Christmas at Two Love Lane

by Kieran Kramer

  “Here’s the really big thing you need to know,” Macy said. “You have to believe you’re naturally lovable. My grandmother told me that many a time, and I still struggle with it myself. It’s easier said than done when you’re not sure of people’s motivations. But you have to trust your instincts. You’ll recognize the opportunists.”

  “Believe me, I do.” Deacon gave her the side-eye. “You’re good at giving advice. I also like how you admit you don’t always take it yourself.”

  She smiled. “Just don’t let anyone make you a cynic. Cynics are terrible at falling in love.” She wondered if that was why she hadn’t fallen in love. She asked her sister every once in a while if she thought so too. Anne would always say, “Don’t be silly. Of course, you’re not a cynic!”

  But what if she was? Sometimes Macy worried about that at night, when things didn’t seem as bright and optimistic as they did during the daylight hours.

  “I’m already a cynic,” Deacon said. “Which means the odds are against me.”

  “But not impossible,” Macy said. “And you’re not too far gone. A full-fledged cynic doesn’t carry a cat in a tote bag.”

  That was why she wasn’t a cynic either, she assured herself. She loved life. She loved walking to work and smelling the fresh air. She loved her cat, and she wasn’t afraid to do crazy things like carry him around with her.

  Deacon kept his gaze straight ahead. “So I guess there’s hope for you too, huh?”

  That drew her up short. Had he guessed that she had her moments when she wasn’t entirely sure that dreams came true, even when you believed in them with all your heart? They were at the corner of East Bay and Love Lane. The cobblestone alley glittered with dew and sun.

  She didn’t want to go. “Thanks for walking with me.”

  “My pleasure,” he said.

  There was that word “pleasure” again, sounding like candy from his lips. And he was so good-looking, she could hardly breathe. His grin—broad and bright—was framed by dark stubble and that dimple in his right cheek. His blue-eyed gaze was honest and confident yet somehow vulnerable too. The mix was super sexy. She shot him an awkward smile. “I’ll take Oscar now. He enjoyed seeing things from a little bit higher up, I’m sure.”

  They made the switch and walked down Love Lane to the gate in front of the house. Deacon squatted to look at the ornate ironwork.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Macy never got tired of looking at that gate.

  “Stunning.” He ran his fingers over the two interlocking hearts formed so gracefully in the middle of the design. “I wonder if there’s a story about these hearts.”

  “I’ve always wondered the same thing.”

  “This is a work of art,” he said.

  “It is.” The wonder in his voice moved her. “Some master craftsman made it by hand back in the day.”

  “Around the Civil War?”

  “No. The Revolution.”

  “I’m in awe. Honestly.” He squinted up at her. The morning sun dappled his hair with golden highlights.

  She smiled. “I always like when newcomers appreciate what we have here. Everything has a story. It hasn’t always been pretty, I know. There’s a long history of pain and suffering in Charleston.” Just thinking about the different stories of the people who’d walked Love Lane’s stretch of cobblestone over the centuries made Macy emotional. “But there has always been love here too, and bravery and hope, in spite of the tragedies we’ve endured. We have Mother Emanuel leading by example today.”

  “I feel that.” His expression was sober, thoughtful. “I wish—”

  “What?”

  “I wish I could leave a mark. The way this master craftsman did with this gate over two hundred fifty years ago.”

  “You’ll do great things,” she said out of the blue. She couldn’t help herself. She believed in him somehow. She saw sincerity and a generosity of spirit in his eyes.

  He laughed. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t be so worried.” She opened the gate. “Let life happen.” She needed to get away because talking to him made her want to play hooky at work. “See you later.”

  But he grabbed her wrist before she could take another step. “You’re fun to be around, Miss Matchmaker Lady.”

  Uh-oh. Macy felt that buzz of awareness between them, the same one she’d felt in her office, at Fast and French, in his aunt’s foyer, over her own breakfast table, and when he’d held her hand crossing Broad Street. Was she destined to feel it every time they met?

  “Thanks. You are too,” she said, and slid her wrist from beneath his palm.

