by Wendy Wax
Any thought of not planning and giving the sixth birthday of Marissa Dalton evaporated. “Do you have a class directory or anything?”
“Yes, I’m sure I must.” He stood and moved over to a built-in desk that appeared stuffed with papers and miscellaneous—much like Brooke’s tote bag.
She stood and moved over to the counter, perching on a bar stool where she had a better view. “If there’s a neighborhood list, maybe you could pull that, too. So that I can get the little girl across the street’s name and phone number. Her mother might be able to help me come up with a list of neighborhood children that we could invite, too.”
“Oh. That’s a great idea.” Once again he said this as if she’d invented the wheel or discovered fire. “Yes, I think the little girl’s name is Katie. And the mother is . . .” His forehead crinkled in thought. It was her turn to bite back a smile. Everything about Bruce Dalton shouted “absentminded professor.” “Karen? Connie? Cathy? That’s it. Cathy Banks.”
“Great,” Brooke said jotting the names on her yellow pad.
She couldn’t bring Marissa Dalton’s mother back. Or even make her and her father’s loss any less than the monumental thing it was. But she was going to put on the best birthday party picnic any six-year-old girl had ever had.
* * *
SYLVIE AND BRICK TALMADGE’S BACKYARD WAS roughly the size of a football field. A long, green, perfectly manicured rectangle, it had a pool and cabana, a tennis court, and an outdoor “kitchen” with a built-in grill and entertainment area. On this late Saturday afternoon in September, the Ole Miss–Mississippi State football game, which was playing on the big-screen TV, was currently in halftime.
Samantha sat on the Talmadge’s back patio, sipping cocktails with the women who the world at large considered her best friends, but who had become friends by default—having married Jonathan Davis’s friends. Out on the lawn, their barefoot husbands talked trash to each other while they tossed a football around.
Sylvie Talmadge was a statuesque blonde whose glory days as an Ole Miss cheerleader had resulted in marriage to Brick Talmadge, captain of the Rebel football team and one of Jonathan’s childhood friends.
It was rumored that her pom-poms had been pried from her fingers to make room for the bridal bouquet before she headed down the aisle. But once joined to the aptly named Brick, Sylvie had channeled her earlier enthusiasm, and school spirit, into determined procreation. Given the bride and groom’s gene pools, no one was surprised that all four of their children were blessed with blond good looks, impressive eye-hand coordination, and almost superhuman strength and stamina. Sylvie spent the years that followed cheering on their sons and daughters whom she enthusiastically ferried to football fields, baseball diamonds, and beauty pageants.
In contrast to the almost Amazonian Sylvie, Lucy Hammond Lee was small and curvy. Married to Jonathan’s college roommate, Rock, Lucy had never met a social mountain she did not want to climb. Since her husband could, and did, trace his lineage to Robert E. Lee, Lucy had scaled and claimed Rock E. Lee with a flinty-eyed determination that could have landed her in the White House had she been so inclined.
Samantha, Sylvie, and Lucy had been brought together by their husbands’ friendship. Not spending time with each other would have been impossible; disliking each other pointless. They saw each other frequently, but rarely without their husbands. All three women had married into old, wealthy southern families. The patent disapproval of thier mothers-in-law was the glue that bound them.
“It’s kind of hard to understand how she can love the children I produced so freely and dislike me so intensely. I mean I’ve been married to Rock E. for almost a quarter of a century. If I was only digging for gold I would have stashed and grabbed all I could and been gone a long time ago. It’s downright insultin’,” Lucy said in a familiar complaint.
There were murmurs of sympathy since “the boys” were far enough away not to overhear. Samantha sometimes wondered if Cynthia might have softened toward her if she’d managed to produce grandchildren like the others had. A soft Cynthia Davis was almost impossible to imagine.
