by Wendy Wax
Brooke thought back to both of her pregnancies when she’d worked full-time while Zachary did his residency. Even then he’d been more like a demanding child than a helpful partner. She looked at the pair of them and for the first time felt not even a sliver of envy.
“Good evening,” Brooke said. The girls had given and received hugs and now were eager to get outside. They skipped over to the concierge desk to say hello to Isabella. It seemed that since they’d begun to see their father more regularly his allure had diminished.
Darcy sniffed around Sarah’s swollen ankles and sneezed before retreating to sit on the floor next to Brooke.
“I hear you invested in Hunter Jackson, thinking you’d invested in Private Butler,” Zach said aggrieved. “I saw Brett Adams at the bank and he told me you borrowed against the apartment.”
Brooke shrugged and looked beyond him to make sure the girls were still at the concierge desk.
“How could you jeopardize the apartment like that when you don’t know anything about making money?” His words and tone proclaimed her a moron. How had she ever allowed him to believe he had that right?
“What happens to the apartment isn’t really your concern anymore,” she said curtly. “And I knew enough about making money to put you through medical school and into practice.” She let the words sink in and had the satisfaction of seeing his face flush with anger. “And I knew enough to raise two pretty great daughters.” She turned a look on Sarah. “And not to let you turn me into a mannequin.”
It hit her then how fortunate she was to be free of him. Whatever came she’d be equal to it. “I’ve never been afraid of hard work,” she said as much to herself as she did to him. “And at least now I won’t have to deal with someone belittling me the whole time.”
She didn’t wait for either of them to comment. There was nothing they might say that she wanted—or needed—to hear. She nodded and tightened the leash around her hand, unable to remember why she ever felt the need to scurry from potted palm to potted palm to avoid Pouty Barbie and Nasty Ken. “He’s probably already bought a supply of earplugs so the baby won’t disturb him,” she said to Sarah in parting. “And he won’t be changing any diapers, either. But I’m sure he’ll do that tummy tuck and breast lift for you even before you think to ask for it.”
The front door opened as Brooke and the girls approached and was held open by Jonathan Davis. They greeted each other in passing and she noted the bottle of wine he carried and the smell of his expensive cologne. Brooke smiled and crossed her fingers on Samantha’s behalf as she ushered her happy brood down the sidewalk past the Alexander’s elegant façade.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
FROM THE MOMENT THE IDEA OF A “GRAND gesture” was raised, Samantha had debated whether to gird herself in designer clothing or greet Jonathan dressed in nothing but Saran wrap, but she’d known that whatever she decided to wear—or not wear—her grand gesture would include food. And that food would be prepared by her own hands.
It had taken all of her nerve to call him. She’d hung on the line practicing what she would say, each ring like a death knell afraid he wouldn’t pick up; afraid that he would. When he finally answered she’d blurted out her invitation to come for dinner so that they could “talk,” then held her breath until she was practically light-headed waiting for his answer. She’d been so afraid he’d tell her that there was nothing to talk about that she’d been weak-kneed with relief when he’d agreed.
Intellectually Samantha knew that the way to a man’s heart was not through his stomach, but in her own heart she clung to the hope that the right meal, served in the right way, might somehow save her marriage. And so she’d spent two days planning her menu and another shopping for the ingredients with which to make Ina Garten’s boeuf Bourguignon with French string beans and herbed new potatoes, determined to create a meal whose sheer wonderfulness would demonstrate to Jonathan exactly how she felt about him and say the things she wasn’t sure she could.
For most of her marriage she’d told herself that cooking was a simple matter of purchasing the right ingredients and then accurately following directions. She had been certain that if only she had the time and inclination to focus completely, even she could produce a perfect meal. She had never put this theory to the test before for fear all hope would be lost. Now, after a full day in the kitchen with Ina’s Barefoot in Paris: Easy French Food You Can Make at Home—a title she felt was sorely misleading—Samantha knew she had been deluding herself. She did not possess the cooking gene and it was clear she never would.
Dully, Samantha looked at her kitchen’s flour – and oil-splattered walls. At the high ceiling that was apparently not high enough to avoid the spray of beef stock. At the wadded-up paper towels and dishtowels and every other kind of towel she’d used to try to mop up her accidents, miscalculations, and spills. At Ina Garten’s smiling face on the cover of the now-soiled and food-stained cookbook.
She tried to blow a bang out of her eyes but it was sticky with, well, she didn’t actually know what it was sticky with, and didn’t move. Her back, her feet, her arms, and her neck hurt from standing, chopping, dicing, stirring, and peeling. Her head throbbed from her efforts to carry out Ina’s “simple” instructions. Despite all this, her clumpy Bourguignon, half-mashed new potatoes, and limp green beans bore no resemblance to the cookbook’s mouthwatering photographs.
“Oh, God.” Samantha slumped onto the bar stool fervently wishing she’d ordered from Giancarlo’s and gone with the Saran wrap. Her eyes strayed to the clock and then to the phone. Two calls: one to Giancarlo, the second to Edward Parker or even Claire or Brooke to arrange for pickup. That was all it would take. Samantha reached for the phone.
No.
