Ah. He’d gotten to her. An intoxicating, invisible heat rose between them.
“Shall we go upstairs?” He held out his arm.
“Good idea.” She took it without the slightest hesitation. He’d hoped that maybe he’d knocked her off her game and she’d need to lean—heavily—on him. Apparently not.
Their moment was over.
As they ascended the stairs, she said, “I can’t wait to see what Fran is wearing,” the way women do when they want to stick to innocuous topics rather than listen to you pointedly suggest making out beneath the mistletoe.
Deacon played along. “It’s a gown she says she borrowed from Rita Wilson and never gave back.”
“The Rita Wilson? Who appeared in Sleepless in Seattle? And married Tom Hanks?”
“The very same.”
“She was also in an episode of The Brady Bunch,” Macy informed him. “She played a rival to Marcia during cheerleading tryouts.”
He stopped on the stairs. “We really ought to talk out here more often.”
She smiled but said nothing. She knew just when to pull those Mona Lisa moments. He could never predict them. They drove him mad.
Once in the condo, they were swept up by all things Fran, like two trees sucked into a giant tornado. Deacon had no interest in George’s special cocktail. He never veered from bourbon, Scotch, and beer. But Macy and Aunt Fran threw back two Yo-Yo Ma–garitas apiece.
Afterward, Deacon called Uber—Aunt Fran despised limos—and helped the ladies inside a small compact car. The driver peppered Aunt Fran—the first celebrity he’d ever picked up in his car—with questions about Harrison Ford and Denzel Washington, his two favorite actors. He didn’t care that Deacon had to sit in the front seat on top of a pile of newspapers.
Deacon didn’t care either, honestly. He was glad his aunt was already having so much fun. Macy too. Together, they were slightly scary, especially post-tequila.
Deacon hated to admit it, but he felt cozy in the Uber car. He didn’t like words like “cozy.” He associated it with furry bunnies and babies’ bedrooms. But that was how he felt. He didn’t want to get out. Maybe they could ride around for a while and talk about non-work-related things with his two favorite women.
Wow. That was a big thing to admit. But it was true. Macy and Aunt Fran were his favorites. His number ones. He’d do anything for either of them. He wasn’t sure he liked knowing there were now two women in his life who commanded that sort of devotion from him. But before he could think about it more, they were at the Gaillard Center.
Cars whizzed by in both directions. “Thanks for the ride,” he told the driver.
“You’re welcome.” The guy jumped out to help Aunt Fran, who’d sat directly behind him. They chatted and laughed and took their time.
It was inelegant to rush in Charleston.
Deacon took Macy’s hand. It was warm. Her slender fingers curled around his when he helped pull her up and out. When she stood her full height, he felt possessive all of a sudden and didn’t want any other man to get close enough to inhale her flower smell or cast secret glances at the tops of her breasts, so gracefully displayed in her dress and framed by that amazing coat.
She almost left her purse behind, a glittery little thing, but he saw it on the floor and handed it to her.
“Thanks,” she said, and clutched it to her stomach.
“I hope you’ll enjoy yourself tonight.” He meant it too. She had no idea she’d be sitting next to him, no idea that Louisa wasn’t going to show, that in effect, he and Macy would be on a date. He didn’t feel guilty either, because a woman who looked as glorious as she did in that gown should have a man who admired her escorting her into what was sure to be a wonderful performance.
The air was chilly. He was glad of his topcoat. And now he had Aunt Fran on one arm and Macy on the other. The impressive, well-lit Gaillard Center stood before them. Somewhere inside was Yo-Yo Ma—and Celia, demanding attention, because they would be sitting in her box.
Meanwhile, he was sure his arrangement with Louisa would go off without a hitch.
But for the thirty seconds it took to walk inside, he simply enjoyed the pressure of the ladies’ fingers on his coat, and Macy’s hip occasionally brushing his. He also reveled in their small talk.
“I love theater boxes,” said Aunt Fran, wobbling a little in her heels. “Important things always happen there. Apart from Abraham Lincoln’s assassination, I mean.”