“Brick says his mama wouldn’t have approved of anyone he married, but after all these years she still talks about his high school girlfriend—who is now divorced and livin’ just down the street at her parents’—like she walks on water.” Sylvie took a long pull on her frozen margarita. “Sweet Jesus, just look at those boys.” She was referring to Brick, Rock E., and Jonathan, who had taken off their shirts and were now running plays with much feinting and hilarity. “I must say Jonathan really stays in shape. Brick is not anywhere near as solid as he used to be. We may have to apply for some kind of name change.” She sighed.
Samantha was fairly certain the nickname, a shortening of his given name of Brickland, had never had anything to do with his physique, but kept this observation to herself. Modesty prevented her from agreeing that her own husband looked almost as fit as he had when she’d married him, but she had a hard time tearing her eyes from Jonathan’s broad shoulders and rock-hard abs. It was easier to think about her husband’s body than the conversation she needed to have with him. She hadn’t wanted to bring up Hunter’s latest business crisis on the phone. This afternoon when she’d picked Jonathan up at the airport they’d driven straight to Sylvie and Brick’s and she hadn’t wanted to spoil their reunion after almost a week apart. That’s how big a wuss she was.
Talk turned to Sylvie and Lucy’s children, who were now out of school, several of them married and producing grandbabies. Samantha smiled and nodded, but as always had little to offer. Neither Meredith nor Hunter had provided much in the way of bragging rights. And although she had been involved in raising them, she had not given birth to them. No, she didn’t want to think about either of her siblings right now. Not Meredith, who had come home for her interview angry and had not yet heard from the Atlanta Preservation Board. Or Hunter, who might never forgive her for interfering with his revenue stream.
“Lord, I heard from Shelby the other day,” Sylvie said. “You know she’s got the twins now and she is at her wits’ end. She told me that even with the nanny and Hildie in to cook and clean, she just can’t keep up with things. I’ve been tryin’ to think of what I could give her or do for her to help, but she is so particular.”
Samantha looked at Sylvie. “What kinds of things does she need?”
“Oh, you know. Organizing. Planning. Errands. Whatever. Like when you’re at a nice hotel and you just call down to the desk and say you need this or that.”
An image of the elegant and sophisticated Edward Parker sprang to Samantha’s mind. His willingness to take on Hunter on Sunday had surprised and warmed her. She liked and respected the concierge and would be glad to see his business expand—as long as the Alexander received its share of his attention. She thought about the mischievous sense of humor he displayed at the Downton Abbey screenings. Oh, he could handle Sylvie and Shelby all right; he’d have them eating out of the palm of his hand faster than ducks on the proverbial June bug. She could even see Brick puffing out his chest a little bit at the idea of a fancy concierge on the payroll. Samantha leaned closer to Sylvie and Lucy. “You know,” she said casually, her fingers toying with the stem of her margarita glass. “I think I may have just the person to handle all of Shelby’s pesky problems.”
Maybe she could hire Edward Parker to handle hers. He could start with telling Jonathan that Hunter had once again lost a shitload of money and that anytime now the press and the SEC might be knocking on Jonathan’s office door.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IT WAS POSSIBLE THAT PEOPLE WHO ACTUALLY knew how to cook found comfort in the act. Samantha had hoped this might be the case when she settled on the recipe for ossi buchin in gremolata, over which she’d planned to break the news of Hunter’s latest financial disaster to Jonathan.
It was four forty-five p.m. and the knot in her stomach squeezed tighter. The veal was dry and leathery. The saffron rice, over
which it was supposed to be served, was lumpy. And the gremolata had turned out to be a decidedly off-putting mixture of parsley, anchovies, and lemon rind.
With a last look at the clock, she dumped everything into the garbage and picked up the phone.
By the time Jonathan got home a bottle of wine was decanting and the condo smelled warmly Italian and inviting. She’d managed to shower and change into a simple black sheath that clung in all the right places and displayed just enough décolleté to hold her husband’s attention without distracting him from the meal. She greeted him at the door with a gin and tonic and a smile.
