While We Were Watching Downton Abbey Part 16

"You've got to be kidding."

"No." Now Samantha wished she could have another gla.s.s of wine. Or two. She hoped the waiter stayed scarce; she was using up all her willpower not backing down from Hunter's anger. "You're welcome to apply for other jobs you feel are more suited to you." Were there still financial positions for people who'd frittered as much money as Hunter had? "But didn't you learn anything from Dad?"

"I learned that working for a paycheck is only for chumps. When did our father ever do that?"

"Oh, Hunter," she said. "He was a gambler and a thief who stole from his partners and died trying to escape a mess he couldn't talk his way out of." And he'd taken their mother with him. "I think there's a lot more honor in working for a living than there is in stealing. Or letting someone else support your pipe dreams."

"That's easy for you to say."

Samantha bit back the angry words she wanted to hurl at him. What was the point? Neither her brother or sister had any idea of the guilt she felt for marrying Jonathan for so many selfish reasons. Or bothered to wonder what she might have done with her life if she hadn't spent so much of it taking care of them. "You really never give me the benefit of the doubt, do you? You're so occupied with yourself you have no idea what goes on in my life."

He didn't answer. But he did make eye contact with the waiter, holding up his empty gla.s.s so there could be no question what he wanted. He didn't ask Samantha if she'd like another drink.

"I expect you to make an appointment with Edward Parker," she said. "If you don't, I will personally cut off your credit cards and close your bank accounts and let Jonathan know that you won't be needing the apartment anymore."

"You wouldn't."

"I would," she said. "And I will."

"Is there anything else?" It was a dare. Once again she refused to back off.

"Yes. We're going to be celebrating Meredith's new job at the Atlanta Preservation Board. You're not the only one who's expected to pull their own weight. I'm making a reservation at Four Seasons for Friday night and I want you to join us."

"Well, apparently your wish is now my command," he said in the nasty tone that he'd perfected at her expense over the years. "I'll check my calendar."

Once she would have dissembled. Apologized for making him feel that way. Told him that wasn't how it was at all. Offered to change the date if there was a conflict. But he'd crossed the final line in his dealings with Jonathan. And Samantha was deathly afraid that if she let Hunter continue down his current path, he'd end up disgraced and dead like their father.

"Good. I'll text you the time as soon as I've made the reservation. It would be great if you'd already spoken to Edward Parker by then so that you can share your good news, too."

The waiter was headed their way with Hunter's drink, but it was clear to both of them that the meal was over. She paid the check and left him nursing the whiskey and soda. Along with his anger at her.

THAT FRIDAY MORNING BROOKE APPROACHED THE lobby head down, eyes on her feet, moving at a relatively fast pace so as not to see-or have to acknowledge-Sarah Grant should they end up in the lobby at the same time.

"Mrs. Mackenzie?"

She stopped and turned at the sound of Edward Parker's voice. He crossed the lobby. As always she felt slightly unkempt in front of the smartly pressed concierge. "Hi," she said. "How are you?"

"Fine, thank you. And you?"

"Good." Okay, it was a lie; a somewhat pathetic attempt at the "smile and the whole world smiles with you" philosophy that had led some s.a.d.i.s.t to invent the smiley face, but a small part of her hoped it would work. "Did you want to talk to me about something?" She couldn't help darting a look around the lobby. She didn't want to be caught unawares by Barbie and/or Ken.

"Yes, actually," the concierge said. "I've had a request for your services."

"My . . . services?"

"Yes. Bruce Dalton called. I know I mentioned how happy he was with the birthday party for his daughter."

This time the smile planted itself on her lips of its own accord. She was almost embarra.s.sed by how good it felt to receive a compliment. The check the concierge had left in her lobby mailbox had also been wonderful. It was the first money she'd earned since their move to Atlanta.

"He'd like to hire you to take his daughter clothes shopping. It seems he doesn't feel, er, equal to the task." Edward smiled. "Is that something you might be willing to take on?"

"Really? He asked specifically for me?"

"Yes," Edward Parker said. "You and your girls apparently made quite an impression on both of them."

"That would be . . . great," Brooke said.

"Good. All you need to do is call Mr. Dalton to set up a mutually convenient time and then keep track of your hours and mileage. I'll handle the billing once Mr. Dalton deems her wardrobe complete."

