While We Were Watching Downton Abbey Part 19

"If you have any problems or questions you can call me on my cell phone." Edward handed the younger man a business card. "Otherwise I'll expect you back here by four p.m. to fill me in on how things went."

"You want me to come back here to report how the errands went?" Jackson asked, apparently unable to grasp the concept.

"Yes, of course," Edward replied.

Jackson nodded but didn't speak. The sheaf of papers in his hands trembled slightly with what Edward suspected was suppressed anger. Suppressed was good. This business was all about controlling one's personal thoughts and emotions.

"And while you are representing this company in any capacity whatsoever, you must be aware of the signals your body language may be sending."

"Is that right?" Jackson asked.

"Yes. Slouching as you are right now is never appropriate. It demonstrates a lack of interest in what's being communicated as well as a lack of focus in general. When you meet another person's gaze, you don't want to show emotions or judgments that you are then forced to mask."

"Is that right?" Jackson asked again. His tone of voice was far too terse, but he had already straightened in a far more acceptable manner.

"Yes," Edward replied calmly. "Your voice and what it gives away is also critical. Private Butler employees never challenge the client in any way. The client is always, without exception and without argument, right."

"How unsatisfying." Jackson's response was offered without inflection or emotion, but the green eyes were icy sharp. Yet another window into his true thoughts that the young man would need to learn to keep shut.

"Being a concierge means focusing on the customer's satisfaction above all else," Edward said. "To use a s.e.xual a.n.a.logy, we want the customer completely and utterly satisfied. We don't want them faking an o.r.g.a.s.m so to speak and then not calling us again. Your satisfaction is not required."

THE CELEBRATORY DINNER THAT NIGHT FELT A BIT like a Hollywood film in which all of them had been cast and expected to perform. Although Samantha could see the anger and resentment in their eyes, Hunter and Meredith played the roles of the newly and happily employed; Jonathan acted the genial if distracted host while Cynthia played the crusty but loving matriarch, which allowed her to work in more than a few slap downs while pretending to be supportive. Samantha was the proud "parent" who pretended the smiles were real and the future rosy.

By the time it was over and they'd dropped Cynthia off at Bellewood, Samantha's jaw hurt from the forced smiling. Every last nerve stood on end.

She watched Jonathan's face in the spill of pa.s.sing streetlights, the planes and angles falling in and out of shadow going back over how little he'd spoken at dinner. In fact, she'd barely heard his voice since the other night when he'd read Stellaluna to the Mackenzie girls with such warmth and feeling.

"Thank you for the dinner," she said.

"My pleasure," he replied.

More streetlights and more silence followed. They were alone and yet they were still playing their parts. Apparently no one had approved the scene and called "cut."

"Did everything get settled on the nanotechnology thing?" she asked, needing to break the silence and because if she didn't ask now, she suspected she'd never really know.

"Yes." His eyes remained on the road. His tone was even but there was no missing the note of dismissal. It was a note she'd learned to heed, always afraid of overstepping her bounds. But she needed to know how much damage had been done.

"That's it?" she asked. "One word to cover what had to be a huge ha.s.sle and expense?"

"What else do you want to know?" he asked simply.

"Was it expensive? Did it take a lot of your time?" Are you still angry with me?

"Yes."

He didn't look at her. But she could feel the stiffness of his body, the tension in the large, capable hands that held the wheel.

There were so many questions she'd never asked. She'd tread so carefully, always afraid that if she went too far, asked for too much, he'd realize she wasn't worth it. This approach had seen them through twenty-five years as husband and wife. But it had not made them equals. As they had in tonight's "movie" they'd played out the roles they'd created in their own long-running production. She had always been the supplicant to his munificent provider.

"We may not always show it," she said. "But we all appreciate what you've done for us."

He continued to stare out the windshield and she thought that was going to be the end of it.

His voice, when he finally spoke, startled her. "It's funny, isn't it, that after all this time the three of you are still 'us' and I'm . . . I don't know, Samantha, what exactly am I to you?"

