While We Were Watching Downton Abbey (31 page)

“You’ll want to try both the corn bread and the oyster stuffings,” Samantha told him. “And the sweet potato soufflé as well as the green bean casserole. And I guess I should warn you that the ham has a Coca-Cola glaze. This is Atlanta after all. And we do love our Coke products.” She smiled but her eyes were guarded. “In fact Asa Candler was a close personal friend of Jonathan’s grandfather.”

“Interesting,” Edward said as a basket of still-warm corn bread and biscuits reached him. He felt Hunter’s eyes on him and wondered if the boy was uncomfortable having his employer there.

Samantha nodded to the basket. “Doris’s corn bread and biscuits are completely worth the calories. And you’ll want to leave at least a little room for the desserts.” Samantha kept up a running commentary on the food and its origins, turning occasionally to make sure Meredith’s young man was included, but Edward noticed she put little on her plate and ate even less. Her cheeks remained flushed and though she interacted with Claire and Brooke, who sat on either side of her husband, she never actually addressed or looked directly at him. Davis looked at his wife often but only when her attention seemed placed elsewhere.

Meredith laughed and Samantha smiled. “It’s nice to see Meredith happy.”

Edward nodded and looked more closely at the middle Jackson sibling, whom he’d always considered of average looks. Without her usual expression of pursed-lip disappointment the resemblance to her sister and brother was more apparent.

“Kyle’s the first person beside Jonathan who’s ever thought to call her Merry.” Samantha’s eyes flickered to her husband then skittered back to her plate.

“My grandfather used to say that ‘every pot has its lid,’” Edward replied.

“I like that,” she said wistfully. “It’s so hopeful. She reached for her glass of wine, her look pensive. “But what happens when the fit isn’t as tight as it’s supposed to be?”

“That I don’t know,” Edward said. “I thought I’d found the right lid once. But it turned out that I was mistaken.”

“I can hardly believe someone who cooks as badly as I do is discussing pots as a metaphor for love,” Samantha said as laughter erupted on the other side of the table.

“But you’ve never stopped trying to cook,” Edward pointed out reflecting on the number of times in the six months since he’d arrived at the Alexander that he’d arranged to have food picked up after a failed attempt. “I think that says something about you.”

“Oh, I’m sure it does,” she replied. “But I’m a little afraid to find out what.”

There was more laughter. More looks aimed their way.

“What’s so funny?” Samantha finally asked.

“Your sister was just telling us a story about the year you cooked the Thanksgiving turkey,” Claire said.

Samantha groaned. Her face flushed with what could only be embarrassment.

“It was the year we were married.” Jonathan looked straight at Samantha for the first time since he’d seated her. “We were coming to Bellewood, but she wanted to contribute something meaningful to the meal.”

“Yes, we were microwaving bits and pieces of that poor bird until almost midnight.” Cynthia’s tone was droll.

“I didn’t find out until after Thanksgiving, when I went in to complain, that a turkey can be labeled ‘fresh’ if it hasn’t been frozen more than once. I thought that fresh meant unfrozen so I didn’t even attempt to defrost it,” Samantha explained. She rolled her eyes at their laughter. “That’s the thing about cooking. The directions often seem unfairly unclear.” Her voice trailed off. Edward followed her gaze and saw Jonathan regarding her with an odd smile on his lips.

“We were afraid none of us would survive when Sam first started trying to cook,” Hunter said.

“Why?” Brooke asked. “What did she make?”

“It didn’t matter,” Meredith said.

“Why not?” Claire asked.

“Because it all looked like hockey pucks in sauce.”

Even Samantha joined in the laughter this time.

“Fortunately, Jonathan was there to save us from starvation,” Meredith said.

“How did he do that?” Edward asked, trying to envision Jonathan and Samantha without the elegant patina of their current life surrounding them.

“Wait a minute,” Jonathan said to Hunter and Meredith. “We made a pact. I believe there was even a vow of secrecy.”

“Right,” Samantha said. “Like I never saw those McDonald’s bags in the trash outside. Or smelled the French fries on all of you when you’d come back from those ridiculous after-dinner errands.”