"Okay." Brooke blushed again but was already sorting through the girls' schedule. Maybe she could take Marissa shopping next Tuesday or Thursday when the girls stayed after school for music. Or maybe it would be better on Wednesday when Zachary was supposed to pick them up for dinner and to spend the night. Without thinking she went up on her toes and threw her arms around the concierge. "Thank you," she heard herself gush. "Thank you so much."

Edward Parker smiled cautiously and gave her a hug in return. "I'm very happy to have someone so competent and enthusiastic covering the 'mother sphere' for Private Butler." He gave her a friendly pat on the back and she almost whimpered at how nice it felt to have someone who thought well of her touch her.

Someone cleared his throat behind her and she jumped in surprise.

"Am I interrupting something?" The voice was smooth and southern. Somehow the speaker managed to insert a great deal of condescension into the polite inquiry.

Edward Parker stiffened and dropped his arms, but his face gave no indication of surprise or irritation.

Brooke turned and saw Samantha Davis's brother studying the two of them. In the daylight, unlike in the darkened hall outside the clubroom, Brooke could see just how attractive he was. She could also see the anger in his green eyes and the nasty smirk on his lips.

"Well, thank you again," Brooke said to Edward. She bobbed her head at Hunter Jackson, but Edward could see how uncomfortable the young man had made her.

Edward felt his mouth tighten in disapproval at Jackson's trampling of what had been a lovely, and innocent, celebratory moment. "My pleasure," he said to Brooke. "I'll look forward to hearing how the outing goes."

He gave himself a moment before turning his attention to Samantha Davis's brother. Both of them watched Brooke Mackenzie skitter away.

"It must be like shooting fish in a barrel for you here," Jackson drawled. "All these mousy, grateful women creaming over that accent of yours."

The expression on Jackson's face was expectant as he waited for Edward's reaction to the vulgarity. When Edward said nothing the green eyes narrowed. "Or maybe that's not what floats your boat?"

Edward simply stared back, which afforded him the satisfaction of seeing Hunter Jackson shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

"I didn't invite you here to discuss my s.e.xual preferences or activities," Edward said finally. "And for your information Private Butler staff never service the clients in that way." He could feel Hunter resisting the urge to look away. "Never."

"But you didn't really invite me did you?" Jackson said. "You owe my sister a favor and you want to impress my brother-in-law. You had to take a meeting with me." Jackson looked far too smug by half.

"Is that what you think we're doing?" Edward asked. "Taking a meeting? Because I rather thought I was interviewing you for a possible position within my firm."

Hunter Jackson broke eye contact first, but he masked his retreat with a look of utter contempt. So far Edward had seen little of the charming salesman Samantha seemed to think dwelt somewhere inside her brother. "It seems we're wasting each other's time then, doesn't it?" Edward said, glad to put an end to it. He turned to go.

There was a long beat of silence before Jackson reached out, his hand stopping just short of Edward's sleeve. "No. Wait." He dropped the sneer. "I'm supposed to be making a good impression on you and I've already crashed and burned." He offered a self-deprecating smile. One that actually reached his eyes. "I'm sorry. Maybe we could start over?"

The change in demeanor was swift, hinting at a host of Hunter Jacksons buried beneath the prep-school, too-wealthy-for-his-own-good facade.

"Do you really think it's possible to erase a first impression and replace it with another?" Edward asked, almost curious to hear the answer.

"No, not really," the younger man conceded. "But I'm hoping you do." There was a good bit of bravado in the smile that accompanied Jackson's answer. When Edward didn't respond Hunter straightened his shoulders, smiled broadly, and offered his hand. "Hunter Jackson," he said smartly. "It's a pleasure to meet you." His handshake was firm but not bone crushing. His eyes met Edward's with what looked like sincere enthusiasm. "I've heard great things about Private Butler and I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me about opportunities within your organization."

The handshake ended but Jackson maintained eye contact. The smile remained in place. There was not a speck of condescension or sarcasm in evidence. Even Edward, who prided himself on the ability to read others, wouldn't have suspected how much anger and hostility lay beneath Jackson's smooth surface if their initial conversation hadn't taken place. The man could act. How long he could stay in character-and what actually lay beneath the roles he played-was another question altogether.

"Come along then," Edward said. "Let's talk in my office."