"What . . . what do you mean?" Her voice sounded timid and afraid even in her own ears.

He turned and looked at her. She forced herself to meet his eyes, tried to see what they held. But they were lost in the shadows. "I'm so tired of your grat.i.tude," he said. "The way you think you have to please me all the time."

Samantha sat, frozen, unsure what to say. She searched his face, trying to figure out what he wanted to hear.

He shook his head and gave a rueful snort. "I rest my case. You're too busy trying to figure out what I want you to say to even consider saying what you actually think and feel."

They were at the Alexander before she realized it. He pulled the car into the parking garage.

"But I can't help being grateful," she said. "My G.o.d, Jonathan, you saved us from complete ruin. You became a parent to a nine a and eleven-year-old at the age of twenty-seven. No matter how difficult they've been, you've treated Hunter and Meredith like your own flesh and blood. You've bailed them out over and over again."

He parked and turned off the car. They sat in the dimly lit concrete structure.

"I can barely let myself think about how much they've cost you. How much we've all cost you. All the things you've given up. How can I not be grateful?" she asked.

He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. She could see them more clearly now, but they remained dark and unreadable. "I don't know, Samantha," he said. "I only know that I'm no longer sure whether grat.i.tude is really enough to hold a marriage together."

He got out of the car. Despite the things he'd said to her he walked around and opened her door. But Jonathan Davis's manners had been hardwired into him at birth. She knew better than to read anything into them.

They entered the building and crossed to the elevators in silence. He held the door open as she entered. He didn't say another word as they rode up to the twelfth floor and disembarked.

Her thoughts skittered about, jumbled and unclear. Maybe if she found the right words she could turn this around. But her fear of saying the wrong thing; the possibility of spewing her deepest feelings out into the silent abyss that now surrounded them and having them found lacking or, worse, unreciprocated, made her swallow them back.

"Jonathan, please . . ."

He looked down at her, watching her carefully, waiting for she didn't know what.

"Just tell me what you want. I don't know what it is you want from me," she said.

"I know." His tone was as sad as his eyes. Both were filled with regret. "That's the problem, isn't it?"

She watched him, mute, as he pulled things from the closet and dropped them into his carry-on bag. "I've got meetings scheduled out in LA on Tuesday and Wednesday. I think I'll head out in the morning and get in a few days of golf-unwind a little bit-before then." It wasn't a question.

Tears clogged her throat and dampened her eyes. She had the oddest flash of Rhett Butler packing and leaving Scarlett O'Hara in the final scene of Gone with the Wind. She had an embarra.s.sing urge to cry, "Oh, my darling, if you go, what shall I do?" just as Scarlett had asked Rhett. Except that she was horribly afraid that if she did, Jonathan would quote the modern equivalent of Rhett's famous words back to her.

The last thing Samantha could bear to hear from Jonathan at the moment was, "My dear, I don't give a d.a.m.n."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

WHEN SAMANTHA WOKE THE NEXT MORNING THE apartment's silent emptiness told her that Jonathan had already gone. Feeling as hollow inside as the apartment, she turned her head and opened her eyes in search of some proof that he had left something for her beside the memory of his disappointment. But there was no note on the bedside table and no comforting scent of coffee already brewed. Samantha pulled the sheets up over her head and closed her eyes, but there was no wishing herself back in time or even back to sleep.

Her mind replayed last night's conversation and pinp.r.i.c.ks of panic pierced her. Jonathan had sounded so disappointed in her, in them. Disappointed enough to leave.

"Stop it." She said this aloud even as she threw off the covers and sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "He's upset and he left a few days early. He didn't leave leave." But it was so unlike Jonathan to be poking and prodding her feelings like that. If he hadn't taken her by surprise, she would have come up with something better than how grateful she was. She rubbed her feet over the carpet. But would she have opened herself to that kind of hurt? Their whole marriage had been a bargain. How could she admit to feelings she shouldn't even have and then face his pity or have to hear him apologize for not returning them?

