by Wendy Wax
Samantha stilled. Her mother-in-law had not mentioned either of Samantha’s parents except as an oath or as a warning from the day Jonathan had proposed to her.
“Your mother was . . . I considered her a close friend. We’d been in and out of each other’s houses for years.” A carefully penciled eyebrow went up. “But she never could control your father any more than you’ve been able to control your brother.
“When your father embezzled the firm’s funds and almost destroyed it, and your mother stayed with him, our friendship ended. They . . . she . . . died in that accident before anyone could even attempt to make amends.”
Samantha could not have moved if either of their lives depended on it.
“I could not understand why Jonathan chose to marry you. Why he would take on the burden of your family’s debts, parenting Hunter and Meredith. I hated that he took on all of that baggage when he didn’t have to.”
She looked at her mother-in-law. Wondered if she knew that she was preaching to the choir.
“The thing is,” Cynthia continued. “You don’t always understand your children. You may love them more than anything, but understanding is not an automatic part of that love.”
Samantha drew a deep breath and let it out. An irreverent “Amen, sister” flitted through her mind. She settled for a small nod, wondering where Cynthia was going with all this.
“You did your best with Hunter and Meredith. You were far too young—both of you were—but you put everything else on hold to try to give them a stable environment. Sometimes, even without all the trauma and loss that was a part of your parents’ legacy, even the most vigilant parenting produces mixed results. Sometimes children turn out poorly despite your sincere best efforts.” Cynthia smiled wryly. “Sometimes—as in Jonathan’s case—they exceed your expectations and turn out far better than you deserve.” Cynthia paused before continuing. “Whatever his reasons, my son chose you and I should have honored that choice. For his sake.”
This time Cynthia’s smile was fleeting. Her tone turned brusque. “As much as I always thought he could do better, I dislike what I see happening now,” she said. “I’ve watched him these last ten days and I no longer think ending this marriage would make Jonathan happy. Nor do I enjoy seeing you laid so low.”
Speechless, Samantha continued to listen.
“You have a lot of your mother’s best qualities. You have her warmth and her wit. And her loyalty. And frankly, though we have rarely seen eye to eye, I never took you for a coward.”
“But now you do.” Samantha looked down, knowing that that was exactly what she looked like. In fact, it was what she was.
“I think you need to get a life; something more than just trying to make everyone else happy. You already have a lot worth fighting for,” Cynthia said, more earnestly than Samantha had ever heard her speak. “But I think that in order to mount an effective campaign you’re going to have to shower. And while you’re at it I’d burn those pajamas. I’ve seen your wardrobe. I suggest you put a few of those designers on your side.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THE SKY WAS CLEAR AND THE AIR CRISP EARLY the next morning when Samantha left the Alexander armored in Donna Karan and Stuart Weitzman. She walked the three short blocks to Hunter’s building in the midst of early commuters and office workers, intent on catching her brother before he’d had a chance to don armor of his own.
In imitation of Cynthia’s surprisingly effective surprise attack, she let herself into the lobby, went up unannounced, and let herself into Hunter’s apartment. Her brother was still in bed and she stood in the bedroom doorway for several long moments watching him sleep. In repose, Hunter’s face was slack and sweet, reminding her of the boy he’d once been before their parents’ disgrace and deaths. He breathed gently, a small smile on his lips. If he’d been wrestling with the error of his ways or felt even a shred of guilt for taking money from people under false pretenses, she could see no sign of it.
Ripping the covers off him was incredibly satisfying. Watching him scramble out of bed stuttering with indignation was even more so.
“Shit! What’s . . .” The stuttering stopped as his eyes flew open. “What the hell??”
“My question exactly!” She waited for him to pull a robe on over pajamas, which looked far more elegant than any she owned, and watched him slip his bare feet into a pair of cashmere-lined slippers identical to the insanely expensive ones he’d bought for Jonathan last Christmas.
She allowed him to use the bathroom in private but banged on the door and shouted for him to hurry up; not wanting to give him time to strategize.
His face was shaved and he smelled of toothpaste and aftershave when he joined her in the kitchen, but his eyes were speculative. “I’d offer to make you coffee, but I see you’ve already helped yourself.”
She sipped her coffee, not answering while he made a cup for himself. She could almost hear his brain clicking through all the available data to determine whether an offense or defense would be more effective. She gestured him into a seat, but she remained standing, letting the Weitzmans give her an edge.
“I’ll save you the trouble,” she said. “You don’t need to figure out how to handle me. I’m going to do the talking today. You’re going to do the listening.”
A look of surprise passed over his face. He glanced at the clock on the wall.
“I don’t think it will take too long.”
“Sam,” he said. “There’s no need to get worked up here.” He took a sip of his coffee, sat back, crossed one leg over the other as if there was nothing unusual about being dragged out of bed by an angry sister. Then he threw in the wounded little boy look that had always been her personal kryptonite. Images of him as a child, at their parents’ funeral, his high school and college graduations, which she and Jonathan had attended in lieu of their parents, bombarded her.
“On the contrary,” she said, determined to resist the look and him, knowing she couldn’t continue to let her love for him cloud her judgment. “I have every reason to get ‘worked up.’ You’ve hurt a lot of people I care about. And you’ve done it for no apparent reason.”
