He was stuck between a rock and a hard place.
“You gotta go for it,” George had told him that night before he’d left the house. “All’s fair in love and war.”
“I never said I loved her,” Deacon had replied. “You can’t love someone you’ve only just met.”
“It’s obvious the musicals you grew up on were wasted on you,” George said. “You’re never allowed to sing Freddy’s song from My Fair Lady ever again.” He literally pushed Deacon toward the door. “Someday you’ll come to your senses.”
Now he had to wonder if George was right. He was only stirring things up. No plan, no commitment. And he was missing something about life and love, clearly. All he knew was that singing in the shower was as far as he wanted to go.
“You’re being a bit paranoid, Macy,” Celia said, still clinging to Deacon’s arm.
“I know Louisa.” Macy’s tone was firm. “She didn’t explain why she stood Deacon up. Which means something is off.”
“She probably got cold feet about going on a blind date and didn’t want to say so,” Deacon said. “That’s understandable.”
“Whatever,” said Macy. “I’m going. Thank you, Celia, for the invitation to your box. I hope you won’t mind I’m leaving early.”
“That’s fine,” Celia said.
Of course it was fine with her, but it wasn’t fine with Deacon. Macy was supposed to stay. He was supposed to make this night into a date with her.
His diabolical plan was backfiring.
Now he was stuck with Celia.
Macy turned on her heel. Her copper gown swayed behind her, back and forth, in time with her hips, like a cobra in a straw basket dancing to the sound of the snake charmer’s pipe.
“I’m going with you,” Deacon insisted.
Macy stopped and looked back at them. “Not necessary. Really.”
“I will too, then,” Celia said.
“I’d appreciate it if you stayed here with my aunt,” Deacon said as cordially as possible, but he really wasn’t asking. No way was she coming along.
“All right,” said Celia, sounding sulky. “But you’re going to miss the rest of the performance.”
“I’m glad you’re going.” Aunt Fran smiled at him.
“Louisa was supposed to be my date, after all.” He felt foolish pretending to be concerned, when he knew very well Louisa was off having a good time at an oyster bar over the Ravenel Bridge. But he was desperate too, a new state of mind for him.
“I’d actually prefer going alone.” Macy’s chin was high. “But thanks for the offer. Just in case Louisa isn’t feeling well, we don’t want to overwhelm her. I’ll keep you posted via text.”
And she took off down the stairs, her skirt hitched up in her hand, without even waiting for a reply.
Deacon caught up with her on the curb. She was already in her big Cruella de Vil coat. Good thing too. It was cold enough to see his breath—a first for him in Charleston.
“I told you…” she started reprimanding him, but she was so busy punching in numbers, presumably calling Uber, that she trailed off.
“Louisa is my date,” he explained once again. “I’m going.”
“She’s my responsibility.” Macy narrowed her eyes and kept punching.
“She can take care of herself.” He took her arm.
“Wait!” She stumbled along beside him.
“There’s a line of cabs on the street.”
She finally looked up from her phone and walked with a little more interest. “You can let go now.”
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
She sent him a sideways glance that he knew was meant to intimidate him. “You’re my client. And I’ve set you up with some amazing women.”
“Amazing, huh? So amazing I’ll fall in love with one of them? Like on The Bachelor?”
“If you ever get to have a real date with one of them, I think there’s a solid chance of that. Maybe not in love, but close enough that you’ll want to continue seeing whoever it is and fly back down here from New York on your private jet.”
“I don’t have one of those.”
“Really?”
“I fly commercial. Always.” He opened the door to the cab and helped her in, then got in himself. She was already giving the driver the address. They sat thigh-to-thigh as the cabbie took off toward Louisa’s. “Disappointed?”
“No. What does flying in a private jet have to do with someone’s value as a human being?”
“A lot, if you’re into monetary worth.”
“You’re right. Some people are.”
“And I’ve met an awful lot of those people,” he said.
“That’s no excuse to hide from love.”
“Is that a line in a song?”
“No.”
“It should be. About those dates you’ve arranged…”
“I’m sorry we’re batting oh-for-three right now,” she said. “I’m embarrassed, truthfully.”
“Don’t be. Maybe I don’t want amazing. Maybe I prefer ordinary.”
She didn’t say anything.
Neither did he.
“Are you saying I’m ordinary?” she finally asked.
“Why would you assume I’m talking about you? I mean I like you, but I was talking more about a type. Not a specific person.”
“Never mind. And ‘type’ is a lazy term. That’s for people who can’t commit. They use ‘type’ as a rationalization so they can get away with rejecting everyone.”
“Really? When did you come to that conclusion?”
“Your aunt told me so.” Macy smiled.
“So she was talking to you about me.”
“Maybe she was talking to me about me.”
He liked how she flirted. “All I’m saying is that I prefer to be with someone who doesn’t need to prove herself.”
“That’s not the same as ‘ordinary.’”
