While We Were Watching Downton Abbey (8 page)

“Do you have enough room?” Brooke asked tentatively.

“Yes,” Samantha said. “Thanks.” Setting her glass on the cocktail table, Samantha settled the bag of popcorn on her lap and reached inside it, scooped up a buttery handful, and began to eat with relish. “Mmmm. I haven’t had real buttered popcorn in ages. Not even out of a microwave.” She munched contentedly, occasionally pausing to lick the butter from her fingers.

Brooke, who could gain two pounds just driving by a fast-food restaurant, felt a burst of envy. It figured that someone like Samantha Davis, who’d clearly been born under a lucky star and spent the rest of her life basking in its glow, could eat whatever she wanted to whenever she felt like it.

The silence spooled out between them. Maybe Samantha Davis didn’t even recognize her. Or if she did maybe she saw no reason to acknowledge Brooke or what had passed between them. Brooke was just beginning to relax when Samantha leaned closer, glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard, and asked, “Are you feeling better?”

“Oh. Yes,” Brooke said surprised and embarrassed. “Thank you.”

There was a silence, which Brooke felt compelled to fill. “I don’t think I’ve burned many calories since the other day in the fitness room. But I haven’t cried, either.”

“That’s a definite step in the right direction then,” Samantha replied.

Brooke glanced at the other woman’s face, trying to judge her sincerity. Experience had taught her just how easily a certain type of southern woman could charm you even while they were laughing at you inside.

Brooke waited for Samantha to pull away and signal the end of their conversation. Instead she said, “I’ve heard the first program starts with the sinking of the
Titanic
. I don’t think I can take watching people freeze to death. This isn’t a tearjerker, is it?”

“God, I hope not,” Brooke said. “Although I may not be the right person to ask since apparently even exercise equipment can make me cry.”

There was a small, but encouraging, hiccup of laughter from a pair of lips she didn’t think even Zachary would try to improve on.

“I haven’t seen the opening episodes,” Brooke replied. “And what I have seen was out of order. But it was really well done.”

“All right, ladies,” Edward Parker said, holding white and red wine bottles aloft. “Last call for alcohol until after the program. Who’s ready for more?”

“I’ll have another glass!” A gray-haired woman off to the side yelled.

“Me, too!” said the woman next to her.

There were some cackles of laughter. A happy sort of hum filled the room.

Brooke realized as she watched their concierge in action that she’d been expecting some sort of prim and proper evening—but Edward Parker clearly knew how to handle a crowd of women. She felt her body begin to loosen slightly—no doubt a result of the two and a half glasses of wine she’d drunk. Which was two and a half more than usual. She’d learned how dangerous it was to deal with Zachary if her senses were the least bit dulled; if she weren’t careful she and the girls would be living out on the street in a cardboard box from one of his pieces of fancy equipment.

“I don’t know, Mrs. Mackelbaum,” the concierge said to a gray-haired woman who hooted at him. “I may have to cut you and Mrs. Hopewell off.”

There was laughter.

“Don’t forget I practically grew up in a pub. I know how to handle the likes of you!” the concierge teased.

The mood in the room grew more buoyant with laughter and expectation. With a nod from Edward Parker the lights dimmed. “All right ladies. Sit back, relax, and enjoy. You are now about to enter the luscious and thrilling world of
Downton Abbey
.”

He aimed the remote at the hundred-plus-inch screen. Brooke leaned forward in her seat as the television flickered to life and the PBS logo filled the screen. Laura Linney welcomed them to Masterpiece Classic.

Brooke barely breathed as she watched a finger tap out a message on a Teletype. A train whistle sounded. The train cut through the countryside while an unknown man stared out the window. Scenery swept by. Music played lightly. The hum of the telegraph wires that ran along the track could be heard, an urgent clacking. The message arrived at a British telegraph office, but it was too early to deliver it.

The music swelled and a magnificent castle loomed large, framed in blue sky and green grass. Brooke leaned toward the screen to better breathe in the stunning opening visuals as the servants began their day and the fateful telegram arrived. Beside her Samantha Davis went still as Robert, the Seventh Earl of Grantham and his rich American wife awoke to discover what the sinking of the
Titanic
would mean to all of the inhabitants of
Downton Abbey
.