She glanced at the clock and was almost sorry she had no workout scheduled this morning. Physical exertion might burn off some of the worry and having someone-anyone-push her would be a good thing right now. She began to swing her legs back onto the bed. Her hand was already reaching for the covers when she stopped. "No!"

She'd have one cup of coffee and then she'd get out of the apartment. Maybe she'd jog to the park and back before she had to shower and dress for the day. What she couldn't do was sit here worrying. She and Jonathan had been married for a long time. Like any married couple they had arguments and problems. Normally she was able to smooth things over before anything could fester or grow out of proportion.

Because she was afraid she would appear ungrateful. Which might cause Jonathan to question why he had married her at all.

The pinp.r.i.c.ks became sharper, blooming into full-fledged panic. She raced into the closet to make sure Jonathan's things were still there. Don't be silly. He's upset and he left for a few extra days to think. That's all. But what if his thoughts led him to decide their marriage wasn't worth saving?

She was out of the apartment and jabbing at the elevator call b.u.t.ton as if wolves were nipping at her heels. When she stepped in for the ride down she tried to think calming thoughts, but the panic seemed to be sucking up all the gray matter and blotting out rational thought. Just as it had when her father's disgrace and her parents' deaths had left her not only penniless but responsible for her brother and sister.

Nerves jangling, she groaned aloud when the elevator stopped on the tenth floor. Because she apparently wasn't feeling quite horrible enough, when the doors slid open Zachary Mackenzie stepped on.

Samantha's lips clamped together. His opened wide in a happy smile.

"h.e.l.lo," he said jovially. "I'm so glad to see you. I've been wanting to thank you for watching the girls the other night."

Irritation ignited into anger and mingled with the panic, creating a toxic brew. He looked at her expectantly. She didn't trust herself to speak.

"You know, Natalie and Ava Mackenzie?" he prompted. "I understand they spent the evening with you and your husband."

"Yes," she answered. The fury bubbled in her veins and sought release. It was a relief to let it out. "Because you'd forgotten them."

"Well, not exactly," he said with what she knew was meant to be an ingratiating smile.

She stared at him. "Not exactly, how?"

"It's just that I'm not used to taking them on weekdays," he said as if this explained everything. "And we were invited to play golf up in Highlands with the Oglethorpes; they're an old Atlanta family. Maybe you know them?" He shrugged when she didn't answer. "Time just got away from us." He seemed so smugly happy with himself. Oblivious to the fact that she, whom he seemed so eager to impress, was about to erupt and rain molten lava all over him. The man might know how to improve bodies and faces; if he knew how to read them he'd be pressing the emergency b.u.t.ton and trying to escape.

"You know how it is," he said.

"No," she said sharply. "Actually I don't. In fact, I can't imagine how anyone could forget his children. Or leave their mother in such a difficult situation. Especially not in order to play a round of golf."

He fell back a step. "Well, now, I . . . I mean it was Sarah who committed us. I mean we . . ."

Samantha just looked at him, glad to see Doctor Mackenzie stumble over his words and then grind to a halt.

"Sarah?" she asked as if she'd never heard the name before.

"My . . . girlfriend. We live in 1012 now. Just two floors below you and your husband." He swallowed but stayed where he was. "Maybe the four of us could get together sometime and . . ."

The man was a social climber and a moron. Who seemed to believe that she and Jonathan had taken care of his children as part of some random act of kindness.

"Your children are lovely," she said. "We were glad to have them over."

He perked up at that. "Yes, they are sweet aren't they? But it's Sarah and I who . . ."

There was still a small sliver of her brain that knew her anger at Zachary Mackenzie wasn't only about his bad behavior, but at the moment she didn't care.

"Brooke is a friend of mine and I was happy to help her out. In fact, friendship is very important to me. Doing the right thing is very important to my husband. I doubt he'd be interested in socializing with anyone who could allow a round of golf to push their children right out of their mind."

He stared at her, speechless, as the elevator reached the lobby.

When the doors slid open she nodded as regally as she could then swept out of the elevator, channeling not just Scarlett O'Hara, but Downton Abbey's Countess Cora, Lady Mary, and the dowager countess all rolled into one.