Aunt Fran, he thought with affection. She was so odd sometimes.
“Such as?” asked Macy.
“Romantic liaisons,” Aunt Fran said. “Scandalous assignations. Covert affairs.”
“Oh.” Macy leaned a little more into him, the better to speak to his aunt. “I should learn more about that theory, being a matchmaker.”
“You should.” Aunt Fran’s tone was chipper. “And occasionally, people’s futures are crushed—or made—in theater boxes.” She was on a roll.
“How do you know all this?” asked Deacon.
“Edith Wharton.” Aunt Fran laughed softly. “But really, everyone knows. You probably just haven’t thought about it. Small spaces—wherever you have a lot of compressed life forces—are powerful places. Theater boxes, tree houses, gondolas, ship cabins, train berths.”
“Phone booths,” added Marcy.
“Yes,” said Aunt Fran. “Don’t discount them. Superman used them to great effect.”
Deacon exchanged a quick look with Macy. Did postage stamp–sized foyers with dented brass mailboxes and frosted door panes count? How about compact Uber cars, where big truths snuck up on a guy with no warning?
She sent him a small, tense frown, which he easily read. She’d made that phone booth comment, so surely she was thinking about the foyer at Aunt Fran’s house too and the kiss that never happened beneath the mistletoe.
He had only two more strides before he’d be required to open the door to the Gaillard Center and release both his aunt and Macy to their adoring fans—and Celia.
He stopped abruptly. “I just wanted to say that I’m a very lucky man to escort you two gorgeous creatures inside.” He looked first at Aunt Fran, who beamed up at him, and then at Macy, whose smile was tense.
“No, we’re the lucky ones.” Aunt Fran patted his arm.
“You’re very kind,” said Macy primly.
Where was the confident matchmaker? The masterful cake maker and waffle baker? The hot tamale taking up too much space in the foyer in her black coat and sexy copper-colored dress?
He didn’t know. But he missed her already.
“You think we’ll be okay?” Aunt Fran asked him. “These are very intimidating people here in Charleston—kind, generous, but they don’t suffer fools.”
“You’ve dined with a U.S. President,” he reminded her, “arm wrestled Sylvester Stallone, and sung harmony with Paul Simon. You’ll do great.”
“Of course you will,” echoed Macy, sounding spirited.
He relinquished both their arms to open the door. Aunt Fran walked through and was instantly engulfed by Celia and her posse. Macy swiftly followed, and Deacon was right behind her.
She turned all of a sudden. “If you go out with Louisa afterward—” Her expression was stark.
“Everything will be fine,” he assured her.
She hesitated a moment, then blurted out “Just don’t kiss her” and took off into a blur of colorful gowns and black tuxes before he could ask her if that was the matchmaker in her talking, or the siren under the mistletoe who’d turned down his kiss and might possibly regret it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Where did Macy go after she made that ridiculous remark to Deacon?
To a small room, of course, where big things happen. Fran would need to add it to her list: a stall in the ladies’ bathroom. What woman hasn’t cried there? Or hidden there? Or snuck makeup on there? Or seen her boyfriend’s name on the wall there—with some other girl’s—and realized that life, as she knew it, wa
s over?
Yes, Macy went straight to the ladies’ room at the Gaillard Center, before anyone could catch her to say hello, and threw herself into the farthest stall and locked the door with shaking hands. Somehow, she managed to pull out her cell phone and dial Greer.
“Hey.” Greer sounded happy. She’d stayed at home that night to write Christmas cards. “Aren’t you at the Gaillard?”
“Yes. And I—” Macy didn’t know where to start.
“What’s wrong?” Greer’s voice filled with concern.
Macy closed her eyes. A toilet flushed nearby, and she didn’t even care. Usually, she got in and out of public bathrooms pronto because she was a priss about such things. But that night … well, let the toilets flush—all of them at the same time, even. She couldn’t have cared less at that point.
