While We Were Watching Downton Abbey Part 25

Now she was the one with tears oozing out of her eyes and scalding their way down her cheeks as she laid it all out for them. How she'd been rescued by the prince and lived with him in a succession of castles. And how the prince had recently galloped off with barely a backward glance.

Brooke looked as if she might cry again as she listened to Samantha's story. Claire's expression was harder to read. "What?" Samantha asked finally as the relief at sharing her fears ran smack up against the fear that she'd made herself vulnerable by sharing too much. "Why are you looking at me that way?"

"I don't know," Claire said. "I mean, I'm sorry that you and Jonathan are going through this. I know Brooke and I are here for you."

Brooke nodded and reached out a hand to squeeze Samantha's.

"I hope everything gets resolved soon. My writing career, such as it is, has been all about happily-ever-afters and I'd love to see you and Jonathan have one."

"But?" Samantha asked Claire, needing to hear the rest.

Claire smiled somewhat sheepishly. "But I guess in a completely selfish and extremely weird way it's a little bit rea.s.suring to know that even fairy-tale princesses have problems just like the rest of us."

BY THE TIME THEY'D EATEN AND DRUNK THEIR FILL it was one thirty a.m. Nothing had been solved but whether it was due to her confession, the way it had been received, or the amount of wine she'd consumed, Samantha felt considerably lighter when she and Brooke left Claire's apartment. The two of them stood in the eighth-floor hallway in front of the elevators, giggling about how they'd each have one whole elevator to themselves. As if this were some decadent use of s.p.a.ce that they were about to get away with.

Samantha poked her head out the elevator doors. "If we press the door close b.u.t.tons at exactly the same time we can see which elevator is faster."

"I doan thin so," Brooke said sounding oddly like Ricky Ricardo. "Doan you live on a different floor from me?"

"Oh, yeah." Samantha swayed a little. Which was really weird since the elevator door was still open and she was fairly certain they couldn't go anywhere that way. "Is your elevator moving?"

"Only a little," Brooke said. "But it's mostly"-there was a loud hiccup and a giggle from the other elevator-"just the b.u.t.ton."

Samantha stepped inside her elevator and mashed her finger onto the b.u.t.ton with the outward pointing triangles although she wasn't sure why. She swayed slightly listening for Brooke in the silence. "Are you still there?"

"Yeah." There was another loud hiccup. "I'm thinkin' 'bout callin' Zach and tellin' him I doan 'ppreshiate the way he doesn't look at me. An that we think he's a ash hole." A brief silence then, "What do you think?"

"No," Samantha said. She closed her eyes but it didn't stop the swaying. "It's not a good idea to drunk dial your ex-husband. I read an article about it in Cosmo." She hiccupped. "At the beauty salon."

"Shure?" Brooke asked.

"Think so."

"Okay." Brooke's elevator doors closed and the elevator took off.

Samantha swayed for a few long moments. Then some instinct must have penetrated her mental fog, because her finger zeroed in on and pushed the top number. She made it to her apartment and even managed to insert the key in the lock and push the heavy door open. But the idea of husband calling had taken hold. The warning bells that might have stopped her had been muted. Or at least wrapped up in cotton wool. Without any internal debate at all-or at least none that she would remember later-Samantha pressed Jonathan's number on her phone then stood swaying in the foyer while it rang. Never once did she try to recall whether the article that had advised against calling your ex had said anything about drunk dialing a man you were still married to.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

CLAIRE STOOD ON HER BALCONY AND LEANED over the railing so that she could stare down at Peachtree. It was the beginning of November and the temperatures and humidity levels had obligingly dropped along with the last of the leaves. Although Thanksgiving was still almost three weeks away, holiday decorations had begun to go up. Claire knew this for a fact because she'd spent a lot of the last week writing in her journal and watching this happen from this very spot. And from her favorite bench in the park as well as from "her" table at the corner Starbucks.

