity when he sees it.” He said this almost by rote. She could feel him trying to get her back on script; the one in which he asked, she agreed, and Jonathan gave.

“Oh, Hunter. Don’t be ridiculous. When has Jonathan ever made money investing in your ‘deals’? You’ve been his personal charity. And you’ve taken advantage of his generosity. We’ve all taken advantage.”

He glared at her; his green eyes glass shards of dislike. But even as she watched, the dislike disappeared and was replaced with desperation. “People could go to jail, Samantha. I could go to jail. If it hits the papers . . .”

“This is finished,” she said quietly. “I’ll tell him there’s a problem because he has to know. But I won’t ask him to invest another penny or do anything but protect himself and the firm.”

“You don’t mean it,” he said.

“I should have asked him to cut you off a long time ago. It’s been unfair to him and it hasn’t helped you at all.”

He shook his head, dismissive and disbelieving. “You won’t.”

“I will,” she said with all the certainty she could muster. “I want a half page from you explaining the . . . irregularities in this deal and the reasons why the SEC might become involved. And when this is taken care of I expect you to go out and get a job. A real one with a salary. Not a pie-in-the-sky, smoke-and-mirrors kind of thing. A real job so you can pay your own rent. Take care of yourself. And maybe even start paying some of the money back to Jonathan that you’ve lost.”

The door to the clubroom opened and Edward Parker stepped out. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Davis, but I wanted to see if you’d be coming in to join the discussion.”

Hunter glowered at the concierge, but Edward Parker didn’t seem to notice.

Samantha felt a small surge of relief. She’d said what she needed to say and Edward had offered an exit. “Thank you, Edward.” She smiled a bit shakily at the concierge. “I’ll be right there.”

The concierge cast a look down his nose at Hunter. “If you’re sure everything’s all right?”

Hunter’s mouth opened in a snarl. “Mind your own business or . . .”

Samantha drew herself up and squared her shoulders. “Yes, thanks.” She swallowed but managed to raise an eyebrow at Hunter. “My brother was just leaving.”

“Very good, madam,” he said in a fair imitation of
Downton Abbey
’s butler, Carson.

“This is bullshit, Samantha,” Hunter said as soon as the door closed behind the concierge. “How many people are going to come out here to try to protect you?”

She sighed, but she knew she couldn’t retreat. “The better question might be why do these people feel I need to be protected from you?”

He continued to glare at her. She could tell he simply didn’t believe she wasn’t going to cave in and do what he’d asked.

“You need to go now,” she said shakily. “I’ll tell Jonathan about the problem in my own way. You’ve forced him into another untenable position. That seems to be a Jackson family specialty. But this is it. When this mess is cleaned up there will be no more backing from him.” Then she said what she’d said to Meredith. “And in the meantime you better start looking for a job. One you can hold on to. Otherwise you’ll be cut off completely.”

“You can’t mean . . .”

“Seriously, Hunter. The Jonathan Davis gravy train is over.”

He sputtered at her for a moment in shock and disbelief. Then he whirled and strode down the hall to the elevator.

She waited until the elevator door closed behind him, breathing deeply, trying to regain her bearings. Edward Parker smiled gently at her as she entered the clubroom. Brooke waved her to an empty seat at the table between her and Claire Walker. A glass of brandy and a brimming dessert plate awaited her.

For a moment she let the conversation wash over her. There was laughter and an overarching atmosphere of goodwill, but Samantha felt immune to it.

“Evelyn Napier is cute,” Mimi Davenport was saying, referring to the English diplomat. “Although Evelyn is not the most masculine name I’ve heard. I think Lady Mary should have paid attention to him.”

“She only had eyes for Pamuk,” one of the lit teachers called out.

“I don’t blame her,” Callan Ritchie said. “Kemal Pamuk was hot! Did you see the way Lady Mary perked up when she saw him?”

“Oh, God, I couldn’t believe it when he died right there in her bed!” Callan’s twin Logan added.

“I
hate
when that happens!” the white-haired Mimi Davenport threw in.

There was laughter.

Samantha turned to Claire. “He died in her bed?” she asked blankly.

Claire and Brooke nodded. “Oh, yeah. It was unreal,” Brooke said.

