by Wendy Wax
“Egad!” Isabella said. “Ees a bit of a tyrant, ee is!” She looked expectantly at Edward.
“That was a bit ED, I’m afraid,” Edward said.
“Erectile dysfunction?” one of the Ritchie girls asked in surprise.
Edward winced as if in pain but couldn’t quite hide his smile. “That’s what comes of so many Viagra commercials on the air. No, love. The ED I was referring to was Eliza Doolittle. Before Professor Higgins turned her into a lady.”
“Ahh,” Isabella replied quite cheekily. “Then I guess I should be telling you to ‘move your bloomin’ arse!’”
“Only if you don’t want to work here anymore.” Edward laughed. “In my experience it’s almost never a good idea to call your employer an ‘arse.’”
There was laughter. Samantha could tell she wasn’t the only one surprised by the wicked sense of humor that dwelt inside the proper Edward Parker.
“Okay, ladies, sound off. Just give us your name and a brief bit about yourself. We’ll start in the back corner and work our way forward.”
“Anna Bacall, RN. I live on the sixth floor.”
“Melinda Greene,” a petite brunette next to her said. “I teach Comparative Lit but I have a minor in drama and”—her voice rose in the clipped upper-class accent that the above-stairs actors in Downton Abbey had used—“I agree with Eliza that Edward Pah-ker is quite the tyrant.”
There was more laughter as they introduced themselves. Samantha was surprised by the diversity of ages and backgrounds and by what a good time everyone seemed to be having. She kept her own intro brief—just her name and how much she loved the Alexander, et cetera, et cetera. Beside her Brooke tensed when it was her turn. She cleared her throat. Swallowed. “Brooke.” The younger woman cleared her throat again, blinked rapidly. “Brooke Mackenzie.” Her face turned bright red. “I’m a, um, stay-at-home mom. Of, um, two girls.” Her mouth closed and didn’t reopen.
“I’m Claire Walker. Writer and recent empty-nester—my daughter’s a freshman at Northwestern,” Claire said, filling the awkward silence. “I just moved here from OTP.” That was Atlanta slang for outside the perimeter—or outside of Highway 285, which encircled Atlanta. To those who lived and worked inside the perimeter, OTP was synonymous with in the middle of nowhere. “I’ve got the year to adjust to living ITP and to write a third novel. I’m not sure which is more alien: my location or the opportunity to write full-time.”
“All right, ladies,” Edward said when the introductions had been completed. “Look right into the lens now. That’s it, big smiles. Right-o. Now, how about one more?” He smiled and clicked away. “Very good.”
Samantha had no idea how many photos had been shot when the concierge put down his camera. “I brought what we call biscuits at home. What you would call cookies,” Edward said. “Isabella will be pouring tea. James has coffee for anyone who doesn’t want to go too English as yet.”
“Trying to sober us up before we go home, Edward?” Mrs. Davenport asked.
“You’ve caught me out, Mrs. D. I don’t want any of you rowdies joyriding in the elevators or running up and down corridors ringing doorbells.” He gave them a mock stern look and then led them to the large dining room table where he led them in a discussion of the first episode.
“How can Lord Grantham not fight the entail?” one of the Ritchie twins asked. “Why should Cora have to give up her money?”
A spirited debate ensued with Edward explaining the law at that time and the way Grantham would have been raised—more as a caretaker of Downton Abbey and its lands—who would preserve it for the next lord rather than an outright owner.
“Well, I think that sucks,” the other Ritchie twin said. Samantha really couldn’t tell them apart. Even their voices were identical.
“Yes,” the twins’ mother added. “It’s hard to imagine an American agreeing to anything like that. But I just love Elizabeth McGovern.”
“Other favorite characters?” Edward prompted.
“The duke was creepy. I couldn’t figure out why he wanted to go into the servant’s quarters,” Diana Smith, Melinda Greene’s friend said, with a flip of her long blond hair over one shoulder.
“O’Brien and Thomas are such schemers. But they’re delicious,” Myra Mackelbaum said.
“Well, I felt sorry for poor Bates,” Sadie Hopewell said. “I can’t believe they kicked his one good leg out from under him.”
