Part 26 (2/2)
They stared at each other. Samantha refused to be the first to look away. ”Then we have the same goal.”
Cynthia's lips thinned, but for once Samantha didn't care. She'd come here determined to straighten things out with Jonathan; she could not allow Cynthia to deter or distract her.
”So maybe we should try playing on the same team for a change,” Samantha said, apparently unable to let go of the football metaphor. ”Because frankly I think that if you stopped rooting for our marriage to fall apart, all of us-including your son-would be a lot better off.”
One of Cynthia's eyebrows shot upward. ”You have no idea how painful it is for a mother to see her child's unhappiness and be powerless to stop it.” The comment was more observation than put-down.
”No.” Samantha had no idea whether the fierce protectiveness she'd always felt for Meredith and Hunter differed from what she might have felt for a child of her own. She would never know. She'd been without her own mother for so long that she'd become little more than a comforting memory. ”Jonathan's lucky to have a mother who cares so much about him. But whatever's wrong between Jonathan and me is up to us to work out. If we can.”
The doorbell rang. Samantha's heart hammered in her chest until she reminded herself that no matter how long Jonathan had been gone he would not be ringing the doorbell of the home he'd grown up in. Samantha spotted Edward, Brooke, and Claire through the sidelights and stepped out of the way so that Cynthia could open the door.
”Welcome.” Despite the conversation that had been interrupted, Cynthia did a fair impression of a hostess glad to see her guests. Samantha hugged all three of them, even the proper concierge, and introduced them to her mother-in-law.
”Thank you so much for the invitation,” Edward said with a slight bow that only he could pull off. He handed Cynthia a gift bag from the three of them, which she placed on the foyer table. ”It's lovely to be included and I so look forward to experiencing a traditional southern Thanksgiving.” He gave her a dazzling smile. ”I can't tell you how much I've appreciated your referrals to Private Butler.”
Cynthia smiled and laced her hands through the concierge's bent elbow and escorted him into the living room her head tilted at a coquettish angle.
”Did you see that?” Samantha asked.
”The man has some serious skills,” Claire said.
”I'll say,” Brooke agreed.
The two of them stared at her. ”What?” she asked. She knew she didn't have anything between her teeth because she'd been unable to even swallow toast that morning.
”Are you all right?” Claire asked.
”Of course,” Samantha said brightly.
Claire and Brooke looked at her.
”Or I will be as soon as I have a chance to talk to Jonathan. You don't have any tranquilizers with you do you?”
They laughed, though Samantha wasn't sure she'd been joking. If ever a person could use rapid tranquilization, it was she.
That laughter died as footsteps sounded on the marble floor.
”Ladies.” Jonathan's voice directly behind her made her stiffen. Her breathing grew shallow and rapid. Though she'd been waiting impatiently for this moment, now that it was here she didn't feel remotely ready. ”Samantha.”
”We'll just go join the others,” Claire said. She and Brooke greeted Jonathan and disappeared.
”Jonathan.” Her voice wasn't the only thing that shook as she turned and searched his face for some sign of how to proceed. She clasped her hands together to keep them from fluttering about, but wasn't as successful controlling her inner southern belle, which surfaced without warning. ”I swear, you've been gone so long I almost forgot what you looked like,” she said with a ridiculously saucy lilt. She barely managed to close her mouth before a ”fiddle-dee-dee” escaped.
Jonathan continued to study her and once again she found herself worrying about what she might have said to him during their drunken phone call. A vee of concern formed between his eyebrows. ”Mother a.s.sured me that you were fine. But you've lost weight. And you don't look good. Have you been sick?” He sounded surprised.
Had he really imagined a month without him would have no impact? The fear and panic twisted inside her and began to grow into something strong and unfamiliar. He'd made it clear he didn't want her grat.i.tude. At the moment that was fine with her. Because she was beginning to realize just how ungrateful she was that he'd left her without any real explanation and then refused to speak to her for an entire month.
”I've been on a diet. And Michael stepped up my workout program,” she lied. He of course looked practically bursting with good health. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal lightly tanned forearms. His blond hair was sun streaked and a fresh smattering of freckles spanned the bridge of his nose. Whatever he'd been doing for the last month it didn't include pining away over her. ”What have you been up to?” She held his blue eyes with her own trying to read his thoughts, still looking for a clue, but he gave nothing away.
