Part 19 (1/2)
”If you have any problems or questions you can call me on my cell phone.” Edward handed the younger man a business card. ”Otherwise I'll expect you back here by four p.m. to fill me in on how things went.”
”You want me to come back here to report how the errands went?” Jackson asked, apparently unable to grasp the concept.
”Yes, of course,” Edward replied.
Jackson nodded but didn't speak. The sheaf of papers in his hands trembled slightly with what Edward suspected was suppressed anger. Suppressed was good. This business was all about controlling one's personal thoughts and emotions.
”And while you are representing this company in any capacity whatsoever, you must be aware of the signals your body language may be sending.”
”Is that right?” Jackson asked.
”Yes. Slouching as you are right now is never appropriate. It demonstrates a lack of interest in what's being communicated as well as a lack of focus in general. When you meet another person's gaze, you don't want to show emotions or judgments that you are then forced to mask.”
”Is that right?” Jackson asked again. His tone of voice was far too terse, but he had already straightened in a far more acceptable manner.
”Yes,” Edward replied calmly. ”Your voice and what it gives away is also critical. Private Butler employees never challenge the client in any way. The client is always, without exception and without argument, right.”
”How unsatisfying.” Jackson's response was offered without inflection or emotion, but the green eyes were icy sharp. Yet another window into his true thoughts that the young man would need to learn to keep shut.
”Being a concierge means focusing on the customer's satisfaction above all else,” Edward said. ”To use a s.e.xual a.n.a.logy, we want the customer completely and utterly satisfied. We don't want them faking an o.r.g.a.s.m so to speak and then not calling us again. Your satisfaction is not required.”
THE CELEBRATORY DINNER THAT NIGHT FELT A BIT like a Hollywood film in which all of them had been cast and expected to perform. Although Samantha could see the anger and resentment in their eyes, Hunter and Meredith played the roles of the newly and happily employed; Jonathan acted the genial if distracted host while Cynthia played the crusty but loving matriarch, which allowed her to work in more than a few slap downs while pretending to be supportive. Samantha was the proud ”parent” who pretended the smiles were real and the future rosy.
By the time it was over and they'd dropped Cynthia off at Bellewood, Samantha's jaw hurt from the forced smiling. Every last nerve stood on end.
She watched Jonathan's face in the spill of pa.s.sing streetlights, the planes and angles falling in and out of shadow going back over how little he'd spoken at dinner. In fact, she'd barely heard his voice since the other night when he'd read Stellaluna to the Mackenzie girls with such warmth and feeling.
”Thank you for the dinner,” she said.
”My pleasure,” he replied.
More streetlights and more silence followed. They were alone and yet they were still playing their parts. Apparently no one had approved the scene and called ”cut.”
”Did everything get settled on the nanotechnology thing?” she asked, needing to break the silence and because if she didn't ask now, she suspected she'd never really know.
”Yes.” His eyes remained on the road. His tone was even but there was no missing the note of dismissal. It was a note she'd learned to heed, always afraid of overstepping her bounds. But she needed to know how much damage had been done.
”That's it?” she asked. ”One word to cover what had to be a huge ha.s.sle and expense?”
”What else do you want to know?” he asked simply.
”Was it expensive? Did it take a lot of your time?” Are you still angry with me?
”Yes.”
He didn't look at her. But she could feel the stiffness of his body, the tension in the large, capable hands that held the wheel.
There were so many questions she'd never asked. She'd tread so carefully, always afraid that if she went too far, asked for too much, he'd realize she wasn't worth it. This approach had seen them through twenty-five years as husband and wife. But it had not made them equals. As they had in tonight's ”movie” they'd played out the roles they'd created in their own long-running production. She had always been the supplicant to his munificent provider.
”We may not always show it,” she said. ”But we all appreciate what you've done for us.”
He continued to stare out the winds.h.i.+eld and she thought that was going to be the end of it.
His voice, when he finally spoke, startled her. ”It's funny, isn't it, that after all this time the three of you are still 'us' and I'm . . . I don't know, Samantha, what exactly am I to you?”
”What . . . what do you mean?” Her voice sounded timid and afraid even in her own ears.
He turned and looked at her. She forced herself to meet his eyes, tried to see what they held. But they were lost in the shadows. ”I'm so tired of your grat.i.tude,” he said. ”The way you think you have to please me all the time.”
Samantha sat, frozen, unsure what to say. She searched his face, trying to figure out what he wanted to hear.
He shook his head and gave a rueful snort. ”I rest my case. You're too busy trying to figure out what I want you to say to even consider saying what you actually think and feel.”
They were at the Alexander before she realized it. He pulled the car into the parking garage.
”But I can't help being grateful,” she said. ”My G.o.d, Jonathan, you saved us from complete ruin. You became a parent to a nine a and eleven-year-old at the age of twenty-seven. No matter how difficult they've been, you've treated Hunter and Meredith like your own flesh and blood. You've bailed them out over and over again.”
He parked and turned off the car. They sat in the dimly lit concrete structure.
”I can barely let myself think about how much they've cost you. How much we've all cost you. All the things you've given up. How can I not be grateful?” she asked.
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. She could see them more clearly now, but they remained dark and unreadable. ”I don't know, Samantha,” he said. ”I only know that I'm no longer sure whether grat.i.tude is really enough to hold a marriage together.”
He got out of the car. Despite the things he'd said to her he walked around and opened her door. But Jonathan Davis's manners had been hardwired into him at birth. She knew better than to read anything into them.
They entered the building and crossed to the elevators in silence. He held the door open as she entered. He didn't say another word as they rode up to the twelfth floor and disembarked.
Her thoughts skittered about, jumbled and unclear. Maybe if she found the right words she could turn this around. But her fear of saying the wrong thing; the possibility of spewing her deepest feelings out into the silent abyss that now surrounded them and having them found lacking or, worse, unreciprocated, made her swallow them back.
”Jonathan, please . . .”
He looked down at her, watching her carefully, waiting for she didn't know what.
”Just tell me what you want. I don't know what it is you want from me,” she said.
”I know.” His tone was as sad as his eyes. Both were filled with regret. ”That's the problem, isn't it?”
She watched him, mute, as he pulled things from the closet and dropped them into his carry-on bag. ”I've got meetings scheduled out in LA on Tuesday and Wednesday. I think I'll head out in the morning and get in a few days of golf-unwind a little bit-before then.” It wasn't a question.
Tears clogged her throat and dampened her eyes. She had the oddest flash of Rhett Butler packing and leaving Scarlett O'Hara in the final scene of Gone with the Wind. She had an embarra.s.sing urge to cry, ”Oh, my darling, if you go, what shall I do?” just as Scarlett had asked Rhett. Except that she was horribly afraid that if she did, Jonathan would quote the modern equivalent of Rhett's famous words back to her.
The last thing Samantha could bear to hear from Jonathan at the moment was, ”My dear, I don't give a d.a.m.n.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.