While We Were Watching Downton Abbey (11 page)

Brooke watched them go, then wrapped the leash handle more tightly around her hand. “What do you say, Darcy? I bet you’re hungry, too. Let’s go up and have dinner.” As she walked the dog to the elevator she realized that she felt far less bruised than she usually did after an encounter with her ex-husband. She’d nipped his condo takeover idea in the bud—at least she hoped she had. And then she’d gotten to watch Samantha Davis put him in his place. What a pleasant change to have someone on her “side.” Someone who seemed able to see Zachary for what he was. And didn’t seem to only see Brooke for what she was not.

With a small but satisfied smile, Brooke deposited the stack of
Doctor
Zachary Mackenzie’s business cards in the trash can and stepped into the waiting elevator.

* * *

“PRIVATE BUTLER.” EDWARD PARKER ANSWERED HIS
phone and leaned back in his chair. A few seconds later he propped his feet up on the desk, ankles crossed. He wasn’t due at the Alexander until later in the afternoon. Mornings spent at his home office were decidedly less formal. “This is Edward. How may I help you?”

The man’s voice was deep, but his tone was tentative. “I have to put on a birthday party and I’m . . . well, I’m, I think I need some help.”

Edward smiled. For so many men doing for others was surprisingly intimidating. “Do you need help with the planning, the guest list, or the implementation?”

“Yes.”

“All right then.” Once Edward might have said that they weren’t really party planners, but the company tagline was “Making your life more civilized, whatever it takes.” He’d discovered that what it took varied almost as much as each person’s definition of what was civilized.

Edward pulled a yellow pad in front of him and uncapped his pen. “What can you tell me about the person for whom you’re planning the event? Do you have a theme and location in mind?”

“She’s turning six,” the potential client said. “It’s her birthday. I’m thinking the backyard?” The question in his voice made it seem that all of these things were up for negotiation.

“I see.” This was Edward’s best fall-back-and-regroup line. He’d learned it when he was a young trainee. It was used primarily in situations where he didn’t yet see at all.

“My wife used to handle all of this. But we’re . . .” There was a long pause in which Edward silently filled in the word “divorced.” But the man said, “I’m . . . she’s . . . she died.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Edward said, meaning it. He could actually hear the pain in the man’s voice.

“Yes. Thanks.” Another pause and then, “So can you organize it?”

“I’m sure one of our staff can handle this for you, Mr. . . .”

“Dalton. Bruce Dalton.”

“Let me take down a few particulars, Mr. Dalton, and then I’ll schedule an appointment for a meeting between you and the staff member I assign. He or she will work on an hourly rate plus cost of materials and so on.” He began to search through available freelancers and part-time staff in his mind. This wasn’t their usual kind of request. But then he made a growing living out of unusual requests.

“Good. Fine. Whatever it takes,” Bruce Dalton said. There was another pause. “The thing is I kind of suck at this sort of thing. And my daughter’s been through a lot and I, well, I really don’t want to disappoint her.”

“I understand,” Edward said. “We all have different strengths and weaknesses.”

“Right. But it’s one thing to suck at, say, your short game on the golf course. Or maybe power point presentations aren’t your specialty. But it’s a whole other thing to suck at making your motherless child happy.”

“Yes, I can certainly understand that,” Edward said, already considering and rejecting people he might assign to the project.

“I don’t mind spending money,” Dalton said. “But I don’t want this to be too slick, you know? I want something that feels like a real mother might do for her six-year-old daughter.” He hesitated. “Do kids still play things like pin the tail on the donkey? Or drop clothespins into milk bottles?”

“I haven’t actually seen a milk bottle in many years, Mr. Dalton.” He wrote down two names and scratched them out. They’d been born too long after wooden clothespins and delivered milk to even know what he was talking about.

“But you know what I mean,” Bruce Dalton pressed.

“Yes,” Edward said. “I believe I do.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T
HE PHONE LINE TO ENGLAND WAS SO CLEAR THAT
Edward imagined he could hear the ducks quacking in the pond that separated his great-uncle Mason’s cottage from the Hungry Fox.

“So how’s it going, my boy?” Mason asked. “How’d the video go?”

“It actually went even better than I expected,” Edward replied. “Of course, I had to coerce people into coming. I may have dragged one or two by the scruff of the neck. But we had a good dozen and I’ve had several residents ask to view the first program so that they could join in on Sunday.”

“Well done. You know, if you’d like to skip right ahead and give them the big payoff, the third season’s showing here right now. I could fill you in on each episode or send you a bootlegged copy. One of your nephews could probably do something through the Internet or some such.”

“There’s no way I’m going to spoil the buildup or the anticipation, here,” Edward said. “And I must say I’m shocked and horrified that any Parker would even consider such a thing,” he teased.

“So you’re claiming you’re not even tempted to see Shirley MacLaine take on Maggie Smith?”

“Not even a little bit,” Edward replied, though this was not completely true.

“Well, if you change your mind all you have to do is let me know,” his great-uncle said.