“I can’t stop thinking about how completely the servants’ lives revolve around the family upstairs.” Brooke’s voice dropped so low that she might have been talking to herself. “I guess things haven’t changed all that much. Some people have lives while others only exist to make those people’s lives better.”
Samantha kept her eyes carefully averted so that Brooke Mackenzie wouldn’t know she’d overheard. But the younger woman’s observation struck a chord. She found herself hoping that Brooke Mackenzie would find a way to pick up the reins of her life and steer it in a more positive direction.
They sipped tea and coffee and nibbled on the cookies. Samantha looked around the group, surprised at how comfortable it all was. No one seemed to expect anything of anyone: no donations, no hours committed, no introductions to other potential donors.
“We’ll meet next week at the same time,” Edward said as Isabella and James began to clear cups and plates. “I expect to see you all here. And if you know anyone who’d like to join us, I can make the first program available so that they’ll be up to speed. But no cheating by watching in advance. Believe me, I’ll know.”
Melinda, the lit teacher/drama minor, mimed fear at his threat. There was laughter.
“All right,” Edward said. “Before we call it a night, I’m interested in hearing who has a favorite line?”
“Matthew Crawley when his mother asks whatever does Lord Grantham want—‘He wants to change our lives!’” Claire said.
“Lord Grantham,” Melinda Greene added. “When he said, ‘His Grace is graceless!’ And at the end, ‘If the duke doesn’t like it, he can lump it!’”
Sadie Hopewell said, “The duke to Thomas right before he burns the incriminating love letters, ‘One swallow doesn’t make a summer!’”
“Yes,” Samantha surprised herself by saying. “You have to love a show that imparts such important words to live by.”
* * *
CLAIRE AWOKE MONDAY MORNING TO THE DING OF an incoming text from Hailey. It was one word long. Well??
Claire smiled and stretched. She’d slept deeply and dreamed happily, lost in Edwardian England and the stone-hewn halls of Downton Abbey. Went and watched, she texted back. Not bad, she added not wanting Hailey to know just how much she’d enjoyed herself. How nice it had been to be with other people after a full week of solitude. How much fun Edward Parker had made the evening, how skilled he was at making people comfortable and a part of things. There was no point in encouraging Hailey’s dictatorial tendencies.
“Proof?” came the reply.
Prepared, Claire sent the group photo that Edward had taken at the end of the evening. She couldn’t help smiling at the shot of all of them bracketed by the costumed footman and upstairs maid, who’d kept grinning and saying “Blimey!” and “What’s up, guhv’nor?” much to the concierge’s distress.
Claire smiled again at the memory. All of them had loved the program. Although it had taken awhile to get the hang of the characters’ accents, especially those of the below-stairs staff, the script and acting were first-rate.
Brooke Mackenzie had been the only resident that she’d recognized when she arrived, but Edward Parker had made sure that everyone was introduced. The group had been friendly and inclusive—even Samantha Davis, who was a bit intimidating and whom Brooke had referred to as the “rich bitch” that day in the lobby—had joined in the fun. Claire had left the screening feeling a little less alone. While she didn’t intend to tell Hailey, she’d already put Sunday nights at eight on her calendar. It wasn’t as if there was
no room on her dance card.
Turning on her shiny new Keurig single-serve coffeemaker, Claire popped into the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. Leaving on her pajamas because she was now officially a full-time writer who could work any way she saw fit, she creamed and sugared her coffee and carried it and her journal out onto the balcony where she sipped, scrawled her impressions of Downton Abbey, and watched the morning traffic on Peachtree.
Two cups of coffee and a granola bar later, she went inside, stashed the journal in her nightstand drawer, and sat down at her dining room table/desk. As her laptop booted up she positioned her chair so that she could see out the French doors and the front windows. For years she’d written by the light of a small desk lamp in the early morning hours before getting Hailey up for school, during her lunch hour in the windowless break room at Teledyne Communications, and anywhere else she could grab a stray fifteen or twenty minutes. Now that she was going to do this full-time, she intended to write under the most optimal circumstances. Which meant a view out one or more windows, maximum light—both natural and artificial—and absolute quiet.
