While We Were Watching Downton Abbey (23 page)

Tears clogged her throat and dampened her eyes. She had the oddest flash of Rhett Butler packing and leaving Scarlett O’Hara in the final scene of
Gone with the Wind
. She had an embarrassing urge to cry, “Oh, my darling, if you go, what shall I do?” just as Scarlett had asked Rhett. Except that she was horribly afraid that if she did, Jonathan would quote the modern equivalent of Rhett’s famous words back to her.

The last thing Samantha could bear to hear from Jonathan at the moment was, “My dear, I don’t give a damn.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

W
HEN SAMANTHA WOKE THE NEXT MORNING THE
apartment’s silent emptiness told her that Jonathan had already gone. Feeling as hollow inside as the apartment, she turned her head and opened her eyes in search of some proof that he had left something for her beside the memory of his disappointment. But there was no note on the bedside table and no comforting scent of coffee already brewed. Samantha pulled the sheets up over her head and closed her eyes, but there was no wishing herself back in time or even back to sleep.

Her mind replayed last night’s conversation and pinpricks of panic pierced her. Jonathan had sounded so disappointed in her, in them. Disappointed enough to leave.

“Stop it.” She said this aloud even as she threw off the covers and sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “He’s upset and he left a few days early. He didn’t
leave
leave.” But it was so unlike Jonathan to be poking and prodding her feelings like that. If he hadn’t taken her by surprise, she would have come up with something better than how
grateful
she was. She rubbed her feet over the carpet. But would she have opened herself to that kind of hurt? Their whole marriage had been a bargain. How could she admit to feelings she shouldn’t even have and then face his pity or have to hear him apologize for not returning them?

She glanced at the clock and was almost sorry she had no workout scheduled this morning. Physical exertion might burn off some of the worry and having someone—anyone—push her would be a good thing right now. She began to swing her legs back onto the bed. Her hand was already reaching for the covers when she stopped. “No!”

She’d have one cup of coffee and then she’d get out of the apartment. Maybe she’d jog to the park and back before she had to shower and dress for the day. What she couldn’t do was sit here worrying. She and Jonathan had been married for a long time. Like any married couple they had arguments and problems. Normally she was able to smooth things over before anything could fester or grow out of proportion.

Because she was afraid she would appear ungrateful. Which might cause Jonathan to question why he had married her at all.

The pinpricks became sharper, blooming into full-fledged panic. She raced into the closet to make sure Jonathan’s things were still there.
Don’t be silly. He’s upset and he left for a few extra days to think. That’s all.
But what if his thoughts led him to decide their marriage wasn’t worth saving?

She was out of the apartment and jabbing at the elevator call button as if wolves were nipping at her heels. When she stepped in for the ride down she tried to think calming thoughts, but the panic seemed to be sucking up all the gray matter and blotting out rational thought. Just as it had when her father’s disgrace and her parents’ deaths had left her not only penniless but responsible for her brother and sister.

Nerves jangling, she groaned aloud when the elevator stopped on the tenth floor. Because she apparently wasn’t feeling quite horrible enough, when the doors slid open Zachary Mackenzie stepped on.

Samantha’s lips clamped together. His opened wide in a happy smile.

“Hello,” he said jovially. “I’m so glad to see you. I’ve been wanting to thank you for watching the girls the other night.”

Irritation ignited into anger and mingled with the panic, creating a toxic brew. He looked at her expectantly. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

“You know, Natalie and Ava Mackenzie?” he prompted. “I understand they spent the evening with you and your husband.”

“Yes,” she answered. The fury bubbled in her veins and sought release. It was a relief to let it out. “Because you’d forgotten them.”

“Well, not exactly,” he said with what she knew was meant to be an ingratiating smile.

She stared at him. “Not exactly, how?”

“It’s just that I’m not used to taking them on weekdays,” he said as if this explained everything. “And we were invited to play golf up in Highlands with the Oglethorpes; they’re an old Atlanta family. Maybe you know them?” He shrugged when she didn’t answer. “Time just got away from us.” He seemed so smugly happy with himself. Oblivious to the fact that she, whom he seemed so eager to impress, was about to erupt and rain molten lava all over him. The man might know how to improve bodies and faces; if he knew how to read them he’d be pressing the emergency button and trying to escape.