The conversation moved on, the mood lighter as the table was cleared and the desserts and coffee served. Edward wondered at the furtive looks Samantha and her husband stole at each other. And the careful looks Hunter, who’d begun to regale the table with stories about his first assignments for Private Butler, began to aim at Edward.

“Here, you have to try this chocolate pecan pie and Doris’s praline pumpkin pie with maple rum sauce.” Samantha put a piece of each on a plate and placed it in front of Edward, then prepared similar plates for Brooke, Claire, and Kyle Bromley.

“You should have seen me driving Mimi Davenport to Nashville in her ancient pink Cadillac. Which she refuses to allow to be driven over forty-five miles per hour.” Hunter shook his head with amusement. “‘Young man,’” he drawled with a slight quiver to his voice in a dead-on imitation of the elderly woman. “‘There is no need for undue speed. I would like to survive this trip and return home in one piece.’” He laughed. “And when we stopped for lunch at this broken-down roadside diner outside Chattanooga she put the silverware in her purse.”

Edward’s lips tightened. One didn’t share a client’s behavior with others and certainly not for laughs. “I believe that’s privileged information,” Edward said tightly.

“Did you hear that, Jonathan?” Hunter called down the table. “Apparently what a concierge sees is as privileged as information that passes between client and attorney. What do you think of that?”

“I think that if your boss tells you that, you need to listen,” Jonathan replied evenly.

Brooke and Claire shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. Meredith’s forehead wrinkled in consternation. Her boyfriend looked over his shoulder as if scoping out potential escape routes.

“You did such a fabulous job on Alicia Culp’s party,” Samantha said to her brother even as she laid a hand on Edward’s arm. “You have a genius for organization that we never realized. But I can understand how important discretion is in this type of service business.” Her tone grew more adamant, as if she might still convince him of the merits of good behavior. “You can’t just pick and choose which parts of your employer’s instructions you want to pay attention to.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Hunter said. “I’ll tell you what I have learned from the estimable Mr. Parker.” He fixed his green-eyed stare on Edward once more. “I have learned that I can take almost any crap job and make it into lemonade.” His smile conveyed no humor. “But it would take a lot more than I’ve been paid and a sight more respect for my abilities to feel the need to keep my lips sealed.”

Cynthia frowned. “Hunter,” she admonished. “It’s Thanksgiving. And there are guests.”

“I’m sorry,” Hunter said without an ounce of sincerity. “I didn’t mean to spoil dessert.”

An uncomfortable silence fell. Edward could feel Samantha’s distress and Cynthia’s disapproval on either side of him. Jonathan Davis’s eyes were pinned on his brother-in-law as if he’d seen this before and wasn’t looking forward to what was coming.

“What I’m best at is seeing the potential in a business,” Hunter went on as if someone had asked. “Even when its creator doesn’t get it. And I am truly gifted at explaining that potential to investors.”

“Yes,” Claire said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled around the table. “That’s why I invested in Private Butler when Hunter explained the opportunity.”

“Me, too,” Brooke said. “He showed me how to take the equity in my condo and put it to work. Even Isabella and James put money in after Hunter told us he’d signed Mr. Fiston and Mrs. Davenport and James Culp. Everybody wants to put money behind you, Edward.”

Edward felt a brief moment of confusion. It evaporated as Hunter Jackson’s lips curved up in a derisive smile. At the end of the table Jonathan Davis’s eyes closed briefly.

“Well, that money isn’t actually going into Private Butler,” Hunter said, staring directly at Edward. “Because Edward made it clear he didn’t want investors. Or expansion. Or, to put it bluntly, progress of any kind.”

“I don’t understand then,” Samantha asked on a quick intake of breath.

Edward thought back to James Culp’s comment at his wife’s party and understood all too well.

“The money, almost half a million dollars of it, is going into a private concierge company that I’ve fashioned after Private Butler,” Hunter said. “A company that I’m going to build and then franchise.” Hunter’s green eyes grew even more brittle. “I wish you would have agreed to succeed, Edward,” he said. “I could have raised this money for you and helped you grow your business.”

No one moved or spoke, least of all Edward, as the horror of what had taken place—what Hunter Jackson had done—sank in.

