While We Were Watching Downton Abbey Part 10

"I don't think I could drink that many shandies," Claire said, her words starting to slur a bit. Brooke had the impression that the only thing keeping her upright was the corner of the sofa back.

"I don't think the drinking part is mandatory," Samantha said. "Besides, sometimes it's better to spread out the good things. You know. So you have something to look forward to."

Brooke looked at Samantha Davis in surprise. Surely the woman's life was a string of good things, each one better than the next.

"Well, I wouldn't suggest the marathon to Edward," Claire said. "You might be put on a DA watch. He's got a plan and I don't think he wants us to devee-date." She rolled her eyes. "I mean dee-vee-ate." She looked inordinately pleased when she got it right.

Slowly people rose and began to say their good-byes.

"I'm walking you home," Brooke said to Claire.

"Me, too," Samantha said.

"Home is only six doors down the hall," Claire said with what sounded like surprise.

"I know but the way you're swaying, I'm afraid you'll get on the elevator and end up somewhere else," Brooke said.

"Like the bottom of the pool," Samantha said.

Claire perked up. "Swimming would feel good right now."

"I rest my case," Brooke said.

"You're definitely in no condition to be anywhere near a body of water." Samantha smiled.

Edward came up behind them. "Is everything all right, ladies?"

Yes," Samantha said hooking her arm through Claire's. "It's been a great evening. And I see our numbers are growing."

The concierge nodded, pleased. Then he turned his attention to Brooke, looking at her in the same a.s.sessing way he had earlier. "I wonder if you might be available to come talk with me sometime this week?"

Brooke's good mood began to evaporate. She couldn't imagine what the concierge would want to talk to her about. Was it the maintenance fees? Had there been a complaint about Darcy or the girls? "Is there something wrong?" she asked.

"No, not at all," he said quickly. "I just think it's too late to cover the topic I wanted to broach."

"Oh, no," Claire said. "Did he say there were roaches? I hate roaches. I spray the s.h.i.t out of them-make them sleep with the fishes." She said this in a fair imitation of Marlon Brando in the G.o.dfather.

"That was 'broach,'" Edward said drily. "And I promise you it's nothing negative."

"Well," Claire said. "Thanks for . . ." Apparently unable to find the right words, she raised her arms to encompa.s.s the room. "It was fun."

"Yes, it was really great," Brooke agreed, but she felt his eyes on her as she followed Samantha's lead and hooked her arm through Claire's other elbow.

Claire swayed slightly on her feet. Because they were connected Brooke and Samantha swayed along like pa.s.sengers on a wave-tossed deck.

Carefully, Brooke and Samantha walked Claire down the carpeted hallway. At Claire's door they waited while Claire fumbled with the key. The second time it landed on the floor, Samantha bent down to pick it up. "May I?" At Claire's nod, Samantha inserted the key smartly in the lock, then pushed open the door.

"Hey, tha.s.s good." Claire's voice indicated her admiration "Now you go inside and lock the door behind you." Brooke said this slowly and carefully as if speaking to one of her children.

Claire stood and stared into her condo as if she'd never seen it before. Brooke and Samantha looked at each other.

"Okay," Samantha said. "I guess we'll escort you in."

"'Kay." Claire stood and waited patiently, but she didn't move.

"Turn sideways," Brooke said. "If we're going to stay linked together like this we're not going to fit through the doorway head-on."

"'S right. Too wide." Claire nodded sagely, not moving. "No offense."

Samantha snorted. "None taken. Hold on." Keeping her arm linked through Claire's, she realigned herself so that she was facing the doorjamb. Brooke did the same pulling Claire around with her. Samantha led a sideways sashay into Claire's condo. "There." They walked her to her bedroom alcove. "This is a great unit," Brooke said, looking around.

"Yes, really functional. And very cute," Samantha agreed. They lowered Claire onto the edge of her bed and pulled off her shoes. "Do you have any aspirin?"

Claire stared blankly at both of them. Then she yawned.

"Check the bathroom medicine cabinet," Brooke suggested. She tucked Claire's shoes halfway under the bed so Claire wouldn't trip over them if she got up during the night. A picture of Claire and a girl in cap and gown stood on the nightstand. "Is that your daughter?"

"Hailey." Claire nodded in confirmation. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

"Hold on." Samantha returned with a bottle of aspirin. In the kitchen she filled a cup with water from the refrigerator door dispenser. "Take these first," she said, opening the bottle. "You'll thank me in the morning." They waited while Claire slitted her eyes open and complied. "Thirsty."

