When he was done putting his clothes away in a mahogany wardrobe and small bureau, he peeked into Ella’s room next door. It was very girly.
He noted that he had a double bed, and she had a queen. He’d live—he guessed. It had been years since he’d slept on a double. Last time had been with Ella. It was perfect for spooning but hell if one of the sleepers tossed and turned all night, which Ella tended to do. But he hadn’t cared. He’d slept like a baby. And it was because he’d been so in love.
Now he slept terribly and alone in a king-sized bed in Brooklyn.
How would he sleep here? With Ella in the room next door?
He suspected it would be very difficult.
He called his father. “I’m here,” he said.
“In Charleston?” There was the sound of New York City traffic in the background.
“Yes. I’m going for it.”
“Good,” his father said. “I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll do my best.”
“It’s all you can do.”
The call was short and sweet. Hank wasn’t doing this to make his father proud. Not by a long shot. But it helped knowing his dad was rooting for him.
He went back to hanging up his shirts. Which one of them would he be wearing when he put it all on the line with Ella? When he showed her his heart and offered it to her, knowing full well she could toss it aside—and justifiably so?
He didn’t know. And he needed to be thinking about the movie script. Time to dig in there. He had to justify why he was in Charleston, after all. Like his father, he hid behind his job. He wasn’t sure he had the courage to live a life apart from his work. But he was in Charleston to try. He was there to find balance.
He hung up his last shirt. “Eff the script,” he murmured to the portrait of the three boys. At least for now, he’d ignore the movie.
He was in Charleston on a sunny day, and he was going for a walk.
* * *
The cobblestones on Love Lane weren’t exactly easy on four-inch-high heels. But Ella had developed a way of negotiating them: she walked like a fairy, staying on her toes. Ten minutes after she’d left Hank at Pammy’s carriage house, she reached the historic wrought-iron gate with the two hearts and the hidden, intertwined initials that they’d discovered when Macy was falling in love with Deacon.
Now Ella could relax.
Not that she could really relax. She didn’t think she’d relax again until Hank left for good that coming weekend. She’d be on pins and needles the whole time he was in town. But she tried to soothe herself by taking in the glory that was Two Love Lane, the most charming address in Charleston. The house shone with the kind of welcoming beauty you could look at all day and never tire of. Right now a cloud shadow hung above the left turret, and a gentle breeze blew over the magnolia and oaks in the front yard and back garden.
For over two hundred years, Two Love Lane had been a respite for weary souls searching for love, and one of the latest candidates for romance was inside: Roberta Ruttle.
Ella loved her job. But on rare occasions she had challenges that gave her pause, that made her question herself: Did I do the right thing? Am I really meant to be a matchmaker?
Roberta, a fifty-three-year-old woman who’d never married, was one such challenge. Ella had been trying to find her a soul mate for two years, and literally every man Roberta went on a date with through Two Love Lane came back to Ella with the report that the very savvy entrepreneur wouldn’t speak to them beyond giving yes and no replies and short answers to basic ice-breaker questions, such as, “What do you do for a living?” It made for a really difficult date.
Roberta wasn’t shy. She ran a high-end real estate company in Charleston, and if you caught her at a cocktail party, she’d talk your head off about business or her latest golf game. She had a real flair for fashion. There was a definite sparkle in her eye, and she knew everyone in town. She got along with everyone too, which was unusual in a city fueled by juicy gossip, a staple of the competitive, somewhat unruly crowd that populated the Lowcountry. At business or charity events, or even cozy dinner parties, everyone was always angling for power positions. It was a sport, and woe unto anyone who took a wrong step. A sense of humor was helpful because inevitably, your day would come: you’d be the subject of whispered conversations.
Lucky for Roberta, so far she’d missed being the butt of gossip. None of her dates had kissed and told … probably because they never got to the kiss phase.
Whenever Ella tried to get the sophisticated maven to explain why she wouldn’t speak up on dates, Roberta would get huffy and hang up on her. But she wouldn’t leave Two Love Lane either. She kept forking over cash for Ella to fix her up with a soul mate, and Ella was desperate to find her one.
Just last week Ella had spoken to Roberta on the phone about her most recent date. “So,” Ella had said, “this latest date said you wouldn’t speak to him beyond answering yes and no, and you saying in very vague terms that you have property on the beach when he asked where you live. So he doesn’t really want to move forward. He doesn’t think you’re at all interested in him.”
Ella had been referring to a great guy, a widower about Roberta’s age, who had just taken her out on a moonlight sail and provided her a catered dinner aboard his yacht. He’d even brought out his guitar and played her a few romantic tunes.
“Fine,” the usually loquacious Roberta had said.
Ella had wracked her brain. “Maybe we could have a sit-down about our approach again. Playing hard to get or mysterious can only get you so far, and we both know you’re a great conversationalist, so—”
Roberta had hung up.
The mere thought of Roberta hanging up on Ella made her stiffen: How on earth would she ever be able to help the woman if she refused to cooperate? Not only that, how could Ella even think of solutions to Roberta’s problem when Hank was always on her mind? How could she do her job properly when she was already mooning about him?
