Christmas at Two Love Lane

by Kieran Kramer

  Celia nodded.

  “Okay.” Fran smiled. “You sure you don’t still resent Macy?”

  “It would be a waste of my energy.” Celia put her wine glass on the coffee table.

  “I hope you’re not suggesting Macy’s not worth your time.” Aunt Fran, ever the troublemaker, eyed Macy with a sympathetic eye.

  Celia addressed the abstract portrait of a naked woman behind Aunt Fran’s head. “It’s galled me to see her set up shop as a matchmaker. If she’s so good at it, why couldn’t she tell that the man she’d meant for me was in love with another woman?”

  “I’m right here, Celia.” Macy raised her hand. “I have no excuses. I simply didn’t sense what was going on, and it’s probably because I didn’t hang around you two very much. I told you I’m sorry.”

  “And you’re married now,” said Aunt Fran to Celia. “Aren’t you happy?”

  “Of course.” Celia glowered, appearing the opposite of a woman deeply in love with her husband.

  Aunt Fran put a proprietary hand on Macy’s arm. Dogs squirmed between them. “Part of being any sort of professional is recognizing when you’re in over your head.”

  “Duly noted.” Macy met Deacon’s gaze. Why was she smiling at him with her eyes? Like they were in on one gigantic joke together? Every other young, single female of his acquaintance pegged him as either a scoundrel or the answer to all their prayers. Of course, he was both. He had the feeling Macy understood that.

  It was terrifying.

  Which was why he said to his aunt, “I’m not staying for supper, after all. Tell George to take my place at the table.”

  And he ran away to Upper King Street, where all the happening bars were, and endured the flirtations of college girls by buying them all drinks and sending them on their way so he could play pool and smoke cigars in the alley until two in the morning with a bunch of fraternity boys who dubbed him “Old Man.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Macy’s life felt completely different now that Deacon and Fran Banks were in town. The air was softer. The sun was shinier. Everything Southern that she’d grown up with took on a fresh appeal, thanks to Fran’s marveling. Like grits. Macy had a sudden, new affection for them. They were corn—corn ground down to tiny white specks that together tasted amazing with a pat of butter and a sprinkle of salt!

  She had no idea she’d been in a rut at all until the Bankses came along.

  In the bubble bath last night, after she’d given Fran the coconut cake, she decided she’d been like a sad, rusted bicycle that had been chained to a tree so many years that the chain was embedded in the tree bark. And someone had come along with a big chainsaw—a really loud one—and cut through the chain, or maybe even the tree.

  That description might be a little extreme, but it was how Macy felt. She was moving again. Forward.

  The next morning, she walked out her front door after breakfast with Oscar on her arm in his tote bag. Deacon’s contract had been pushed through her mailbox onto the wooden planks of her piazza. There was some kind of tan stain on it. She sniffed. Bourbon. He must have read it at a bar and signed it in a drunken stupor.

  Even so, she was happy. The way he’d skipped out on them last night at dinner, she’d had her doubts he’d go through with their business arrangement. So had his aunt.

  “I don’t know why he’s so skittish about settling down,” Aunt Fran had said over a gorgeous roast beef. “But he made it very clear to all of us tonight that he plays by his own rules. I’m sorry, Celia and Macy, that he abandoned us.”

  “He doesn’t need to settle down,” George had said, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. “The world is Deacon’s oyster. More wine, ladies?”

  George had been a highlight of the evening, even if Celia was still her cold self. Macy didn’t care, though. Oh … that was a lie. She did care. She still felt horribly guilty about Celia’s breakup. But what could she do? Celia had moved on. The offending gentleman had moved on. So had Macy.

  But at least the night wasn’t a total bust. She’d met Fran, who was challenging and fun, and George. Already she felt as if she’d made two new good friends, and they were right next door.

  So was Deacon. For Macy’s own sake, she needed to get to work on finding him dates—and maybe his soulmate—as fast as possible. He was a terrible temptation. George and Fran told her stories last night of all the women who’d thrown themselves at Deacon because of his charm and had their hearts broken.