“You know how it is,” he said.

“No,” she said sharply. “Actually I don’t. In fact, I can’t imagine how anyone could forget his children. Or leave their mother in such a difficult situation. Especially not in order to play a round of
golf
.”

He fell back a step. “Well, now, I . . . I mean it was Sarah who committed us. I mean we . . .”

Samantha just looked at him, glad to see
Doctor
Mackenzie stumble over his words and then grind to a halt.

“Sarah?” she asked as if she’d never heard the name before.

“My . . . girlfriend. We live in 1012 now. Just two floors below you and your husband.” He swallowed but stayed where he was. “Maybe the four of us could get together sometime and . . .”

The man was a social climber
and
a moron. Who seemed to believe that she and Jonathan had taken care of his children as part of some random act of kindness.

“Your children are lovely,” she said. “We were glad to have them over.”

He perked up at that. “Yes, they are sweet aren’t they? But it’s Sarah and I who . . .”

There was still a small sliver of her brain that knew her anger at Zachary Mackenzie wasn’t only about his bad behavior, but at the moment she didn’t care.

“Brooke is a friend of mine and I was happy to help her out. In fact, friendship is very important to me. Doing the right thing is very important to my husband. I doubt he’d be interested in socializing with anyone who could allow a round of golf to push their children right out of their mind.”

He stared at her, speechless, as the elevator reached the lobby.

When the doors slid open she nodded as regally as she could then swept out of the elevator, channeling not just Scarlett O’Hara, but
Downton Abbey
’s Countess Cora, Lady Mary, and the dowager countess all rolled into one.

* * *

THAT FRIDAY AFTERNOON BROOKE MACKENZIE
followed Bruce Dalton into his daughter’s bedroom. She stood beside him and examined the space, taking in the toddler-sized bed with the Kermit and Miss Piggy sheets and the nursery rhyme wallpaper. A Little Tikes table and chairs sat near one wall. An army of stuffed animals littered a Humpty Dumpty area rug.

“Marissa says it’s a ‘baby room’ and wants a big girl one,” Bruce Dalton said. “I have no idea what that means or where you get one.”

A smile tugged at Brooke’s lips. “You don’t typically go out and buy a whole room,” she explained. “It’s more a matter of choosing things that she likes and making them all work together. Natalie and I did her room over together when she turned six.” Her smile faltered a bit. The redecorating process had barely begun when Zachary moved out. “Ava’s already started clipping pictures out of magazines to make a poster board of all the things she likes. It’s a fun art project and it’s a good jumping-off point.” She studied Bruce Dalton’s face, liking the simple earnestness to please his child that she saw there. The kindness that seemed to be wrapped up in the brown eyes. His desire to be a full set of parents. “You could probably do it together if you wanted to. I could advise or consult along the way.”

“I hate to sound like a wuss, but I didn’t even realize until recently that there were so many shades of pink and purple. Chloe was the designer in the family.” His smile faltered. “I know if she were here the room would already be done.” He reached down and picked up a fuzzy white bunny rabbit that had seen better days and set it gently on the bed. “I hate to keep leaning on you, but would you be willing to redecorate the room with Marissa? I know I could hire an interior designer to do it, but you know her better than a stranger. You can help her pick out what she likes, not just what goes together, and you can relate as a mother . . . Does it seem odd to be trying to turn it into a semblance of a mother-daughter experience?”

“No, of course not. I understand completely. It’s not every man who would be as sensitive to his daughter’s emotional well-being.” She knew this from personal experience.

“Then you’ll do it?” The relief in his voice was unmistakable.

“Absolutely,” she said. “And maybe you can come along so that you can share the experience with Marissa. I’m sure she’d be glad to help educate you to the nuances of pink and purple.”

“Okay,” he agreed. “As long as I’m not the final decorative decision maker, I’m in.”