They crossed the lobby. As they neared the concierge desk Isabella dropped a curtsy in their direction. "'Allo, guhv'nors!" A look of longing showed on her face when Hunter Jackson flashed a smile at her. Isabella blushed but nonetheless stuck out her hand when Edward introduced them. "Sorry. I've been working on my accent for the Downton Abbey evenings."

Edward studied the young man. He was extremely attractive and knew it. More to the point, he was used to using his looks to his advantage, but Edward would be a hypocrite if he pretended he hadn't done the same. One used the a.s.sets at one's disposal. Not to do so would be foolish.

Isabella turned scarlet when Jackson held her hand a bit longer than necessary. "I'm a . . . an actress," she explained, then looked at Edward nervously. "But I'm learning the concierge business, too."

"I would imagine the fields have quite a lot in common," Jackson observed drily. The laugh that followed made it difficult to detect hidden levels of sarcasm. Isabella's face lit up at the sound.

Edward led the young man into his office and ushered him into the seat opposite the desk. He watched Jackson take in his surroundings, the diploma from Cornell, the photos of Edward with select celebrity guests that covered a small section of one wall. Now that he'd stopped trying to shock and offend, Hunter Jackson's face was even more pleasant to look upon. He crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands in his lap. The boy had a lot going for him. He was young, attractive, and well spoken. He dressed beautifully and knew how to look a person in the eye. His family's contacts were significant. But none of this mattered if Jackson couldn't control his tongue or rein in his att.i.tude for sufficient periods of time.

There was no question that Samantha Jackson had a blind spot when it came to her siblings. Edward thought about his grandfather and his twin as well as his own brother, Bertie. If your own family couldn't overlook your shortcomings, who could?

"Let's cut to the chase, shall we?" Edward said. "You're here under duress. And I'm interviewing you as a favor to your sister."

The green eyes telegraphed surprise at the admissions, but Jackson remained silent.

"I also know that the concierge business is pretty far removed from what you've been doing."

Jackson nodded but still didn't speak. Edward gave him several points for knowing when to remain silent.

"So, I have to ask myself are you here for any other reason than to satisfy your sister. And if so, what, in fact, you bring to the table."

Jackson looked shocked that anyone would question him, but hid it quickly. "Okay," he said. "I guess under the circ.u.mstances those are fair questions." This time he studied Edward, taking his measure. "I'm here to get Samantha off my back. And I don't know anything about serving others." He practically shuddered on the last two words. "I can't say that I have any real interest in doing so." He paused, still maintaining eye contact. "But apparently I need a job. And I can talk pretty much anyone into pretty much anything. I don't think there's any item, concept, or service I couldn't sell. If I decided to." Jackson's words had been chosen with care, but his body had opened slightly, his gestures had become less guarded.

It was time to explain Private Butler in terms the younger man might understand. "For the last four quarters there's been huge growth in the personal services sector. And far more growth is being forecast. Everyone's rushing around at top speed; even the wealthy feel the push-pull of it. Every reliable survey indicates that the one thing people desperately need in their lives is more time."

The green eyes flickered and Edward could tell he had Jackson's full attention. "We give our clients that extra time. Plus an attention to detail and a degree of pampering that most-even the ultra wealthy-do not allow themselves." He paused to let this sink in. "My family has been 'in service' in one way or another since the early nineteenth century. It's an honorable profession, which requires skill and finesse and at times the ability to bend others to one's will without them even sensing it."

A small smile tugged at Hunter Jackson's lips.

"Yes, just like in the field you've come out of. In any field really." Edward smiled. "We're not selling birthday planning, though Mrs. Mackenzie just put on a bang-up party for a new client's little girl. Nor are we selling errand running or personal shopping, though I have several part-time employees who excel at this." He was pleased with how carefully Jackson seemed to be following. "Our job, our goal if you will, is to make their lives better."

"You're selling the sizzle, not the steak," Jackson said, nodding.

"Exactly," Edward said. "The Private Butler tagline is 'Making Your Life More Civilized, Whatever It Takes.' The subtext is the same as that hair color company that uses, 'Because You're Worth It.'"

"It sounds like a way easier sell than what I'm used to," Jackson said. "I don't think I'd have any trouble at all selling Private Butler."

"Yes," Edward said, watching Hunter's face carefully. "In time, I'm sure you could."