Her laptop, which remained closed on her dining room table/desk and had begun to collect dust, had not joined her in any of these places. She rarely opened it because she was afraid to see her agent's response to her intentionally vague and misleadingly confident promises to send chapters when she had them and could no longer handle Karen and Susie's cheerful enthusiasm and motivational quotes. These she suspected would soon turn into threats of much-needed b.u.t.t kicking, which both of them lived too far away to make good on.

The highlight of each week had become the Sunday-night screenings, twice-weekly power walks with Brooke, and Wednesday night dinners with Brooke and Samantha. Her only other human contact occurred during the ringing up of a purchase or the placing of an order.

Claire's cell phone rang. When she saw Hailey's number she answered happily hoping that her vocal cords would remember what they were designed to do.

"Hi, Mom."

Claire cradled the phone against her ear and shoulder, which was no easy task given how small her phone had become. In just a few weeks she'd have Hailey back for ten whole days. "Hi, sweetie," she said, pleased to hear how normal her voice sounded. Apparently talking, unlike dating, was like riding a bicycle and did not require regular practice. "What's up?"

"Oh, nothing special," Hailey said. "But, well, there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

Claire's heart cartwheeled in her chest at the discrepancy between Hailey's tone and her words. Could she be ill? Injured? Pregnant? Claire's brain clicked through every conceivable worst-case scenario in no particular order-all of them chilling and life altering in their own way. "What's wrong, Hailey? What's happened?" The words came out in a rush, thick with worry and coated in fear. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Mom," Hailey said. "It's just. It's just that I don't know quite how to say this."

Oh, G.o.d, she was pregnant. Or had an STD. Or maybe she'd been so preoccupied with her boyfriend that she'd lost her library job. Or failed a course. No, Claire quickly rejected this last one. Hailey had been a driven 4.0-plus student since her first day of preschool.

"You're killing me here, Hail. Just tell me straight out. Because I'm a writer, remember." Or at least she had been when she could make herself face her computer. "I've already imagined at least eight fates worse than death-and I didn't even know there were that many." She paused, trying to calm herself. She'd often panicked in the years of single motherhood, but she'd usually done a far better job of hiding it. Children didn't confide in parents who freaked out too easily. "You didn't accidentally switch ident.i.ties with an international terrorist or anything did you?" There, that was better. "Or join the CIA's office of clandestine affairs without telling me? They've been advertising on the radio pretty heavily down here."

"G.o.d, Mom. It's kind of scary in that brain of yours. In an odd, funny, twisted sort of way."

"Tell me about it," Claire said. An imagination came with positives and negatives attached. Like when you were in an airplane at twenty thousand feet and a spot of turbulence became the beginning of a death spiral. Or a dorsal fin off in the distance when you were swimming in the ocean cued the opening music for Jaws in your head. "But you can't tease me like this. We've always been a rip-the-Band-Aid-off kind of family. Not a wussy easing-it-off kind. Just tell me what it is right now. And I promise I'll try not to stroke out."

Hailey laughed. "I have a feeling my news is going to sound really tame compared to everything that brain of yours has come up with."

Claire sincerely hoped so, but she would be the judge of that. She kept her mouth shut and waited.

"The thing is . . ." Hailey hesitated again. "I'm . . . I'm wondering if you'd be okay if I didn't come home for Thanksgiving."

There was silence as Claire tried to process this.

"It's just that Will asked me if I could go home with him. And, well, I don't like the idea of leaving you alone on a holiday." Hailey swallowed; Claire could actually hear the sound. "But . . . I'd really like to go, Mom."

Claire's heart stuttered. Between its earlier cartwheeling and pounding over her worst-case imaginings, it didn't seem to have a whole lot of beat left in it.

Since Claire's parents had become infirm and then died ten years ago it had just been the two of them. Thanksgiving had been a cobbled-together affair-cooking a turkey, inviting other "strays" to join them. Then Hailey would leave to be at her father's while Claire confronted how alone in the world she was. The next morning they'd get up at dark-thirty to hit the day-after-Thanksgiving sales.

Hailey was all she had. And this year she wouldn't even have her.

But as exhausted as it might be, her heart knew that it didn't really matter what Claire thought or how she felt. Despite Hailey's attempt to tamp down her excitement in order not to hurt Claire, it was clear just how much Hailey wanted to go home with her boyfriend.