She noted his surprise when “the look” failed. Watched him attempt to regroup. She walked over to the table in the high heels so that she could tower over him. “Bottom line,” Samantha said. “You’ve gone too far this time. What you’ve done may be technically legal. But it’s morally reprehensible and completely unacceptable.”
They stared at each other.
“You’re going to have to give the money back to every investor who thought they were investing in Edward.” Which she assumed would be all of them.
He continued to look at her, as if waiting for her to tell him she was only joking. Finally, he said, “Sorry, sis. No can do. I’ve already spent a good bit of it on attorneys—after all these years of Jonathan handling things I didn’t realize how expensive they are. And since I’ve been cut off I’ve needed a salary so that I can pay rent and living expenses. And of course a guy’s got to eat. And entertaining clients can be really expensive.”
“You had a salary at Private Butler,” she pointed out grimly. “And an opportunity to be part of something real.”
“That salary was an insult,” Hunter said, his voice ringing with righteous indignation. “Edward Parker had no idea what I could have done for him. Hell of the thing is Private Butler has huge upside. Even while Parker was rubbing my nose in all the crap jobs, I knew I’d finally found something I could grow and make my mark with.” His smile turned self-deprecating. “I’ll admit I’ve made some bad choices along the way. But all I’ve ever wanted was a chance to prove myself.”
He studied her closely, his green eyes pinned on her face. “But with all his talk about reputation and personal service, Parker couldn’t even see the gold mine he was sitting on. There was way too much potential to walk away from.”
Samantha studied him back. He always had an excuse. Always came up with a reason that
made whatever he did okay. Just like their father. “That didn’t give you the right to do what you did.”
He shrugged not at all repentant. “It’s done, Sam.” He watched her, but she could tell from his tone that he assumed she’d already done her worst. Had she?
She’d stopped the money flow and forced him to take a job and what had she accomplished? Put him in a position that gave him access to other people’s money, which he had for all intents and purposes stolen.
She’d made sure her father’s debts were settled, her siblings had had an expensive roof over their heads and everything that money could buy. But she’d clearly failed to teach Hunter the most important lessons. Somehow she’d allowed him to believe that he could trample all over her and Jonathan and anyone else he chose, with impunity.
“You’re going to have to give the money back. Or strike some kind of deal with Edward. I don’t really care how you manage to do it. You’re a smart guy. I’m convinced you can find a way to make this right.”
“And if I don’t?” His tone was taunting, but she heard the bravado beneath it. He got up to pour a fresh cup of coffee just to demonstrate how completely he’d dismissed her, but she waited him out.
“That’s not an option,” she said, not certain whether the only thing she had left to withdraw was something he would miss. “I expect you to take care of this, Hunter.” She swallowed. “Or I will no longer consider you a member of my family. And I will make it my business to spread the word to any potential investor in Atlanta and the entire eastern seaboard that you’re not to be trusted.”
The flare of surprise in his eyes was quickly masked. She didn’t linger but turned as sharply as the Weitzmans allowed and left him staring after her, unsure whether her butt-kicking abilities were anywhere close to Cynthia’s. Whether she’d won this final battle. Whether in the end Hunter even cared whether he belonged to them or not.
* * *
CLAIRE SAT CURLED IN HER CLUB CHAIR. THE HEAT was turned up to fight the chill December evening and the apartment was warm and toasty. Her pen moved over the lined page of her journal, the tightly packed words illuminated in a spill of lamplight. She’d found that writing by hand soothed her. The fact that no one but her would ever see what she wrote freed up her thoughts and feelings. There was no room on these cramped pages for uncertainty, no blinking cursor demanding she write faster, no delete key that would allow her to give in to her doubts. No room for her internal editor, but plenty of room for everything good, bad, and ugly—that she’d observed and that had happened to her.
It was a relief to construct sentences even if those sentences revealed that she, who had squeezed every penny within an inch of its life for so long, had lost five thousand dollars—three months of rent—in one stupid move. She’d also lost a friend in the process; and those weren’t the only losses.
Four months were gone and wouldn’t be regained. And neither would the opportunity at Scarsdale. Just yesterday her agent had left a message informing Claire that due to her lack of response they’d slotted another author into November. Scarsdale would expect Highland Fling the following September as originally planned. But her tone made it clear that Claire’s inability to meet the stepped-up deadline had hurt her. Her career was in tatters, her grand year of writing not grand at all.
Worst of all, in just a few weeks Hailey would be home for the winter break. And all of Claire’s failures would be obvious. Her pen stilled and her gaze wandered over the space that had been so alien but had somehow become home. Much as she’d come to love it, this space was far too small to hide her lack of focus and page production. Even more than the lost time and money she dreaded Hailey finding out that her mother’s dreams were not majestic mountains to be scaled but only great big piles of wishful thinking.
A knock sounded on the door and Claire set the journal aside to answer it.
“Ready?” Brooke stood on the threshold, her red hair wild around her face, an olive green sweater belted over a multihued skirt.