“It was amazing how many of your satisfied clients and employees begged to give me their money when I explained how much could be made building a company like Private Butler. Almost as amazing as how few of them read the fine print on their investment documents.” He shook his head and shrugged as if it was all beyond his control. “I’m not sure if they fully understood that we’re parting ways. They could hardly hand over their money fast enough.”

Edward heard Brooke and Claire’s gasps as they were forced to confront the truth. He felt pretty short of breath himself.

“Well.” Hunter stood, dropped his napkin on the table, and bowed slightly to Edward—a perfect and mocking imitation. “I guess we can consider this my resignation. I appreciate the training and the concept.” He bowed to Brooke and Claire, who were still processing the fact that they’d invested in Hunter and not in Private Butler. “I appreciate your confidence in me and will be sure to keep you posted.”

With a final nod and thanks to Cynthia, Hunter swept out of the dining room. They were still sitting in shocked silence when the front door slammed shut behind him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

M
INUTES AFTER HUNTER’S EXIT, THANKSGIVING
at Bellewood came to an end.

“I’m so sorry,” Samantha said repeatedly as she walked Edward, Brooke, and Claire out to their car. “I had no idea. I . . . I’m so sorry!”

They looked at her numbly. Equally numb, she stood on the brick drive and watched them drive away. When she came back inside Zora and Doris were clearing the table. Cynthia had retired to her room with a headache. Only Jonathan remained.

“I can’t believe this,” Samantha said. “Edward barely looked at me. Claire and Brooke didn’t say a word.”

“Everyone’s in shock right now,” Jonathan said. “I’m sure this can be sorted out.”

“But how?” She was practically wringing her hands. “I told Hunter we wouldn’t bail him out anymore. But reimbursing the investors wouldn’t be bailing him out, would it? It would be protecting them from him.”

“It’s not your place to fix this,” Jonathan said. “Hunter’s an adult. And so are the people who gave him money. You’re not responsible for his every move.”

“But you know he misled them. Oh, God, I asked Edward to take him on.” The words rushed out in a torrent of guilt. “I put him in Brooke and Claire’s path. That makes me responsible. But I don’t know what to do.”

“Normally, I’d say we could simply buy out anyone who thought they were investing in Private Butler and doesn’t want to leave their money with Hunter,” Jonathan said. “But . . .” He hesitated. “We don’t actually have the cash to do that right now.”

She looked up at him so quickly she was lucky she didn’t give herself whiplash. These were words she’d never heard cross his lips. “What? What did you say?”

He hesitated again but finally spoke. “A lot of our and the firm’s money is tied up in real estate. Real estate values here are still in the toilet. A lot of people, including a lot of our clients, have been wiped out.” He offered it as a simple statement of fact, but she saw the tick in his cheek. The tension in his body.

“But you never said anything.” She could hear the shock in her voice. And what sounded a lot like fear. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to worry you. After what happened with your parents . . . well, I’ve always known how important financial security is to you.” He didn’t add that he knew that was why she’d married him, but then he didn’t have to. “It’s not that we don’t have money,” he said. “It’s just that we aren’t liquid at the moment.”

The comment and the burst of remembered panic that followed it brought her up sharp. What was she doing? Before the meal she’d been hurt and furious at how he’d thrown her gratitude in her face and then left her to stew like some badly behaved child. Now, at the first hint of trouble she’d turned to him just like that child. Just like she always did.

She forced herself to meet his eyes. He was watching her carefully, his blue eyes intent, looking for something from her that he once again refused to name. She dropped her eyes under his regard, trying to still the panic. She was no longer the twenty-one-year-old girl who’d found herself suddenly parentless, saddled with her parents’ debt and responsible for her brother and sister, but those same feelings coursed through her. When she raised her eyes again his were shuttered.

Was it something she’d said? Or something she hadn’t?

She’d arrived at Bellewood praying for some sort of resolution between them but things had only grown more complicated. Her mind swam with uncertainty, robbing her of the ability to think. How could she right things with Jonathan when he wouldn’t even tell her what was wrong? How could she think about her marriage while she was frantically trying to grapple with how to save her friends from her brother?

“I need to go home.” She held her breath wondering—hoping—if he would ask her to wait while he went to get his things.