”Oh, just business. And the occasional golf game.” He shrugged. ”I spent time in Chicago going over expansion plans with Andrew Martin. And then I took care of some things for him in Boston. He and his wife both asked about you.”
He was so calm, so casual. Clearly he hadn't spent this morning with sweating palms and a racing heart. Had she really considered throwing herself into his arms and begging him to just give her another chance? Had she actually imagined it could be that simple?
She pulled herself up and raised her chin. The emotions bubbling inside her separated like an unbound braid and she recognized the steeliest of them as anger. She'd spent four weeks agonizing over how she might fix whatever was wrong between them. But had he really left to let her figure it out? Or had he left to punish her?
”Oh? And what did you tell the Martins?” she asked. ”That you'd decided to take a break from your marriage? That you'd told me you weren't happy and left me sitting alone trying to figure out what I'd done wrong like some child given a time-out by her parents?”
The dinner bell rang. Voices in the living room signaled a move toward the dining room.
”Did you tell them that instead of returning any of my messages you hid behind texts and relied on your mother who barely tolerates me for information about my well-being?” She saw his eyes widen in surprise at her tone and how close she'd come to shouting.
Her chest rose and fell as she tried to regain control. She'd never lost her temper or even raised her voice to him, not once in twenty-five years. But then he'd never abandoned her before. Or refused to communicate. Short circuits of emotion spiked through her.
There were tentative footsteps and the clearing of a throat. ”Miz Davis asked me to let you know that supper is being served.”
”Thank you, Zora,” Jonathan said. He crooked his elbow. ”If you're finished, I expect we should go in?” he said to Samantha in the same polite tone he might have used to inquire if she'd like an iced tea or suggested the pecan rather than the praline pie. She might have turned and left if it weren't for her guests.
They entered the dining room together, but she'd never felt so alone.
EDWARD AND THE OTHERS HAD JUST TAKEN THEIR seats when Jonathan Davis escorted his wife into the dining room, seated her between Edward and Kyle Bromley, then took his place at the head of the table. His mother, who sat at the opposite end, offered a carefully worded prayer of thanks, welcomed them all, and urged everyone to begin. ”Zora will serve the turkey and ham,” Cynthia said. ”But please help yourself to the dishes you see on the table. We're treating this as a family dinner. I hope you won't mind the informality.”
Davis maintained a pleasant smile as a tall black woman in a white starched uniform carried in a gigantic oval platter. Dishes and serving platters covered the diamond-cut tablecloth. Baskets of warm corn bread and dinner rolls as well as an a.s.sortment of gravy boats anch.o.r.ed each corner while pats of b.u.t.ter imprinted with the letter ”D” sat on each bread plate.
”You'll want to try both the corn bread and the oyster stuffings,” Samantha told him. ”And the sweet potato souffle as well as the green bean ca.s.serole. And I guess I should warn you that the ham has a Coca-Cola glaze. This is Atlanta after all. And we do love our c.o.ke products.” She smiled but her eyes were guarded. ”In fact Asa Candler was a close personal friend of Jonathan's grandfather.”
”Interesting,” Edward said as a basket of still-warm corn bread and biscuits reached him. He felt Hunter's eyes on him and wondered if the boy was uncomfortable having his employer there.
Samantha nodded to the basket. ”Doris's corn bread and biscuits are completely worth the calories. And you'll want to leave at least a little room for the desserts.” Samantha kept up a running commentary on the food and its origins, turning occasionally to make sure Meredith's young man was included, but Edward noticed she put little on her plate and ate even less. Her cheeks remained flushed and though she interacted with Claire and Brooke, who sat on either side of her husband, she never actually addressed or looked directly at him. Davis looked at his wife often but only when her attention seemed placed elsewhere.
Meredith laughed and Samantha smiled. ”It's nice to see Meredith happy.”
Edward nodded and looked more closely at the middle Jackson sibling, whom he'd always considered of average looks. Without her usual expression of pursed-lip disappointment the resemblance to her sister and brother was more apparent.
”Kyle's the first person beside Jonathan who's ever thought to call her Merry.” Samantha's eyes flickered to her husband then skittered back to her plate.
”My grandfather used to say that 'every pot has its lid,'” Edward replied.
”I like that,” she said wistfully. ”It's so hopeful. She reached for her gla.s.s of wine, her look pensive. ”But what happens when the fit isn't as tight as it's supposed to be?”
”That I don't know,” Edward said. ”I thought I'd found the right lid once. But it turned out that I was mistaken.”
<script>