While We Were Watching Downton Abbey (26 page)

“Sorry.” He mimed zipping his lips.

“Fine.” She pretended annoyance but was incredibly moved by the idea of a man who would understand the importance of a promise made to a child. “I guess I’ll just have to live with the anticipation.”

“That can be a good thing,” he said. “White or red?” He held up a bottle of each and she opted for the red. A wheel of warmed Brie surrounded by crackers and apple slices had been arranged on a glass platter. Brightly colored enamel bowls filled with mixed nuts, Goldfish, and other nibbles dotted the counter. He poured them both a glass of red wine. After setting hers in front of her he raised his in salute. “Welcome. I’m very glad you all could join us tonight.”

“We’re honored to be here,” she said in return. There was something about the sincerity of his smile and the appreciative glint in his eyes that made her feel not only welcomed but attractive. She sniffed appreciatively. The scent was warm and tomatoey with a hint of meat. “Is the main course hush-hush too? Because I think I might be able to guess this one.”

“Marissa requested my world-famous spaghetti and meatballs.” He turned to her. “It’s not particularly fancy or gourmet. I hope that’s all right with you?”

“It’s perfect. My girls will love it. We all will.”

The talk between them was easy and punctuated with appearances from the girls.

“Look, Daddy! I picked all purple things. Do you like these pillows?”

Marissa carried the poster over and put it up on the counter. Natalie and Ava were right behind her. “Do you think I could have purple walls, too?” Marissa asked.

“Well, I personally have always been a big fan of purple. It’s the color of royalty, after all,” Brooke said.

“Oh, Mommy, we should bring Missa our copy of
Princess Prunella and the Purple Peanut
to read,” Ava said. “I know she’d like it.”

When dinner was ready the girls washed their hands without protest and took their seats eagerly. Marissa and her father served and cleared away.

“No,” Bruce insisted when they tried to help. “You’re guests. The only thing you have to do is enjoy the meal.”

Brooke felt a goofy smile take over her face. She couldn’t remember a time when Zachary had been remotely tempted to wait on her. “Gosh, I feel like a queen tonight,” she said. “Maybe
I
should have worn purple.”

“You deserve to be waited on,” Bruce said.

She nodded regally. “Why, thank you, kind sir,” she said trying to keep things light. What did that say about her that such simple kindness made her eyes tear up? “I hereby name you the royal chef. You may feed me and my princesses anytime.”

“Done.” He gave Ava and Natalie a wink then he and Marissa huddled together at the back counter obscuring Brooke, Natalie, and Ava’s view. A few whispered, giggling moments later father and daughter turned. Marissa held a plate aloft. Bruce held two.

“Your majesties,” he said as they placed the desserts in front of their guests. “Bon appétit.”

Each plate held a still-warm slice of apple pie topped with a heaping scoop of French vanilla ice cream. “Oh, my gosh.” Brooke closed her eyes as she took the first bites. “This is delicious. Did you two really make this pie?”

Marissa nodded happily. “I got to peel some of the apples and help make the crust. It was my mommy’s favorite dessert. Daddy always made it for her birthday and special ’kashuns.”

Natalie and Ava pretty much Hoovered up every morsel of the pie. Brooke saw Ava grasp her plate with both chubby hands and reached out just in time to keep her from tilting it up so that she could lick the last bits of ice cream–soaked crust.

Holding back a smile, but without saying a word, Bruce cut and served everyone another smaller sliver. Natalie pronounced it the best dessert ever. Ava sent Bruce a look of abject adoration.

By the time Brooke and the girls had been handed into the car and invited to come back soon, Brooke had experienced more than a few adoring thoughts herself.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

T
HE INVITATION TO BELLEWOOD FOR SUNDAY
brunch was actually more of a summons than an invitation. Samantha had canceled her regular Wednesday lunch with her mother-in-law pleading a headache, which wasn’t a stretch at all and had known that at some point she’d have to see and speak with Cynthia. But after more than a week with nothing more than the curtest of informational texts from Jonathan, the last thing Samantha wanted to do was spend time with his mother. Nonetheless she dressed and drove to Buckhead, checking both text and email in hopes of a message—a real message—from Jonathan as she drove.

Jonathan had traveled extensively on business over the years, but his absence had never felt this intentional. Nor had he ever communicated so . . . sparsely. For more than half of her life he’d been there, steady and sure. A sturdy rock to lean on. A port fit to weather any storm. The emptiness inside her had grown so cavernous that she’d begun to imagine she could hear an echo.

She was relieved when she saw Meredith’s and Hunter’s cars in the drive assuming that with all three of them there, her misery would be easier to hide.

“Hello, Miz Davis,” Zora said as Samantha stepped into the foyer. “They’re all in the living room. Brunch will be ready in just a few minutes.”

Samantha caught the scent of biscuits just out of the oven, which Doris, the Davises’ longtime cook, would serve with a choice of honey or sawmill gravy. Samantha knew the sideboard would groan under the weight of chafing dishes filled with scrambled eggs, bacon, ham and sausage, fried potatoes, and cheese grits, all of which would be washed down with copious amounts of chicory-flavored coffee.