“I can’t talk long,” she said. “I’m in the ladies’ room—”
“Tell me,” Greer insisted.
“Okay.” She drew a breath. “I think I’m officially in a bad place with this matchmaking assignment. The one with Deacon.”
“I’m not surprised,” Greer said. “How so?”
“I told him not to kiss Louisa. I never tell people that. I hope he thought I meant that first dates should be very low-key, platonic, get-to-know-you sessions. But that’s not what I meant at all.”
“What did you mean?”
“That I’d be jealous if he kissed her.”
Greer laughed. “You two are a match. A gold-star match. Of course you’d be jealous.”
“We were walking together. He was holding my arm on one side, and his aunt’s on the other. And I felt it emanating from him, as bright and clear as the moon tonight. He was with the two women who completed him. His surrogate mother … and, um, me.” Her voice cracked a little.
“Don’t cry,” whispered Greer. She sounded like she wanted to cry herself.
Macy was glad her friend understood how significant the moment was. “But he’s so good at being a bachelor. Not that there’s anything wrong with that when you’re up front about it, which he is. He doesn’t like commitment. But I … I don’t want to get hurt.” She stared at the hook on the stall door.
“You know what I’ve told you about that,” said Greer. “You have to get over it.”
“I wish I could.”
“So where do you go from here? I think we should call Ella.”
“I don’t know.” Macy sighed. Confusion wasn’t a good feeling, especially when you were out in public in a gown that you hoped a special man would notice—and he was on a date with someone else you’d set him up with.
Ten seconds later, Ella was on the line, and Greer filled her in.
“If you’re that afraid to take a chance with him,” Ella said, “you can keep trying to match him to someone else while he’s here. It won’t be easy, but you have to decide what to do. Only you know your heart.”
“You’re right.” Macy leaned her back against the stall door. She felt herself getting embarrassed all over again.
“Just go up to that theater box and don’t think about it for a while,” Ella suggested. “The answer will come to you eventually.”
“You got this,” Greer chimed in, “especially if you stay relaxed. Try to enjoy yourself.”
“Thanks, you two.” Macy said good-bye and, after a quick glance in the bathroom mirror, checked her coat in the lobby. And then she got a text from Louisa: Can’t make it. So sorry!
“Aw, shoot,” she said out loud to no one. No matter what, she decided, she’d enjoy herself. She’d stay relaxed if it killed her!
A minute later, an usher escorted her to Celia’s side of the box. There were three rows of stadium-style seats, two seats per row. Fran sat in the front row, an empty seat beside her, presumably Macy’s.
Celia sat next to Deacon in the second row. “Our party of six is down to four,” she said. “My cousin doesn’t feel well.” Celia was extra glamorous with an up-do and long, thick, false eyelashes. Her silver gown, with a square neckline and capped sleeves, was spectacular too, in a British monarch sort of way.
“And Louisa had something come up,” Deacon added.
Macy was flummoxed. “She just texted me. I wonder what it was?”
“I have no idea.” Deacon didn’t appear fazed in the least. “I’m sure she’s okay.”
“And you’ll have plenty of company,” Celia told him as she patted his arm.
“All right then.” Macy took her seat, feeling self-conscious. She was the matchmaker, the coordinator of these dates for Deacon, and so far none had panned out. He was paying her good money, and she felt she hadn’t earned it.
But what else could she do now apart from enjoying the performance? She took Greer and Ella’s advice and focused on the grand space before her—the dramatic ceiling overhead, the other boxes, the crowd below, and the solitary figure on stage with a glossy brown cello—and squeezed Fran’s hand, just once.
Fran squeezed back.
So what that Celia and Deacon were sitting so close together behind them? Celia was married. Off-limits. Taken. And Yo-Yo Ma’s music was magnificent. That was what Macy would think about.
At the intermission, Fran took her aside in the hallway. “Can we talk about Celia? Her body language right now is shouting that Deacon is all hers.”
It was true. Celia and Deacon were looking up at a plaque on the history of the Gaillard space. She had her arm hooked through his.
