Free While We Were Watching Downton Abbey by Wendy Wax Page B

pajamas, idly flipping through channels while consuming a final high-calorie-artery-hardening meal—maybe even a Double Coronary Bypass Burger from the Vortex down the street.
    Still struggling with her conscience, Samantha pushed a button but wasn’t completely sure which one. The doors began to close.
    A white-cuffed black-sleeved arm inserted itself between the closing elevator doors. They sprang open and Edward Parker stepped inside. “I was a bit afraid that my arm would go up with you and the rest of me would stay here on the first floor.”
    “I’m so sorry,” she began. “I couldn’t seem to get to the ‘door open’ button in time. Are you all right?”
    “Yes, I could see there was quite a struggle going on.” His words came out in an amused lilt that matched the knowing look in his eyes.
    “Sorry,” she said, trying not to look guilty. “Which floor do you want?”
    “Why, eight, of course,” he replied. “Here, allow me.” He reached forward and pressed the button. “I do hope you’re planning to attend the screening.”
    She feigned surprise. “Is that tonight?” she asked with a regretful shake of her head. “Oh.” She shook it again for good measure. “I’m so sorry. I completely forgot.” Not quite able to meet his eye, she glanced down at her watch. It was seven forty-five. “I don’t see how I could possibly change and be there by eight.” The elevator began its ascent. “Maybe next week.”
    He flashed her a knowing smile and she sighed. For someone who professed to have forgotten a scheduled event, she was embarrassingly aware of the details. “We’re going to socialize a bit before we get started. You can take all the time you need to change, though I think it will be quite casual.”
    “Oh, I don’t know . . .”
    “And since I’m the emcee and the projectionist I can make sure we don’t begin until you come down.” He smiled at her, un-fooled and unfazed by her excuses. His brown eyes remained warm and slightly amused. A dimple creased his cheek.
    They reached the eighth floor and the doors slid open. He pushed the twelfth-floor button for her since she’d completely forgotten to, then kept his finger on the “door open” button; a move that was, of course, far less complicated than she’d tried to make it appear.
    “Really,” he said. “I don’t want to be a nuisance about this, but I think your presence would give the activity an important stamp of approval.”
    There were voices in the hall. A good-sized gathering of women milled around the clubroom door.
    “It looks like you’ve already got a good turnout,” she said, relieved. Surely it wouldn’t matter whether she was there or not as long as there was a crowd.
    “Yes,” the concierge said, pleased. “But I’m looking for a cross section of residents and as I said I think it’s a good idea to have a board member participate.” He smiled the warmly elegant smile, then shot her a wink. “I’ll save you a seat and have wine and popcorn waiting.”
    The man was smooth. And persistent. But at least he was gentleman enough to keep the triumph out of his eyes.
    “I’ll see you in twenty minutes.” She conceded as gracefully as she could. “I prefer red wine. And I’ll be expecting extra butter on my popcorn when I get there.”
    “As you wish, madam,” he said with a small bow and a large smile. The elevator doors slid smoothly shut.
    * * *
    PLEASED WITH THE TURNOUT, EDWARD contemplated the dozen-plus women who’d come for the screening and took a moment to match up faces with names. He greeted Sadie Hopewell, a sixtyish widow who’d moved to Atlanta to be near her children, and her neighbor Myra Mackelbaum, whose husband had invented some sort of elastic band, and introduced them to the white-haired, and apparently light-fingered, Mimi Davenport.
    There was Anna Bacall, a no-nonsense RN who worked the overnight shift at Emory Hospital talking to Melinda Greene and her longtime