Yes. She was mooning, which was such a dumb word, but there you had it! And it was so humiliating.
She’d have to come up with a way to stop thinking of him. She’d ask the girls for advice once Roberta was gone. In the meantime, her chin went up and she strode through the front door, determined that the Roberta problem would not defeat her. In fact, it was a very good sign that Roberta was there at all. Maybe she wasn’t going to complain, and she certainly couldn’t hang up. Maybe she was ready to work harder.
“Yoo-hoo,” called Miss Thing. “Ella?”
“It is I,” Ella called back. Miss Thing liked to keep things elegant at the front of the house.
“We’re in the kitchen,” Miss Thing said. “Come on back, sugar!”
Ella walked across several gorgeous rugs and gleaming hardwood floors, the same ones ladies in their kid slippers and gents in their riding boots had walked across in the olden days. She was glad to get to the cheery yellow kitchen with the AGA stove. There she saw three of her favorite ladies—Macy, Greer, and Miss Thing—gathered around the table with Roberta, whose hands were wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee.
Their guest looked so at ease. What could possibly be the problem when she was on a date?
“Roberta, ladies,” Ella greeted them all, and slung her purse onto the back of a chair. “How is everyone?”
“We’re doing great,” said Macy. She looked gorgeous and summery in a tailored white-and-navy-blue-striped suit and navy heels.
“Fine, fine,” said Miss Thing, effervescent in an emerald green sheath with a large peacock brooch on the lapel. Very Queen of England, her favorite fashion muse.
Greer puckered her brow at her phone. She was in one of her usual chic pantsuits. This one was ivory linen. “Doing well, Ella.”
“What’s on your phone?” Ella couldn’t help wondering. Greer was concentrating so hard.
Her recently married friend looked up. “Oh, Ford just texted. Said that he’s been commissioned to do some sketch
es of Samantha Drake while she’s here.” She grinned. “It’s good news, actually. But Samantha, he’s heard, is a bear to work with on every level.”
“But if she were a man, everyone would call her ambitious,” said Ella. “In command.”
“True,” said Roberta. “I get that all the time in my line of work. Some of the boys ’round here don’t call me a go-getter behind my back. They use more choice words.” She gave a wry shake of her head.
“It’s not right,” said Ella. “But speaking of the boys ’round here—” She cast a meaningful glance at Roberta. Did she have to say it out loud? “I presume you’re here to chat with me about a few of them.”
Roberta tossed her a saucy grin. “You presume wrong. I just came by to sell y’all some tickets to the Aquarium gala and silent auction. Surely Two Love Lane wants an entire table.” She held out a thick cream-colored invitation to Ella and named an exorbitant price.
Ella plucked it from her fingers. “Yes, we’ll take a whole table.” She tucked the invitation in her purse. “But the deal is you have to sit with us. You and a date.”
“Honey, I’m running this thing. I have my own table.”
“With a date?” Ella persisted.
“Harvey, my brother in Boston.” Roberta put a hand on her hip. “He a darling. If a bit dull.”
“Come on,” said Miss Thing. “You want to bring a real date, don’t you? This is your night to shine!”
Roberta finally looked discomfited. “It would be nice,” she said, “but I’ll be so busy I won’t have time to talk to a date anyway.”
“A good man won’t care,” Macy said. “He’ll be proud to be there to support you.”
“Right,” said Greer. “Go with someone you’ve already hit it off with on an earlier date. When is this gala?”
“A month from this past Saturday,” said Roberta. “And there is no way I’ll find someone in time.” She patted her hair. “Ella hasn’t had the best of luck finding me men who appreciate me.”
She looked around the room with a gimlet gaze, almost daring them to challenge her.
Ella took the invitation back out of her purse and held it out to Roberta. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”
Roberta’s brow furrowed. “Why are you giving this back?”
“We can’t get a table unless you promise me to try to get a real date,” Ella said, “which means you’re going to have to admit it’s not just my guy choices keeping you from true love. We’re going to have to work on some things. That is, if you really want your own happily ever after.”
“Which believe me,” Greer said, “is worth all the hard work you’re going to probably have to go through to get it.”
“Amen, sister,” said Macy.
She and Greer high-fived.
Greer was now an indulgent aunt to twin baby girls in England. Her artist-husband Ford had taken on the role of uncle because the twins’ real father wasn’t in their lives. Their mother was an English socialite and Ford’s old girlfriend who’d once left him at the altar.
Ford and Greer had decided to spend every summer in England to be with the girls, and when they were older, the girls would come to them in Charleston. Greer wasn’t cut out for motherhood, she’d decided. And Ford enjoyed their adult-only lifestyle too. So the “occasional kids” situation suited them both well.
“Oh, yeah, these two ladies went through hell to get to their happily ever afters,” Miss Thing said airily. She was examining her nails with great pride. She’d just had a manicure, and each nail had a tiny heart in the middle. “And now they’re leaving at lunch time for quickies with their hubbies.”
“We are not,” said Macy, but her cheeks reddened. “At least, not every day.”
Greer laughed her big, honking laugh, which didn’t match her otherwise sleek vibe. “I plead the fifth.”