"Of course you'll go," Claire finally said. "I can't think of a single reason why you shouldn't."

"I don't know, Mom," Hailey said. "We've never spent a Thanksgiving apart."

"I know. But we've never lived in different places before, either, and that seems to be going okay." She noticed that she'd been pacing the tiny balcony and forced herself to stop. "It's all part of it, Hailey. I want you to go. And I'll expect to hear a full report."

"But what will you do?" her daughter asked.

"I'll have turkey and then I'll have the whole day and holiday weekend to work." Claire clamped down on panicked images of the starkness of a holiday weekend completely alone with a computer she couldn't even bring herself to open. "You know, now that I think about it Brooke will be on her own too-her kids are going to be in Boston. I'll bet she'd be glad to share a turkey or go out for a holiday meal or something." She cast about for anything else that might rea.s.sure Hailey. "Plus I've told Edward Parker I can be available to do some occasional jobs if he needs someone. I'm working a party next Sat.u.r.day that Samantha's brother has planned." She stood and leaned against the railing. "Seriously, Hailey. Don't worry about me. Go with Will and have a great time. I'll miss you, but I'll be perfectly fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"I'll pay for the cancellation fee, Mom," Hailey promised. "I think for a hundred dollars I can just change the ticket to fly home at the end of the semester."

"Sounds good, Hail. Honestly." Claire smiled at the excitement now evident in her daughter's voice. "And I'm really glad you didn't join the CIA without discussing it with me first."

"You've got such a warped sense of humor." Hailey laughed. "Maybe you should be writing comedy instead of historical romance."

Claire's laughter joined Hailey's. "I'm not sure there's a huge audience for my brand of neurosis."

"I don't know," Hailey said. "Woody Allen's had a pretty solid career."

That was true. "Maybe I can find a way to do both. What do you think of neurotic Highlanders in kilts?" Claire teased. If she could find a way to work in some former Navy SEALs transported back to seventeenth-century Scotland, she'd be golden.

"Sounds good, Mom. Way better than naked neurotic Highlanders without them."

"I'll talk to you later, sweetie," Claire said. "And when my Twisted Kilt series. .h.i.ts the New York Times bestseller list, I'll be sure to let everyone know that you were the one who came up with the idea."

SAMANTHA AND THE OTHERS WATCHED IN SILENCE that Sunday night as Downton Abbey was turned into a convalescence home and Thomas, who still plotted with O'Brien, was put in charge. Captain Matthew Crawley and William, the footman, were still missing in action, prompting Mrs. Crawley to head for France to find her son. Ethel, the fired housemaid, showed up pregnant. No one moved for several long moments after the episode ended.

"Gosh, that was intense," Brooke said finally. "I'm exhausted just from watching it."

"I know what you mean," Samantha said, though the truth was she was exhausted from worrying about what she might have said to Jonathan while she was drunk and from pretending that she wasn't scared to death that life as she'd known it was over forever.

At that Wednesday's lunch, which Cynthia had refused to let her wiggle out of, Samantha discovered that Jonathan was still in Chicago and would then go on to Boston.

"Thank goodness he'll be back for Thanksgiving! But I do think he should have flown in the night before rather than the morning of," Cynthia had said while watching Samantha's face for a reaction. "Don't you?"

"It's wonderful that he'll be able to get back," Samantha had said doing her best to hide her hurt and surprise. But the whole time Cynthia nattered on about which pies Doris would make and which silver Zora would be asked to polish, Samantha had fumed. Had he been planning to text her this information from the plane? Or had he thought he'd just show up at Bellewood as if he hadn't abandoned her for a whole month? And when had he decided to make Cynthia his messenger?

With the exception of their one drunken conversation, Samantha hadn't heard her husband's voice for a full four weeks. And she was fairly certain that the only reason he'd answered that night was because he'd a.s.sumed that no one-including his wife-would call at two a.m. for anything less than an emergency.