“I meant it in a good way. ‘Ordinary’ as in real and relatable. Isn’t it exhausting to have to be amazing all the time?”
“Are you saying I’m amazing?”
He saw the mischief in her eyes. “The question was rhetorical,” he said with a grin. “But are you fishing for a compliment? Because I’m not sure if I’m supposed to answer yes or no, considering I said amazing is exhausting. Somehow I don’t think you want to be called exhausting.”
“Then don’t answer. Celia likes you, you know.”
“I know.” Macy’s flower smell got to him, as it usually did. He wanted to grab her hand, raise it to his lips, and kiss it.
“What will she do if she outright propositions you, Deacon, and you reject her? Will she seek revenge?”
“No,” he said. “I think she’d cry, and not about me. About something else. It’s like she has a splinter in her foot she can’t get out. I have no idea what it is, apart from some dissatisfaction with her marriage. Do you?”
“No.” Macy bit her lip at that and looked out the window. “She was like this long before she got married.” She reached into her sparkly bag for the fare, but he beat her to it and handed the driver some cash.
“Shall we?” He took her hand, and she scooted across the seat to his door.
He helped her out and put his hands on her waist when she sought her balance on her heels. He kept holding her because it felt right, as if his hands belonged just there … and he wanted to keep looking at her.
Already he was forgetting life before Macy. Or not exactly forgetting, but wondering how he’d ever had fun. He’d been Macy-less and hadn’t even realized it.
She looked right back, little flecks of champagne sparkle in her light brown eyes. “Louisa,” she said. “I really, really think you’re going to like her.”
Punch to the gut. Did she always have to play matchmaker?
“Let’s go see if she’s in,” he said.
“She’ll be furious that we came. What if she really did get cold feet and she’s watching TV? She’ll be embarrassed.”
“Let’s
hope that’s not what happens.” He prayed that Louisa was still out and unreachable by phone or text.
They managed to get down the cobblestone lane arm-in-arm because really, those stones were murder, especially on a woman in heels. There was one light on at Louisa’s house, on the first floor. They knocked on her glossy red door.
She wasn’t there. No surprise. At least not for him.
“Shoot,” said Macy, and looked behind her at Colonial Lake, shimmering in the moonlight. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Let me call her,” Deacon said.
“Fine. Maybe she’ll answer for you.”
And she did. The conversation was short and sweet. Deacon said Macy wanted to talk to her. Louisa explained to Macy that yes, she’d gotten cold feet at the last minute, and that state of mind, combined with an opportunity to catch up with an old friend in town for the weekend, made her ditch her date with Deacon. She apologized profusely.
“It’s okay,” Macy said into the phone. “Sorry I came to your house looking for you. I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
Deacon sensed her relief. And her professional disappointment.
When she ended the conversation, she handed him his phone and shrugged. “Oh, well. She asked if we could check her flat iron while we’re here. She’s afraid she left it on. The key’s under the back mat.”
“Sure.” This was not a part of the plan, coming to Louisa’s house, going inside. Macy was supposed to sit next to him at the concert. That was all.
But he’d wing it.
“You were right,” Macy said. “She decided she didn’t want to go on a blind date. It’s that simple.” She headed down a stone path on the side of the house. “I’m glad I checked. When I walked into the box and saw you and Celia together, an alarm bell went off in my head. I thought Celia might have bullied Louisa into not coming tonight.”
“No. Absolutely not.” This set-up, Deacon noted, might be getting out of hand. “Celia’s difficult, but she’s not diabolical.”
Macy shot him a wry look. “She’d love to wreck my matchmaking plans. And she seemed awfully happy to be hanging on your arm.”
“She might be jealous of you and infatuated with me—or she might just be bored with her life. I think it’s the latter. Hey, what’s a flat iron?”
“It straightens curls or waves.”
“Why would anyone want to do that?”
“For a change of pace, I suppose,” said Macy.
“Do you have a flat iron?”
“Of course!”
“You mean, your hair’s not really straight?”
“No, it’s straight. But even if you have straight hair, you use a flat iron sometimes. Because flat irons can make it straighter.” She sent him a duh look.
Women and their mysterious grooming habits. At least for a few seconds he wasn’t thinking about the nape of her neck, which was mighty tempting to nuzzle. She was a mere six inches in front of him, lifting the gate latch.
Once through, she traipsed around back like Goldilocks through the woods—he followed in his manly stride, which was actually sexual frustration masquerading as chivalry—and they entered the house through a patio door.
“I like it,” he said. It was decorated in a traditional style, lots of hunting prints and old furniture, but with a smattering of modern art. A Christmas tree with some wrapped gifts beneath it stood in a corner.
“Me too. I’ll just run up to her bathroom and check things out and be right back down.”
“Great.” He stood there with his arms folded and tried to ignore the powerful temptation to go after her.
“Deacon?” Macy called down.
“Yes?”
“Could you come up? You’re not going to believe this!”
