Part 21 (2/2)
”True,” Brooke agreed as Samantha gave another less than ladylike snort. ”But we were. And we still have two episodes to go.” She scrubbed at her own eyes and smiled. ”I don't have anywhere I have to be. Do you?”
”Well, I know where I should be. And what I should be doing there,” Claire said. Her smile dimmed. ”But someone would have to drag me out of here first. I made it through the marathon so far. I'm not dropping out now.”
Samantha inhaled sharply, then emitted a final explosive snort. Her eyes blinked open.
Brooke and Claire laughed. ”G.o.d, Jonathan really is a saint,” Claire said.
”What's so funny?” Samantha didn't move, but her eyes were blinking rapidly.
”I just uploaded video of you snoring to YouTube,” Claire deadpanned.
”You did not.” Samantha turned her head and looked at Brooke. ”Did she?”
”No, she didn't. But it's a good thing you woke up when you did. She was lobbying hard for the opportunity. I'm not sure I could have held her off much longer.” Brooke laughed, almost embarra.s.sed by how great it felt to have friends here in the home that had never felt really hers.
”I can't believe we slept here,” Samantha said, stifling another yawn. For the first time Brooke noticed dark shadows beneath her eyes. ”Did we even talk about going home?”
”No. You just sort of dropped out one at a time. I barely made it to my bedroom,” Brooke said.
”Yeah,” Claire said, hugging a pillow to her stomach. ”I think I made it right to the point where Edith was writing the letter to the Turkish amba.s.sador.”
”The last thing I remember is Maggie Smith letting Molesley's father win the flower show.” Samantha hugged her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them. ”G.o.d, I haven't been to a slumber party since eleventh grade.” She sniffed. ”Is that coffee?”
Brooke nodded. ”Can I pour you a cup?”
”G.o.d, yes,” Claire said. ”But I need sustenance. Do you want me to make a doughnut run?”
They looked at each other. All of them were rumpled. Hair stuck out every which way. No one seemed to care in the least. Brooke's headache had already begun to recede and she felt the first stirrings of hunger. After last night's feeding frenzy there seemed no point in counting breakfast calories. ”I'm ready to watch Downton Abbey,” Brooke said. ”If you all can live with toaster waffles, I think I have a box of Eggos in the freezer.”
AT THE END OF HUNTER JACKSON'S FIRST WEEK AT Private Butler, Edward felt a little like Rex Harrison's Professor Higgins in My Fair Lady. Only instead of producing a lady from a flower girl he was trying to turn an overprivileged peac.o.c.k into a self-effacing concierge.
Hunter Jackson had completed all the errands and tasks he'd been a.s.signed. Though Jackson's automatic response to Edward's authority too often resembled that of a teenager to an irritating parent, the clients Jackson had been a.s.signed to a.s.sist had seemed satisfied. As the week wore on Jackson's demeanor became quite proper bordering on formal. At times Edward suspected the young man might actually be doing a parody of Edward; that in this case imitation was not the sincerest form of flattery. But it was hard to know for certain. In the end Edward dismissed these thoughts as uncharitable and reminded himself that what Jackson thought was not his concern as long as his actions and behavior remained acceptable.
At the moment, Jackson sat across from Edward's desk, his back straight, his attention focused on Edward.
”I heard from Mr. Culp,” Edward said. ”He tells me that you've suggested a party and a private family cruise of the Greek Isles for his wife Alicia's sixtieth that will include all of their children and grandchildren.”
Hunter nodded. He smiled quite modestly.
”How did you come up with the idea?” Edward asked, curious.
”Actually it was your questionnaire,” the young man said. ”I felt kind of silly pulling it out when I met with Jim the first time. But once he started answering the questions it seemed clear that a trip was in order and since money was no object . . .” Jackson shrugged. ”Well, I thought why not go all out?”
Edward winced at Jackson's use of the client's first name and the allusion to Culp's wealth. But the younger man had made great strides. And he didn't think all of his enthusiasm was feigned. ”You've done well,” Edward said. ”But we do need to be careful not to be overly familiar with the clients. And we certainly never call them by their first names.”
Jackson stared at him as if he were daft. But the look was brief. ”All right.” Then as Edward reached inside his breast pocket for the week's a.s.signments, Jackson said, ”I have a few ideas about marketing that I thought I'd run by you. And it occurred to me that Private Butler might be a perfect candidate for franchising. I know someone down in the Keys who's a specialist in that field.” Jackson leaned forward eager to press his point.
”Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” Edward said, cutting him off and handing an a.s.signment sheet across the desk. ”Perhaps in another few weeks once you've gotten a bit more acclimated, you might share some of your thoughts on marketing with me. But Private Butler will never be franchised. That's not what this company is about. This business is personal-personal service, personal attention, personal integrity. That's not something that can be franchised.”
Jackson's jaw set and he dropped his eyes to skim the listed dates, times and a.s.signments. Clarence Fitson, who had just turned ninety, needed a ride to his tailor for a fitting. Mimi Davenport had requested a driver/escort to visit her sister in Nashville.
”What is this?” Jackson bit out. ”A remake of Driving Miss Daisy?” Jackson's calm began to evaporate. It disappeared completely when he reached the final item. ”You actually expect me to take someone's child to Mommy and Me?” he asked. His eyes reflected a toxic mixture of anger and horror.
”Well, it's not just anyone's child,” Edward replied coolly. ”It's a friend of your family. Sylvie Talmadge's granddaughter, in fact.”
Jackson's face turned a mottled red. ”You cannot be serious,” he said. ”I'll be a laughingstock.” His gaze sharpened. ”This is an attempt to get rid of me, isn't it? You want to see just how much humiliation I can take before I tell you to, what's that expression? To sod . . .”
”Sod off?” Edward completed the phrase for him.
”I'm telling you, you are completely wasting my talents on this bulls.h.i.+t,” Jackson said. ”You can't possibly expect me to do this c.r.a.p.”
Edward noted the double excremental expletive, but said nothing.
”I could be making you money,” Jackson railed, somehow managing not to raise his voice. ”Putting together investors to franchise your business. And you want me to take a child to play with other . . . children?” The last was clearly intended as an expletive. But at least there was no excrement involved.
”As I said earlier, I might be willing to discuss your ideas in due course,” Edward said reasonably. ”a.s.suming you can follow directions and represent Private Butler in the manner I've proscribed. Until then, I need you to simply take care of these clients. And I'd also like you to pinch in for Isabella. She has an audition tomorrow afternoon and needs someone to cover for her. You two seem quite friendly. It occurred to me you might be willing to help her out.”
The gritting of teeth wasn't a good look for young Jackson. But he did manage to swallow back whatever invective he'd been planning to hurl. ”Is that all?” he asked tightly.
”Yes, that will do for now,” Edward said unperturbed. He stood, forcing Jackson to do the same and leveled a look at the younger man that said, ”I am the boss. You are not.”
If Hunter Jackson couldn't come to terms with this, he would be gone.
Jackson turned and stormed off. But he did it with perfect posture and without uttering a single expletive. Surely that was progress of some kind. Something might be made of the boy after all. Perhaps the rain in Spain didn't only fall on the plain.
ON THE DALTONS' DOORSTEP BROOKE RAN A HAND over her hair, which she'd desperately tried to tame, and tugged on the angular hem of her new blouse. It was a little snugger than she was used to with no extra fabric to hide beneath. But its graduated hem hung low on her hips and made her short, stocky body appear longer and leaner. The saleslady had a.s.sured her that the drop waist was in fact slenderizing and that the deep gray color turned her hazel eyes to smoke. Brooke had bought it immediately not even caring if the woman was exaggerating; it made her feel attractive and it was a world away from her usual beige.
An image of the lovely Monica standing on this same welcome mat in her short tennis dress arose in Brooke's mind and she did her best to banish it. But Brooke was relieved that this was a family dinner and not a date; she sincerely hoped that would keep the comparisons to the ca.s.serole women out of her mind and Bruce's.
Natalie and Ava juggled magazines and poster board in their arms as Brooke rang the doorbell. Footsteps sounded and the door opened to reveal Marissa. Her father stood behind her.
The girls' greetings were hurried and effusive. Before Brooke could gather herself all three of them had raced off to Marissa's room to help Marissa begin her collage.
”It doesn't look like they need us,” Bruce observed as he closed the door.
”No,” Brooke agreed, still trying to control, or at least hide, her nervousness. ”Natalie and Ava were thrilled with the idea of showing Marissa what to do. I suspect we'll have to pry them out of her room when dinner's ready.”
”Sounds good to me,” he said. ”Will you have a gla.s.s of wine?”
”Gosh, we've been here at least two minutes,” Brooke teased. ”I thought you'd never ask.”
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