The thought of so much food made her feel physically ill.

“My, you look done in,” Cynthia said in greeting. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

“I’m fine,” she said though it had taken double the usual amount of concealer to try to disguise the dark puffy circles under her eyes. “I’m sure it’s just allergies. You know how I react to ragweed.” This was a safe thing to ascribe any illness to in fall in Atlanta; which was second in swollen nasal passages only to the golden shroud of pollen that covered Atlanta every spring.

Samantha accepted hugs from Meredith and Hunter but was too weary to search their faces for warning signs of unhappiness, irritation, and unknown agendas.

“Where’s Jonathan?” Meredith asked idly.

“He’s out of town on business,” Samantha said lightly.

Cynthia looked at her sharply. “And when do you expect him back, dear?”

“I’m not sure,” Samantha said.

Samantha sensed her mother-in-law’s antennae quivering. Hunter, too, was tuned in while pretending not to be.

They helped themselves from silver chafing dishes on the sideboard and settled into their usual seats. Samantha’s eyes strayed to Jonathan’s empty place at the head of the table. The house she’d grown so used to felt colder and less welcoming without him in it.

When they’d all been seated, Cynthia lifted her fork in signal that they could begin. “How are things at the Preservation Board?” Cynthia asked.

“Good,” Meredith replied. “It’s just that compared to New York, Atlanta’s practically provincial. And the preservation laws don’t have the same kind of teeth that Charleston and Savannah’s do.”

“But still it’s a great opportunity,” Samantha cut in when she saw Cynthia stiffen in her seat. “You’re very fortunate that Cynthia had connections there.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Meredith agreed, though nowhere near as speedily as Samantha would have liked. “Very lucky.”

“And how is that young man in New York?” Cynthia inquired casually. Except that Samantha knew it for the jab that it was. “Do you think he’ll be coming down to visit?”

“Maybe later this fall,” Meredith said. “It doesn’t look like he’ll be able to get away from work as soon as he’d hoped.”

Hunter raised an eyebrow at his sister, a silent taunt.

“Oh, and your relationships are so significant?” Meredith’s chin shot out mulishly. “When’s the last time you dated anyone with enough brain cells to carry on a conversation?” She paused briefly as if the question were something other than rhetorical. When she got no reply she continued. “And frankly, your current job is driving and errand running. You have no room to talk.”

“That shows what you know,” Hunter retorted. “I’ve already spoken with Edward about the concept of franchising Private Butler. The service sector is the only one on the rise in this economy. There’s real money to be made for the smart investor.”

For once Samantha let the barbs fly without any effort to stop or soften them. In truth they barely registered. For the moment her siblings were employed and not in crisis mode; which was more than could be said for her.

“I ran into Sylvie Talmadge the other day and she told me how impressed she was with the company Hunter’s with,” Cynthia said. “What is it called again?”

“Private Butler,” Samantha said. “Edward Parker, the Alexander’s concierge owns it.”

“Hmmm,” Cynthia said. “Private Butler. It has a nice ring to it.”

“Well, I ran into Shelby Holcomb,” Meredith said naming Sylvie’s daughter. “She told me Hunter took her daughter Riley to Mommy and Me.” She laughed derisively. “And didn’t you drive some ninety-year-old man to his tailor?”

“That ninety-year-old man has a major stake in Coca-Cola and the Home Depot,” Hunter shot back. “He understands investments.” Hunter laid down his fork and knife. “Edward and I agreed I’d get the feel of the day-to-day of the business first as a prelude to building the brand and other . . . opportunities.”

Samantha was relieved that Hunter seemed so positive about the work he was doing. Maybe this association with Edward Parker and Private Butler would be just what her brother needed. Her eyes strayed to Jonathan’s empty seat and she wished again that her husband were here. As she moved the food around on her plate, she reminded herself that the phone worked both ways. She could call Jonathan from the car on the way home and at least hear his voice. Except that she was afraid he wouldn’t answer; or worse, fail to return her call.

Samantha looked up, caught her mother-in-law watching her, and slid a large bite of egg and grits into her mouth, then tried to look happy—and hungry—while she chewed it.

“You willingly escorted that little terror to a playgroup and hung out with the other mothers?” Meredith asked Hunter in disbelief.

“Research, my dear sister. Research. That’s the key to finance and business development; an important step, which is so often overlooked. And which you clearly know nothing about.”

“Well, then,” Cynthia said, turning her attention back to the others, “if you’ll bring me some cards, Hunter, I might begin making some referrals when it seems appropriate.” She smiled quite regally. “Now that we’ve sorted all that out, perhaps we should have some of Doris’s peach cobbler?”

With the meal finished and the plates cleared, Hunter and Meredith kissed Samantha and Cynthia good-bye and departed. Samantha stood in the massive foyer preparing to do the same. Her mother-in-law laid a hand on her arm as Samantha reached for the door. “I hope you’ll forgive my butting in,” Cynthia said in an apologetic tone that was most unlike her. “But I heard from Jonathan yesterday. I’ve never heard him so uncertain about his travel plans.”

“Yes.” Samantha searched her mother-in-law’s face for some sign of what Jonathan might have said even as Cynthia searched hers.