THAT FRIDAY AFTERNOON BROOKE MACKENZIE followed Bruce Dalton into his daughter's bedroom. She stood beside him and examined the s.p.a.ce, taking in the toddler-sized bed with the Kermit and Miss Piggy sheets and the nursery rhyme wallpaper. A Little Tikes table and chairs sat near one wall. An army of stuffed animals littered a Humpty Dumpty area rug.

"Marissa says it's a 'baby room' and wants a big girl one," Bruce Dalton said. "I have no idea what that means or where you get one."

A smile tugged at Brooke's lips. "You don't typically go out and buy a whole room," she explained. "It's more a matter of choosing things that she likes and making them all work together. Natalie and I did her room over together when she turned six." Her smile faltered a bit. The redecorating process had barely begun when Zachary moved out. "Ava's already started clipping pictures out of magazines to make a poster board of all the things she likes. It's a fun art project and it's a good jumping-off point." She studied Bruce Dalton's face, liking the simple earnestness to please his child that she saw there. The kindness that seemed to be wrapped up in the brown eyes. His desire to be a full set of parents. "You could probably do it together if you wanted to. I could advise or consult along the way."

"I hate to sound like a wuss, but I didn't even realize until recently that there were so many shades of pink and purple. Chloe was the designer in the family." His smile faltered. "I know if she were here the room would already be done." He reached down and picked up a fuzzy white bunny rabbit that had seen better days and set it gently on the bed. "I hate to keep leaning on you, but would you be willing to redecorate the room with Marissa? I know I could hire an interior designer to do it, but you know her better than a stranger. You can help her pick out what she likes, not just what goes together, and you can relate as a mother . . . Does it seem odd to be trying to turn it into a semblance of a mother-daughter experience?"

"No, of course not. I understand completely. It's not every man who would be as sensitive to his daughter's emotional well-being." She knew this from personal experience.

"Then you'll do it?" The relief in his voice was unmistakable.

"Absolutely," she said. "And maybe you can come along so that you can share the experience with Marissa. I'm sure she'd be glad to help educate you to the nuances of pink and purple."

"Okay," he agreed. "As long as I'm not the final decorative decision maker, I'm in."

She got a bit more caught up in his easy smile than she'd meant to and reached for her tote bag. "Is it all right if I look around and make some notes?" She pulled out her pad and pencil, grateful that this time no half-eaten food fell out.

"Sure." His cell phone rang and he glanced down at it. "Sorry, I've been waiting for this call. Will you excuse me?"

Dalton headed out of the room. A door, presumably to his office, closed.

Brooke studied Marissa Dalton's bedroom, quietly taking in the s.p.a.ce and comparing it to the little girl she'd just begun to know, and jotted down whatever came to mind. In the closet Brooke found the outfits they'd bought on their shopping trip hanging neatly, the new shoes lined up beneath them, and felt a warm glow at the thought of Marissa liking them enough to arrange them with such care.

The doorbell rang and she hesitated, expecting to hear Bruce head for the door. On the second peal, she debated whether she should answer it. On the third, she headed for the door, her only thought to stop the noise from interrupting his business call.

The woman on the front step was tall and blond with a perfect pair of b.r.e.a.s.t.s and an unlined face that Brooke recognized as the work of a first-cla.s.s plastic surgeon. She wore a very short tennis skirt that exposed long, muscled legs and a body-hugging sleeveless tee that showed off toned arms and her two best features, which were significant. Like Sarah, she was the anti-Brooke; the very version of womanhood that Zachary created in the operating room and had traded her in for. Apparently the woman also cooked. Though it didn't look like she ate. She held a disposable ca.s.serole dish in her hands. "Is Bruce here?"

"Yes," Brooke replied. "But he's on the phone. Can I help you?"

The woman looked Brooke up and down. "No, thanks. I'll just bring this in for him." She raised the aluminum foilacovered dish. "He and Marissa just love my cheeseburger ca.s.serole." She stepped around Brooke and sashayed into the kitchen. "Are you the new housekeeper?"