Part 28 (1/2)
Out in the hallway he found Claire Walker and Brooke Mackenzie talking near the elevator. It seemed almost strange to see them without Samantha Davis, whom he'd seen no sign of since Thanksgiving.
”Ladies.” He nodded and smiled, though he suspected his was no more convincing than theirs. He bit back yet another apology.
”We were wondering, Edward, whether there was any way that our money could end up invested in Private Butler like we wanted it to be,” Claire Walker said.
He met both women's eyes and then wished that he hadn't. It was bad enough that wealthy people like Jim Culp and Mr. Fitson had been conned; even Mrs. Davenport would not be bankrupted by the loss. But these two women and Isabella and James . . . He couldn't believe Hunter Jackson had gone after such tiny fish.
”I really don't see how,” he said. He no longer knew whether Jackson would have ever turned investor money over to fund Private Butler's growth under Edward's direction. Or if it had been a scam from the beginning. ”I have consulted with Jonathan Davis, but it doesn't look encouraging.”
”But what if . . .” Claire began.
”I'm truly sorry,” he said, meaning it. ”As far as I know Jackson intends to use that money to build a competing concierge business.” He still couldn't believe the man thought he could compete after six weeks in the business. But then there was a lot about Hunter Jackson he didn't understand. ”Maybe his sister has some idea of his plans,” he said. ”Perhaps you should speak to Samantha about it.”
Claire snorted.
”We would,” Brooke said. ”If she'd return any of our calls.”
”Yeah,” Claire added. ”I guess the whole friends.h.i.+p thing was a joint figment of our imaginations.”
Edward reached out to push the elevator call b.u.t.ton. ”I never had that sense,” he said. ”I've always liked Samantha; I think there's quite a lot of warmth beneath the polish.” The elevator arrived and he prepared to step on. ”But then I've good reason to question my powers of perception. My ability to size up people and their intentions has certainly fallen far short of the mark.”
Claire resettled her purse strap on her shoulder. ”It seems pretty clear that our investments aren't going to double and triple like Hunter promised. I just hope the money won't be completely lost.”
The reminder of Jackson's potshot promises was one more fist to the gut. The whole thing was a b.l.o.o.d.y nightmare. He stepped onto the elevator and held down the ”door open” b.u.t.ton. ”I'll do whatever I can to work you both into the schedule,” he said. ”But I'm not at all sure how many hours I'll have to offer.” He didn't yet know how many clients he'd ultimately lose over the whole investment scam. Or how badly Jackson's company, if in fact he actually formed one, would impact Private Butler's bottom line.
Late that night or more accurately, early the next morning, when he was still unable to sleep, Edward dialed England and caught his great-uncle Mason over morning tea.
”Aren't you the early bird?” his great-uncle asked.
Edward caught a glimpse of himself in a nearby mirror, unshaved face, bleary eyes and all. ”I look a bit more like the boogeyman at the moment. Or Frankenstein's monster come to life.”
”Still broodin' on the whole financial fiasco, are you?” Mason asked.
”I think brooding might be an understatement. I'm so angry I can hardly see straight. And I keep thinking there must be something I can do.”
Edward heard the sound of a spoon against china and the creak of a chair. He could picture his great-uncle in the cozy cottage kitchen that opened onto his tiny garden. Julia Bardmoor surfaced briefly in this vision and he allowed himself to wonder why he'd turned being a concierge into the G.o.dd.a.m.ned Holy Grail. Just like Downton Abbey's Carson and even Mrs. Hughes, he'd given everything up in the service of others. How could he let all those sacrifices be for naught?
”You know, lad,” Mason said breaking into Edward's thoughts. ”I've been thinking. The boy's methods are reprehensible. Completely beyond the pale. But perhaps it's time to open your mind as I've been urging. Allowing others to invest in Private Butler-especially satisfied clients-might not be so far off the mark.”
Edward pondered this as he stared out his bedroom window into an inky patch of night sky. He wasn't sure why he'd been so adamant about refusing money to grow his business, but it was becoming clear that if he stuck to the course he'd charted, he could end up with far less than he'd hoped for and on a path only wide enough for one.
But no matter what he'd once thought, he couldn't simply stand by and allow his clients to be hurt because he couldn't set aside his pride.
IN THE END IT WAS CYNTHIA DAVIS WHO FORCED Samantha out of the apartment. She did so with an unexpected and well-placed kick to the b.u.t.t.
Samantha was standing in the kitchen eating cold spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s out of a plastic foam container for breakfast and replaying Claire and Brooke's final agonizing messages for what might have been the fifth time, when she heard a key turn in the lock.