She got a bit more caught up in his easy smile than she’d meant to and reached for her tote bag. “Is it all right if I look around and make some notes?” She pulled out her pad and pencil, grateful that this time no half-eaten food fell out.

“Sure.” His cell phone rang and he glanced down at it. “Sorry, I’ve been waiting for this call. Will you excuse me?”

Dalton headed out of the room. A door, presumably to his office, closed.

Brooke studied Marissa Dalton’s bedroom, quietly taking in the space and comparing it to the little girl she’d just begun to know, and jotted down whatever came to mind. In the closet Brooke found the outfits they’d bought on their shopping trip hanging neatly, the new shoes lined up beneath them, and felt a warm glow at the thought of Marissa liking them enough to arrange them with such care.

The doorbell rang and she hesitated, expecting to hear Bruce head for the door. On the second peal, she debated whether she should answer it. On the third, she headed for the door, her only thought to stop the noise from interrupting his business call.

The woman on the front step was tall and blond with a perfect pair of breasts and an unlined face that Brooke recognized as the work of a first-class plastic surgeon. She wore a very short tennis skirt that exposed long, muscled legs and a body-hugging sleeveless tee that showed off toned arms and her two best features, which were significant. Like Sarah, she was the anti-Brooke; the very version of womanhood that Zachary created in the operating room and had traded her in for. Apparently the woman also cooked. Though it didn’t look like she ate. She held a disposable casserole dish in her hands. “Is Bruce here?”

“Yes,” Brooke replied. “But he’s on the phone. Can I help you?”

The woman looked Brooke up and down. “No, thanks. I’ll just bring this in for him.” She raised the aluminum foil–covered dish. “He and Marissa just love my cheeseburger casserole.” She stepped around Brooke and sashayed into the kitchen. “Are you the new housekeeper?”

“Um, no.”

“Because I heard he was looking for one.”

She set the foil-wrapped offering on the counter. Big blue eyes skimmed over the stainless-steel appliances and the well-appointed family room. An avaricious gleam lit them.

“Do you have any idea how long he’s going to be on the phone?”

“No.”

The blonde looked down at her Rolex and pouted prettily; a look Brooke suspected she used to good effect and as often as possible. Brooke was tempted to warn her that if she kept it up she’d need those collagen injections more frequently.

The woman sighed in disappointment. “Tell him that Monica stopped by,” she instructed in a tone that indicated that although Brooke might not be the housekeeper, she had ‘employee’ written all over her. “And that I’ll try him again later.” Without waiting for a response, she turned with a swirl of her tennis skirt and showed herself out.

Brooke, used to being summarily dismissed, jotted a few more notes on her pad and was debating whether to simply leave a note and go when Bruce appeared.

“Sorry,” he said. His hair stood up on end as if he’d been running his hand through it. His smile was a bit crooked. “I just closed on a commercial building in Smyrna and there were a few details that needed to be clarified.”

“No problem.” Her eyes met his. There was something endearing about his rumpledness. “Oh, Monica came by to see you. She left a casserole.” She watched him closely interested to see his reaction.

“Ah,” he said, giving nothing away. “We didn’t know many of our neighbors before Chloe got sick. But the neighborhood caring committee set up food delivery in those last months. Some of them still bring food.” He opened the freezer. Rows of disposable casseroles like the one Monica had delivered were packed tightly inside. “I haven’t had the heart to tell them that I’ve always been the primary cook in the family. They seem so eager to feed us.”

That wasn’t the only thing Monica was eager about.

“Truthfully, neither of us have been able to face a casserole since Chloe died. I’m afraid to throw them out in case someone sees them in the garbage.” There was the smile again. “I’d be happy to send some home with you if you think the girls would like them.”

“Oh.” Brooke could just imagine Monica’s reaction if she ever found out that the “help” had gone home with the cheeseburger casserole meant to win over the handsome widower. “Actually, that would be great. I’m a pretty utilitarian cook—you know, an assembler of ingredients—it would be nice to have a meal ready to pop in the oven. And a man who can cook? I think that belongs in the fantasy category for most women.”