“I guess I’ll stay here,” he said, his tone making it clear that she had, in fact, failed some sort of test. “I’ll be tied up in meetings for most of the next couple of weeks, coming and going at odd hours. If I stay in the guest wing I won’t bother anybody.” He said this as if it were a logical reason to stay at Bellewood rather than in their home with her.

She wanted to argue but her heart was too heavy, her panic too real. Weak-kneed, she retrieved her purse, went into the kitchen to thank Doris and Zora, then returned to where he stood at the door. “Please give your mother my thanks for the meal and for inviting my . . . friends.” She would not utter the word “former” though she was afraid that’s what they were.

With her marriage in tatters and lacking the funds to make things up to Edward and the others, she drove home, pulled on her most comfortable pajamas, and crawled into bed. Where she spent a sleepless night trying to understand how she’d lost her husband, tallying the number of people Hunter had wounded, and shivering from guilt for introducing her brother, the financial terrorist, into an unsuspecting crowd.

* * *

SAMANTHA GAVE HERSELF THE HOLIDAY WEEKEND
to wallow. But on Monday when Michael buzzed to be let up for their morning workout she couldn’t seem to stop. Feigning illness, she lay there for most of the week ignoring the phone and the doorbell until she was no longer pretending but felt sick in every sense of the word. Sick with disappointment in her brother and in herself for doing such a pitifully poor job of raising him. Sick with remorse for letting him loose on people she’d come to think of as friends. Sick with fear and regret that her husband was finally in town and yet she felt farther from him than when they’d been on opposite ends of the country.

When the phone and doorbell finally stopped ringing, Samantha lay on her bed in the silent apartment staring at the ceiling, the wall, the carpet. Even getting to the kitchen felt like wading through quicksand.

On the rare occasions when she got hungry she ordered pizza or Italian food delivered.

With no outside stimuli her brain consumed itself with questions it could not answer. How could she force Hunter to fix the mess he’d made? How might she make things up to Claire, Brooke, and Edward? And what in the world was she supposed to do about Jonathan?

Her brain shut down completely on this last question, unsure whether her marriage was repairable and unable to even imagine trying until she’d fixed the damage that Hunter had done.

On Sunday evening the front door opened and footsteps sounded in the foyer. Jonathan came into the bedroom. He settled his large frame on the chaise. She could see the firmjawed resolve on his face. His eyes were flat and dark as if someone had drained both color and emotion out of them. “It’s been ten days, Samantha. You can’t just lie there indefinitely.”

She stared at him mutely. Waiting to see if he might try to snap his fingers and command her to feel better. And if so, whether it might work.

“I just came to pick up another suit. I have to fly up to Boston for a few days.”

She looked more closely at him, trying to tell if this was more than it sounded.

“I’ll be back on Thursday.” He answered her unspoken question. “Don’t you think you should at least go to the screening tonight?”

She might have laughed but for the energy required. She could just imagine the looks on Edward, Brooke, and Claire’s faces if she showed hers in the clubroom. And what about Mimi Davenport? She winced at the memory of Hunter’s nasty imitation of the older woman. Which hadn’t prevented him from taking her money. Isabella would be unlikely to waste a syllable of her accent on the sister of the man who’d conned her out of what little she’d had. She simply couldn’t face them until she at least had a plan for getting them their money back.

“I spoke to Edward,” Jonathan said. “I’ve offered to look at the contracts Hunter’s investors signed. But I’m not hopeful. One of the few details Hunter paid attention to over the years is the importance of tying up loopholes.”

He considered her and she had a horrible vision of what she must look like. Not that her excessive grooming efforts before Thanksgiving had made one whit of difference.

“If we could get Hunter and Edward to talk, there might be room for some sort of compromise.” His voice was that of an attorney laying out a possible scenario. His face was composed. His eyes were . . . she wasn’t sure since she was having such a hard time meeting them.

“It’s not up to you to swoop in and fix this,” Samantha said. Her voice sounded rusty with disuse. “I’m the one who has to make this right.”

“It’s kind of hard to do that from bed.” It was a simple statement of fact. “If you do manage to get up, maybe you can locate the woman I married.”

But wasn’t that the problem? Hadn’t he said he didn’t want that woman or her gratitude?

