While We Were Watching Downton Abbey (27 page)

The group erupted with laughter as Mimi Davenport stood and took an exaggerated bow.

“Not my words, mind you.” Edward raised his hands in disclaimer. “I downloaded these character descriptions from the WETA website.”

They passed their tests toward Edward, all of them eager now to see which character they were. “It’s all right, Mrs. D,” Edward said as he sorted through them. “I’ll confess I wasn’t who I expected to be. I assumed I’d turn out to be Carson, but I could hardly have been further off.”

“Who were you?” Samantha prompted.

“I don’t know if I should say.” Edward feigned reluctance. “It is a bit embarrassing.”

There were hoots of encouragement.

“All right then. Here it is word for word from the WETA Television site.” He cleared his voice dramatically, amping up his accent. “You are Violet, Dowager Countess of Grantham.”

He raised an eyebrow in elegant imitation and waited for the laughter to die down.

“You’re the imperious, aristocratic head of your family who (almost) always gets her way, and you don’t suffer fools gladly,” he read. “Though you’re often bossy and arrogant, you’re surprisingly adaptable and exceptionally loyal to the people you love. By the way, you also get all the best lines, so we hope you’re ready for immortality, but you should really look up the definition of ‘weekend.’”

* * *

CLAIRE SIGHED AS EDWARD PARKER FINISHED
reading the description, which was wonderfully phrased and hysterically funny. She felt total envy for whoever had penned it and the other character descriptions, which Edward began to read aloud as women handed in their papers. But then at the moment she envied the person who’d written the advertising copy on her box of Frosted Mini-Wheats. It seemed that everyone could express themselves better and more rapidly than she.

“What’s wrong?” Brooke asked as the evening came to an end and they left the clubroom together.

“Hmm?” Both Claire and Samantha looked up and answered at the same time.

“You’re both off,” she said as they lingered in the hallway. “And I don’t think it’s because you ended up as O’Brien and Thomas.”

“Easy for you to say since you got to be Lady Cora,” Samantha said, but there was something in Samantha’s voice that Claire couldn’t quite identify.

“Well, I might have fudged the answers just a little,” Brooke admitted.

“Me, too,” Claire admitted. “But I still ended up below stairs.”

“Well, at least you were female,” Samantha said. “I mean Thomas is a fascinating character. But he hasn’t got a shred of moral fiber or anything that resembles a conscience.”

The hallway had cleared. Edward Parker locked the clubroom door and said his good nights. They continued to linger.

“Why don’t we go outside to the pool?” Claire suggested. “It’s really gorgeous outside tonight.” She led them out the door and over to a trio of chaises. The pool’s surface rippled under a light breeze. A large magnolia tree that rose near a corner of the pool deck swayed softly. The night sky was dimpled with stars. “The neighborhood pools out in the suburbs are emptied after Labor Day. I like that this one’s heated and maintained year-round.”

They sat in the silence with just the occasional car horn or traffic noise to remind them that they were in the city.

“All right.” Brooke sat up straighter in her chaise and folded her arms across her chest. “Are either of you planning to tell me what’s wrong?”

Surprised by the note of command, Claire turned to look at Brooke. Samantha did the same. Neither of them spoke.

“I mean, you’ve both been holding my hand since Ken and Barbie moved into the building. Samantha took care of my children at a moment’s notice and, I think, told Zachary off on my behalf. While you”—she nodded at Claire—“have offered to help, given me advice, and propped me up in general.” She paused, but she didn’t stop. In fact, she seemed to be gathering steam. “I’m not a charity case. And I hate that now when I can see that you’re both struggling in some way, you’re just blowing me off. I mean it’s insulting. I appreciate your friendship and your support. But those things don’t work when they’re one-sided.”

Brooke stopped talking but her words hung in the October air as if written there in capital letters, impossible to ignore. Claire cut her eyes to Samantha, who had gone still, the expression on her face far less certain than Claire had ever seen it.

“Nothing’s wrong in my world,” Claire finally said, feeling oddly protective of Samantha. “If you don’t count the fact that I’ve started dodging calls from my agent and my editor, which believe me is unheard of for someone at my lowly rung on the publishing ladder. I’m also lying to my daughter—who has her act far more together than I do. I’ve been pretending I’m actually writing a book when I haven’t written the first word. In fact the only thing I’m writing in is my journal—lots of Claire Walker and friends present day—and almost no great love story in the Scottish Highlands. It feels like ancient history . . .”

This got a laugh as she’d intended. She only wished that it was actually funny and not so frightening. “I just don’t seem capable of doing what I came here to do.” She hesitated. “And I’m not even sure anymore that I want to.” The truths spilled out of her mouth without benefit of editing. “I’m running through my money twice as fast as I expected. And I have absolutely nothing to show for it.” She was embarrassed to feel tears gathering behind her lids. All those years of staying strong for Hailey blown to bits.