Ahhhh. Satisfied, she cracked her knuckles, stretched her fingers, and arranged her right hand on her mouse.
“You’ve got mail.”
Without conscious thought, she clicked on email and found two new messages waiting; one from each of her critique partners. Karen’s included a photo of her sitting on her vacation house deck, the beach visible over her shoulder. The text read: What are you doing here? Get to work!
The second was from Susie, now the proud grandmother of a four-month-old. Rocking her gorgeousness. Isn’t she beautiful? A photo of this was inserted next to the words. No more email! Get to work!
Claire laughed and shot back snotty replies. Not quite ready to turn off the Internet—she might need to do research—she turned off the audio notification and pulled up her notes for her new novel; a third romance set in the Scottish Highlands shortly before the Battle of Culloden. Her editor had been excited about Claire’s idea of picking up several years after the conclusion of her second novel, Highland Hellion, which had ended with the announcement of an arranged alliance between the youngest of three Douglas brothers and the high-spirited daughter of a neighboring laird. The proposal had gone in under the title Highland Mismatch, which her editor had rejected as “more appealing to wrestling fans than romance readers,” and so her working title had been simplified to a more generic Highland 3.
Her agent believed it could be “the book” that put her on some of the bestseller lists and had managed to negotiate a slightly better contract, which she insisted would be even better next book. Assuming her writing continued to develop. And her earlier books continued to sell.
Hmmm. Claire clicked on to her Amazon Author Central account to look at her BookScan sales numbers, which supposedly reflected 70 percent of all sales. Then wished she hadn’t.
Since she was already there, she clicked on both of her previous books to check Amazon sales and reviews. Crap. Her sales were stagnant here, too. Worse, some reader who didn’t like the name of one of her characters because she reminded her of someone she’d hated in elementary school, had given her a one-star review.
Forget it, she scolded herself. Get to work. Just focus on your characters and what happens to each of them.
Her gaze strayed to the refrigerator. At home—she stopped midword reminding herself that this was home now. Okay. Back in the house in River Run she would have had to walk downstairs to reach the kitchen. Here—in her new home—she could practically reach out and touch the refrigerator from her “desk.” She studied her diffused features in its stainless-steel door and tried not to think about the slice of cherry cheesecake inside it.
Fighting off the spike of hunger the thought produced, she reread her notes and made herself think about why her heroine was opposed to this marriage despite the secret attraction she felt to Rory Douglas. Had she been raised like a favored son and was therefore afraid of losing all chance of independence through marriage? Or maybe her mother and her sister had died in childbirth and she feared a similar fate?
This last made her think about Hailey away at college. The journals they’d given each other and what her daughter might have written so far in hers. The look on Hailey’s face when Claire had insisted on discussing STDs and birth control.
She forced her gaze back to the screen, but her brain was slow to follow. Plotting was definitely not her strong suit. Maybe she should call Karen or Susie? Or email them to see if they could do a conference call one day this week.
She was back checking email before she realized it. Once she was there, she began to type an email to her critique partners laying out some of the possible scenarios.
“No!” she said aloud even as she got up and walked over to the window so that she could see the traffic moving on Peachtree. “You don’t need your critique partners for this. You have a brain. Why don’t you try using it before you run to them?”
Leaning into the window, she spotted the big orange CB2 sign a few blocks north. If she took a break she could walk through the store, maybe pick up another desk lamp. This one was definitely not bright enough. She went back to the table and peered at the bulb. It was only a 45-watter.
Except what would she be taking a break from?
Back in the chair she reread her notes, added a few thoughts, then stared out the front window at the bright blue sky.
Maybe Rory was the one who objected to the marriage. Because he thought he wanted a more biddable wife? She groaned aloud and turned her head away so she wouldn’t have to look at the big question marks she’d just typed across the screen. A bird sang happily out on the balcony railing. Squinting, she tried to determine what kind it might be. She was still trying to figure this out when it flew away.
Her mind, which appeared to be as reluctant to settle down as the unidentified bird, flitted to last night’s screening and the lush beauty of Downton Abbey.