  Macy had long since passed her bad-boy phase. She was proud of that fact. Yet last night, getting ready for bed, tipsy from the delicious shiraz, she wondered where he’d gone. She’d even peeked out the window when she turned off the light at eleven thirty to see if she could see through one of the windows on Fran’s piazza into her living room, which was still well lit.

  And then she realized that she was spying, and that it was an awful thing for a good neighbor to do.

  So now she shut her sidewalk front door behind her and started her walk to work, saying in her head, I’m a professional, I’m a professional, in time with her steps. Oscar, meanwhile, stuck his head out of his carrier bag and sniffed the salty sea air flowing over the Battery wall.

  “Psssst!”

  She looked back and up. There was George, leaning over Fran’s piazza railing, his head almost blocked by the green, waving fronds of a tall palmetto tree.

  “Good morning!” Macy called to him.

  He was thin, wiry, of indeterminate age—somewhere between thirty and forty-five, she guessed—and fond of colorful clothing. Today he wore a golden-yellow kerchief wrapped around his head, and the same large gold ring in his left ear that he’d worn last night. He’d donned another pair of flowing silk pants, Wedgwood blue (they’d been scarlet the evening before). His shirt was an ivory silk with voluminous sleeves.

  Last night she’d discovered that he lived in a fifth-floor walkup in the Hell’s Kitchen area of Manhattan and commuted by subway to Aunt Fran’s penthouse on Central Park every morning, preparing her breakfast at nine and leaving at seven each evening after cooking her supper.

  “Deacon’s hung over,” he said. The gusty sea breeze almost stole away his words.

  “I guessed that.” She held up the contract. “It smells like bourbon.”

  George chuckled. “Maybe you can find some Southern belles who’ll set him back on his heels. Fran says she needs a challenge—well, Deacon does even more. Take it from me.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” Macy called up to him and readjusted her tote bag. Oscar hated when she dawdled and was squirming.

  Fifteen minutes later at her office, she started working on creating a master list of thoroughly vetted dates for Deacon. It shouldn’t be hard, but it was.

  “First, the ideal candidate has to meet his requirements,” she told Ella and Greer.

  “Which are?” Greer was poised at the whiteboard in Two Love Lane’s conference room with her favorite purple marker.

  “She should be striking, sophisticated, and an excellent conversationalist,” Macy said. “And she shouldn’t be seeking real romance. Which means she’ll be satisfied with a fun date with an emotionally unavailable out-of-towner.”

  “Our clients are all about emotional availability,” said Ella, “so we need to go outside our office files to find these women.”

  Macy agreed. “Let’s look at our own personal contacts.”

  “To our phones,” Miss Thing announced like a military commander in charge of a campaign.

  So they sat for fifteen minutes scrolling through their phones and scribbling down potential prospects. In the end, they had eight names. Greer wrote them on the whiteboard.

  It was time to dive in and make some calls.

  In the end, four women out of the eight called were okay with a fun date that led nowhere.

  “I love all four of these ladies,” Macy said. “We know them personally. We can vouch for each of them having their own special qualities.”

  “
They’ll have fun,” Greer predicted. “And who knows? Maybe sparks will fly.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.” Macy high-fived everyone then picked Oscar up and kissed the top of his head, which he pretended to hate. “We’re on our way,” she told her furry friend.

  And she was glad. She was having too many naughty thoughts about Deacon as it was. Let some other woman think them instead.

  * * *

  Later that night, when Macy got home, Fran’s piazza was empty, but pale blue light streamed from the living room windows. Someone was watching television. Company would be nice, and Macy was tempted to go over, but she really needed a good night’s sleep.

  “Macy?”

  Her heart stopped for a flash of a second. It was Deacon. He must have just come outside. She looked up and felt warm all over at the sight of him. Caught in the soft glow of a gas lamp burning by the front door of Fran’s house, he was such a pleasure to look at, especially with that lazy smile. “Hi,” she eked out.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, although her throat felt a little tight. She wasn’t sure why. Fatigue, probably. And the stress of worrying—just a tad—about how she was going to find him a soulmate when she couldn’t stop daydreaming about him herself.