Once again she flushed with embarra.s.sment as she remembered the change in Jonathan's voice when he'd realized she wasn't in an ambulance on the way to a hospital. No matter how hard she'd tried to recall their conversation, her only remaining memory was of the blinding headache and vague sense of wrongdoing she'd woken with the next morning.

"Are you up for a brandy and a strawberry tart?" Claire asked as they left their sofa for "afters."

"Sure," Samantha said, though she wasn't certain whether she'd be able to swallow either. Her appet.i.te had pretty much disappeared; even favorite dishes from Atlanta's finest restaurants seemed unable to revive it.

They were lingering in their usual spot just outside the clubroom near the elevators when Edward Parker came out to join them. "Are both of you ready for next Sat.u.r.day?" he asked Claire and Brooke.

"Aye, aye, captain." Claire saluted.

"I seem to be the only person in Atlanta who's not going to attend or work Alicia Culp's birthday party," Samantha said.

"I'm going to be checking guests in when they arrive and Claire's going to be a.s.sisting Hunter with the family, but I think we still need a coat-check person," Brooke said with a smile.

"The planning has been very impressive," Edward said. "Hunter's brought the whole Culp family in as if they're just here for the party. But after she's given the weeklong private Mediterranean cruise as her gift, she'll find out that the whole family is going. They'll leave for the airport in a procession of limousines just before the party ends."

"Goodness," Samantha said. She'd grown up with money and married more, but even she couldn't imagine spending so much on a single birthday. Leave it to her little brother to spare no expense with someone else's money.

"Hunter said that with the economic disaster in Greece, everyone is hurting and yachts and captains can be had for a song," Brooke said.

Samantha felt a small frisson of pride; not something she was used to feeling with either of her siblings. It seemed that tough love had been the right thing after all. Perhaps if she'd cut him off sooner . . . no, there was no point in going there. She'd been carrying around far too much regret already.

"I must say when he puts his mind to it, Hunter is a veritable force of nature," Edward Parker said.

"I'm so glad to hear it," Samantha said, relieved. Like a hurricane, her brother could be unpredictable and destructive.

"He's different than I thought," Claire said. "He explained the whole European Union crisis and the devaluation of the euro to us. He knows a lot about investments and corporate structure. And the importance of diversification," she added.

"When did you discuss all this?" Edward asked. Which was what Samantha was wondering.

"We had that meeting last week at the aquarium, where the party's being held, to go over the logistics and timing," Brooke said. "This event has a lot of moving parts."

"I'll say," Claire agreed.

Samantha tried to absorb the fact that Claire and Brooke now saw her brother in a far better light than they had on that Sunday night outside the clubroom. But then Hunter had always been able to make a good impression when he wanted to. She wondered if he had really changed under Edward's tutelage. Or had simply figured out how to camouflage his spots.

"When is Mr. Davis due back?" Edward asked.

Samantha flushed. "He's flying in Thanksgiving morning."

"Oh, that's good," Brooke said. "Do you cook the Thanksgiving dinner?"

Edward Parker, who'd sent runners for replacement dinners on numerous occasions, remained mercifully silent. The man really was the soul of discretion.

"Um, no," Samantha replied. "Thanksgiving is always at Bellewood." She'd learned early in her marriage that there was little point in suggesting otherwise.

"What's Bellewood?" Brooke asked.

"My mother-in-law's home in Buckhead. It's where Jonathan grew up," Samantha explained.

"Ooh-la-la," Claire joked. "It has a name and everything. It must be fancy."

"Oh, it is," Samantha said a little more forcefully than she should have. "And their cook, Doris, does a wonderful traditional southern Thanksgiving spread." She still couldn't believe her first time seeing Jonathan would take place with Cynthia's eyes pinned on them, dissecting their every word to each other-a.s.suming there were any.

"Do you celebrate Thanksgiving, Edward?" she asked, eager to banish the image.

"Well, it's not a holiday I grew up with, but I have been to some lovely Thanksgiving meals. Only one or two since I came to Atlanta. And my hosts were transplants, so the meals weren't particularly southern."

"What are you doing for the holiday?" Samantha asked Brooke and Claire, realizing she hadn't heard either of them mention it.