A Wedding At Two Love Lane

by Kieran Kramer

  “Are you in love?”

  Greer blinked. She felt a little faint, actually. She’d forgotten to eat that day, highly unusual for her. She’d had no appetite because she’d had butterflies in her stomach. She’d been sure it was about the contest. Her heart had raced. All day she’d felt weird feelings of exhilaration followed by some anxiety, and then exhilaration again. And then anxiety.

  She wanted to win Royal Bliss so badly!

  But maybe all that craziness had been about Ford, the way he’d smiled at her when the two little kids came over to the shed. And the way he’d petted Oscar. And kissed her in the kitchen. And walked away from her to give that old lady a party favor bag of doughnuts just now. What would it be like if he flew back to England and she never saw him again?

  “I think I need a doughnut,” is all she said to Macy, and then fainted right on top of her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It was the morning after the bake-off. The night before Greer’s friends Macy and Deacon had insisted on taking her home after she’d fainted. Ford had volunteered and was quite disappointed when he’d been told to stand down—in a friendly manner by Deacon.

  “I get that her long-term friends want to claim the privilege of attending to her,” Ford had said, “but I want to take her home.”

  “Nope,” Deacon said. “But thanks for the offer.”

  “I like her,” Ford said.

  “And she may like you,” Deacon replied easily. “But you’re in limbo, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Limbo?”

  “A bachelor with no personal commitments beyond family, and even there you probably shy away from getting too involved. Limbo looks a lot like freedom, right? But it sucks. I remember being there myself.” And he took off to get his truck and pull it around the front of Hibernian Hall to pick up Greer and Macy.

  Ford had gone home and had one scotch too many trying to forget what Deacon had said about limbo. He’d been right—limbo did suck. Gus and Drake had come home from the pubs on Upper King Street three sheets to the wind themselves and had urged him to go find Deacon and beat him up. But Ford dubbed them “young fools” and “daft buggers,” and they called him an “ancient relic” and “stupid Brit.” All three of them accepted their insults, no problem, because Ford discovered some expensive cigars he thought he’d already smoked but hadn’t. They were in the top drawer in the kitchen, where he’d gone to look for a corkscrew. The cigars had rolled behind the silverware.

  So they adjourned to the porch to smoke their bounty then went to their rooms to sleep the evening off.

  Now it was one P.M. the next day, and Ford slunk into Roastbusters to order a coffee before he dropped by Two Love Lane to pick up Greer. They were heading to his studio, and he wanted to take the very last edge off his hangover. He couldn’t help remembering that the last time he’d brought her to the studio, he’d found his sweet spot—flow, some artists called it—where the painting had come easily. And he wanted to get there again.

  Don’t try so hard, he reminded himself.

  That had been Greer’s advice, and he intended to take it.

  A happy guy at Roastbusters handed him his cup of coffee. “So you’re the guy who proposed to Charleston’s favorite partnerless bride?”

  “One and the same,” said Ford. “Thanks for not writing anything on my cup, by the way.”

  “Roastbusters doesn’t do that. I call people over. I say, ‘The sweetie with the mocha frap.’ Or ‘the future judge who got the black coffee.’ And they always know who got what, and we never mess up.”

  “From now on, feel free to address me as the artist who has to go home too soon,” Ford said.

  “And I’m Pete,” the guy said. They shook hands. “Those lovely young ladies at Two Love Lane are like my daughters. Except Miss Thing. She’s a hot tamale, isn’t she?”

  “She certainly is,” Ford said, intrigued that Miss Thing had inspired such a compliment from the barista. Did he have a crush on her? Did Miss Thing know it?

  He’d mention it to Greer later. Maybe her matchmaking algorithms could sort it all out.

  Pete’s forehead scrunched up. “You know what? Greer’s smart. One of the smartest people I know. She wouldn’t get into something over her head. So I’m gonna trust her on this one.”

  “I think you should,” said Ford.

  Pete shrugged. “It’s you who might be in over your head. You seem like a nice guy. I’ve seen you in here a few times. You say your pleases and your thank yous. You don’t try to pick up the college girls.”