CHAPTER NINE

T
HERE WAS SILENCE AS THE PROGRAM ENDED
with Matthew Crawley receiving the fateful message from Lord Grantham. The silence continued as the music swelled and the closing credits began. Then someone, Samantha wasn’t sure who, began to applaud. Brooke who hadn’t seemed to move so much as a muscle during the program joined in. There were whistles and one “woo-hoo!”

“Wow,” Brooke said.

“Yeah,” Samantha agreed. It was odd to be so transported, inserted so cleanly into such a different time and place.

People stood, but no one made a move for the door.

“Just as I feared,” Edward said. “You absolutely hated it.”

There was laughter and conversation. An angular woman with shaggy blond hair walked over to Brooke and Samantha.

“This is Claire Walker,” Brooke said. “Claire, Samantha Davis. Claire and I met the day my dog and my daughters mowed her down in the lobby.”

Samantha shook Claire’s hand. “Yes, I think I witnessed the tail end of that encounter.”

Brooke smiled apologetically. “I seem to have a special talent for memorable introductions,” she said. Samantha was glad Brooke didn’t elaborate about their first encounter in the fitness room. It still made her uncomfortable.

“So what did you think of
Downton Abbey
?” Claire asked.

“It was fun. It reminds me a little bit of
Dallas
and
Dynasty
only with fancier accents, better breeding, and no shoulder pads,” Samantha said. “Well, except on the men.”

“It’s a soap opera all right,” Claire agreed. “But it’s so well done and offers such a great glimpse into the time period and the life of the nobility that it feels far more enlightening.”

“The clothes and the house are unbelievable.” Brooke sighed.

“They are spectacular,” Claire said. “But I’m not sure you’re allowed to call it a house.”

Edward clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention, with no discernible effect.

“We’ll have to ask Edward,” Samantha said. “I suspect he’ll know.”

“Ladies, before we do anything else, I’d like to get a photo of our very first
Downton Abbey
gathering.”

The chatter continued as Edward directed them. “That’s right, move in a bit there. Good. Um, Mrs. Mackelbaum, can you . . . yes that’s just right.” He gestured and coaxed until they were in something that resembled an intentional grouping. “Okay now, let’s put Isabella on one end and James on the other so we can see their uniforms and get a bit of atmosphere going. That’s good. Squeeze in a bit, Mrs. Davis. That’s right. That’s Mrs. Hopewell next to you. Say hello, will you? I don’t
think
she bites. You don’t, do you, Mrs. Hopewell?”

The concierge lowered the camera. “Actually, maybe we should just sound off with our names in case there’s anyone who hasn’t met everyone and all that.”

“Egad!” Isabella said. “Ees a bit of a tyrant, ee is!” She looked expectantly at Edward.

“That was a bit ED, I’m afraid,” Edward said.

“Erectile dysfunction?” one of the Ritchie girls asked in surprise.

Edward winced as if in pain but couldn’t quite hide his smile. “That’s what comes of so many Viagra commercials on the air. No, love. The ED I was referring to was Eliza Doolittle.
Before
Professor Higgins turned her into a lady.”

“Ahh,” Isabella replied quite cheekily. “Then I guess I should be telling you to ‘move your bloomin’ arse!’”

“Only if you don’t want to work here anymore.” Edward laughed. “In my experience it’s almost never a good idea to call your employer an ‘arse.’”

There was laughter. Samantha could tell she wasn’t the only one surprised by the wicked sense of humor that dwelt inside the proper Edward Parker.

“Okay, ladies, sound off. Just give us your name and a brief bit about yourself. We’ll start in the back corner and work our way forward.”

“Anna Bacall, RN. I live on the sixth floor.”

“Melinda Greene,” a petite brunette next to her said. “I teach Comparative Lit but I have a minor in drama and”—her voice rose in the clipped upper-class accent that the above-stairs actors in
Downton Abbey
had used—“I agree with Eliza that Edward Pah-ker is
quite
the tyrant.”