"I bet." Brooke took the cup from her and set it on the nightstand. "Okay, we're going to go so you can sleep. Why don't you just come lock the door behind us and . . ."

Claire fell backward onto the bed. Her feet remained on the floor.

"No." Brooke grabbed one limp arm and hauled her up. "We leave. You lock the door. Then you sleep."

Brooke let go of Claire's arm and she fell backward again. "What now?" she asked Samantha as Claire's breathing evened out.

"I don't know. I haven't dealt with anything like this since college," Samantha admitted. "I guess we tuck her in, lock the door, and slip the key under the door when we leave?"

"Good plan," Brooke said. She'd done little partying herself in college. And once she'd dropped out to put Zachary through she'd been far too tired for drinking or much of anything that didn't revolve around him.

Together they tucked Claire under the covers. Samantha refilled the gla.s.s of water and made sure it was within reach.

It was a short ride to the ninth floor. After saying good night to Samantha, Brooke stepped off the elevator and headed down the silent hall. All the way to her door and as she let herself in to her even more silent condo, she tried to imagine why Edward Parker had been looking at her in that X-ray sort of way of his. What he might have seen. And what in the world he could possibly want to talk to her about.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

ERNEST HEMINGWAY AND HIS PRODIGIOUS alcohol consumption notwithstanding, Claire had never found alcohol a particularly helpful part of the writing process. She couldn't imagine how running in front of a herd of p.i.s.sed-off bulls would contribute to anyone's word count, either. But then she-and most female writers she knew-had never had a Paris, or any other kind of wife, to take care of them and keep the rest of the world at bay while they wrote.

She woke late Monday morning groggy and with a throbbing headache that seemed way out of proportion to beers laced with lemonade.

"Aarggh," she said, though this was a word better typed than spoken. Burying her face in her pillow in an attempt to block out the sunshine, she willed herself back to sleep but it was a halfhearted effort. Finally she flipped onto her back, opened her eyes, and squinted up at the ceiling, hoping to find something there that would motivate her to get up. What she saw was a fresh coat of white paint and a circus of dust motes performing in the spill of sunlight that streamed through the windows.

"s.h.i.t." This word was equally satisfying in printed and spoken form and she repeated it with relish. Her head lolled to the side and her eyes fell on her "desk" where her computer, and the book she was supposed to write on it, awaited. She closed her eyes and lolled the other way.

Slowly she replayed the night before in her head. Edward Parker's warm smile. Bits and pieces of the Downton Abbey episode. Brooke and Samantha walking her back to her apartment. Squeezing sideways through the front door.

She groaned in embarra.s.sment. Opening her eyes she contemplated the ceiling once again and tried to pull up Rory and--oh, G.o.d, she couldn't even envision her heroine well enough to give her a name-but her characters were twisted up with the inhabitants of Downton Abbey and the women who'd watched it with her. All of whom were far more fleshed out than her own paper-thin characters.

A tight fist of panic formed in her chest. It's okay. You have a whole year to do this. What difference does one day make?

But that's what she'd been telling herself for two weeks now and she had virtually nothing to show for it. Her eyes went back to the table and her laptop. In her former life, in those stolen minutes and hours, she would have already completed her character sketches and begun the first chapters. And she most definitely would have known her heroine's name.

In the bathroom she washed her face and brushed her teeth. "You better get it together, girl," she said to the ravage-faced woman in the mirror. "If you intend to write twenty pages a day like Nora Roberts does, you're going to have to get started. Now. Today." Nora hadn't written the number of books she had or built a career that had sp.a.w.ned a legion of avid fans the newspapers referred to as "Noraholics" by avoiding her computer as if it carried the plague.

What would Nora do if her head throbbed and her stomach rumbled its emptiness like Claire's was right now? Claire had no doubt Nora would sit down and produce those twenty pages anyway. And she'd make sure they were good ones.

Claire shucked off her wrinkled clothes and started the shower. A text dinged in from Hailey; just the word Well? accompanied by a smiley face. Claire flushed with embarra.s.sment, glad her daughter wasn't here to see her ravaged face and lack of will.

"You are going to figure this out today. No more avoiding, shirking, or panicking," she told herself as she washed her hair, shaved her legs, and exfoliated her face. "No more excuses. No more bulls.h.i.t."

Resolute, she towel dried her hair, pulled on her sloppiest, hole-iest, most comfortable writing clothes and headed for her dining table/desk.

There was no shame in taking time to settle in and acclimate. Today was the day that she'd officially start. And if she faltered she would pick herself back up by thinking WWND-what would Nora do?

She detoured into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee and stared out the window as she drank it. Today was most definitely the day. She'd definitely get started. She would.