  “See you on the piazza tonight.” He turned away, whistling, and started walking back up to Roastbusters.

  She couldn’t take her eyes off him. “That was nice,” she murmured to Oscar, “and probably not a good idea. Let’s go.”

  Her office was a place to hide. A place to think. To recover. And to plan exactly how she was going to keep her head on straight because Deacon Banks was messing with it very badly. And he wasn’t even trying that hard.

  However, when she got inside, past Miss Thing, who was on the phone but winked at her, a big bouquet of gorgeous purple and pink hothouse tulips awaited Macy on her desk. She put Oscar’s tote bag down. He ran out and leapt onto her blotter.

  “Don’t you dare,” she told him, when he immediately bit into a pink petal.

  She pushed him off, and her heart pounded when she read the card: I KNOW BREAKFAST IS GOING TO BE DELICIOUS. AS WAS THE COCONUT CAKE. THANKS FOR BEING A GREAT NEIGHBOR. ~DEACON BANKS

  “Fudge,” she said out loud. Who cared that he wasn’t from here? A gentleman was a gentleman. And a handsome devil was a handsome devil.…

  She dared not forget that he was both.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Deacon had run eight miles that afternoon—mapping out a route across the huge Ravenel Bridge and back, then around the Battery, up and down beautiful side streets, and around Colonial Lake before returning home. Then he turned right back around to buy a ten-foot North Carolina Fraser fir at a church parking lot on Wentworth Street. It was supposed to be a quick-and-easy errand, but he wound up having words with Trent Gillingham, the local jerk on Aunt Fran’s favorite show. Trent had wanted the same tree.

  “I’m Trent Gillingham,” he’d said, “from Bless Your Heart, and I saw this tree first.”

  He put his hand on the tree trunk Deacon had already claimed as his own. Deacon was only waiting for the tree lot guy to bring back his change. “I’m Deacon Banks,” he said, “from Manhattan, and no, you didn’t see this tree first. It’s mine. Go find your own.”

  Trent glowered at him and gave the tree trunk a little push with his palm. Luckily, Deacon had anticipated such a tantrum and had already tightened his hold on the tree. It didn’t move.

  Trent stalked off.

  “Merry Christmas, buddy!” Deacon called after him.

  What an idiot.

  Back at Aunt Fran’s, he told the story, and instead of being upset at Trent’s rudeness, Aunt Fran wanted to know where her favorite television hunk had touched the trunk, and then she wondered if Deacon should have given it to him.

  “No,” Deacon said. “He was a brat. And I’d already paid for it anyway. Why are you so obsessed with this guy again?”

  “He’s handsome, and he has such a great accent,” she said.

  “There are plenty of guys in Charleston with the same accent,” said George, who was helping Deacon put the tree in its stand.

  “And ones closer to your age,” Deacon chipped in.

  Aunt Fran sulked for a minute, but only until Deacon gave her some spiked egg nog. Then they all got busy putting on the lights and decorating the tree, after which Deacon and George strung the balconies with lights—all in preparation for the parade of boats that night.

  And Christmas, of course. But the cocktail party spurred them on.

  Now Deacon was freshly showered, the last of the pungent tree sap
scrubbed off his fingers, and on the piazza again in a sweater and jacket. A light wind blew off the harbor a mere hundred feet away. It was pleasantly cold—not nearly Christmas cold, but he liked it anyway. The seventy-five-year-old bag boy at Harris Teeter had told him that morning that it was more mild a Christmas than usual, but any day they’d get polar temperatures.

  “You just never know with Charleston,” the old man had said with a cackle, then stopped and looked at the plastic container he was putting in the bag. “You’re getting a lot of olives and cheese and crackers, aren’t you? Throwing a party? Are some pretty girls attending? I see you’re not married.”

  “Yes. It’s a small cocktail party. During the boat parade.” People around here liked to talk. And take their time bagging groceries. And ask you personal questions.

  “Of course.” The bag “boy” chortled. “You gotta good place to watch it?”

  “Sure do. Right over the Battery wall. On a … piazza.”