She froze. Stopped chewing. Looked down. She was wearing her oldest, most stretched-out pajamas and a mismatched pair of Jonathan's wool hunting socks. Her hair had been pulled up into a scrunchie two or three days ago. Which was the last time she'd washed-or even looked at-her face. She considered and rejected several escape plans. It was Thursday, the day Jonathan had said he'd be back from Boston. But it was only ten a.m. Her heart skidded in her chest. What if he'd come back early to have things out? Or to tell her he was leaving for good? She wasn't anywhere close to ready for that conversation. But if it were going to happen, she couldn't let it happen while she looked like this.
Turning, she hunched forward and began to tiptoe through the kitchen toward the family room. From there she might be able to make it to one of the back bedrooms or bathrooms without being seen.
”There you are.” The voice caught her mid-tiptoe. It wasn't the voice she'd been expecting. ”Trying to scurry back into your little mouse hole I see.”
Samantha straightened and turned. She held the container of spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s in one hand, and a sauce-smeared fork in the other as she faced her mother-in-law.
Cynthia held the key that Jonathan had given her years ago in case of emergency. ”I've never used it,” she said, dangling the key from its gold fob. ”But I think this”-she looked Samantha up and down-”qualifies as an emergency, don't you?”
When Samantha didn't answer Cynthia dropped the key and her purse on the counter. She stepped right up to Samantha and removed the fork and the container from Samantha's hands, then laid them in the sink. ”You look like h.e.l.l.” It was a simple statement of fact. ”Sit down.” She pointed to the kitchen table, then added, ”There are a few things I want to say to you.”
The pajamas somehow made resistance seem futile. Unsure what else to do, Samantha sat.
”As you know, I've never really understood why Jonathan insisted on marrying you,” Cynthia said. ”But then I was very angry with your parents at the time.”
Samantha stilled. Her mother-in-law had not mentioned either of Samantha's parents except as an oath or as a warning from the day Jonathan had proposed to her.
”Your mother was . . . I considered her a close friend. We'd been in and out of each other's houses for years.” A carefully penciled eyebrow went up. ”But she never could control your father any more than you've been able to control your brother.
”When your father embezzled the firm's funds and almost destroyed it, and your mother stayed with him, our friends.h.i.+p ended. They . . . she . . . died in that accident before anyone could even attempt to make amends.”
Samantha could not have moved if either of their lives depended on it.
”I could not understand why Jonathan chose to marry you. Why he would take on the burden of your family's debts, parenting Hunter and Meredith. I hated that he took on all of that baggage when he didn't have to.”
She looked at her mother-in-law. Wondered if she knew that she was preaching to the choir.
”The thing is,” Cynthia continued. ”You don't always understand your children. You may love them more than anything, but understanding is not an automatic part of that love.”
Samantha drew a deep breath and let it out. An irreverent ”Amen, sister” flitted through her mind. She settled for a small nod, wondering where Cynthia was going with all this.
”You did your best with Hunter and Meredith. You were far too young-both of you were-but you put everything else on hold to try to give them a stable environment. Sometimes, even without all the trauma and loss that was a part of your parents' legacy, even the most vigilant parenting produces mixed results. Sometimes children turn out poorly despite your sincere best efforts.” Cynthia smiled wryly. ”Sometimes-as in Jonathan's case-they exceed your expectations and turn out far better than you deserve.” Cynthia paused before continuing. ”Whatever his reasons, my son chose you and I should have honored that choice. For his sake.”
This time Cynthia's smile was fleeting. Her tone turned brusque. ”As much as I always thought he could do better, I dislike what I see happening now,” she said. ”I've watched him these last ten days and I no longer think ending this marriage would make Jonathan happy. Nor do I enjoy seeing you laid so low.”
Speechless, Samantha continued to listen.
”You have a lot of your mother's best qualities. You have her warmth and her wit. And her loyalty. And frankly, though we have rarely seen eye to eye, I never took you for a coward.”
”But now you do.” Samantha looked down, knowing that that was exactly what she looked like. In fact, it was what she was.
”I think you need to get a life; something more than just trying to make everyone else happy. You already have a lot worth fighting for,” Cynthia said, more earnestly than Samantha had ever heard her speak. ”But I think that in order to mount an effective campaign you're going to have to shower. And while you're at it I'd burn those pajamas. I've seen your wardrobe. I suggest you put a few of those designers on your side.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.
THE SKY WAS CLEAR AND THE AIR CRISP EARLY the next morning when Samantha left the Alexander armored in Donna Karan and Stuart Weitzman. She walked the three short blocks to Hunter's building in the midst of early commuters and office workers, intent on catching her brother before he'd had a chance to don armor of his own.