  “Uh, thanks. I guess. For watching out for your college-aged customers. But what do you mean I—”

  “I mean if you have anything but the best intentions with Greer, she’s going to smack you upside the head with them.” Pete chuckled. “I don’t know exactly what she’s up to with this so-called engagement, but she must have her reasons. So stay on the straight and narrow.”

  “Good advice.” Ford eyed the barista with some amusement. “I’m glad to have met you. She’s mentioned your name several times … I was a little jealous. Now that we’ve chatted, I still am.”

  Pete grinned and winked. “I haven’t run out of steam yet.”

  Greer had a lot of friends. That was the takeaway lesson along with Ford’s coffee-to-go.

  Two minutes and a narrow cobblestone alley later, he was at the wrought iron front gate at Two Love Lane. It squeaked when he opened it, which sent a wave of nostalgia through him. His grandmother’s garden gate had done the same thing. The fountain with the cherub spouting water reminded him of every English garden he’d ever stolen naps in—quite a few. It was his favorite hobby from boyhood to the present day. The sound of the trickling water falling into a stone receptacle always sent him into a peaceful doze, but he ignored the lure of the tree and bench he passed—both excellent resting spots—and ascended the broad steps and knocked on the massive door. It opened so fast, someone must have been looking out a window and seen him coming. Or maybe there were hidden security cameras.

  At any rate, Ford got the feeling that people in Charleston were worried about who he was and whether he could somehow hurt Greer.

  “Well, well,” said Miss Thing, her hand on her hip. She smiled, her red lipstick reminiscent of Hollywood glamour from the fifties. Her shiny gray dress was kind of boxy and almost to her knee—very chic in a matronly way, if that was possible. She’d put a round pearl brooch on the collar, which stood up and encircled her neck like a fortress wall. Her shoes were low-heeled leather with square toes.

  Hot tamale? If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was dressed like his mother, the quintessential British matron. Or the Queen.

  “Have you gotten the tour?” Miss Thing asked, and let him in.

  He crossed the threshold and felt an indescribable sense of well-being. Maybe it was the smell of baking. Or the beautiful old staircase. He also enjoyed a view through two open French doors of an office with an antique desk and a chair covered in strawberry-colored silk.

  “Not really,” he said.

  “I’m making cookies,” Miss Thing said. “Do you like chocolate chip?”

  “I love them,” he said.

  “Well, come see the kitchen. We’ll have tea, too. The hot kind.” She giggled. “Around here, when you say we’ll have tea, everyone assumes you mean iced.”

  “I’ve never had iced tea, and I don’t mind if I never do. But I’d love a good, hot cup of tea. Thank you. I’m here to pick up Greer. Did she tell you?”

  “She sure did.” Miss Thing walked him through the foyer and down a well-lit hall with a large rectangular glass window at the other end. Behind the huge oak outside, Ford saw a bit of blue sky. “But she got ambushed by a client a few minutes ago. Sometimes they get very emotional about their dating situation and come running in here for advice without making an appointment. I’m sure she’ll be finished soon.”

  They walked into a kitchen that was very cheery. The cookies were o
n a cooling rack on the counter. “I’ll just put on the kettle.” She filled one from the tap and put it on the stove.

  “You even have an Aga,” he said. “I feel like I’m back home.”

  She laughed. “I’m an Anglophile myself. I love Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth.”

  He thought it was cute how formally she said that. “Have you ever been to the U.K.?”

  “No,” she said. “But that’s next on my bucket list. After I see Buckingham Palace, I’d like to wear Wellies and stay in a cottage in the Cotswolds more than anything.”

  “I hope you do.” He didn’t tell her he had a lovely five-bedroom cottage in the Cotswolds he’d be happy to lend to her or invite her to when he was staying there. He preferred that everyone on this side of the Atlantic not know about his identity in England because having a title meant people treated you differently. Maybe someday he could tell Miss Thing. But he had no idea when that would be. “I hear you did very well getting your Price Is Right bucket list goal met. In fact, I’d like to not only congratulate you but to thank you for the drinks you provided Greer and her friends at The Rooftop. I was honored to be designated one of them. I saw you at the cocktail party the night we got, ah, engaged. But I never had a chance to thank you properly.”

