Part 30 (1/2)
The words came more quickly. They poured out onto her screen in a torrent. She didn't know where they came from and for the first time in a long time she didn't care.
When the sun rose at seven fifteen she was still typing. When she stopped to use the bathroom and forage for something to eat it was late afternoon, but within thirty minutes she was seated again her fingers already curling over the keys, a smile tugging at her lips, her ”well” unexpectedly full to overflowing with an almost but not quite forgotten joy.
BROOKE STOOD IN THE CENTER OF HER CLOSET surrounded by a pile of rejected clothing-most of it beige and unexpectedly large. A smaller pile of things she thought might be altered sat folded neatly on her dresser.
She wasn't sure how many pounds she'd lost or even how, but she'd begun to use the time she used to spend catering to Zachary doing odd jobs for Edward and had learned to subdue the panic over the money she'd lost to Hunter Jackson on long, rambling walks with Darcy that they'd both grown to love.
Right now she was thinking a brief after-dinner walk. She dialed Claire's cell phone to see if she wanted to join them.
”It's me,” she said when Claire answered. ”I'm headed out with Darcy and the girls-we're going to walk down to the park and back. Want to come?”
”Can't,” Claire said quite happily. ”I'm working.” Her statement was followed by what might have been a chortle of glee.
”Okay,” Brooke said, slipping on her shoes and moving to the family room to round up the girls. ”Have you heard anything from Samantha?”
”No,” Claire said. Brooke could hear the sound of fingers clattering on a keyboard in the background. ”But I think tonight's the night.”
Brooke smiled and hung up, hoping to h.e.l.l she hadn't been mistaken about Jonathan Davis's feelings for his wife.
”Come on, girls.” She hooked Darcy's leash to her collar and waited for Ava and Natalie to put on their coats. ”When we get back we can make some hot chocolate.”
”With mush mellows?” Ava asked.
”Absolutely. And when you're done with your homework we can work on our Christmas cards.” She'd decided that given the need to economize she and the girls would make their own this year and had convinced Bruce Dalton and his daughter to do the same.
They went down in the elevator in a whirlwind of pulling on mittens and arguing over who got to push which b.u.t.ton. Brooke was calling after them not to run in the lobby when they sprinted right into Zachary and Sarah's path.
”c.r.a.p.” She shortened Darcy's leash and hurried toward the girls. Zachary greeted her arrival with a disapproving stare. Sarah was beautifully made-up and her hair looked freshly styled but her over-plumped lips turned downward and she looked a bit like a sausage trying to break out of its casing. The area under her eyes looked dark from lack of sleep.
Brooke thought back to both of her pregnancies when she'd worked full-time while Zachary did his residency. Even then he'd been more like a demanding child than a helpful partner. She looked at the pair of them and for the first time felt not even a sliver of envy.
”Good evening,” Brooke said. The girls had given and received hugs and now were eager to get outside. They skipped over to the concierge desk to say h.e.l.lo to Isabella. It seemed that since they'd begun to see their father more regularly his allure had diminished.
Darcy sniffed around Sarah's swollen ankles and sneezed before retreating to sit on the floor next to Brooke.
”I hear you invested in Hunter Jackson, thinking you'd invested in Private Butler,” Zach said aggrieved. ”I saw Brett Adams at the bank and he told me you borrowed against the apartment.”
Brooke shrugged and looked beyond him to make sure the girls were still at the concierge desk.
”How could you jeopardize the apartment like that when you don't know anything about making money?” His words and tone proclaimed her a moron. How had she ever allowed him to believe he had that right?
”What happens to the apartment isn't really your concern anymore,” she said curtly. ”And I knew enough about making money to put you through medical school and into practice.” She let the words sink in and had the satisfaction of seeing his face flush with anger. ”And I knew enough to raise two pretty great daughters.” She turned a look on Sarah. ”And not to let you turn me into a mannequin.”
It hit her then how fortunate she was to be free of him. Whatever came she'd be equal to it. ”I've never been afraid of hard work,” she said as much to herself as she did to him. ”And at least now I won't have to deal with someone belittling me the whole time.”
She didn't wait for either of them to comment. There was nothing they might say that she wanted-or needed-to hear. She nodded and tightened the leash around her hand, unable to remember why she ever felt the need to scurry from potted palm to potted palm to avoid Pouty Barbie and Nasty Ken. ”He's probably already bought a supply of earplugs so the baby won't disturb him,” she said to Sarah in parting. ”And he won't be changing any diapers, either. But I'm sure he'll do that tummy tuck and breast lift for you even before you think to ask for it.”
The front door opened as Brooke and the girls approached and was held open by Jonathan Davis. They greeted each other in pa.s.sing and she noted the bottle of wine he carried and the smell of his expensive cologne. Brooke smiled and crossed her fingers on Samantha's behalf as she ushered her happy brood down the sidewalk past the Alexander's elegant facade.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR.
FROM THE MOMENT THE IDEA OF A ”GRAND gesture” was raised, Samantha had debated whether to gird herself in designer clothing or greet Jonathan dressed in nothing but Saran wrap, but she'd known that whatever she decided to wear-or not wear-her grand gesture would include food. And that food would be prepared by her own hands.