“You’ve got us,” Brooke said quietly.

Samantha nodded. But she didn’t quite make eye contact.

“Thanks.” Claire expelled a breath of air, drew one in. “That would make you my silver lining.”

Their eyes turned to Samantha, who shifted uneasily on her chaise. Her forehead creased slightly as if she were conducting some sort of internal debate. In the end she shrugged. “Sorry,” she said apologetically. “All I have to throw in the pot is that Jonathan’s out of town a little longer than usual.” She looked out over the wall at the magnolia while the two of them waited for her to go on.

“That’s it?” Brooke asked. “That’s all you’ve got?”

Samantha shrugged, but Claire couldn’t help thinking that the casual gesture seemed to take an awful lot of effort. “That’s it.”

“So, it’s just Claire and I who are battling right now? Everything in your world is just hunky-dory?” Brooke tried again.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Samantha said. “I just wasn’t raised to air my dirty linen in public. And believe me, there’s been plenty of it.”

“Oh, so you’re above all that?” Claire asked.

“I didn’t mean it that way, either,” Samantha said.

“Why don’t you tell us how you
do
mean it,” Brooke said. “So we can understand. And maybe even help?”

“I appreciate the offer, but . . .” She shook her head. “Sometimes putting things into words makes them almost too real, you know?”

Claire did. “Yeah. At the moment I’m pretty horrified at all the things that came out of my mouth. I mean, I turned my whole life upside down to come here and write this book. I have the gift of a year—a chance to finally fulfill a dream—and I can’t even seem to get started.” She looked straight at Samantha. “I may not be able to summon them at will, but I understand how potent words can be.”

Brooke smiled sadly and looked down at her watch. “Well, I guess it’s getting kind of late. We should probably head in now.”

As they rose, Claire studied Samantha, she of the perfect life and the marriage that had lasted for more than a quarter century. She wasn’t sure what “longer than usual” meant and couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Jonathan Davis in the building. But Claire didn’t want to pry into something Samantha so clearly didn’t want to talk about. Life in a suburban swim-and-tennis neighborhood had often felt like living in a fishbowl; that constant scrutiny had been one of the things she’d been eager to escape.

They walked inside and stopped in front of the elevator. But this time as Samantha pressed the elevator call button Claire knew that Brooke had been right. Like a duck who appeared to float serenely on the lake’s surface, there was a lot of frantic paddling going on beneath Samantha Davis’s perfect surface.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

E
DWARD’S OFFICE PHONE RANG AT PRECISELY FIVE
fifteen p.m., which made it ten fifteen in England. Edward didn’t need the caller ID to know who was calling. Leaning back in his chair, Edward propped his shoes up on his desk and answered.

“Hello, lad,” his great-uncle Mason’s voice sounded firm and fine with no hint of the number of pints he might have consumed at the Hungry Fox that night. “How are things?”

“Good,” Edward replied. “Almost too good.”

“No such thing.”

“No, but I’m scrambling to keep up. And I’m not a happy scrambler,” Edward replied.

Mason laughed. “That you’re not. You’re a damned planner just like your grandfather, always so meticulous, dotting all those i’s and crossing all those t’s. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.”

“You’re exhausted because you’re eighty-eight and you’re still helping out at the pub every night,” Edward said reasonably.

“Don’t even like to think of the place having to get by without me,” Mason replied. “Your brother’s always happy—and grateful I might add—to see me. Unlike some people I know.”

“How many plane tickets have I sent you?” Edward countered as he always did to this jibe. “And how many times have you actually come over here?”

“Once was enough, thank you very much,” Mason grumbled. “Can’t follow those damned accents. Every word stretched out into infinity. They talk so slow down South a body could drop dead from boredom waiting for a sentence to end.”

Edward laughed. He’d had to interpret for both sides of a conversation during Mason’s only visit to Atlanta.

“It would be better if you came home for a visit,” Mason said. “In fact, an old friend of yours was in the Fox tonight asking about you.”

Edward closed his eyes, knowing from his uncle’s attempt at nonchalance exactly who he was talking about.

“She looked fine. Beautiful really,” Mason said. “Her husband’s died, Eddie.” His great-uncle used the nickname when he most wanted to make a point. “Almost a year ago now. She’s come home to take care of her mother. This could be your opportunity to win her back.”

Edward sighed as a picture of Julia Bardmoor formed in his mind. She’d been tall and lithe and beautiful in her wedding gown, which was what she’d been wearing the last time he’d seen her. Her blue eyes had shimmered with tears when she’d left him at the altar all those years ago; as unable at the last to commit to a nomadic life of hotel postings across the United States as Edward had been to give them up to have her.