Her hand dropped. There would be no pretending tonight. She’d feed her husband what she’d prepared for him. And pray that he didn’t choke trying to get it down. Or find himself in need of a potted palm once he did.
* * *
WITH ONLY AN HOUR LEFT BEFORE JONATHAN’S arrival, Samantha showered and dressed in record time, but her hands shook so badly when she tried to blow-dry her hair that she pulled it back off her face and twisted it into a simple chignon. She kept her makeup minimal, afraid her spastic fingers might leave her looking more like a clown than the domestic goddess she’d spent three days attempting to be.
When the doorbell rang she drew a deep and, she hoped, calming breath, then walked to the foyer where she wiped sweaty palms down the sides of the black cocktail dress she’d chosen. It’s just Jonathan, she reminded herself yet again. The man she’d known since childhood and been married to for more than half her life. But she could not shrug off the importance of this meal or this evening. The word “just” didn’t belong anywhere near his name.
“Hi.” Her smile faltered when she opened the door. She’d almost forgotten how attractive her husband was, how easily he handled himself, how relentlessly he could batter defenses to get to what was hidden inside; a skill that made him an outstanding lawyer but could be difficult to live with. How had she managed to hide her true feelings from him and, until recently, from herself?
“Come in.” She didn’t understand how a person’s voice could break on only two one-syllable words, but hers did. She stepped back to allow him entry and felt his presence fill the empty space. He handed her the bottle of wine he’d brought. As if he’d given up claim to the wine closet in the home that they’d shared.
“Thanks.” She took the wine and led him into the kitchen where the Bourguignon still simmered. The Caesar salads were already on the table along with a basket of the grilled bread she’d singed several fingers to produce.
She set the bottle he’d brought on the counter and poured each of them a glass from the bottle she’d opened earlier.
“Smells good,” he said. “What are we having?”
“Beef Bourguignon. I’ve always wanted to try it.” No amount of room spray had completely eradicated the burnt meat smell—a result of
accidentally allowing the liquid to boil off several times. Nor had her frantic additions of wine and water ever brought the stew back to the right consistency.
He helped himself to a cheese straw, which were a little irregular-looking and slightly black around the edges. Realizing she was watching him far too closely, Samantha held up her glass and tilted it toward his. “Thank you for coming tonight.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” he said.
They sounded like perfect strangers. Or two unfortunates out on a first—and possibly last—blind date. She drank more of her wine than she’d intended and cautioned herself to slow down. She still had no idea what she’d said the night she’d drunk dialed him and only hoped it wasn’t something he’d have reason to hold against her. She had to keep her wits about her.
“How’s your mother?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said. Then, “Meredith seemed in good spirits at Thanksgiving.”
“Yes,” she said quickly, relieved that they were talking even if it was stiffly. “I think she really likes her job. And Kyle seemed nice. If she’s found fault with him, she hasn’t mentioned it to me.” In fact she’d barely heard from her sister since the eruption at Bellewood. She had no idea if that was good or bad.
“And Hunter?” Jonathan asked, looking steadily at her.
“A major disaster of course. I . . .” She dropped her gaze to her wineglass, which had somehow become empty. “I told him if he didn’t give the money back to any investor who wanted it or work something out with Edward, that he wouldn’t be a member of our family anymore. And that we’d warn everyone we knew that he couldn’t be trusted.”
She hesitated, realizing she’d committed him to a course of action without consulting him, but all he said was, “And?”
“And I don’t know. That was almost a week ago and I haven’t heard a word from him. Edward and the others insist I’m not responsible but . . .”
“You still feel like you are,” he said. “Just like you always have.”
She tried but couldn’t gauge his tone.
“Some things that you’ve held on to for so long can be hard to let go of.” He looked her directly in the eye as he said this and her heart thudded heavily in her chest. Was this a warning? Was he saying that he’d let go of his feelings, whatever they were, for her?
“Shall we go to the table?” Her voice was Minnie Mouse on helium. Embarrassed, she busied herself scooping up the bottle of wine and carrying it to the table. As she refilled their glasses she braced herself for what lay ahead. If only she’d gone with the Saran wrap, they could have skipped dinner and all this awkwardness.
The salad was good, but then the most complex step had been separating the egg for the dressing, which she’d managed in just three tries.
Her hands shook slightly as she ladled the beef Bourguignon over a slice of the grilled bread as Ina had suggested and placed spoonfuls of misshapen new potatoes and overly limp green beans on their plates. Determined not to apologize before he tasted anything, she placed their plates on the table and slid back into her seat across from him.
He looked at his plate, then up at her surprised. “You really made this, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Ignoring her own plate, she watched Jonathan slip a forkful of stew and bread into his mouth. She didn’t speak as he chewed, even though he did this carefully and for a really long time. She barely blinked as he took a long drink of water, which he swallowed even more carefully before retrieving his fork from his plate. He gave her a small smile, then eyed the mounds of food with the kind of steely determination a mountain climber might reserve for his first sight of Kilimanjaro.
Alarmed, Samantha scooped up a large bite of stew and slid it into her mouth. The meat wasn’t bad if you chewed it long enough, but a second bite revealed that a lot of the clumps weren’t meat; they were glutinous globs of onion skin hot glued around clumps of uncooked flour.
