Part 13 (1/2)

Bruce Dalton's face went blank. ”I don't know.”

”Do you want something small with only Marissa's close friends? Or something larger that includes her whole cla.s.s?”

His brown eyes behind the gla.s.ses reflected his confusion. ”I have no idea. Marissa doesn't really have any close friends. She's played at the little girl's across the street once or twice. And the babysitter we use took her to someone else's birthday party once when I had to be at a meeting.” He looked down at his hands. ”I never really expected to be doing this alone. I'm still trying to get used to the idea. And there are so many things that Chloe-that's Marissa's mother-just always handled. I'm afraid I've really been mucking things up.”

Any thought of not planning and giving the sixth birthday of Marissa Dalton evaporated. ”Do you have a cla.s.s 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 Sat.u.r.day afternoon in September, the Ole MissaMississippi State football game, which was playing on the big-screen TV, was currently in halftime.

Samantha sat on the Talmadge's back patio, sipping c.o.c.ktails 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' friends.h.i.+p. 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 s.h.i.+rts 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 gla.s.s. ”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 s.h.i.+tload 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 decollete 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 gla.s.s 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 c.o.c.ktail and set the empty gla.s.s 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. ”Os...o...b..cco?”

”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 appet.i.te 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 gla.s.s 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.”