  “Fancy that,” the guy said with robust cheer. “The Battery. In one of those big mansions?”

  “Yes. My aunt has a condo in one.”

  “Good for your aunt. Is she a sweetheart?”

  “Oh yeah. Sweet as can be.”

  “Then you tell her ‘Merry Christmas’ from Peter, especially if she’s single.” He winked and put a box of crackers in the bag.

  “She is single, as a matter of fact.” Deacon grinned. “I’ll tell her.”

  Walking back to the Battery with a bag in each arm, he decided he didn’t mind the menial errand or chatting with strangers. They were good distractions, but more than that, he was having fun living in the low-key zone.

  As usual, he had a lot on his mind. Sales figures. Profits. Staffing problems. Scaling the businesses he’d bought across the country. If he really wanted to, he could be on his phone and his computer all day, or flying out to the West Coast or Chicago for meetings.

  But he knew the best—the very best—business people in the world took time off—a sabbatical of sorts. A chunk of time to reflect, to renew, to discover new aspects of themselves and their talents maybe they didn’t even know they had until they stopped for a little while and let themselves catch up.

  So he forced himself to let it all go.

  It felt weird and exhilarating. He was on vacation. He was with his aunt. If he was thinking about work, he couldn’t carry on a decent conversation with her or anyone at her party. Now he watched his aunt’s guests drink, eat, and chat while waiting for the boat parade to start. His own drink was gone, and he wondered where Macy was. He felt immature waiting for her like a high school boy, but so be it. She liked the tulips. She’d texted him to thank him. He’d texted back that he was glad she liked them, but he couldn’t text her again without a good reason. The only good reason he could think of was to talk about women she’d set him up with—and he didn’t want to do that.

  He’d just have to be patient.

  George was at the bar, pouring ice into a bucket. Deacon headed his way. Celia threw him yet another searing glance, but he ignored her. What was she thinking? Did she assume he was interested in an affair? Where had that come from? Especially when her husband, who seemed like a perfectly nice guy, was standing right next to her.

  Aunt Fran appeared at his elbow. “I’ll take a martini,” she told George.

  “You’re in Charleston,” George said. “New rules. Men go to the bar for you and bring you your drink.” He made the martini and passed it to Deacon. “Give this to your aunt.”

  Deacon handed it to her.

  Aunt Fran pushed it away. “No way. I get my own martinis. You drink that one, George, and make me another.”

  “I’ll be glad to.” George threw it back and got to work shaking up another. “You sure are stubborn.”

  “There’s only so much I can change.” Aunt Fran poked Deacon in the side. “You look a little preoccupied.”

  “Some small part of me still believes I’d better behave,” he said, “or I’ll get coal in my stocking.”

  “Impossible,” his aunt said, and picked up her new martini. “I brought you up right. Can you guess what I’m giving you for Christmas?”

  George shoved a fresh drink Deacon’s way. “Maybe a book or two on politics, history, or some celebrity biography,” Deacon said. Most of them came from the green room on her set, former interviews she’d done. But she’d have them autographed to him, which was nice.

  Her eyes flew wide. “Absolutely not,” she lied. “What else?”

  “My annual suit.”

  “Well, of course. This time we’ll get it at Charleston’s premier men’s store. It’s called Berlin’s, and the locals tell me people fly down from New York just to shop there.”

  She’d been giving Deacon a new suit every Christmas since he was three years old. They’d always gone to Bloomingdale’s on Third Avenue when he was a kid. Later, he graduated to a custom tailor on Broadway.

  “And of course, we’ll have our usual beef tenderloin dinner,” she said, “although Celia says we have to have oyster pie also. She’s giving George the recipe. Afterward, we’ll do the usual.”

  Which was watching Mame. They did every year. Aunt Fran had raised her sibling’s child, just as Auntie Mame had, so the show was near and dear to their hearts.

  “I could use a little Christmas right this very minute,” Deacon said, paying homage to their favorite tune in the show, as he kissed his aunt’s cheek.

  She smiled. “I wish Macy were here.”

  That was exactly what he was thinking … Macy would be a little Christmas for him.