“Don’t!” Samantha grabbed his plate to keep him from soldiering on. “I knew it was a little lumpy. It’s just that I couldn’t decide if the onion skins were supposed to be left on. Then after I singed my eyebrows trying to burn off the cognac I . . . Oh, hell, I can’t even remember what happened after that.”
Humiliated she carried their plates to the sink and deposited them with a clatter. She’d wasted almost three whole days attempting to cook one decent meal; time she could have spent thinking out the best way to say what needed to be said. She could barely bring herself to turn and face him. She walked back to the table on legs that had turned to Jell-O. “I don’t know why I thought this would work. It seemed so important to serve you a genuine home-cooked meal.” She sat and faced him across the table even as she tried to beat back the fear and panic. “I was going to call Giancarlo, but you wanted to see the real me. And I guess this is it. Lumps and all.”
He watched her even more carefully than he’d chewed, but she couldn’t read his thoughts or his mood. It had been ridiculous to think she could hide behind a meal no matter who had cooked it. But then hadn’t she been hiding behind one thing or another since her parents had died? And not only from Jonathan but from herself.
“No matter how much you dislike hearing it, I can’t pretend I’m not grateful to you,” she said. “Gratitude and the desire to please you have been my primary motivators.”
His lips tightened and his eyes cooled. Samantha resisted the urge to bolt.
“How else was I supposed to feel?” she whispered. “I was way too overwhelmed when we got married to feel much of anything but relief. I never would have managed my parents’ deaths, or their ridiculous load of debt, or my father’s criminal acts—not to mention Meredith and Hunter—if it weren’t for you.”
His mouth opened as if to speak. She shook her head, needing to finish.
“But I couldn’t think of any reason you would have for marrying me except for pity. And I guess I was afraid to look too closely.” She swallowed again, but the fear and regret refused to be dislodged. “I figured it was kind of like a business deal. You gave us a home and financial security and, well, basically I was yours to do whatever you wanted with. Your mother wasn’t the only one who knew I got the best end of the bargain.”
He continued to watch her, his eyes deep pools of unfathomable blue.
Despite his lack of response she forced herself to continue. She knew if she stopped now, she’d never say what needed to be said.
“I love you.” She said the words quickly, awkwardly, before she could chicken out. “I never meant to,” she said, her tone turning wry. “I mean it’s kind of stupid to love someone who doesn’t love you back, isn’t it? Especially someone who’s married you out of kindness and rarely utters a word of complaint.” She paused, steeling herself. “But I couldn’t help it. And then when I realized what I’d done I was afraid to admit it. I just couldn’t tell you I loved you and then have you not say it back. I’m kind of a coward that way.”
“But, Samantha, I did tell you. I told you more than once.” His tone was calm and rational, the antithesis of hers.
“Oh, Jonathan.” She looked away embarrassed. “Only when we were in bed. It only counts when you’re clothed and sober. And you’re thinking with your brain and not your . . .” Her voice trailed off, once again hostage to her embarrassment.
“Samantha,” he said more firmly. “You can’t be serious. That’s . . .”
“No.” She leaned across the table and pressed a finger to his lips to shush him. “Just let me finish.” She brought her eyes back to his. “So, I convinced myself that we were fine the way we were. Why fix it if it’s not broke, right?” She attempted a laugh that fell short and dropped her hands into her lap. “And now all the sudden you’re interested in my feelings. After I’ve spent so much time and energy trying not to have any.”
She knotted her hands and blew out a breath of air while she waited for him to speak.
But he said nothing. Good God. She couldn’t read his expression. Was that shock
? Dismay? Her worst fears rose up to taunt her. She’d finally confessed her love for him and now he sat silent, searching for the words to not hurt her feelings any further when he told her that he didn’t love her back.
“Are you completely horrified?” she finally asked. “Because if you are, I can . . .”
“What?” he asked sharply. “Do you think you can take it back?” His eyes plumbed hers, so serious that she went completely still. As if a total lack of movement would better brace her for impact. “I just wasn’t sure I was allowed to speak yet.”
His lips twitched and she allowed herself to breathe.
“I would have been more surprised if you hadn’t already told me that night on the phone.”
Her gaze narrowed. “What are you talking about? Which night was that?”
“You know, the night you called me when you were drunk and”—he cleared his throat—“and apparently naked.”
She blinked in confusion.
“You told me that you loved me more than Doris’s cheese grits. And then you told me you wished I were there so that you could . . .” He paused, then said quite matter of factly, “Well, I think you offered to ‘screw my brains out.’”
“Oh.” She slumped in her chair, barely resisting the urge to cover her face with her hands.
“If I hadn’t had an early meeting, I would have been on the next flight out of Boston. Just to see if that were anatomically possible.” He flashed her a wicked smile and she couldn’t stop the blush that heated her cheeks.
In the midst of her embarrassment-tinged relief, irritation raised its hand. “So why force me to tell you something I’d already told you?” Samantha thought of the lost weeks and the awful meal her fear had pushed her to produce.