  Miss Thing was busy getting two mugs ready while he spoke. “It was my pleasure,” she said, and looked at him quite pointedly. “I understand Greer wants this wedding gown, and I have to admit I encouraged her to do something crazy. I hope she won’t regret it.”

  Hmmm. What could he offer her for reassurance? “We’ve enjoyed getting to know each other well in a very short time. There’s a mutual respect between us. Does that make you feel any better?”

  “It does. Have you two discussed what happens when this fake engagement and the contest is over?”

  “No. It’s pretty self-evident, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it is. You’ll go your separate ways.” The tea kettle started a soft whistle. Miss Thing let it get a little louder, then she poured the boiling water into the two mugs.

  “I’ve known Greer only a short time,” Ford said, “and I already think she knows how to take care of herself better than most. So I don’t think you should worry about her.”

  “She’s a very strong woman,” Miss Thing agreed. “But of course I worry about her because I love her.” She dunked a tea bag up and down in one of the mugs.

  “She’s very lucky,” he said, “to have you as a friend.”

  Miss Thing stopped her dunking. “I like you, so I’m going to give you fair warning: You can’t be around one of my girls for long and not fall head over heels. You might not be able to walk away.”

  She was just like Pete.

  “I can take care of myself,” Ford assured her. “Greer and I will always be friends. We’ll both be fine.”

  But he could tell Miss Thing didn’t believe him. Her mouth pursed when she brought tea and those delicious American chocolate chip cookies to the table. But they managed to talk nonstop about the Royal Family until Greer showed up in the kitchen.

  Her cheeks were flushed. “Sorry I’m a little late.”

  “We’ve had a fine time,” said Miss Thing. “Ford has kept me well entertained.”

  He stood. “Miss Thing has been delightful company.”

  “She always is,” said Greer.

  “You look good,” he said. “Are you feeling better after last night?”

  “Oh, yes, within a minute or two, I was fine. That’s the first time in my life I’ve ever fainted. I got too caught up in the bake-off preparations.”

  “Nothing is more important than taking care of your health,” said Miss Thing. “A doughnut would have done the trick. Now eat a cookie. It’s good for the soul.” She handed one to Greer.

  Greer took a bite. “Oh, that’s yummy!” She grinned. “If anyone calls,” she said to Miss Thing, “I’ll be in the office again tomorrow morning.”

  “Where you off to?” Miss Thing asked.

  “Posing for the portrait. Remember?” Greer took another bite of the cookie. “I’m taking half days all week, so we can get good daylight.”

  “Oh, of course. You haven’t taken vacation since last year.” Miss Thing’s cheeks turned pink, so Ford guessed that Greer had told her she was posing nude.

  “We’re headed to my studio,” he said, hoping Miss Thing would realize it was serious business. “If you’d ever like to come see it, I’d love to show you around.”

  “Oh!” She took a deep breath. “Well, I-I—”

  “Just say the word,” he said.

  She seemed relieved he didn’t push. “The truth is”—he waited for a polite let-down or even a mild rebuke—“I’d love to visit your studio.”

  “Fantastic,” he said, and was about to suggest a block of days that would work for him.

  “Tomorrow at noon,” Miss Thing added in firm tones. “Greer doesn’t have a mother in town. So I’m standing in. See you then.”

  He and Greer looked at each other, and he saw laughter dancing in her eyes.

  “I look forward to it,” he said to Miss Thing.

  She waved a hand at him. “All righty, off you go.” And to Greer she said, “You be good.”

  “Do I have to be?” Greer whispered to her as she hugged her good-bye.

  Ford pretended not to hear.

  “Oh, never mind.” Miss Thing chuckled and kissed Greer’s cheek.