“You need to see it for yourself, though,” Claire added. “I bet Edward will loan you the episode.”

Edward wrapped up the discussion and reluctantly, as always, the crowd began to leave. Brooke and Claire stood when Samantha did. She was relieved that they didn’t ask what had happened between her and her brother; she could barely bring herself to think about it.

Edward Parker regarded her as they neared the door. “Everyone all right?” he asked, but his eyes were on Samantha.

“Right as rain,” she said, though this was a blatant lie.

“Come on, we’ll escort you upstairs,” Brooke offered, her smile shy.

“Thanks,” Samantha said. “But I’m fine.” Or she would be. Just as soon as she found the strength to tell Jonathan what Hunter had dragged him into.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

B
ROOKE PULLED UP IN FRONT OF BRUCE DALTON’S
home and turned off the Volvo. The house, in the Candler Park neighborhood not far from Piedmont Park, was exactly the kind of house she would have chosen if she’d been in charge of their move to Atlanta. It was a Craftsman-style bungalow with a triangular gable roof and a deep shaded verandah. Flower beds and a lush green lawn framed the cozy structure and were in turn framed by the kind of white picket fence you might see in a children’s fairy tale. It was exactly the kind of house they might have lived in if Zachary hadn’t been so concerned with appearances.

Her stomach lurched at the thought of her ex-husband and his girlfriend’s upcoming move into the Alexander and she attempted to push the thought aside as she climbed out of the station wagon and smoothed nervous hands down the side of her striped shirtdress. With unsteady steps she crossed the sidewalk and opened the gate then followed the curved concrete path to the broad steps and onto the porch.

“Mrs. Mackenzie?” The man who opened the bright red door was of average height and weight with light brown hair and eyes and pleasant regular features. His smile was friendly and his hand, when he reached out to shake hers, was warm and dry.

“Yes. Mr. Dalton?”

“Call me Bruce.” He stepped back so that she could enter and led her through the foyer into a spacious great room with windows that overlooked the side and backyard and wrapped around a gourmet kitchen. A fireplace, bracketed by built-in bookshelves, ran along one wall. Lantern-hung beams formed rectangles on the ceiling.

“Then I’m Brooke.” She looked around, liking what she saw. “The house is beautiful. And the modern touches are really well blended.”

“Thanks. The house had just been renovated when we bought it. We fell in love with the house’s warmth and character, but modern plumbing and appliances make it even more lovable.”

The furnishings were clean lined and modern but original pine plank floors were covered by brightly colored area rugs and white walls were dotted with family photographs and whimsical folk art.

He motioned her to a seat at the kitchen table. Light streamed in unchecked through a bank of double-hung windows. Outside a wooden playhouse was tucked in up against the fence, shaded by an ancient oak tree. A swing set dominated the opposite corner; it was quite elaborate with a monkey bar and slide and lots of things to climb around on. Ava and Natalie would have had a field day here. “The grounds are beautiful. Have you been in the house long?”

“No.” He looked out the window to the yard. “We’d just moved in when my wife was diagnosed. We spent the first six months fighting her illness.” He paused, then went on. “And the last six months trying to get used to being without her.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

Wanting to give him a minute, she reached for her tote bag. In an effort to look professional, she’d filled it with everything she could think of—tape measure, yellow pad, a barrage of pens and pencils, a few party supply catalogues that she’d found. There were also the hand sanitizer, wet wipes, tissues, juice boxes, and other detritus that went with motherhood.

She pulled out a yellow pad and set it on the table in front of her.

“So, um, Edward said you want us to plan a birthday party for your daughter?”

“Yes,” he said. “Marissa’s turning six and I want her to have a party.” He smiled and she noticed a dimple slashing through one cheek. “I’m not all that sure what six-year-old girls want or like. And we really don’t know many people here.”

“Why don’t you tell me a little bit about her?” Brooke prompted.

He thought for a few seconds. “Well, she’s smart and a little bit of a tomboy. But I think she likes you know, girly kinds of things, too. Like dolls. And . . . dress-up clothes.”

“What shows does she like to watch?” Brooke asked.

“Hmmm, something with good luck in it. And one with a girl’s name . . .” His voice trailed off. “And she has videos with some kind of a pet shop in them.”