It had taken all of her nerve to call him. She'd hung on the line practicing what she would say, each ring like a death knell afraid he wouldn't pick up; afraid that he would. When he finally answered she'd blurted out her invitation to come for dinner so that they could ”talk,” then held her breath until she was practically light-headed waiting for his answer. She'd been so afraid he'd tell her that there was nothing to talk about that she'd been weak-kneed with relief when he'd agreed.
Intellectually Samantha knew that the way to a man's heart was not through his stomach, but in her own heart she clung to the hope that the right meal, served in the right way, might somehow save her marriage. And so she'd spent two days planning her menu and another shopping for the ingredients with which to make Ina Garten's boeuf Bourguignon with French string beans and herbed new potatoes, determined to create a meal whose sheer wonderfulness would demonstrate to Jonathan exactly how she felt about him and say the things she wasn't sure she could.
For most of her marriage she'd told herself that cooking was a simple matter of purchasing the right ingredients and then accurately following directions. She had been certain that if only she had the time and inclination to focus completely, even she could produce a perfect meal. She had never put this theory to the test before for fear all hope would be lost. Now, after a full day in the kitchen with Ina's Barefoot in Paris: Easy French Food You Can Make at Home-a t.i.tle she felt was sorely misleading-Samantha knew she had been deluding herself. She did not possess the cooking gene and it was clear she never would.
Dully, Samantha looked at her kitchen's flour a and oil-splattered walls. At the high ceiling that was apparently not high enough to avoid the spray of beef stock. At the wadded-up paper towels and dishtowels and every other kind of towel she'd used to try to mop up her accidents, miscalculations, and spills. At Ina Garten's smiling face on the cover of the now-soiled and food-stained cookbook.
She tried to blow a bang out of her eyes but it was sticky with, well, she didn't actually know what it was sticky with, and didn't move. Her back, her feet, her arms, and her neck hurt from standing, chopping, dicing, stirring, and peeling. Her head throbbed from her efforts to carry out Ina's ”simple” instructions. Despite all this, her clumpy Bourguignon, half-mashed new potatoes, and limp green beans bore no resemblance to the cookbook's mouthwatering photographs.
”Oh, G.o.d.” Samantha slumped onto the bar stool fervently wis.h.i.+ng she'd ordered from Giancarlo's and gone with the Saran wrap. Her eyes strayed to the clock and then to the phone. Two calls: one to Giancarlo, the second to Edward Parker or even Claire or Brooke to arrange for pickup. That was all it would take. Samantha reached for the phone.
No.
Her hand dropped. There would be no pretending tonight. She'd feed her husband what she'd prepared for him. And pray that he didn't choke trying to get it down. Or find himself in need of a potted palm once he did.
WITH ONLY AN HOUR LEFT BEFORE JONATHAN'S arrival, Samantha showered and dressed in record time, but her hands shook so badly when she tried to blow-dry her hair that she pulled it back off her face and twisted it into a simple chignon. She kept her makeup minimal, afraid her spastic fingers might leave her looking more like a clown than the domestic G.o.ddess she'd spent three days attempting to be.
When the doorbell rang she drew a deep and, she hoped, calming breath, then walked to the foyer where she wiped sweaty palms down the sides of the black c.o.c.ktail dress she'd chosen. It's just Jonathan, she reminded herself yet again. The man she'd known since childhood and been married to for more than half her life. But she could not shrug off the importance of this meal or this evening. The word ”just” didn't belong anywhere near his name.
”Hi.” Her smile faltered when she opened the door. She'd almost forgotten how attractive her husband was, how easily he handled himself, how relentlessly he could batter defenses to get to what was hidden inside; a skill that made him an outstanding lawyer but could be difficult to live with. How had she managed to hide her true feelings from him and, until recently, from herself?
”Come in.” She didn't understand how a person's voice could break on only two one-syllable words, but hers did. She stepped back to allow him entry and felt his presence fill the empty s.p.a.ce. He handed her the bottle of wine he'd brought. As if he'd given up claim to the wine closet in the home that they'd shared.
”Thanks.” She took the wine and led him into the kitchen where the Bourguignon still simmered. The Caesar salads were already on the table along with a basket of the grilled bread she'd singed several fingers to produce.
She set the bottle he'd brought on the counter and poured each of them a gla.s.s from the bottle she'd opened earlier.
”Smells good,” he said. ”What are we having?”
”Beef Bourguignon. I've always wanted to try it.” No amount of room spray had completely eradicated the burnt meat smell-a result of accidentally allowing the liquid to boil off several times. Nor had her frantic additions of wine and water ever brought the stew back to the right consistency.
He helped himself to a cheese straw, which were a little irregular-looking and slightly black around the edges. Realizing she was watching him far too closely, Samantha held up her gla.s.s and tilted it toward his. ”Thank you for coming tonight.”
”Thank you for inviting me,” he said.
They sounded like perfect strangers. Or two unfortunates out on a first-and possibly last-blind date. She drank more of her wine than she'd intended and cautioned herself to slow down. She still had no idea what she'd said the night she'd drunk dialed him and only hoped it wasn't something he'd have reason to hold against her. She had to keep her wits about her.
”How's your mother?” she asked.
”Fine,” he said. Then, ”Meredith seemed in good spirits at Thanksgiving.”