“I saw the look in her eyes when she asked about you, lad,” his great-uncle said softly. “It’s not too late.” He hesitated. “It’s never too late for love,” he said quite dramatically.

“Said the confirmed bachelor as if he had a clue what he was talking about,” Edward said. “Have you started writing Hallmark cards on the side?” He laughed, trying not to notice the hollowness of the sound. “I’m a lot more likely to listen to your advice if you choose a subject you know something about. Say drinking. Or causing trouble. Or . . .”

“Fine,” Mason said. “So tell me how things are going with that Hunter person you’ve taken on.”

“Oh, I’m working on whipping him into shape,” Edward replied. “He’s bright and so far he’s taken what I’ve dished out. At the moment he’s focused, though I’m not sure he’s grasping the reasoning behind things. Between his sister and her mother-in-law’s referrals business is booming. Hence the scrambling to add staff I mentioned earlier.”

“And the screenings?” Mason asked. “Have you started season two?”

“Yes,” Edward said. “We’re two programs in and the group’s grown even larger.”

“Well, season three is a corker. In the episode last night Shirley MacLaine told Maggie Smith to—”

“Oh, no,” Edward cut his great-uncle off. “Don’t do it. I am not listening to this. I’ve forbidden the ladies to skip ahead. I’m not going to betray them by getting a blow by blow from across the pond or anywhere else.”

“Ach. You and your straight and narrow,” Mason complained. “It’s just a television program. I really don’t see the harm.”

“It’s not about the program,” Edward said. It’s about keeping my word. And not taking shortcuts. Who was it that taught me that ‘a good name is better than bags of gold’?”

“No need to go quoting Cervantes on me. And I’m fairly certain that was your grandfather’s favorite quote, not mine.”

Edward’s cell phone rang. Glancing down he recognized James Culp’s phone number. “I’ve got a client calling,” he said. “I’ve got to ring off. But I’ll be speaking to Mum and Dad over the weekend. Perhaps we’ll have a word then. But none of those words can be about the new season of
Downton Abbey
.”

“All right,” Mason said. “But I still think you should consider a trip home sometime soon before someone else snatches Julia up again.”

“Right,” Edward replied. “If I suddenly decide that I can’t survive another day without a wife, I’ll consider it.” A picture of Julia fleeing the church and him, her head bent, her long white veil billowing out behind her, rose in his mind. The picture was sharply focused, its colors so bright that the image was every bit as painful today as it had been when it was formed.

* * *

“THREE DOWN, ONE TO GO.” BROOKE STEPPED BACK
and set her paintbrush on the edge of the painter’s tray to survey Marissa Dalton’s bedroom. “What do you think? Is it too much purple?” She’d debated whether the color would be best as an accent, but Marissa had been so in love with the deep plumy shade, they’d decided to use it as the base color. The fourth wall had been taped off to be painted in floor-to-ceiling stripes of purple and white.

“Is there such a thing?” Bruce Dalton asked.

No! It’s perfect! And beautiful!
Marissa, Natalie, and Ava confirmed. Each girl held a dripping paintbrush, which would have been even more alarming if the room hadn’t already been emptied and the old carpet and pad removed. The only casualties were the girls’ play clothes, hair, faces, and each and every scrap of exposed skin.

If fun could be counted in paint spills, the girls were having a blast. Both Natalie and Ava had chosen the colors and fabrics that would be used in their rooms, but Zachary had shuddered in horror when Brooke had suggested that they do the work together and had instead insisted on hiring a slew of expensive painters, fabricators, and cabinetmakers.

Brooke looked at Bruce Dalton, who had purple streaks in his hair and down one cheek. Purple spatters from an unfortunate run-in with Ava’s paintbrush covered the back of his shorts. Brooke hadn’t fared much better.

“I think we’re going to have to hose everyone down when we’re done,” Bruce said.

“And then you said we could have pizza,” Marissa reminded her father. Her eyes glowed with excitement. “With extra cheese and pepperonis on it.”

Bruce and Marissa had made another surprise recipe for dessert. Afterward Brooke would show Marissa the curtains she’d made from a bold polka-dot print they’d chosen together. Brooke had thoroughly enjoyed the hours she’d spent cutting out the fabric and sewing the panels. It had been so long since she’d had the opportunity to work with her hands. She laughed when Bruce ran a hand through his hair, leaving a purple stripe in its wake.

He shook his head in mock dismay when he realized what he’d done. “It’s going to take more than a hose to get all of us clean.”

“Maybe we can jog through a car wash?” Brooke suggested.

The girls squealed with laughter. Bruce shot Brooke a wink. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this comfortable in her own skin—even if it was doused in purple paint.

“I like purple way better than blue,” Natalie said.