“I know from personal experience that it can be dangerous to leave even the most steadfast of husbands too long on their own,” Cynthia finally said as if Samantha had been invited and refused.

“I’m sorry?” Wherever this conversation was headed, Samantha was pretty certain she didn’t want to go there.

“Yes, dear, so am I.” Her tone had turned alarmingly sincere. “I never wanted him to take on so much responsibility at such an appallingly young age and certainly not after your father practically destroyed the firm,” she said. “Jonathan never could resist an injured animal. Or a pretty girl in distress.” She sighed. “But still, one hates to see any marriage founder.”

Founder? Jesus
. Samantha focused on keeping her breathing regular and the fear off her face. Had Jonathan told his mother he was unhappy? Had he confided his feelings in her? Or had his extended absence and the vagueness of his return sent her on this fishing expedition?

She looked her mother-in-law in the eye. Samantha had no idea what to say any more than she knew how to rectify the situation. But one thing she was
not
going to do was discuss her marital problems with Cynthia. That would be way too much like inviting the fox into the henhouse. “Thank you for your concern and for brunch,” Samantha said. “Everything was delicious.”

With what she hoped would pass for a gracious smile, Samantha let herself out. But all the way home she replayed her last conversation with Jonathan. He’d said he wanted to know what he was to her, how she felt.

Samantha would have laughed if it hadn’t been so tragic. The thing was she’d just begun to realize what she wanted from Jonathan, was almost shocked at how much she wanted it. But she wasn’t at all certain what he wanted from her.

Or if, in fact, he wanted anything from her at all.

* * *

THAT NIGHT WHEN THE FIRST EPISODE OF SEASON
two ended Claire, Brooke, and Samantha picked up plates of raspberry tarts and snifters of brandy and joined the rest of the group around the table.

“Thank God Bates proposed to Anna,” Brooke said as they took their seats.

“And I love that Branson proposed to Sybil!” Samantha added.

“That was so Ashley Wilkes of Matthew to ask Mary to look out for Lavinia if he dies,” Claire observed. “Do you think they mean for Mary to be an Edwardian version of Scarlett O’Hara?”

Edward Parker looked on like a proud father as the group debated this question without his prompting.

“I can’t believe Thomas intentionally shot himself in the hand so that he could leave the front,” Brooke said, squinching her face in disgust. “Ugh.”

“I guess he didn’t think of dressing up like a woman to try to get a discharge like Corporal Klinger did on
MASH
,” Claire said. “I used to love those reruns.”

“The British think dressing up like a woman is funny, not crazy,” Mimi Davenport observed. “My husband loved that English comedian Benny Hill’s show. He used to dress up all the time.” She looked at Edward. “No offense intended,” she said with a bob of her white head.

“None taken.” Edward smiled. He waited while the conversation played out, then motioned to Isabella and James, who began to hand out sheets of paper and pencils. “Now that we’ve all had a bite and quenched our thirsts I think the time is ripe for a little quiz.”

There were groans at this.

“Oh, no, I always freeze up on tests,” Brooke said.

“I guess it’s a good thing we had our marathon last weekend,” Claire said. “It’ll be fresh in our minds.”

“I don’t think anyone’s going to be flunking out of Sunday-night screenings,” Samantha said.

“No, no one will be flunking out,” Edward said with a smile. “The quiz is quite clever. I found it posted on the WETA Television website. It’s designed to tell you which
Downton Abbey
character you are. The results can be quite . . . surprising.

“Please let Isabella and James know if you’d like more to eat or drink as they come around. Then I’ll give you time to take this small, but illuminating quiz.”

Edward began to pass out the questions and Claire felt Brooke relax beside her. There were giggles as the tongue-in-cheek nature of the quiz became apparent.

“As you can see it’s impossible to fail this quiz,” the concierge said with a smile. “But I’ll read the first question aloud, just to help you get started.” He held up the list he’d printed from the WETA website. “All you need to do is fill in the correct bubble.”

“I have a whole weekend to myself!” he read, “I’m going to:

What’s a weekend?

Find some poor soul to help

Attend a political rally

Make plans to ruin my rival’s life

Stay alone in my room and read

Attend a jolly good foxhunt, followed by billiards and cigars

Get ahead on next week’s work.”

They laughed as they filled in the bubbles and chattered amongst themselves. Edward, clearly pleased, watched from the head of the table. When the majority had finished, he asked for a first volunteer. Mimi Davenport raised her hand, then handed him her sheet.

“All right then, let’s see about you, Mrs. D,” he said as he scanned her answers and compared them to what looked like some sort of answer key. “My goodness, Mrs. Davenport. You’re apparently Bates, valet to Lord Grantham.”

He smiled wickedly while laughter filled the room, then read the description from a sheet of paper. “You probably have a secret identity or are lying about your past to someone you care about, but at least you feel really bad about it. On the plus side, you’re loyal and hardworking and you’d never rat anyone out to the boss, even when they really deserve it. Noble and a bit mysterious, you’re a genuinely decent person—and everyone’s wondering when you’re just going to tell that nice Anna girl how you feel.”