  “Come on over,” he said. “We’re just about to have some more of that coconut cake. It’s really good.”

  “I’m so glad. But I”—she couldn’t think—“I need to go to bed.”

  There was a pause. “Okay.”

  “Hey”—she strove to sound excited—“we compiled a master list of fabulous women you can take out.”

  “Uh-huh.” He sounded wary.

  “Remember you’re doing this for Fran.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ll have a good time. I’m sure of it.” And she was.

  “Right.”

  “Tell you what,” she said. “Come for breakfast tomorrow. I can fill you in.”

  “What time?” He perked up a little.

  “Eight?”

  “See you then.” He smiled.

  She liked the dimple that appeared in his left cheek. “Good night.” Her keys jangled in the lock as she practically forced the fake piazza door open.

  While she unlocked her front door, she wondered what had happened to professional Macy. She was still frazzled when she fed Oscar and had a bowl of leftover turkey soup she’d made the day before. So she took a soothing bath, and while she was in it, got lost in a fabulous novel by Dorothea Benton Frank, whose stories about Charleston always made her laugh, and sometimes cry, but in a good way.

  Even so, when she pulled the plug and watched the bubbles go down the drain, something was still a little off.

  “Let’s go.” She unceremoniously scooped Oscar up from one of his favorite watching places—the top of the toilet lid, which she’d covered in a hideous shag carpet material for the cat’s comfort. “You’re sleeping with me tonight.”

  He didn’t object. He was too smart for that. He waited until she’d arranged a fuzzy lap quilt decorated with a snowy scene for him on the other side of the double bed and slid beneath the sheets herself before he bolted.

  “Don’t you know it’s almost Christmas?” she called to him. “You’re supposed to be extra nice! Especially with everything that’s going on!”

  Oscar was there when it all started—the day Deacon Banks had shown up in her office. She adjusted her pillow several times and tried to sleep, but it was a long time coming. Just the thought of Deacon sent warm, longing feelings through her. She imagined them making love in her bed. It was the best fantasy ever. It didn’t matter that she had an agenda for him, that he was her client. She was crushing in a big way for the first time in ages.

  But she knew she couldn’t just have a fling and walk away. She had a life that she cherished and wanted to protect.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Deacon woke up starving. His first coherent thought was Breakfast at Macy’s, but he wasn’t thinking about toast and eggs, or bagels and coffee. Even as his stomach growled, his imagination lingered on the curve of Macy’s cheek, the spark in her eye, the way she laughed.

  He couldn’t wait for breakfast because he liked her. Macy was a cake baker, a matchmaker, and a society girl who didn’t seem to notice she was cut from a different, spectacular cloth. She was a wild thing. He saw it in her eyes—a barefoot girl who marched to her own drummer. And he wanted to get to know her better.

  Way better.

  He rubbed his jawline and decided against shaving so he could slip out before George started puttering around the kitchen. He and George were Aunt Fran’s two favorite men. They were like brothers, antagonizing each other one minute, best pals the next. This morning, Deacon didn’t want to deal with the man’s sly brand of humor.

  But just as he was about to close the front door behind him, George showed up in the living room.

  “Morning,” he called to Deacon in a singsong voice, as if he’d caught him out.

  Which he had.

  Deacon sighed and opened the door again. “Not a good way to start the day, seeing you.”

  “The feeling’s mutual. You make me feel ugly, you brute, with my bedhead and your GQ hair.” George was in a multicolored robe Aunt Fran had brought him back from a safari trip. “Where ya headed? Not out for a run, obviously.”

  Deacon was in jeans, an old L.L.Bean sweater, and a button-down with a frayed collar. “Over to Macy Frost’s for breakfast. And a rundown of the women she’s lined up for me.”