She turned her head to the wall and squeezed her eyes shut. This was not the time to respond to that question or to dissect their marriage. She couldn’t even let herself think about it until she figured out how to make things right. If only she knew how.

They didn’t speak again while he pulled the suit from the closet and filled a small suitcase. She lay there in silence as he walked out of the room and let himself out.

* * *

EDWARD STOOD AT THE CLUBROOM DOOR JUST
after ten p.m. that Sunday night saying good night to the last of that week’s
Downton Abbey
audience.

“Are we all set then, sir?” Isabella’s accent had become so flawless that Edward sometimes had to remind himself that her last name was Morales and that she’d never left the continental United States. “Yes, Isabella. Thank you. You and James may clean up and go.”

“I can’t hardly believe there’s only one more program of the second season left,” she replied as she deposited the plastic glassware in the trash can.

“I know,” Edward said. “Plus a Christmas show.”

“Will there be a holiday party around it like you said, sir?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he replied, watching James shrug out of the livery jacket. Edward’s holiday spirit was sorely lacking. He simply couldn’t come to terms with how completely everything tied to Private Butler, including Edward’s own reputation, had been tarnished by Jackson’s machinations. Nor could Edward believe how completely he’d underestimated the younger man’s destructive streak.

As if movement might help him dodge his thoughts, he moved about the clubroom, picking up bits of garbage and checking that no personal possessions had been left behind. Edward had called all of his customers to apologize and to explain what had happened. Those who’d invested with Jackson—and he’d been horrified to discover how many of them there were—were shocked and angry. Even Mrs. Davenport had shaken an arthritic finger at him after last week’s screening and asked him what he intended to do about it.

Legally, it appeared, the answer was “nothing.” Which was, of course, completely unsatisfactory.

Out in the hallway he found Claire Walker and Brooke Mackenzie talking near the elevator. It seemed almost strange to see them without Samantha Davis, whom he’d seen no sign of since Thanksgiving.

“Ladies.” He nodded and smiled, though he suspected his was no more convincing than theirs. He bit back yet another apology.

“We were wondering, Edward, whether there was any way that our money could end up invested in Private Butler like we wanted it to be,” Claire Walker said.

He met both women’s eyes and then wished that he hadn’t. It was bad enough that wealthy people like Jim Culp and Mr. Fitson had been conned; even Mrs. Davenport would not be bankrupted by the loss. But these two women and Isabella and James . . . He couldn’t believe Hunter Jackson had gone after such tiny fish.

“I really don’t see how,” he said. He no longer knew whether Jackson would have ever turned investor money over to fund Private Butler’s growth under Edward’s direction. Or if it had been a scam from the beginning. “I have consulted with Jonathan Davis, but it doesn’t look encouraging.”

“But what if . . .” Claire began.

“I’m truly sorry,” he said, meaning it. “As far as I know Jackson intends to use that money to build a competing concierge business.” He still couldn’t believe the man thought he could compete after six weeks in the business. But then there was a lot about Hunter Jackson he didn’t understand. “Maybe his sister has some idea of his plans,” he said. “Perhaps you should speak to Samantha about it.”

Claire snorted.

“We would,” Brooke said. “If she’d return any of our calls.”

“Yeah,” Claire added. “I guess the whole friendship thing was a joint figment of our imaginations.”

Edward reached out to push the elevator call button. “I never had that sense,” he said. “I’ve always liked Samantha; I think there’s quite a lot of warmth beneath the polish.” The elevator arrived and he prepared to step on. “But then I’ve good reason to question my powers of perception. My ability to size up people and their intentions has certainly fallen far short of the mark.”

Claire resettled her purse strap on her shoulder. “It seems pretty clear that our investments aren’t going to double and triple like Hunter promised. I just hope the money won’t be completely lost.”

The reminder of Jackson’s potshot promises was one more fist to the gut. The whole thing was a bloody nightmare. He stepped onto the elevator and held down the “door open” button. “I’ll do whatever I can to work you both into the schedule,” he said. “But I’m not at all sure how many hours I’ll have to offer.” He didn’t yet know how many clients he’d ultimately lose over the whole investment scam. Or how badly Jackson’s company, if in fact he actually formed one, would impact Private Butler’s bottom line.