“Welcome home.” She went up on tiptoe to kiss him, then handed him the drink.
“Thank you.” He dropped his briefcase on the foyer table and raised his glass in salute. “It’s a relief to have a night in.”
Samantha smiled and led him into the kitchen, but the smile was hard to hold on to. She felt a lot of things, but she was fairly certain none of them were relief.
“Mmmm. Something smells good.” He glanced at the table, which she’d set for two, then at her. “Is it just us?”
She nodded, then busied herself stirring the rice, which she happened to know Giancarlo had cooked to perfection without a single lump or clump. It was clear that the grains in his kitchen did not have to resort to clinging together. In fact, they probably practically jumped into the boiling water at the honor.
Jonathan drained his cocktail and set the empty glass in the sink. “It looks like you’ve gone all out.” He said this in all earnestness as if he actually believed she’d managed to produce the meal he was about to consume. He sniffed appreciatively. “Osso bucco?”
“Yes,” she said. “And Italian wedding soup for starters.”
“Fabulous,” he said. “I’m starving.”
“Good. If you’ll pour the wine, I’ll dish up the soup.” She smiled though she couldn’t imagine getting down a bite.
At the table she watched him dig into the first course with enthusiasm. “Delicious,” he said. But she could feel him watching her. “Aren’t you eating?”
“Oh, you know, I’ve been tasting all afternoon. I’m . . . going to save my appetite for the main course.”
He nodded agreeably and reached for a slice of garlic bread. When he’d finished the soup he set his spoon down and took a sip of wine, looking at her expectantly.
This is Jonathan, she reminded herself. Not some ogre. But still she couldn’t seem to find the words that would start the conversation. She finished her first glass of wine before standing up to clear his soup bowl. The spoon clattered against the china and she startled.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said, but her voice quivered oddly. Keeping her head down, she dished up a bed of rice, then ladled the meat and sauce on top of it. The smell made her stomach roll. Her fingers felt thick and clumsy as she added perfectly grilled asparagus to both their plates. At the table she watched Jonathan eat. He closed his eyes briefly as he tasted the first bites.
“So,” she said her voice breaking on the word. “You haven’t said much about your trip. How did it go?” She cleared her throat. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes.” Jonathan looked up and finished chewing. “Andrew Martin is on board and the meetings in Boston went well. I shouldn’t have to go back out to the West Coast for a couple of weeks.”
“That’s great.” She moved the meat around her plate, not quite able to take a bite. Meeting his eyes proved equally difficult. “It’ll be good to have you home for a while.”
He continued to eat, clearly enjoying the meal, allowing her to steer the conversation. She told him about Meredith’s interview and how right the position seemed for her. “I’m hoping she’ll get the position. So that she can be a bit more . . . independent.”
“Sounds good,” he replied. “I’m glad Mother could be of help.” He said this without irony, and she knew if she asked him, he’d do everything in his power to make sure Meredith got the job. That he would most likely do this without being asked. Because he was used to taking care of them. Jonathan took the last bites of veal, then dabbed at the corners of his mouth with the cloth napkin.
“Would you like a little more?” she asked hopefully, still not ready to dive into the subject that filled her mind. Maybe she should wait until he’d had dessert and had time to digest the meal. Maybe it would be better to talk after sex when both of them would be . . . more relaxed. His eyes skimmed over her bare skin and lingered on the rise and fall of her breasts.
“No, thanks.” He topped off both their wineglasses and looked pointedly at the food on her plate, which she had spent the meal rearranging. “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?” he said. “I appreciate the great food, but I feel kind of bad for enjoying it so much when you look so miserable.”
She set down her fork and forced herself to meet his eyes. There was absolutely no point in putting this conversation off a minute longer. She’d been doing it all week and had gained nothing but completely frazzled nerves. Hunter was already furious with her—after he’d sent the one-pager he’d refused to return her phone calls. “It’s about Hunter.” She swallowed. “And the nanotechnology thing.”