Edward smiled. It would serve the old man right if he said yes. His great-uncle wasn’t exactly a techno whiz. In fact, he considered email similar to a phone call and could never quite understand why when he managed to send one, Edward didn’t pick up and answer.

“And how’s the business?” Mason asked.

“Good,” Edward replied. “Actually better than I expected there, too.”

“Well, then it seems to me you need to be raising up your expectations so you won’t be so surprised.” His uncle gave a small bark of laughter. “I knew you’d make a go of it. Even if you did put my dear departed brother on the logo instead of me.”

“You were twins,” Edward pointed out as he always did. Mason and Edward’s grandfather, William, had never lived or worked more than a stone’s throw away from each other. The loss of his twin had been a heavy one. “It could be you. I’ve told you, you can tell people it’s you.”

“But it isn’t,” Mason said.

“Right,” Edward agreed as he always did. “So as I was saying, Private Butler is doing well. In fact, so well that the freelancers I’ve trained and trust are getting spread a bit thin.” He thought about the call from Bruce Dalton. “Plus I’ve been getting requests that are a little more challenging than the usual.” He told his great-uncle about the birthday party his new client was looking for. He couldn’t really see the more staid members of his staff loosening up enough to handle a child’s birthday party with or without clothespins. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to send Isabella Morales and her unwieldy British accent into a crush of five – and six-year-olds.

“All the better for proving your mettle and resourcefulness, Edward. Remember discretion . . . persistence . . . valor. These will always win the day.”

“Yes.” Edward agreed, though he wasn’t sure how these attributes were going to find him the right person to handle a panicked widower with a nostalgic bent. “They’re definitely words to live by.”

“Of course, they are,” Mason said. “But at the moment it seems to me we might need to add another word or two into the mix. I’m thinking creativity and originality would serve you well.”

“Oh?” Edward smiled at the ring of certainty in his great-uncle’s voice. Mason had always been the ebullient and enthusiastic twin; William had been quieter and steadier, the ballast that stabilized his brother’s quick-sailing ship.

“There’s a saying in your adopted country that I quite like and that I think sums the situation up nicely,” Mason concluded. “I think the time has come, Edward, for you to begin to ‘think outside the box.’”

* * *

FOR CLAIRE, WHO’D BEEN PRETENDING TO BE
productive for much of the morning, the ring of her doorbell felt like a reprieve from the governor. She was so grateful for the interruption—honestly she would have greeted Attila the Hun with a kiss to each cheek—that she practically skipped to the front door. Without the slightest peep through the peephole, she threw the door open. James, the part-timer who’d been dressed as a footman at the
Downton Abbey
screening, stood on her doorstep, a package in his hands.

“Mr. Parker told me to bring this right up because, well, it’s from Amazon and you’re a writer and everything.” He looked down at his shiny shoes for a moment. “He thought it might be important. You know for your research or something.”

“Thank you.” She took the proffered package. “I’ve been waiting for this,” Claire said though a truer statement would have been “I’ve been waiting for anything that would allow me to stop pretending I’m working.”

“Thank you so much,” she said to James.

“A pleasure, ma’am.” He tipped his hat and turned.

She stood in the doorway watching him walk back toward the elevator. Now that she’d gotten up, it would take a whip and chair to get her back to her desk, where she’d be forced to confront her lack of progress. She still couldn’t understand how she could have been writing full-time for almost two weeks now and have so little to show for it. Oh, she had scribbled notes and stray character thoughts and ideas, but the elements of the book she was supposed to write kept swirling, none of them grabbing hold. It was like walking into a department store packed with too much fabulous clothing; it was possible a lot of it might look good on you. If only you could figure out what to try on.

James gave her a little wave before he stepped onto the elevator. Claire forced herself back inside where she set the unopened package on the kitchen counter—far enough away not to rip it open as she wanted to—but in her line of sight so that it could serve as motivation. When she was finished working she’d let herself open it and maybe read a few pages of one of the
Downton Abbey
books over lunch. But how would she know when she was finished when she couldn’t seem to get started?

Panic welled inside her. She beat it back by wrapping her fingers around the mouse. Before she could stop herself she was clicking onto Facebook where she posted an update about how excited she was to be starting a new novel.

Liar
.

Then she did the same on Twitter after retweeting about another writer’s new release. Her publisher wanted her to use social media to connect with readers, so this was working, right?

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Quick forays to Amazon and BN.com to check her numbers followed. An email from her editor’s assistant asking for a new bio arrived—she saw it the moment it appeared in her new mail folder even without the usual ding—and she spent fifteen minutes writing one and then twenty more tweaking and tightening it. She waited ten more minutes before sending it because she didn’t want to look as if she were just sitting here, staring at the screen, with the time to jump on any query or request the moment it came in.

Scrolling down, Claire saw that chapters had arrived from Susie and Karen. Which meant both of them were actually writing and producing.

With a groan she got up and went out on the balcony and stared out over the railing. It was warm, but the heat and humidity had cut back a notch. A slight breeze stirred the branches of a nearby tree. Banners advertising a new exhibit at the nearby High Museum fluttered.