“And she’ll carry that body language back to the box,” Fran said, “where it’s dark and all sorts of things can go on, mere inches behind our backs. Aren’t you going to fight for him?”
Macy gave a little huff. “Of course not. He’s supposed to be on a date with someone else. And Celia is married.”
“So? You’re awfully naïve.”
“Deacon would never—”
“I know. But Celia will try. And you’re okay with that?”
“No. It’s—it’s inappropriate for anyone married to cheat.”
Fran laughed. “You make it sound like you don’t care that she’s specifically angling for Deacon.”
“It’s not my business.”
“You should make it your business,” Fran said. “Louisa’s not here. The squeaky wheel gets the grease. And Celia is the squeaky wheel tonight.”
Macy took a cleansing breath. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Fran, because I find your nephew quite charming and attractive, and someday he’ll make another woman very happy if he ever decides to settle down—but Deacon is not my type.”
“Come on, Macy.” Fran put a hand on her hip and looked her over. “You’re better than having a type. That’s what people say who are afraid of commitment and won’t admit it. You’re as bad as Deacon is. Maybe worse. Because at least he admits he’s running from it.”
“Fran.”
“Yes?”
“Please don’t use your television tactics on me.”
“Oh, you can take it.”
“And even if he were my type—”
“Macy, you’re doing it again. Showing your own disdain for commitment with these easy-out words that mean nothing—”
“Even if I felt Deacon and I were, um, compatible … how many times do I have to tell you? He’s my client.”
“So? I was a true professional, and I kissed every single one of the male guests on my show. And you know I didn’t settle for a peck on the cheek. I’ll never regret it.”
“I remember. The whole country does, and good for you. But whoever wants to be with me will have to make a real effort to get my attention. I’m not going to run after him.”
“Good for you,” Fran said. “But what about the shy men? You’re going to make them jump through that hoop? A lot of them are unfairly overlooked because so many girls have to have the dog-and-pony show, which doesn’t last, my dear, let me tell you. Roses, flights to San Francisco for dinner, all that Pretty Woman crap. Go for the humble. A guy who’s a bit nerdy. Someone who sees the real you
and can’t afford helicopter rides.”
“Are you saying your nephew is humble, slightly nerdy, and not rich?”
“No. He’s none of those things. You’re so lucky.” Fran slapped Macy’s arm, which she promptly rubbed to take the sting away. “I was actually talking about every other man in the world, if you’re foolish enough not to go after Deacon.” She rolled her eyes.
Macy would be patient. “You’re full of a lot of advice, Fran. Maybe you should take it and find your own man.”
“I’m not looking.”
“Well, neither am I. And as for Celia, I’ve learned not to engage with her anymore. It’s what she wants. Deacon can take care of himself.” She tucked her phone in her satin-lined clutch. “Louisa’s not answering my texts. She left no explanation about why she didn’t show, which is so unlike her. Something’s not right here, and I want to get to the bottom of it.”
“Fine,” Fran said, “but I’m making Deacon go with you. I have to get him away from Celia. This is a good excuse. Maybe you could get to know each other better.”
“We don’t need to,” Macy said. “Just be patient. Let him find someone on his terms, with my oversight, if he wants it.”
* * *
Considering the company he was keeping at the moment—Celia, who had attached herself to his arm—Deacon almost decided he’d made a huge mistake turning over his life for one month to his aunt as a Christmas gift. But then he remembered Macy, who was standing near a potted palm talking to Aunt Fran during intermission.
He led Celia toward his two favorite ladies.
“I’m going to find Louisa,” Macy said when they arrived. “Something’s fishy about her not being here.”
Deacon felt a pang of anxiety. Very slight. Hardly noticeable. But it was there. He wasn’t one to dissemble. And here he was doing just that. If Macy found out how he and his dates had been colluding to disrupt her matchmaking plans for him, she wouldn’t be happy.
But he wouldn’t be happy if he went along with those plans!
Christmas at Two Love Lane Page 16