While We Were Watching Downton Abbey

by Wendy Wax

  Brooke nodded, but she knew how these things worked. Just because she didn’t want to see either of them she was bound to run into Barbie and Ken every time she stepped out of her apartment.

  “Is everything okay with your brother?” Claire asked Samantha and Brooke realized that Samantha hadn’t so much as mentioned him since the night two weeks ago when they’d argued in the hall.

  “No, not really,” Samantha said, a frown creasing her forehead, something Zachary would have been quick to discourage.

  Brooke waited for an explanation but that appeared to be it on the subject. Samantha Davis had proved surprisingly friendly and interested in her and Claire, but she didn’t offer a lot of details about herself. Once again she deflected and turned the subject. “You have a strange look on your face,” she said to Claire. “Is everything okay?”

  Claire drained her glass and set it on the cocktail table, but she didn’t go for another. Brooke had noticed that ever since the shandies, she’d been careful about her alcohol consumption. “Yes.”

  “But?”

  Claire just looked at her.

  “The way you said that it sounded like a disclaimer was coming,” Samantha said with a shrug.

  Brooke nodded her agreement.

  Claire sighed. “Well, for one thing my book isn’t moving forward anywhere near as quickly as I’d hoped.” She hesitated before continuing. “And I’ve been asked to do a book signing Tuesday night at the Georgia Tech B&N.”

  “But that’s good, right?” Brooke asked, not understanding why Claire seemed so uncomfortable. “Isn’t that how authors promote a new book?”

  “Yes,” Claire said. “But my last book came out more than a year ago. The only reason they asked me is because LeaAnn Larsen had to cancel at the last minute.”

  “I think I’ve heard of her,” Samantha said. “She’s a pretty big name, isn’t she?”

  Claire nodded, her expression glum.

  “I love her books,” Brooke said. “Those Navy SEALs are . . . dreamy.”

  “I know,” Claire said. “My daughter used to devour them. But I don’t write Navy SEALs past, present, or future. I write romances set in seventeenth-century Scotland.”

  “So why is this happening?” Samantha asked.

  “We’re with the same publisher, although, that’s kind of like saying we’re both cars when I’m a PT Cruiser and LeaAnn Larsen is a Rolls-Royce. But somehow the store thinks any author is better than no author.”

  “And you don’t think so,” Brooke said.

  Claire shook her head. “LeaAnn Larsen’s fans are bound to be royally pissed off. And it’s not like I have fans that are going to show up with only two days’ warning. My local audience lives out in the suburbs and seems to have an aversion to driving through the ‘circle of fire’ that is Highway 285 to come in town.”

  Samantha laughed. “I’m sure you must have fans ITP.” She used the term for inside the perimeter.

  “Well, there may be some. But I’m not exactly a household name. Had you ever read or even heard of either of my books before we met?”

  “No,” Samantha conceded.

  “Me, either,” Brooke admitted. “But I’d like to read you. I’ve never known a real published author before.”

  “Good,” Claire said drily. “If you’re not busy Tuesday night, you two can come circle the wagons around me and protect me from the angry Larsen fans.”

  “Of course we will,” Samantha said as Edward Parker moved toward the front of the room. The chatter began to die down.

  “Absolutely,” Brooke added. “We’ll both be there. And, who knows, maybe those Larsen fans will give your books a try and realize what they’ve been missing.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  LEAANN LARSEN’S FANS KNEW EXACTLY WHAT they were missing. And that was LeaAnn Larsen.

  When Claire arrived at six forty-five a line of Larsen’s fans already stretched out the front door and snaked around the block. They eyed her impatiently as she walked by them with her poster for Highland Hellion bumping against one knee and her tote bag stocked with bookmarks, “autographed by the author” stickers, pens, and a “please join my mailing list” sheet stuffed inside. The looks got angry when she entered the store and walked past the fans who’d shown up early enough to be at the head of the line.

  A woman detached herself from the information desk and hurried over to Claire. “I’m Dee, the customer relations manager.” She looked briefly over Claire’s shoulder and her lips trembled. “Thank God you’re here.”