"In time?" The objection came swiftly. The green eyes flashed with anger. Hunter Jackson's true self could be hidden but it was never far from the surface, where it simmered waiting to erupt. "I've been selling far more complicated concepts for years now. I-"

"I understand all that," Edward interrupted calmly. "But this is my company and my reputation. There is not one without the other."

Edward waited for the protest he could see forming on Jackson's lips. It took a few moments, but Jackson managed to squelch it. It was good to know he had the capacity to think before speaking when the occasion demanded it.

"No one who hasn't worked in the trenches and learned firsthand what Private Butler is will ever represent me or my company. And not to put too fine a point on it but it's a matter of 'my company, my rules.'"

Edward paused waiting for another protest, which would, as far as he was concerned, conclude this interview. Jackson remained silent. As Edward watched, the other man's tight jaw loosened.

"If you're interested, I'll a.s.sign you to the entry-level projects I think you're best suited for and will train you as I have the others."

He waited, watching Jackson carefully as he did so. "Is that something you can live with?"

Edward wasn't completely sure what Jackson's answer would be. Finally Jackson nodded. "Yes." He stood and extended his hand. "I'm ready to start whenever you are."

Edward stood and shook the younger man's hand. He gave him paperwork to fill out and walked him out to the lobby.

Jackson stopped briefly at the concierge desk to flirt with Isabella. The girl's giggle had nothing British about it and she blushed crimson when she noticed that Edward was watching.

But as he watched Hunter Jackson leave the building Edward wasn't thinking about Isabella. He was thinking that Hunter Jackson had a lot to offer. That with the right training and supervision it was possible that he could become a true a.s.set to Private Butler. But Edward Parker had not just fallen off of the parsnip truck. He mustn't allow himself to forget that Hunter Jackson was a person one should never turn one's back on.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

BY FRIDAY AFTERNOON CLAIRE'S RELIEF AT THE salvaging of her book signing had begun to dissipate. Thanks to the Downton Abbey posse, disaster had been averted. She'd sold enough books to walk out of the store with her head up. It had not, however, improved her focus on the book she was supposed to be writing or eliminated the guilt she felt at the breadth and depth of her procrastination. In the days since, she'd sat and stared at her computer screen for maybe two or three hours each day, struggling to envision her heroine, now named Alana, whose goals and motivations continued to elude her and whose name she could not yet fully commit to. Claire's mind felt as close to blank as it was possible to get without going on life support. That is to say she produced what might charitably be called . . . nothing. No matter how many times she asked herself what Nora would do, she could not bring her brain to heel or will her fingers to pick out the letters that would turn into the words that would allow her to begin.

This time when Claire's phone rang she recognized the New York phone number as that of her agent, Stephanie Rostan. Its appearance on her caller ID was rare; her agent did not dodge her as some agents dodged smaller, lesser-known clients, which she was. But she didn't call to chitchat, either. Theirs was a business relationship. They communicated largely via email and talked only when there was something to talk about-a contract clause, a ma.n.u.script delivery date, a question about language.

"h.e.l.lo?" she answered tentatively.

"Claire?" Stephanie's voice was quick and clear, her manner direct. She was not unfriendly, but she didn't pretend to the warm fuzziness that might allow an author to think he or she was in a business where anything but the marketability of the final product truly mattered.

"Hi, Stephanie," Claire said. "How are you?"

"Good. You?"

The pleasantries, such as they were, out of the way, her agent came to the point of the call. "Scarsdale is grateful that you stepped in Tuesday night. Wendy McCurdy called me," she said, naming Claire's editor at Scarsdale. "She's eager to read what you've got on the new book. They've had a slot open up for next November, which would get you on the shelves almost five months earlier than we expected. You could have that slot if you can deliver a complete ma.n.u.script by June first."

Claire may have stopped breathing. Surely that was what was causing the lack of oxygen to her brain. "I'm sorry. What did you say?" Claire's heart pounded and her mouth had gone dry. She hadn't even committed to her character's names or completed a serious character sketch.

"You definitely want to jump on this while they're feeling grateful and have you on their mind," the agent said. "It's a very good thing you're writing full-time now. How soon can you get the synopsis and first three chapters to Wendy?"

It had never before occurred to Claire that being in her publisher's thoughts could be a bad thing. She'd flown underneath their radar for so long she could hardly process this.

"Claire?"