  George gave a short laugh. “I like Macy, but this dating scheme is just a tad ridiculous.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Why are you doing it then?”

  Deacon hated starting off the day feeling testy, but he was moving in that direction. “It was Aunt Fran’s greatest desire. She told me in front of you. So why are you rubbing it in?”

  “Because it’s the pot calling the kettle black. It will be a cold day in hell when Fran ever settles down, after all the bad luck she’s had. So why is she wishing that on you? It’s a little weird. And hypocritical. I kinda thought you’d remind her of that.”

  “You want me to tell her those husbands who didn’t appreciate her were a waste of her time? You really think that would go over well?”

  George scratched his chin. “No.”

  “I owe her, George,” Deacon said. “It’s kind of heroic, actually, that she has the energy to hope for me in the romance department, in spite of giving up for herself.”

  George nodded slowly. “I guess I see your point. We have to get her having hope for herself again.”

  “Not a bad idea. Do you think she moved here to investigate a new crop of men?”

  George shook his head. “She’s bored, is all. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you? You’re the guy everybody wants to hang out with.”

  “I could say the same about you.”

  “Good thing we run with different crowds, brother.”

  “I’d hate to fight you for top-dog status,” Deacon said, his mood improving. “I have no idea who’d win.”

  George lofted a brow. “If the competition’s about who can pick out the prettiest shelf paper or bake the best roasted chicken, I would.”

  “By a landslide.” Deacon winked and shut the door.

  When he knocked on Macy’s real front door less than a minute later—the sidewalk one was ajar, presumably just for him—Macy yelled, “Come into the kitchen!”

  He hoped she had something besides yogurt and granola. He was spoiled at his aunt’s house, thanks to George. No cold breakfast for him.

  At least there was hot coffee. He followed the smell of it past the foyer with a stately, simple staircase into a formal dining room that looked like it was straight out of the olden days except for the modern silver vase filled with poinsettias on the sideboard. He pushed open a swinging wooden door into a vast kitchen with a large brick fireplace at the other end. Strung across its mantel was a li
ne of paper reindeer.

  “So I fancy myself a Waffle House cook in another life.” Macy wore a Santa hat and a half-apron with snowmen stitched all over it. She was busy making waffles, toast, fried eggs, bacon, and hash browns.

  Sunshine and breakfast with an honest-to-goodness elf. George couldn’t top this. “Merry Christmas to you, too,” he said. “I should have worn my Santa hat.”

  “It’s on the table,” she said.

  Sure enough, it was. He put it on. She laughed.

  “What’s the Waffle House?” he asked.

  “A Southerner’s favorite place to eat breakfast at two in the morning.” She smiled. “You have to be a little bit drunk when you go.”

  “Ah. Sounds fun.”

  “We’ll have to try it sometime.” She had a twinkle in her eye.

  “I’d love to.”

  With the flick of a wrist, she shut the lid on the waffle iron. “How do you like your eggs?”

  He loved her expert confidence. “Over easy is fine. Wow. This is some breakfast.”

  “Thanks. Grab yourself a cup of coffee.” She had a whole coffee bar set up.

  “I think I want to come over every day for breakfast now.”

  “I’ll do this another time for George and Fran, too,” she declared. “But today we need to tackle some business.”

  “Sure. In our Santa hats?”

  “We have a lot to be jolly about, right? Fran will be thrilled you’re getting started on delivering her Christmas present.” Her eyes were bright. Wide open. Honest.

  He was a little disappointed she was so excited about the idea. “Fine,” he said. “But first I have to say, this place is awesome.”

  “Thanks. It needs some work. But it’s all mine. And I mean to make my grandmother proud by keeping it up for future generations of my family.”

  “Yeah, sorry what I said about the tilt. Good for you for taking care of a special house like this.”

  “It’s seen a lot. So has Two Love Lane.” She was busy with the eggs, and then the next second she was pouring orange juice and flipping hash browns.

  “You own that property, too?”

  “I do. With my two business partners and best friends, Greer and Ella.”