  * * *

  And so Miss Thing stayed true to her word and visited the studio. Ford enjoyed every moment of her perusal of the space, and especially enjoyed her veiled comments about how she expected him to be a gentleman at all times and her not-so-subtle probings about his family, which he deflected by producing a beautiful small cake he’d purchased at Saffron for them to share with more hot cups of tea.

  For the entire work week, he was gratified that Greer spent every afternoon at the studio. Each day at one P.M. he’d stop at Roastbusters first to say hello to Pete and get a coffee. And then he’d head to Two Love Lane to pick up his favorite portrait poser. He’d be sure to say hello to Miss Thing, Ella, and Macy if they were there. He was always amused at how they’d hover the way mothers and best friends did. It was as if he and Greer were going on a date instead of to work. While she tied up loose ends in her office, the women would crowd around him, ask questions, feed him, or give him tea, and then they’d shoo the two of them out the door with many exhortations to have fun.

  Out in the open air, it was as if he and Greer had broken out of a very pleasant jail and were finally free. They’d laugh. And occasionally, walking to the studio, they’d hold hands—very briefly, though. It was always when they were on King Street, between Wentworth and George, in the vicinity of the College of Charleston. Almost on cue, a student who’d seen them onstage would call out, “Hey, you two! In love yet?” or something teasing like that. So they’d grab hands and shout back, “We’re working on it!” Or “What do you think?” and maybe even give each other a peck on the lips.

  It was all in fun.

  At the studio, Greer was a great model, very patient. She didn’t complain when she’d come to the easel during a break and look at what he’d accomplished, only to see that he’d done very little obvious work. He’d gotten the pose he wanted on canvas, but it was filling it in, capturing it the exact way he envisioned it in his head, that frustrated him now. But this stumbling through the dark was always part of the process—at least his.

  The other habit they’d fallen into, besides walking to work, was a much more intimate one.

  But she held back. “I don’t feel right,” she said. She was talking about sleeping together. “No matter how protected you are or I am, you’re in an awkward position. What if you are a dad? This is a stressful time for you. I’d rather not take any chances with my heart, and you don’t need a new relationship, either. Not that we’re truly headed in that direction. But it’s smart to stay vigilant.”

  “Right,” he’d say.
“We’re having fun. And we’re good friends.”

  “Yes,” she’d say, “and I want to keep it that way.”

  “Agreed.”

  Every day when his lust peaked and he longed to bed her, she’d find another way to satisfy his cravings. And he, hers. There was a forbidden aspect to it, too. He’d put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door to keep socializers on the corridor away while Greer was posing nude. But it came in handy, too, when they explored each other’s bodies and brought each other to exquisite pleasure, which was somehow made even more enjoyable because it was mingled with frustration. Each time they made the conscious decision to thwart a true coupling, their desire to actually go there deepened.

  He couldn’t deny, however, that a small part of him was actually relieved they weren’t having sex. Greer was right. Their relationship could go only so far this way. They both knew that and accepted it.

  He’d been a bachelor a long time, and he’d had a lot of fun, but it was time to admit to himself that sex was more than sex. He knew as well as any thinking adult that certain intimate acts sometimes carried with them expectations that others didn’t. Avoiding a full-fledged sexual relationship meant avoiding bigger questions.

  So creative, no-strings-attached sensual play was the order of the day. Sometimes it took place on the sofa. Or the countertop. Sometimes she was on her knees. Or he was.

  Every evening, after they were finished working and frolicking, they’d stop somewhere cozy like Butcher and Bee, or The Ordinary, have a good bottle of wine between them, and something simple like oysters or a cheese plate, and then he’d take her home. He’d never actually been upstairs to her apartment. She’d kiss him and run. She had work to catch up on, always. Sometimes he’d go back to his studio to work himself.

  And no matter how much fun they were having, always in the back of his mind, he wondered about Teddy. Was he a father? Or not?

  So Greer was right. He was in no place to get in deep with anyone. And he liked her more and more every time she showed that sort of understanding.

  He’d go to bed thinking about her. And he’d wake up thinking about her. Somehow it made his limbo—the torturous waiting for news from Teddy that would go on for many more months—easier to bear.