  “Hasn’t anyone told them she isn’t coming?” Claire asked through dry lips.

  “Um, no. We drew straws and did rock/paper/scissors, but none of us could agree on who would tell them.”

  The jostling of the crowd grew more pronounced.

  “Where is she?” one of them called out. “Where’s LeaAnn?”

  “And where’s Blade?” another yelled, referring to one of Larsen’s most popular former SEAL heroes. “I heard she always brings a hero with her.”

  Jesus. Claire was afraid to turn around. If there’d been another author within hailing distance, she would have been in a heated round of rock/paper/scissors herself right now.

  “Come on,” Dee said reaching for Claire’s poster. “Let me get you set up.” She snuck another look over Claire’s shoulder and a shudder ran through her.

  “What?” Claire asked.

  “Nothing.” The CRM swallowed and averted her eyes. She took Claire’s arm and began to lead her toward the signing table. “Would you like something to drink?”

  The crowd began to murmur and not in a friendly/happy way. Claire felt like a Christian about to be fed to the lions. “Only if it’s alcoholic and fast working.”

  “Sorry.” The CRM did, indeed, look sorry. In fact, she looked like she might burst into tears at any moment. Claire knew the feeling.

  They reached the table but neither of them turned to face the now-muttering crowd.

  “Hey, where’s LeaAnn?” a voice cried out.

  “Who’s that?” another yelled.

  “Are you ready?” Dee asked quietly.

  Claire shook her head gently. “Not really,” she said. She’d had signings where the only people who approached her table were looking for directions to the bathroom or the information desk. When you weren’t a big name book signings were a total crapshoot—sometimes a respectable number of actual readers came and sometimes even your immediate family didn’t show up. But she’d never before been afraid for her safety. Maybe if she just turned and left now, no one, especially her, would get hurt.

  Dee ignored her comment. Still holding Claire’s arm, she led Claire to the chair behind the signing table. The CRM might be young and thin, but she had a grip like a vise. Still, you might lead a frightened author to a signing table but that didn’t mean she had to sit. Claire hovered behind the chair studying the crowd, who had now pushed past the stanchions and were studying her back.

  With shaking hands Dee set the poster on the table and opened the back flaps so it could stand on its own. There was silence as the fans at the front of the line took in the book’s cover and read the title and the author’s name. Some of their mouths moved with the effort, but that might have been because they were battling their disbelief. Another store employee wheeled over a cart stacked with books. He propped a copy of Highland Hellion and one of Claire’s first book, Highland Kiss, in front of one of the stacks so that their covers could be seen.

  “What kind of bullshit is this?” a girl in a Georgia Tech T-shirt cried. “I cut my Lit class to come here.”

  “This is bogus,” someone else shouted. “I didn’t stand in line for an hour to see somebody I never even heard of!”

  There was chaos as the front of the line broke ranks. Claire braced for a frontal assault but the majority of the surge was backward toward the exit.

  “Where are the frickin’ Navy SEALs?” a woman who found herself unexpectedly at the front asked. “I
promised my daughter I’d get a picture with one of the Navy SEALs!” She held up her camera. The flash accidentally went off.

  Once the pushing started the crowd surged and retreated, looking much like a cell attempting to divide as people at the front tried to leave and people at the back, who couldn’t see what was going on, pressed forward. Each new batch that landed at the front read the poster, glared at Claire, and shouted out either their disappointment or anger before clawing their way back toward the entrance.

  “Gosh, maybe we should have canceled,” Dee said. “We voted on it a bunch of times but it was always a tie.”

  “What, you didn’t rock/paper/scissors it?” Claire deadpanned. Her heart was racing in her chest, and her mouth was horribly dry, but the fear was receding. So far she’d received a lot of angry looks and a good bit of disdain, but no one had seriously threatened bodily harm. Yet.