“Maybe
Good Luck, Charlie
on Disney and
Olivia
on Nickelodeon? Those are two of my girls’ favorites. They’re five and seven.”

“Yes, that sounds right,” he said. “And when she plays with her Barbie dolls she either dresses them up like a princess or sends them to climb Mount Everest in what we used to call ‘hot pants.’”

She watched his face, liking the way the sadness lifted and his brown eyes lit up when he talked about his daughter. “Edward said you’d like something simple, maybe in the backyard?”

“I just want her to have a good time. I’m open.”

“Well, it looks like a great space. There’s lots of room and plenty of shade. It’s nicely confined so all your time won’t be spent counting heads and worrying.”

He watched her intently as she spoke. As if she were saying something that wasn’t completely obvious.

She turned to look out the windows as she thought. “We could just do a really nice birthday picnic. You know, spread blankets under the trees. Have sandwiches and lemonade. Ice cream and birthday cake for dessert. And then we could include some kind of old-fashioned relay events like sack races and three-legged races.”

“Instead of pin the tail on the donkey and clothespins in milk bottles?”

“Yes. Same idea. We’ll keep them occupied, but they’ll be working on something together in teams. And we could put out some arts and crafts in one area. My girls love to color and draw. Add a little glitter and it’s a big-time treat.”

He smiled. “I like it.”

“And it’ll be a little cooler by the first weekend in October.” She could see it laid out in her mind. Thinking she should probably make notes, she reached back into the tote and felt around for a pen. She froze when her fingers encountered something soft and squishy. When she extracted her hand, four out of five of her fingers were streaked with chocolate.

Their eyes met.

“Breakfast?” he asked. His lips quirked upward.

Brooke sighed and felt heat stain her cheeks. “Unfortunately, no. It might be the remains of the Reese’s cup Ava was eating at the park yesterday. Or it could be way older than that.” So much for the professional presentation she’d been envisioning. “May I borrow your sink?”

“Of course.” She sensed him trying not to laugh, but there was no help for it. She went to the kitchen and washed her hands thoroughly. Using a paper towel to dry them, she found the trash compactor and dropped it inside.

She came over to the table and reached back inside the bag. This time she came out clutching a half-eaten grocery store cookie. Which crumbled as they stared at it. “Good grief.” She marched back to the trash compactor and dropped it inside. Bringing back a damp paper towel she wiped and de-crumbed the table.

When she returned to her seat she forced herself to meet his eyes. “Look, I don’t know what Edward Parker told you, but I’m not a full-time concierge or anything. I’m just a mom. A mom who occasionally uses candy as bribery and then forgets to throw away the evidence.”

He laughed. But she felt as if he were laughing with her, not at her.

“Frankly, I would say that makes you perfect for this assignment. Edward Parker sounded like a savvy fellow. He promised to find the right person for the assignment and I think you’re it. All you have to do is plan the party you would plan for one of your daughters.”

She thought about the expensive parties Zachary had insisted on once he’d started making money and building his medical practice. Chuck E. Cheese’s. Six Flags Over Georgia. Renting a movie theater for a private screening. High tea at the Ritz—as if either Natalie or Ava had understood what was going on. Half the time he’d doubled the planned guest list in order to be sure their name—and his medical practice—would get in front of the mothers who lunched and Botoxed.

She was afraid Bruce Dalton was just being kind, but it wasn’t as if she could just get up and leave. She’d promised Edward Parker she’d at least have this meeting and report back. And it was clear this man needed help.

She pushed aside her embarrassment and picked up her pen. “How many children will you be having?”

Bruce Dalton’s face went blank. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want something small with only Marissa’s close friends? Or something larger that includes her whole class?”

His brown eyes behind the glasses reflected his confusion. “I have no idea. Marissa doesn’t really have any close friends. She’s played at the little girl’s across the street once or twice. And the babysitter we use took her to someone else’s birthday party once when I had to be at a meeting.” He looked down at his hands. “I never really expected to be doing this alone. I’m still trying to get used to the idea. And there are so many things that Chloe—that’s Marissa’s mother—just always handled. I’m afraid I’ve really been mucking things up.”

Any thought of not planning and giving the sixth birthday of Marissa Dalton evaporated. “Do you have a class directory or anything?”