“Yeah,” she said trying to shrug off her ill humor. “That outfit looks great on you. Hold on a sec while I grab my key.”
In the clubroom they received a friendly yet respectful nod and dark British ales from James. Isabella gave a half curtsy and offered sausage rolls and miniature cheese and onion tarts. “A lovely evenin’ to ye both,” the young woman said, but her perkiness seemed forced.
Claire and Brooke mingled near the food and drink tables while they watched Edward work the room as always, drawing everyone into the fold. “Do you get the impression he’s lost a bit of his sparkle?”
“And a whole lot more,” Claire observed.
Brooke kept an eye on the door.
“She’s not coming, you know,” Claire finally said, neither of them needing to clarify who “she” was.
“I just can’t believe she’s written us off.”
Claire thought of how she’d dodged the calls from her agent. “We don’t know that’s what’s happened. But I am surprised she’s disappeared the way she has.”
“I don’t understand why she’s avoiding us,” Brooke said, the hurt evident in her voice. “I mean we’re not the ones whose brother took money under false pretenses. What did we do to her?”
“I don’t know.” Claire shrugged. “Maybe we’re a reminder of her brother’s bad behavior. Or maybe no one ever told her that friends don’t pull up stakes as soon as a little shit hits the fan. Sometimes it seems like rich people have a different set of rules.”
“Well, I thought Samantha was different,” Brooke said.
“Me, too,” Claire said. “But then I’ve kind of lost count of the number of things I’ve been wrong about lately.”
Edward called for their attention. He headed to the screen and DVD player. Everyone moved toward their seats. When they reached their sofa Brooke and Claire settled into the opposite ends and set their food and drink on the cocktail table. Claire saw Brooke look at the empty spot in the middle, but only because she’d been looking at it herself.
The lights went down and the theme music filled the room. More than ready for a time-out from her real life, Claire turned and fixed her attention on the screen.
* * *
SAMANTHA HESITATED IN THE HALLWAY OUTSIDE THE clubroom, not completely sure she had the nerve to enter. Her gaze skimmed over the sea of heads, none of which were moving, to the big-screen TV where Lady Cora lay sick in bed while an obviously guilt-ridden O’Brien tended her. Samantha knew exactly what that kind of guilt felt like.
Samantha’s eyes moved to the sofa and she felt a small rush of relief when she saw that her spot between Brooke and Claire remained open. Her hand closed over the doorknob.
“Samantha.” Edward Parker’s voice was low but near. Startled, her hand fell to her side. “I wondered if you’d be back.”
She turned to face the concierge. Who had every right to tell her just what he thought of her.
“Yes,” she said. “I came to tell you how sorry I am that Hunter trampled all over you and your business. I should have never talked you into taking him on. I never imagined anything of this magnitude.” Horrified by the way she was rattling on, the words she’d practiced in her head on the way down completely forgotten, she dropped her eyes, then forced herself to meet his again. “I just hope that one day you’ll be able to forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive in your actions,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here.”
She stared at him. There were new grooves etched on either side of his mouth and a furrow carved across his forehead; no doubt a result of Hunter’s recent assault. A woman would have felt compelled to hide or fill in those lines, but they only made Edward Parker more distinguished.
“I’m glad you’re speaking to me,” she said, still trying to understand why.
“Of course I’m speaking to you. I would have been speaking to you sooner if you hadn’t disappeared,” he said. His smile was both sincere and sad.
“Thank you
. But I . . . I am sorry.”
“Thank you,” he said quite formally. “But Hunter’s a grown man. And I believe we’re all responsible for our own actions. Or for our lack of them.” His lips twisted. “Sometimes what we don’t do or choose can be even more telling.”
Samantha felt a piece of the load she’d been carrying lift from her shoulders. A tiny piece perhaps, but still she felt lighter for it. She turned her attention back to the clubroom. “What do you think will happen if I go sit in my seat?” she asked, her eyes on the sofa. “Do you think they’ll throw me out?” She was surprised at how much it mattered. Most of her adult life the women she’d met, served on committees with, even Sylvie and Lucy whom she’d seen regularly for decades, had been kept at arm’s length. She was no longer sure what she’d been afraid of.
“Only one way to find out.” Edward opened the door and held it wide for her to enter.
“I guess that makes it time to pull up my big-girl panties.” Thanks to her mother-in-law’s advice those panties were La Perla. She stepped inside. “Wish me luck. I’m counting on you to retrieve my body and prepare it for burial if things don’t go the way I hope.”
She walked toward the front of the room bent double so as not to block anyone’s view. There were murmurs but she stayed focused on her final destination. Squeezing past Claire’s legs, she sidestepped to the right, then sat in the middle.
For a few long moments, which she spent staring straight ahead and trying to regulate her breathing, nothing happened. Just when she’d decided they intended to ignore her completely Brooke and then Claire turned from the screen to look at her. She met each of their eyes even as she attempted to brace for whatever might come. She was still working on this when Brooke and Claire turned their attention back to the screen without uttering a word.
Samantha had no idea what this meant, but it did nothing to slow her breathing or the too-rapid beat of her heart. They hadn’t exactly thrown their arms around her and welcomed her. But so far no one had tried to toss her out.