  An older woman was thrust forward by the surging and receding crowd—like a seashell deposited onto the beach by the ocean’s tide. She teetered precariously for a moment, her glasses askew, her fluffy white hair puffed out around her head. Slowly she regained her balance, steadying herself with her cane.

  Claire stepped around the table and the cart of books when she recognized the woman. “Mrs. Davenport? What are you doing here?”

  “My word!” The older woman brushed off her silk blouse and straightened her pearls. “I got a phone call about your book signing and I must say you’ve got quite a crowd.” She looked around, her forehead creasing in confusion. “But I don’t understand where they were putting the seals. Is there a tank somewhere in the store?”

  There was another tidal strength surge and Sadie Hopewell and Myra Mackelbaum landed near Mimi Davenport.

  “Goodness,” Myra said, running a hand over her hair. “I had no idea we’d have to fight our way inside.”

  Sadie blinked several times, taking it all in. “Did they really say there were seals here?” She turned to Claire. “Are you a nature writer, dear?” she asked.

  “No,” Claire said, far closer to laughing than she would have thought possible just ten minutes ago. “I write historical romance. Set in the Scottish Highlands.”

  “You’ve gotta love a man who can wear a kilt,” Samantha Davis said as she stepped through what remained of the original crowd. As usual, every hair was in place. Her jeans, white T-shirt, and blazer looked completely unruffled and casually elegant. “I hope you’re planning to sign some books,” Samantha said. “Because I’m looking forward to reading your work and both my sister and my mother-in-law asked me to pick up autographed copies for them.”

  The CRM straightened beside Claire, flashing what could only be called a relieved smile. “Well then, I guess we have ourselves a signing.” She bustled around the cart and table and pulled out the chair. “Ms. Walker?”

  The crowd had diffused now so that it was possible to see individuals. Claire felt a reassuring glow as Brooke Mackenzie stepped up behind Samantha, giving Claire a friendly wave and a warm smile. Edward Parker, James, and Isabella, who was not sporting her upstairs-maid attire but seemed to have brought her attempts at a British accent with her, moved through the milling group to stand behind Brooke in what was beginning to look like an actual line. “’Ello, ’ow ya doin’, guhv’nor!” she proclaimed to a bookstore employee.

  An unhappy LeaAnn Larsen fan clutching a book with a Navy SEAL on the cover walked up to the concierge. Claire couldn’t hear what the woman said, but she heard Edward Parker’s reply. “I understand, madam,” he said in his crisp, elegant accent. “But I highly recommend this author.” He leaned down to hear her response. “No, I don’t believe there are any seals in her stories.”

  Isabella bobbed her head and offered the woman a curtsy. A few others who’d come for LeaAnn Larsen shrugged and joined the line as Claire took the proffered seat and quickly unpacked her bookmarks and autograph stickers. Dee and her coworkers moved copies of Highland Kiss and Highland Hellion off the cart and onto the signing table. Claire looked up and spotted the Ritchie twins and their mother. Melinda Greene and her partner Diana were right behind them.

  Claire wasn’t sure if it was Brooke or Samantha or both who had put out the word, but practically the whole Sunday-night Downton Abbey group seemed to be here. Claire felt a smile stretch across her face.

  “Well then,” Dee said, ushering Mimi Davenport up to the table. “I think it’s time for the signing to begin.”

  * * *

  EDWARD LED EVERYONE BACK TO THE ALEXANDER clubroom for champagne and chocolates after the signing. He was gratified by how many of the Sunday-night group had made it to the bookstore. Many of them had brought friends and acquaintances. Claire Walker’s “fans” had proved less . . . vocal . . . than the originally scheduled author’s readers, but they’d numbered close to thirty and Edward had noticed that almost everyone, including himself, had bought multiple copies.

  Even Mimi Davenport, who’d almost “accidentally” walked out of the store without paying had bought several copies for her daughters and daughters-in-law.

  “To the Alexander’s full-time and soon-to-be-famous author!” Samantha raised her glass of champagne in toast.

  “Hear! Hear!”

