Part 4 (2/2)
Claire vaguely remembered seeing an invitation in her mailbox, but did she really want to go watch a television show with a group of strangers when she had her very own brand-new flat-screen TV right here? ”I don't need to go to a formal screening. If I want to see the series I can get it from Netflix or download it. Or, I don't know, my fabulous daughter could give me the DVD for Christmas.”
”Mom,” Hailey said as if talking to a child. ”The point isn't that you have to see the series, although it sounds totally up your alley-I mean, you do write historical fiction. The point is it's an opportunity to meet people you might like. I'm sure it'll be mostly women. How bad could it be to spend an hour once a week with a group of women from your building?
”What was it you used to tell me practically every day of my life?” Hailey asked pointedly.
A smile tugged at Claire's lips. ”That you have to put yourself in the right place. That things don't just happen without effort,” Claire said as she had so many times during Hailey's angst-filled teenage years. They had been words to live by, but she hadn't imagined having them turned on her.
”You need new friends,” her daughter said. ”This is exactly the kind of situation where you might make some.”
”Honestly, Hailey. This is ridiculous. I don't need you managing my life.”
”Just trying to return the favor,” Hailey replied crisply. ”I say you go tonight and make an effort to meet people or . . .”
”Or what?” Claire asked.
”Or I'm going to post your profile to every dating site I can think of.”
”That's blackmail,” Claire observed.
”Kind of.”
”There's no 'kind of' about it,” Claire protested. ”When did you get so bossy?”
”Well, my mother taught me that sometimes you do have to lead the horse to water and make him drink.”
”I'm not a horse.”
”No,” Hailey conceded. ”But you are kind of acting like a horse's a.s.s about this.”
”I am not. I just . . .”
”I know.” Hailey's voice turned softer. ”I know it's not all that easy to start over. Especially at your age.”
”I'm not that old,” Claire protested.
”I get it, Mom. But that doesn't mean I'm going to let you off the hook,” Hailey said with finality.
”Hailey. I . . .”
”Gotta run, Mom. But I'll expect a report about the screening tomorrow.”
”I . . .”
”And no Cliffs Notes or Internet watching. I want to hear who was there, what the concierge had to say, and whether he served anything 'British' like the description says. Maybe you'll have tea and crumpets.”
”Hailey!”
”I'm not kidding, Mom,” the steamroller formerly known as Hailey Walker said. ”I'll call Edward Parker myself and ask if you were there if I have to.”
Claire couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. She began a last sputtered protest, but Hailey cut her off.
”It's Downton Abbey screenings on Sunday nights,” Hailey said. ”Or Internet dating. The choice is yours.”
CHAPTER EIGHT.
SAMANTHA DIDN'T EXACTLY TRY TO OUTRUN Edward Parker on her way from the parking garage to the elevators that Sunday evening. But she might have moved a little more quickly than necessary when she saw him crossing the lobby in her direction and realized where he was headed.
She'd had the most amazing weekend. With Jonathan unexpectedly delayed out on the West Coast, her mother- in-law laid up with a head cold, Meredith in New York, and Hunter up at the lake house with friends, Samantha had had the entire weekend to herself; something that had happened less than a handful of times in the last twenty-six years.
Feeling a bit like a soldier who surprises himself by going AWOL, she'd blown off all kinds of things before she'd even realized she intended to. Yesterday she'd skipped a symphony guild committee luncheon in order to have lunch at the Varsity instead. There, she'd pulled up to the curb of the seventy-five-year-old inst.i.tution near the Georgia Tech campus, let a carhop deliver her chili cheese slaw dog, frozen orange shake, and fried peach pie, and devoured every bite.
Last night she'd dodged a formal fund-raiser in order to stay in and watch a House Hunters and House Hunters International marathon on HGTV. Today instead of stopping by Bellewood to check on her mother-in-law's health, Samantha had spent a delicious afternoon at IKEA where she'd covered every inch of every floor of the ma.s.sive showroom, studying each inexpensive accessory and stick of s.p.a.ce-saving furniture with the same fascination she'd once displayed at the Museum of Modern Art, the pyramids at Giza, and the impressionist wing at the Louvre.
She'd dawdled happily for hours, confident she wouldn't run into anyone she knew, hemming and hawing over a $9.99 desk lamp and a $2.00 mouse pad shaped like a stiletto. Famished from all the delectable dithering, she stopped in the cafeteria where she bought and consumed a huge helping of Swedish meatb.a.l.l.s and mashed potatoes buried in cream sauce.
When Jonathan got home tomorrow, their ”schedule” and the parameters of their life would snap back into place. But for these last remaining hours she really, really wanted to do more-or was that less-of the same.
”Mrs. Davis?” She'd made it to the elevators and pushed the call b.u.t.ton when the concierge's voice sounded somewhere behind her.
She liked Edward Parker and was genuinely glad that he had been awarded the concierge contract. She was also wholeheartedly in favor of his ideas for enhancing the sense of community in the building. But she was having far too fabulous a weekend flouting her obligations to give in to one now. She didn't turn around.
The elevator arrived and the door opened with a ding. Samantha stepped on.
”Can you hold the elevator?” Parker's voice had drawn closer.
Samantha moved a finger toward the ”door close” b.u.t.ton. Hesitated. Aimed it toward the ”door open” b.u.t.ton. Pulled it back. She'd already begun imagining lying around the condo in her oldest, most comfortable pajamas, idly flipping through channels while consuming a final high-calorie-artery-hardening meal-maybe even a Double Coronary Bypa.s.s Burger from the Vortex down the street.
Still struggling with her conscience, Samantha pushed a b.u.t.ton but wasn't completely sure which one. The doors began to close.
A white-cuffed black-sleeved arm inserted itself between the closing elevator doors. They sprang open and Edward Parker stepped inside. ”I was a bit afraid that my arm would go up with you and the rest of me would stay here on the first floor.”
”I'm so sorry,” she began. ”I couldn't seem to get to the 'door open' b.u.t.ton in time. Are you all right?”
”Yes, I could see there was quite a struggle going on.” His words came out in an amused lilt that matched the knowing look in his eyes.
”Sorry,” she said, trying not to look guilty. ”Which floor do you want?”
”Why, eight, of course,” he replied. ”Here, allow me.” He reached forward and pressed the b.u.t.ton. ”I do hope you're planning to attend the screening.”
She feigned surprise. ”Is that tonight?” she asked with a regretful shake of her head. ”Oh.” She shook it again for good measure. ”I'm so sorry. I completely forgot.” Not quite able to meet his eye, she glanced down at her watch. It was seven forty-five. ”I don't see how I could possibly change and be there by eight.” The elevator began its ascent. ”Maybe next week.”
He flashed her a knowing smile and she sighed. For someone who professed to have forgotten a scheduled event, she was embarra.s.singly aware of the details. ”We're going to socialize a bit before we get started. You can take all the time you need to change, though I think it will be quite casual.”
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