“Yes, I’m sure I must.” He stood and moved over to a built-in desk that appeared stuffed with papers and miscellaneous—much like Brooke’s tote bag.

She stood and moved over to the counter, perching on a bar stool where she had a better view. “If there’s a neighborhood list, maybe you could pull that, too. So that I can get the little girl across the street’s name and phone number. Her mother might be able to help me come up with a list of neighborhood children that we could invite, too.”

“Oh. That’s a great idea.” Once again he said this as if she’d invented the wheel or discovered fire. “Yes, I think the little girl’s name is Katie. And the mother is . . .” His forehead crinkled in thought. It was her turn to bite back a smile. Everything about Bruce Dalton shouted “absentminded professor.” “Karen? Connie? Cathy? That’s it. Cathy Banks.”

“Great,” Brooke said jotting the names on her yellow pad.

She couldn’t bring Marissa Dalton’s mother back. Or even make her and her father’s loss any less than the monumental thing it was. But she was going to put on the best birthday party picnic any six-year-old girl had ever had.

* * *

SYLVIE AND BRICK TALMADGE’S BACKYARD WAS
roughly the size of a football field. A long, green, perfectly manicured rectangle, it had a pool and cabana, a tennis court, and an outdoor “kitchen” with a built-in grill and entertainment area. On this late Saturday afternoon in September, the Ole Miss–Mississippi State football game, which was playing on the big-screen TV, was currently in halftime.

Samantha sat on the Talmadge’s back patio, sipping cocktails with the women who the world at large considered her best friends, but who had become friends by default—having married Jonathan Davis’s friends. Out on the lawn, their barefoot husbands talked trash to each other while they tossed a football around.

Sylvie Talmadge was a statuesque blonde whose glory days as an Ole Miss cheerleader had resulted in marriage to Brick Talmadge, captain of the Rebel football team and one of Jonathan’s childhood friends.

It was rumored that her pom-poms had been pried from her fingers to make room for the bridal bouquet before she headed down the aisle. But once joined to the aptly named Brick, Sylvie had channeled her earlier enthusiasm, and school spirit, into determined procreation. Given the bride and groom’s gene pools, no one was surprised that all four of their children were blessed with blond good looks, impressive eye-hand coordination, and almost superhuman strength and stamina. Sylvie spent the years that followed cheering on their sons and daughters whom she enthusiastically ferried to football fields, baseball diamonds, and beauty pageants.

In contrast to the almost Amazonian Sylvie, Lucy Hammond Lee was small and curvy. Married to Jonathan’s college roommate, Rock, Lucy had never met a social mountain she did not want to climb. Since her husband could, and did, trace his lineage to Robert E. Lee, Lucy had scaled and claimed Rock E. Lee with a flinty-eyed determination that could have landed her in the White House had she been so inclined.

Samantha, Sylvie, and Lucy had been brought together by their husbands’ friendship. Not spending time with each other would have been impossible; disliking each other pointless. They saw each other frequently, but rarely without their husbands. All three women had married into old, wealthy southern families. The patent disapproval of thier mothers-in-law was the glue that bound them.

“It’s kind of hard to understand how she can love the children I produced so freely and dislike me so intensely. I mean I’ve been married to Rock E. for almost a quarter of a century. If I was only digging for gold I would have stashed and grabbed all I could and been gone a long time ago. It’s downright insultin’,” Lucy said in a familiar complaint.

There were murmurs of sympathy since “the boys” were far enough away not to overhear. Samantha sometimes wondered if Cynthia might have softened toward her if she’d managed to produce grandchildren like the others had. A soft Cynthia Davis was almost impossible to imagine.

“Brick says his mama wouldn’t have approved of anyone he married, but after all these years she still talks about his high school girlfriend—who is now divorced and livin’ just down the street at her parents’—like she walks on water.” Sylvie took a long pull on her frozen margarita. “Sweet Jesus, just look at those boys.” She was referring to Brick, Rock E., and Jonathan, who had taken off their shirts and were now running plays with much feinting and hilarity. “I must say Jonathan really stays in shape. Brick is not anywhere near as solid as he used to be. We may have to apply for some kind of name change.” She sighed.