Roberta stared at the proffered invitation. “Put it back in your purse, Ella,” she said dryly. “I’ll cooperate. I’d love to have quickies with my future husband too, if he’s out there. The sooner we get started, the better.”
Ella grinned. “Let’s go then,” she said, “to my office.”
“Fine.” Roberta rolled her eyes, but she followed Ella as docilely as Oscar, Macy’s cat, was doing. Oscar loved when visitors came to Two Love Lane and always insisted on checking them out. He trotted alongside Roberta.
“Oscar is Two Love Lane’s love mascot,” Roberta said when she sat in Ella’s office and Oscar brushed up against her leg.
Ella laughed. “He’s everyone’s good luck charm.” She took a deep breath. “Now let’s talk more bluntly about why you clam up on dates. Up until now, I’ve sort of beat around the bush. But the fact is, a gentle strategy isn’t working. Would you rather discuss this with a licensed counselor and get back to me? Or should I dive right in with some blunt questions?”
“Dive in,” said Roberta.
“Are you shy?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. You’ve never acted shy.” Ella smiled. “Are you a snob?”
“Absolutely not.” Roberta laughed.
Ella did too. “I’ve never thought so.” She thought for a second. “Do you have some kind of phobia?”
“Hmm,” said Roberta. “I don’t know that I do. Except a pretty strong fear of spiders.”
“As do I.” Ella sighed. “And that has nothing to do with your dating life.” She tapped her fingers on her desk. “When you’re on your dates, are you aware that you’re not speaking much? Or is it always a surprise to you when I tell you afterward?”
“I’m very aware,” said Roberta.
“I’ve asked you to explain it before,” said Ella, “and you always fob me off. Would you be willing to explain it to me now? Why don’t you talk on dates? Everywhere else, you do.”
“I know,” said Roberta. She folded her hands in her lap. “It’s quite easy to explain. And I haven’t up until this point because I thought I could wait it out. But nothing’s changed.”
“What?”
Roberta leaned forward. “I got put under a spell. When I was twenty-five.”
“Huh?”
“I met this guy in a bar, a lawyer from an old family in Mobile, Alabama, who does tarot card readings at a really high-end restaurant when he’s not in court.”
“That’s sort of incongruous,” Ella said. “I don’t usually think of an attorney doing tarot readings on the side.”
“Me either,” Roberta said. “It was intriguing.”
“I’ll say.”
“So anyway, I met him at the restaurant. I was required to pay for his meal, and let me tell you, he ordered an expensive bottle of wine and the most expensive entrée on the menu.”
“It sounds like he was using you.”
“I wondered that too, but he came so highly recommended.”
“You met him at a bar,” Ella reminded her.
“Yes, but I went to his tarot card website, and he had five stars.”
“From how many people?”
“Oh, about four or five.”
“Roberta.”
Ella’s most baffling client waved a hand. “I know. Maybe I went to see him because he was incredibly good-looking, okay? And he was an attorney who drove a very nice Beemer.”
“Now I get it,” Ella said.
“So anyway, I accidentally spilled wine on his tarot cards and ruined the set. At least ten cards shriveled before our eyes. I felt terrible. He was very upset, understandably so, because he’d inherited them from his grandmother. He said to me, ‘May your tongue disappear whenever you seek true love,’ which I took with a grain of salt. But sure enough, ever since, on dates, I just can’t speak much. It’s super hard.”
“Now that’s a weird story.”
“Tell me about it,” said Roberta.
“You don’t really believe it, though, do you?” Ella leaned forward. “I mean, it’s psychosomatic. Not a real spell. You’ve simply convinced yourself.”
“Did you ever go back to the lawyer?”
“I did,” Roberta said, “two months later. He told me he was really sorry he lost his temper about the ruined tarot cards. And he wished he could take the curse back, but it was out of his hands. He consulted with some friend in Alabama on his phone—I have no idea who it was, but I could swear he called her Mama—and when he hung up, he said that maybe this will help: ‘A penny for your thoughts, the ten thousandth for your tongue.’ I had no idea what it meant. He didn’t seem to know either. Ten thousand pennies equals a thousand dollars. So I scraped up a thousand dollars and gave it to him. He refused it. He said he didn’t want my money, that he knew for sure the advice wasn’t about him scamming me out of a thousand dollars. And I never saw him again. He moved out of town.”
“At least you didn’t lose a thousand dollars.”
“I suppose.” She paused. “But I’m so desperate, I still try to break the curse. Every once in a while, I donate a thousand dollars to a charitable cause hoping it’ll do the trick. So far, no dice. Lucky for me, I can afford the price of foolishness.”
Ella smiled. “You’re not being foolish. This must be a very bothersome thing. You’re just trying to fix it. And the charities must love your donations.” She bit her thumb. “I’ll say it again: I think the curse is bogus, and your poor subconscious mind just can’t get past it.”
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said the same thing to myself in the mirror,” said Roberta. “I went to several hypnotists. I’ve also been seeing a psychologist off and on the past three years. Nobody’s been able to help me, which makes me think it might really be a curse. Except I don’t believe in them—even the ones that are working, like this one.”
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