  “Woo-hoo!” Logan and Callan Ritchie hooted.

  They clinked and drank. Isabella passed trays of desserts—all of them covered with, filled with, or made of chocolate—with commendable restraint and only a few bobs and curtsies and one lamentable, “Bottoms up then!”

  Edward was pleased at the increasing ease with which the women who’d become regulars interfaced.

  “I want to thank all of you for coming to Barnes and Noble tonight,” Claire said over her raised glass. “I was thrilled that you took the time to come out and I appreciate you buying my books. I think you saved me from what would have been a horrible ordeal.”

  “Is she talking about the seals?” Mimi Davenport asked putting a hand up to cup her ear.

  “No, Mrs. D,” Isabella said. “She said ordeal!”

  Claire aimed a smile at Brooke and Samantha. Edward was glad to see that she’d guessed who’d organized the evening. He’d been watching the three women begin to bond over the past weeks and thought Samantha Davis, Brooke Mackenzie, and Claire Walker made an interesting combination.

  “It meant a huge amount to me that you came. And I think the customer relations manager was pretty relieved, too.” Claire raised her glass to her lips and took a long drink.

  Edward watched the women fall into chattering groups. In less than a week they’d screen the last program of season one. Then it would be on to the second season. His uncle had tried to tempt him again with a sneak peek at season three, but Edward looked forward to watching it here in January. Hopefully with this same group.

  Slowly the room began to empty. As Isabella and James began to tidy up, Samantha Davis turned back from the doorway and came over to speak with him. “I wanted to thank you for organizing the spread.” She nodded to the table where Isabella and James were packing up what remained of the desserts and bottles of champagne. “I was glad we had such a good turnout.”

  “Yes, you certainly know your way around a, what did you call it, a phone tree?” Edward said.

  “Everyone has to be good at something.” Samantha laughed. “You can’t serve on as many committees as I have without learning how to use a telephone to its fullest.”

  “Well, you’re a maestro,” Edward replied. “And I’ve been wanting to thank you for the referral to Sylvie Talmadge and her daughter. I’ve put one of my people full-time on servicing them, and I checked in several times last week to reassure them that they have our undivided attention.”

  “Perfect,” Samantha said. “I knew you’d have them figured out in no time.”

  “People are people,” he said smoothly. “Everyone wants to feel cared for and important.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I appreciate your confidence in me and my business as well as the
referral. I hope you’ll let me know if there’s ever anything I can offer in return.”

  He didn’t think there was a lot she didn’t or couldn’t have, but her eyes lit up.

  “Do you mean that?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course,” he replied. “Is there something you need?”

  She hesitated but only briefly. “Would you consider interviewing my brother for a position in your company?”

  He kept his features schooled to mask his surprise. “Hunter?”

  “Yes, he’s really good in sales. We do know a lot of people who might appreciate your services. Perhaps he could serve as a sales representative as you continue to build Private Butler.”

  “I don’t really have a sales spot per se. I’ve done most of that and, of course, we rely largely on referrals and word of mouth.” He hesitated. “I’m not sure I’d have anyone selling my company who hadn’t worked in it.” He looked at her, weighing his words. “If he were willing to learn the business from the ground up . . . spend some time as a concierge . . . it could turn into something more.”

  “It could work,” she said carefully. “Assuming you’d be willing to take him on. I . . .” She paused. “I don’t want to put you on the spot.”

  Edward thought about the young man’s sense of entitlement. The way he strutted through the building, expecting others to take care of his every need. “Is he interested in this?”

  “I don’t know,” Samantha said. “But I don’t see why he wouldn’t be. You have a real business and he’d have a chance to get in on the ground floor.”

  “It’s also hard work, and there’s not much glory in it,” he said quietly. “The customer is always, always right.” Once again he weighed his words. “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, I’m not certain he’ll be happy taking orders instead of giving them.”

  “You are an astute judge of character, Edward,” Samantha Davis said. “I respect that about you. But he’s looking for a job—or at least he’s supposed to be. And his time is running out.”