“Me, too,” said Marissa.

“Only boys like blue,” Natalie said.

Ava nodded in agreement. Her frizzy red curls were squashed together with clumps of purple paint. “Daddy hired-ed a painter and that’s what color they painted the nursery.”

Ava scratched her nose, leaving a telltale blob of purple, but Brooke barely noticed. Her brain was stuck on what Ava had just said. “A nursery?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Natalie answered importantly. “For the new baby boy that Sarah’s going to bring home.”

Time slowed down and may in fact have stopped while the words sank in. The paintbrush fell out of her hand and landed on her tennis shoe in a puddle of purple paint as their meaning sank in. She bent to pick it up, taking her time as she tried to process this new development and all its ramifications.

“All right girls, you keep up the good work,” Bruce said. His hand found and cupped Brooke’s elbow, offering support as she straightened. “Brooke and I are going to go place the pizza order and get cold drinks for everybody. We’ll be right back.”

Gently he led her out of Marissa’s bedroom. He stopped at the hall bathroom but didn’t let go of her. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just kind of got the wind knocked out of me.”

“I can imagine,” he said. “It’s hard to believe he didn’t think to let you know.”

“Not really.” The admission was painful but it was true. Zachary had stopped thinking about her feelings long before he left her. “But thanks for giving me a minute to regroup.”

“I can do better than a minute,” he said as gently as he’d led her into the hall. “Go ahead and wash up and then help yourself to a cold drink or a glass of wine. I’ll go back into the purple palace of princessdom and supervise that last wall.”

“Thank you.” She smiled but even she could feel how tremulous it was.

“No thanks required,” he said. Then he turned and left to do exactly what he’d promised.

* * *

IT WAS LATE OCTOBER AND THE BREEZE HAD
stiffened, gathering the strength it would need to pluck the rest of the faded and curling leaves from the trees. Claire had killed several hours strolling through the Atlanta Botanical Gardens and all over her favorite parts of Piedmont Park. Now she was seated at a picnic table with the now dog-eared journal open in front of her. For the last twenty minutes she had poured out every random observation, thought, and feeling from Edward Parker’s impeccable manners and possible taste in women to Samantha Davis’s solemn looks and guarded comments.

She nibbled on the end of the pen then began to describe Brooke Mackenzie’s careful tiptoe through the lobby or parking garage; her sometimes Lucy-like attempts to avoid seeing her pompous ex-husband and his girlfriend, who not to be uncharitable, Claire thought was getting kind of chunky.

Claire reread what she’d just written and smiled grimly.
Now
was so easy to write. A romance set in seventeenth-century Scotland, not so much.

The pen slowed and she thought about the rush of relief she’d felt after she’d admitted her inability to write to Samantha and Brooke. But that relief had been short-lived and hadn’t come close to squashing her terror of running out of time and money before the book was complete.

Please, God, let me figure out this book
. It was her heartfelt prayer at bedtime and her first thought each morning. Claire ran a finger over the lined paper that she’d covered with her scribblings. If it were possible to make a living writing journal entries, she’d be a multimillionaire by now.

Her cell phone rang and she glanced down at the screen. It was the second call from her agent in as many days. Twice as many calls as she’d received from her in the previous year.

Claire listened to the ring, and only began to breathe normally when the ringing stopped. No doubt Stephanie was even now leaving another voicemail that Claire wouldn’t be able to bring herself to delete. But also couldn’t imagine listening to.

She felt like a thirst-crazed woman who’d crawled through hot desert sands from heartbreaking mirage to mirage only to lack the strength to swallow a sip of water when she finally reached the oasis. The phone rang again. Hailey’s number jarred her back from the disturbing desert images. The fact that she considered not answering shocked her to the core.

“Hi, Mom.” In the face of her own misery, the happiness in her daughter’s voice was equally shocking.

“Where are you headed?” Claire asked, hearing the sounds of wind and movement.

“Brit Lit. How about you?”

“I’m at the park. Writing in the journal my lovely daughter gave me.”

“Cool,” Hailey said. “I’ve been writing in mine, too. I might need a new one for Christmas.”

“Ditto.”

They covered Hailey’s classes, which were great, the library job, which remained lame, and Will, the boy from her writing class, who had apparently just attained “boyfriend” status.

“So how about you, Mom? How’s the book coming?”

Claire looked out over the bare-branched trees and remembered the hours they’d spent discussing Claire’s glorious year of writing. Hailey had won scholarships and insisted on a work-study program so that she could help Claire have her year. Claire would cut out her tongue before she told her daughter that the opportunity of opportunities had knocked and she didn’t even have the strength to open the door.

“Everything’s going great,” Claire lied. “I’m still roughing things out, trying to get my characters squared away.”