Her fingers moved on the keyboard and she was back on Amazon. Big bad Amazon, who was ruining publishing, putting bookstores out of business, and deflating the price of books in general. Not to mention making readers believe that an ebook should cost half as much as a printed book just because it didn’t have paper.
Her mental rant didn’t prevent her from typing the words “Downton Abbey” into the search box. A book titled The World of Downton Abbey popped up. It appeared to be written by Jessica Fellowes, niece of series creator, Julian Fellowes. The hardcover, which had received sixty-seven customer reviews and averaged four and a half stars, had lots of cool photos and background on the series, the time period, and the real stately home, Highclere Castle, where the series was filmed. As she clicked around Amazon informed her that customers who bought The World of Downton Abbey also bought Lady Almina and the Real Downton Abbey: The Lost Legacy of Highclere Castle, which was written by the current Countess of Carnarvon about an Edwardian-era Countess of Carnarvon.
Claire’s fingers, which once again seemed to be functioning independently of her brain, added them to her cart. Which was when Amazon pointed out that many of the customers who’d bought both of these items also bought the series on DVD.
She could order them right now and watch both previous seasons whenever she wanted. In case she had to miss a Sunday night. Or just couldn’t wait a whole week. It would be a treat to watch whenever she felt like it. In fact, she could probably download episodes from iTunes and not even have to wait for the mail. She clicked over to see and sure enough there they were.
But it felt like cheating. As if she were reading the last page of a book first instead of reading it in the way that the author intended; something that members of her book club had admitted to doing.
Claire shuddered. No.
The Amazon confirmation appeared in her inbox midshudder.
After her mini online-shopping frenzy, she tried to refocus her attention on the new book, but the characters and their motivations con
tinued to elude her. For about thirty minutes she free-typed imagined backstory for both main characters and attempted to decide in whose point of view the book should start. But without her critique partners to bounce ideas off, her brain circled in a nonproductive loop. There was a reason brainstorming was a group activity. Doing it alone was sort of like cheerleading without a game or a crowd—you could shout really loud and jump up and down, but it didn’t accomplish much.
At noon she made and gobbled down a PB and J sandwich with a glass of milk, promising herself the cheesecake for that night’s dessert. If she completed at least the main characters’ sketches and committed to those characters’ backstories and motivations, she’d allow herself to eat the cheesecake. Yes, that was better. The cheesecake would be her reward.
At two thirty she admitted temporary defeat. Tucking the journal into her bag, she left her apartment with no clear destination in mind. Which was not at all surprising since her mind hadn’t been clear about much of anything but Downton Abbey for most of the day.
It’s all right, she told herself as she walked north on Peachtree where she cruised the aisles of CB2 before making her way toward Piedmont Park. Today might not have been the jackknife off the high dive and into the book that she’d anticipated. But surely now that she was a full-time writer there was nothing wrong with wading in slowly. When you had three-hundred-fifty-plus days of writing time left you didn’t have to maximize every available moment of every possible day, right?
She picked up her pace as she entered the park. But even as she sought to reassure herself, one of her critique partner’s favorite sayings echoed in her mind: “Writing time is like closet space. The more you have, the less efficiently you use it.”
That night, the character sketches unfinished, she ate the cheesecake anyway. Because she could. And because as Scarlett O’Hara so famously pointed out, tomorrow was another day.
* * *
DUE TO THE IMPORTANCE OF THE CLIENT BEING wooed, Samantha had arranged an intimate catered dinner served in their dining room instead of at a restaurant or even one of the exclusive clubs to which Jonathan belonged. She would have preferred not to entertain on a Wednesday, which was jammed with committee meetings stacked around the weekly lunch with her mother-in-law, but it was the only night both the coveted client and his wife were in town and free. By the time Samantha got home late that afternoon, fresh flowers had been delivered and the caterer and his staff had begun to set up in the kitchen. She’d just finished dressing when she heard Jonathan arrive. “Be right out,” she called as she hurriedly opened the bedroom safe to pull out her jewelry. She was fastening the clasp on her bracelet and holding the pearl necklace Jonathan had given her for their last anniversary as she hurried into the living room. “Do you mind?”