  But he was in Charleston to protect Aunt Fran and to advance her interests. So he did his best to be the nephew she could be proud of at the party. He especially enjoyed meeting retired marine colonel Ed Block, appropriately named because he came across as an immoveable force.

  Colonel Block had a tendency to jut out his chin and clench his jaw, like Marlon Brando in The Godfather. “I smoke a cigar and drink bourbon in my library every day at seventeen-thirty hours sharp,” he informed Deacon in a thick Southern drawl. “If it’s nice out, we retire to the brick patio. I live around the corner. Feel free to stop by.”

  A petite redhead with a short, sophisticated haircut came up to the railing.

  “These lights are pretty spectacular,” she said.

  “They are,” Deacon agreed. From big sailboats, shrimp trawlers, motor yachts to modest johnboats and a few Sunfish, the boats were all covered with lights. It was a very merry display, and a twinge of honest-to-God Christmas spirit snuck up on Deacon. He shot his new companion a friendly smile. “Hi. I’m Deacon, Fran Banks’ nephew.”

  “Hey, back.” The new arrival stuck out her hand and smiled. “I’m Penelope Gordon. I work at the Historical Foundation. Macy Frost told me to meet her here, but I see she hasn’t arrived yet.”

  “She’ll show up at some point, I’m sure.” If she didn’t, Deacon’s budding Christmas spirit would take a hit. “Thanks a lot for stopping by.”

  Penelope was attractive. And personable.

  “My pleasure. I talked to your aunt about your family history here in Charleston.” The diminutive redhead gave a pretty shrug and smiled. “She actually didn’t have anything to tell me beyond the surname Banks. Supposedly, one of your family members came here at some point.”

  “It’s more like an old family rumor,” Deacon confessed.

  Penelope nodded sympathetically. “Every family has them. And sometimes they turn out to be true. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “You’re kind to do that.”

  Ten minutes later, he and Penelope were still chatting. Boats streamed slowly by. Drinks were refilled. The talking on the piazza got louder. Out on the street, the crowd shifted, grew, and one group starting singing Christmas carols.

  “So how are you and Macy friends?” Penelope asked.

  “She’s setting me up on dates through Two Love Lane,” he said. “I’m doing it for my aunt. I
t’s a Christmas present.”

  Penelope laughed. “I get the impression you’re not ready to settle down yet, Deacon Banks.”

  “You read me well. But the truth is”—he hesitated—“aw, never mind.”

  “No, tell me.” Penelope had such a friendly face.

  “Well, all right,” he said. “If I’m going on any dates while I’m here, I’d rather go out with Macy than her clients.”

  Penelope’s expression softened. “Why?”

  “I really like her,” he confessed.

  “My oh my.” Penelope cocked her head. “That’s so sweet. Thanks for confiding in me.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not trying to be sweet. And I don’t think it’s particularly gallant of me to be talking to one lovely woman about another one.”

  “No, no.” She waved a hand. “I like your honesty. And I feel like we’re already friends, don’t you? A little Christmas cheer in a cup and a nice boat parade go a long way to breaking down barriers, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’m honored you think so,” he said. “And I agree, friend.” He grinned and raised his glass to her.

  “To friends.” She smiled and raised hers back. “Look, I want to help you here. Macy is very professional, so I don’t think she’d ever go out with you when you’re her client.”

  “You’re right.”

  “But you can’t back out of your deal, correct? I mean, your aunt is counting on you for this gift?”

  “Yes. Not only that, Macy has this burning desire to find me my soulmate. So both ladies would be devastated. One personally, the other professionally.”

  Penelope laughed. “What a quandary. But I’ve got an easy solution. Do you have the phone numbers of the women Macy’s setting you up with?”

  “I do.”

  “May I see them?”

  “Sure.”

  Penelope perused the names on his phone. “I know three of the four. And that’s no big deal. She’ll be on board after I talk to her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Penelope grinned up at him. “I’m going to tell them we need to conspire with each other to get you and Macy together. Whatever it takes. We all love her. And she’s always putting other people first. It’s time for her to have some fun.”