His jaw tightened and she knew just how wrong she’d been to put off bringing it up. He waited until she had no choice but to explain.
“Apparently there’s a question about who owns the patent. There’s something off about the stock issue and some of the other investors are . . . unsavory. Hunter’s convinced that if he doesn’t put in another hundred thousand dollars the whole thing will crash and the press will get hold of it.” She swallowed again, the words stuck in her throat. “And the SEC seems poised to launch an investigation.”
He didn’t say anything but continued to watch her closely. His eyes gave nothing away and she felt a brief stab of pity for the people who’d sat on the other side of boardroom conference tables.
“I’m so sorry,” she said in a rush, afraid that if she didn’t, she’d swallow the words once again and never find the courage to speak them. “I don’t want you to give him any more money, but it’s all such a big mess. And I’m afraid that the firm’s going to be dragged into it.”
Something flickered in his eyes, but she couldn’t identify it. He studied her closely, giving nothing away.
“I warned him the last time your reputation was threatened. But I . . . he wants to earn your respect; I know that’s what he wants. But he just goes from one awful scheme to another. I told him there’d be no more money, that he had to go find a job, but I . . . I don’t want you damaged and I don’t want him to end up in jail.”
“Jesus.” He said this quietly, his eyes still on her. There was something new in them that she still couldn’t decipher. Irritation? Disappointment? Weariness? Most likely it was all of the above.
“What do you want me to say?” His voice was clipped, his jaw tight. Whatever was going on inside was nowhere near as casual as his tone.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. She looked at her husband. The man she’d married out of fear and panic when she was barely old enough to understand what marriage was. His eyes had darkened until they were practically navy. There was that tick in his cheek again.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again. “I should have put a stop to all of this a long time ago. Both he and Meredith have taken advantage.” She resisted the urge to drop her eyes. “I feel like we all have.”
She folded her hands in her lap to keep them from trembling. “I . . . I’m sorry. I know that’s completely inadequate, but I am.” She made herself meet his eyes. “I know you must be so angry.”
He shook his head, ran a hand through his hair. “Being angry at Hunter is like being angry at a tornado for turning counterclockwise. He’s a born gambler just like your father.” He hesitated and Samantha knew he was thinking of her father’s theft. How seriously he’d damaged the law firm that Jonathan had inherited and given his life to rebuil
ding. “He really believes that each venture is going to be the big score,” Jonathan continued. “I’m not angry at Hunter. I understand where he’s coming from and what motivates him. And I’m certainly not going to let him go to jail.”
His eyes clouded and she began to understand. Knew she’d had good reason to avoid this conversation. “You’re angry at . . . me.” She said it quietly as if speaking softly would somehow soften the blow.
He nodded. “I’m angry that after twenty-five years of marriage you could actually be unable to eat a meal you’ve gone to great lengths to pretend you’ve cooked, because you’re afraid to talk to me.” The tick in his cheek became more pronounced. “I’m angry and disappointed,” he said, looking both. “Because it’s so obvious that you don’t understand me, or my motivations, at all.”
* * *
TWO WEEKS LATER, ON THE MORNING OF MARISSA Dalton’s birthday party, Brooke awoke long before her alarm. For a time she lay in bed examining the day that lay ahead and going over the past weeks, which had been as turbulent as a propeller plane caught in a bank of thunderstorms. The pleasures of planning the “princess picnic” were the highs—the time spent dreading Zachary and Sarah’s move into the Alexander, which would also take place today, had provided the stomach-churning drops.
With a potential guest list compiled with the help of the Daltons’ neighbor across the street, Brooke had sent out invitations to the girls in Marissa’s class and in her neighborhood and received a reassuring number of RSVPs. Last night she’d used cookie cutters to turn the picnic sandwiches into stars and hearts, loaded the art supplies and goody bags into the station wagon, and triple-confirmed the castle-shaped birthday cake, which she’d pick up on the way.