Just as soon as she replied to Hailey's text. And ate some toast to settle her stomach. And right after she got all that had happened down in her journal so she didn't forget.

BROOKE MACKENZIE'S FACE BORE THE LOOK OF A child who'd been summoned to see the headmaster as she stepped into Edward Parker's office later that week.

"Good morning, Mrs. Mackenzie," Edward said as he rose and came around his desk eager to put her at ease. Given the things that he knew were going on in her life, he imagined she could use every ounce of kindness and consideration she could get. "Thank you so much for coming."

She watched him carefully, a line of worry creasing her forehead, her nice hazel eyes wary. "I've been wondering what you might want to talk to me about," she said. "If it's Darcy or the girls, I can try to . . ."

"No, no, it's nothing like that," he hastened to rea.s.sure her. "I think they're quite a breath of fresh air to tell you the truth. The Alexander is a beautiful and very regal building, but we wouldn't want it to get too stuffy now, would we?"

"No?"

"No." He said this as emphatically as he could without frightening her. Although "casual" was not his "go-to" demeanor, he leaned back against the edge of his desk and motioned her to the chair across from it. "Please have a seat, won't you?"

He waited for her to be seated though he wasn't certain that perching that gingerly on the edge of a chair qualified.

"I've actually asked you here to discuss something quite unrelated to the building. The truth of the matter is I have a favor to ask of you."

Surprise suffused her face, turning it almost as bright as her hair. "I'm not sure I understand what I could do for you," she said quietly.

"I've made quite a muddle of this, haven't I?" He offered his most winning smile. "I think you've heard me mention my company, Private Butler?"

She nodded warily.

"Well, in addition to the Alexander I've been providing concierge services to private clients as well."

She nodded again. Her body remained rigid.

"The thing is," he said. "Business is growing quite rapidly. But on occasion I get a request that is quite beyond my usual sphere. Or that of the people in my employ."

"And you have something in my sphere?"

"I think so. Or rather, I hope so."

She waited, her eyes locked with his. He could read the doubt in them.

"You see I've had a request for a child's birthday party. More specifically a six-year-old girl's birthday party. With, um, all the pertinent tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs."

"Seriously?" It was clear that whatever she'd been antic.i.p.ating, this was not it.

"Yes," he replied. "And since you have daughters right around that age I a.s.sumed you'd know what would need to be done."

She continued to study him, waiting for more. If nothing else, he had her attention.

"You'd be earning close to five hundred dollars for the planning and implementation. Plus the client will pay all the out-of-pocket expenses."

He saw the glimmer of interest that lit her eyes, but wasn't sure whether money alone would be enough to tempt her out of her comfort zone. "The father is a fairly recent widower and he wants to have his daughter's party at home in the old-fashioned way. With"-he looked down at his notes-"pin the tail on the donkey and clothespins dropped in milk bottles."

She c.o.c.ked her head to one side. "I'm not sure they make those kinds of clothespins or milk bottles anymore."

"Yes, well, I imagine some sort of improvising-or negotiating-may prove necessary. But he felt very strongly about the party feeling . . . homemade. And he's given us carte blanche to make it feel that way."

She looked at him. "Did someone tell you I needed a job?" she asked quietly.

"No," he replied, though he had sensed from the day he'd met him that Zachary Mackenzie was not one to treat others as well as he treated himself. He'd had to call on every ounce of training he possessed not to blanch when the man had come in to look at available units for himself and his girlfriend.

"I'm the one in need, Mrs. Mackenzie. I didn't want to turn the gentleman down, but I promise you he doesn't want me showing up to plan and implement this party. It's very important to him." He hesitated. "And to his motherless daughter." He did not look heavenward or cross himself when he said this, but he hoped he'd be forgiven for making so free with the Daltons' tragedy. "Is this something you would know how to do?"

"I've given parties at home for both the girls. But they were simple, inexpensive things. Nothing special."

"Well, that's exactly what he's looking for. And I'm sure he'd be perfectly happy with whatever you suggest."

"But I . . . I don't know this man or his daughter. And I'm not really good at . . ."

"Before you refuse, would you at least meet with him to discuss it?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know." Her eyes had clouded with uncertainty, but he thought he saw a glimmer of something else there, too.

"You'd be making a real difference to a little girl who's lost her mother." He imagined the lightning bolt he so richly deserved, but forged ahead. "The birthday girl's name is Marissa Dalton." He pulled a notepad over and wrote Bruce Dalton's name, address, and phone number on it. He scribbled Marissa beneath it and ripped the page from the pad.