Maybe she should take a walk. Or maybe she should go ahead and check out the exhibit and then go out for lunch. Any or all of these things might jump-start her brain, get her juices flowing. It was called “filling the well.” Writers talked about this all the time. She’d read lots of articles that pointed out how important it was for creative people to have experiences, to live life fully. Maybe her well was just empty and needed refilling? Were there dipsticks for measuring this? If she showed up at the museum, would someone say, “Sorry, ma’am, but you’re down a quart?” Or, “Good thing you came in when you did. Your well is dangerously low. Hang on just a minute and we’ll fill it up.”

Except that she’d barely had a minute to breathe or put food in her mouth, let alone refill her well for years and had managed to write just fine. “This is not about your well,” she said aloud. But the words faded into the breeze and disappeared.

“Fine.” Not even aware she’d made a decision, Claire went inside, washed her face, and brushed on mascara and lipstick. Sneakers laced, she closed the laptop, straightened her notes and then, like an alcoholic giving in to the bottle or a dieter reaching for the hidden candy bar, she ripped open the Amazon box. Inhaling the delicious new-book smell, she ran a hand over the glossy hardcover copy of
The World of Downton Abbey
and the smaller paperback
Lady Almina and the Real Downton Abbey
. Slipping the paperback into her cross-body bag, she left the condo and walked to the elevator. Her sigh of relief was covered by the ding of its arrival.

In the coffee shop next door, Claire spotted Brooke Mackenzie at a small table near the window. The redhead had a newspaper folded in front of her and a pen in her hand. Claire was debating whether to greet Brooke or walk to the counter when the younger woman raised her head and spotted her. A shy smile tugged tenuously at her lips. Unable to ignore anything that seemed to require that much effort, Claire walked over to her.

“Would you like to join me?” Brooke asked, the smile wavering on her lips.

“Sure, thanks.” Claire sat down and removed her bag. When the waitress appeared Claire ordered a Diet Coke. “What are you reading?” Claire nodded to the newspaper.

“The want ads,” Brooke said.

“Ahhh.” Claire didn’t want to pry, but the redhead didn’t look or sound at all happy about the idea. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Not really.” Brooke set the pencil down. “Something that I can do part-time around the girls’ school and after-school schedules. You know, something flexible.”

Claire’s drink arrived and she took a long sip. “I know what you mean. I worked multiple jobs while Hailey was growing up, depending on what we needed. My ex paid child support, mostly, but we were married such a short time and all that I didn’t ask for alimony.”

“Really?” Brooke asked.

“Well, I was the one who wanted out, so I felt like I couldn’t ask for too much, you know?” Claire said. “How about you?”

“I wasn’t the one who wanted out if that’s what you mean. And it’s not like I never worked. I put my husband—or rather my ex-husband—through medical school. And setting up his practice.”

“Wow.” Claire could see the anger and hurt that clouded Brooke’s eyes.

“Yeah,” Brooke said. “But we were up in Boston and my parents and sister were there, so I had child care covered. Here it’s just me. And Zach when he remembers or feels like it.” She took a deep breath like she was trying to calm herself down. Claire remembered all too well how that kind of anxiety felt.

“I know how hard it is to do it alone,” Claire said. “I was an office manager at a communications firm for a lot of years, but I took a lot of extra small jobs to supplement. I even delivered pizzas for a while.” This had ended when she’d seen the discomfort on the faces of Hailey’s friends’ mothers on the occasions when she’d arrived at their doors with their pepperoni pizzas and wings. Every Christmas season she’d worked as many evening and weekend hours as she could get. “I sleepwalked through a lot of those years. But Hailey and I always had each other. I’m not sure who raised whom.”

“Is it true you’re a writer?” Brooke asked.

“Well, I did manage to write and publish two novels,” Claire said. “But I didn’t do it particularly quickly.”

“I think it’s a miracle you did it at all,” Brooke said. “Single mother or not. Are you still writing?”

“Yes.” Or she would be soon. “In fact, this is supposed to be my year of writing full-time.”

“That’s so cool,” Brooke said. “Am I allowed to ask what you’re working on?”

“You are,” Claire said, almost embarrassed by how much more enjoyable it felt to talk about the book than try to write it. “I write historical romance—both of my books were set in seventeenth-century Scotland and so is my new one. It’s about a hero and heroine whose parents have pledged them to each other but who realize they don’t want to get married.”

She watched Brooke Mackenzie’s eyes for a reaction to the story pitch/blurb and was gratified and relieved to see her hazel eyes light with interest.

“That sounds cool,” Brooke said. She leaned forward. “Why don’t they want to get married?”

If Claire knew the answer to that question, she would be up in her condo right now typing her heart out. It took all she had not to ask Brooke what
she
thought should keep them apart. Claire shifted uneasily in her seat. “Well, I’m still trying to nail down the story details,” she said as if this were not a problem.

Brooke watched her for a long moment as if waiting for more, but Claire had nothing else to offer.

“So was Hailey’s father involved in her life?” Brooke finally asked. “I mean, if you don’t mind my asking?”