There was more laughter as they introduced themselves. Samantha was surprised by the diversity of ages and backgrounds and by what a good time everyone seemed to be having. She kept her own intro brief—just her name and how much she loved the Alexander, et cetera, et cetera. Beside her Brooke tensed when it was her turn. She cleared her throat. Swallowed. “Brooke.” The younger woman cleared her throat again, blinked rapidly. “Brooke Mackenzie.” Her face turned bright red. “I’m a, um, stay-at-home mom. Of, um, two girls.” Her mouth closed and didn’t reopen.

“I’m Claire Walker. Writer and recent empty-nester—my daughter’s a freshman at Northwestern,” Claire said, filling the awkward silence. “I just moved here from OTP.” That was Atlanta slang for outside the perimeter—or outside of Highway 285, which encircled Atlanta. To those who lived and worked inside the perimeter, OTP was synonymous with in the middle of nowhere. “I’ve got the year to adjust to living ITP and to write a third novel. I’m not sure which is more alien: my location or the opportunity to write full-time.”

“All right, ladies,” Edward said when the introductions had been completed. “Look right into the lens now. That’s it, big smiles. Right-o. Now, how about one more?” He smiled and clicked away. “Very good.”

Samantha had no idea how many photos had been shot when the concierge put down his camera. “I brought what we call biscuits at home. What you would call cookies,” Edward said. “Isabella will be pouring tea. James has coffee for anyone who doesn’t want to go too English as yet.”

“Trying to sober us up before we go home, Edward?” Mrs. Davenport asked.

“You’ve caught me out, Mrs. D. I don’t want any of you rowdies joyriding in the elevators or running up and down corridors ringing doorbells.” He gave them a mock stern look and then led them to the large dining room table where he led them in a discussion of the first episode.

“How can Lord Grantham not fight the entail?” one of the Ritchie twins asked. “Why should Cora have to give up her money?”

A spirited debate ensued with Edward explaining the law at that time and the way Grantham would have been raised—more as a caretaker of Downton Abbey and its lands—who would preserve it for the next lord rather than an outright owner.

“Well, I think that sucks,” the other Ritchie twin said. Samantha really couldn’t tell them apart. Even their voices were identical.

“Yes,” the twins’ mother added. “It’s hard to imagine an American agreeing to anything like that. But I just love Elizabeth McGovern.”

“Other favorite characters?” Edward prompted.

“The duke was creepy. I couldn’t figure out why he wanted to go into the servant’s quarters,” Diana Smith, Melinda Greene’s friend said, with a flip of her long blond hair over one shoulder.

“O’Brien and Thomas are such schemers. But they’re delicious,” Myra Mackelbaum said.

“Well, I felt sorry for poor Bates,” Sadie Hopewell said. “I can’t believe they kicked his one good leg out from under him.”

“I can’t stop thinking about how completely the servants’ lives revolve around the family upstairs.” Brooke’s voice dropped so low that she might have been talking to herself. “I guess things haven’t changed all that much. Some people have lives while others only exist to make those people’s lives better.”

Samantha kept her eyes carefully averted so that Brooke Mackenzie wouldn’t know she’d overheard. But the younger woman’s observation struck a chord. She found herself hoping that Brooke Mackenzie would find a way to pick up the reins of her life and steer it in a more positive direction.

They sipped tea and coffee and nibbled on the cookies. Samantha looked around the group, surprised at how comfortable it all was. No one seemed to expect anything of anyone: no donations, no hours committed, no introductions to other potential donors.

“We’ll meet next week at the same time,” Edward said as Isabella and James began to clear cups and plates. “I expect to see you all here. And if you know anyone who’d like to join us, I can make the first program available so that they’ll be up to speed. But no cheating by watching in advance. Believe me, I’ll know.”

Melinda, the lit teacher/drama minor, mimed fear at his threat. There was laughter.

“All right,” Edward said. “Before we call it a night, I’m interested in hearing who has a favorite line?”

“Matthew Crawley when his mother asks whatever does Lord Grantham want—‘He wants to change our lives!’” Claire said.

“Lord Grantham,” Melinda Greene added. “When he said, ‘His Grace is graceless!’ And at the end, ‘If the duke doesn’t like it, he can lump it!’”

Sadie Hopewell said, “The duke to Thomas right before he burns the incriminating love letters, ‘One swallow doesn’t make a summer!’”

“Yes,” Samantha surprised herself by saying. “You have to love a show that imparts such important words to live by.”

* * *

CLAIRE AWOKE MONDAY MORNING TO THE DING OF
an incoming text from Hailey. It was one word long.
Well??

Claire smiled and stretched. She’d slept deeply and dreamed happily, lost in Edwardian England and the stone-hewn halls of Downton Abbey.
Went and watched,
she texted back.
Not bad,
she added not wanting Hailey to know just how much she’d enjoyed herself. How nice it had been to be with other people after a full week of solitude. How much fun Edward Parker had made the evening, how skilled he was at making people comfortable and a part of things. There was no point in encouraging Hailey’s dictatorial tendencies.

“Proof?” came the reply.

Prepared, Claire sent the group photo that Edward had taken at the end of the evening. She couldn’t help smiling at the shot of all of them bracketed by the costumed footman and upstairs maid, who’d kept grinning and saying “Blimey!” and “What’s up, guhv’nor?” much to the concierge’s distress.

Claire smiled again at the memory. All of them had loved the program. Although it had taken awhile to get the hang of the characters’ accents, especially those of the below-stairs staff, the script and acting were first-rate.

Brooke Mackenzie had been the only resident that she’d recognized when she arrived, but Edward Parker had made sure that everyone was introduced. The group had been friendly and inclusive—even Samantha Davis, who was a bit intimidating and whom Brooke had referred to as the “rich bitch” that day in the lobby—had joined in the fun. Claire had left the screening feeling a little less alone. While she didn’t intend to tell Hailey, she’d already put Sunday nights at eight on her calendar. It wasn’t as if there was no room on her dance card.

Turning on her shiny new Keurig single-serve coffeemaker, Claire popped into the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. Leaving on her pajamas because she was now officially a full-time writer who could work any way she saw fit, she creamed and sugared her coffee and carried it and her journal out onto the balcony where she sipped, scrawled her impressions of
Downton Abbey
, and watched the morning traffic on Peachtree.

Two cups of coffee and a granola bar later, she went inside, stashed the journal in her nightstand drawer, and sat down at her dining room table/desk. As her laptop booted up she positioned her chair so that she could see out the French doors and the front windows. For years she’d written by the light of a small desk lamp in the early morning hours before getting Hailey up for school, during her lunch hour in the windowless break room at Teledyne Communications, and anywhere else she could grab a stray fifteen or twenty minutes. Now that she was going to do this full-time, she intended to write under the most optimal circumstances. Which meant a view out one or more windows, maximum light—both natural and artificial—and absolute quiet.

Ahhhh. Satisfied, she cracked her knuckles, stretched her fingers, and arranged her right hand on her mouse.

“You’ve got mail.”

Without conscious thought, she clicked on email and found two new messages waiting; one from each of her critique partners. Karen’s included a photo of her sitting on her vacation house deck, the beach visible over her shoulder. The text read:
What are you doing here? Get to work!

The second was from Susie, now the proud grandmother of a four-month-old.
Rocking her gorgeousness. Isn’t she beautiful?
A photo of this was inserted next to the words.
No more email! Get to work!

Claire laughed and shot back snotty replies. Not quite ready to turn off the Internet—she might need to do research—she turned off the audio notification and pulled up her notes for her new novel; a third romance set in the Scottish Highlands shortly before the Battle of Culloden. Her editor had been excited about Claire’s idea of picking up several years after the conclusion of her second novel,
Highland Hellion
, which had ended with the announcement of an arranged alliance between the youngest of three Douglas brothers and the high-spirited daughter of a neighboring laird. The proposal had gone in under the title
Highland Mismatch
, which her editor had rejected as “more appealing to wrestling fans than romance readers,” and so her working title had been simplified to a more generic
Highland 3
.