“Sure.” He bounded up the stairs—ignoring how happy he was to be beckoned—and saw an open door, some light pouring from the room, and the edge of Macy’s ebony coat and copper skirt.
“She did leave on her flat iron,” she said when he arrived, pointing to the bathroom counter. “This is the first time I’ve known someone who thought they left something hot on and actually did.”
“She’s lucky.”
“She is, but that’s not what I wanted to show you.” She inclined her head. “Come here. Into her bedroom.”
“Really?”
“She won’t mind.”
They walked in. Three bright, shiny, new tricycles sat on one side of the room with big foil bows tied to them: one silver, one red, and one green. Giant tags hung from the handlebars with names written in magic marker: Jake, Tommy, Marcus.
“She’s got triplet nephews,” Macy said. “They’re coming for Christmas. They live in Savannah.”
“Wow. That’s really nice.”
Macy blinked and hugged herself. “Yes. It is.”
“You want kids?”
She laughed. “Sure. Someday. But even if it never happens, I have Lucy and Sam, my niece and nephew. How about you?”
“It’s not something I’ve ever seriously contemplated.”
“Why, do you think?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
She nudged his shoulder with hers. “You have to know. Is it because you were an only child?”
He crouched by a tricycle, his coat puddling around him, and ran his hand over the seat. “Maybe.”
She sat down on the floor next to him.
He looked over at her. “I just always thought I’d stay busy. I think I’ve always been afraid to slow down.”
“You mean, with Fran, you never relaxed? Had family time?” She hugged her knees close. “Was her career always paramount?”
He sat all the way down too, and shook his head. “She was wonderful at sitting with me and reading.”
“Shakespeare.”
“Exactly. Or E. B. White. Or Louis Sachar. We’d watch TV shows too, and DVD movies, or play board games. But I always got the feeling that we were running from something.”
“Oh,” Macy said.
A beat of silence went by.
“I think we were always running from the sadness of my parents not being there,” he said. “Every birthday, every holiday, every milestone at school—I felt their absence. I didn’t want to. But I think Aunt Fran felt it, and so I did too. She’s not one to hold back when she feels something.”
“I can imagine.”
“Poor woman, she tried. I never saw her actually lose it. Never even heard her cry in her bedroom. But I sensed it in her. There was a hole in the fabric of our family she never wanted to look at. She never wanted me to either.”
“I can see why. Did you ever go visit your parents’ graves?”
“A couple of times. Once when I’d gotten out of the hospital with a pretty severe case of tonsillitis. I was about eight, and for some reason, it took me a while to recover. At the cemetery, Aunt Fran held my hand so tightly it hurt, and I pulled away, went running down a path. But she caught me and brought me back. We left flowers. The next time, I’d turned twelve, and she gave me a lecture about becoming a man while we were there. Both times, I remember we got out as fast as we could. And right before college, I went by myself without telling her. But nothing happened. I mean, I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel.” He paused. “I haven’t been back since.”
Macy put her hand over his. “I’m sorry.”
He turned to her. “You should probably move your hand.”
“I don’t want to,” she said stoutly, the way a good friend would.
“You’ll regret it,” he warned her.
She didn’t blink. “You will.”
He laughed. “You’re brave.”
“So are you.”
And then he leaned over and kissed her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Macy knew it was the wrong thing to do, kissing Deacon.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
But she did it anyway because sometimes wrong was actually right. She didn’t know how to explain
this truth, but when it came, there was no denying it. It was real. It was complete. It was massive, like a thunderstorm that moved over the prairie, and when it came, it occupied your body and soul and you thought you’d be afraid of it, but you weren’t. You knew all along you were meant to be in it, and then you realized you actually created it.
You ruled the storm.
And she had to be honest. She didn’t just give in to Deacon. She signaled him with her body language, with her eyes, with every cell in her body screaming for him to touch her, to kiss her, to do more … way more.
She invited him in, past her big coat with the wispy feather collar, and the tightly zippered gown, and her beautiful French bra and panties set from Bits of Lace on King Street.
And once they got started, there was no stopping them.…
Here was the tacky part, although she wouldn’t apologize: she rummaged through Louisa’s bathroom counter drawers for condoms. She didn’t want to ask Deacon if he had one. Because then that might mean he was intending to use it with Louisa.
“I have one already,” he said when she brought in the shiny foil packet.
She was crushed. “You do?”
He laughed. “Not for Louisa,” he said. “Every decent single guy carries them.”
She laughed too. Of course he was right.
They stayed in Louisa’s bedroom, on top of their coats on the floor. They were bad houseguests—they weren’t even houseguests!—and they didn’t care. They made love in different, crazy positions that just happened, like they were channeling the Kama Sutra.
More than once.
All in half an hour.
She had already decided Deacon was the best lover she’d ever had when she caught sight of a tricycle and the clock on Louisa’s bedside table.
“We need to go,” she said on her back, still panting and so pleasured she didn’t want to move.
Deacon was busy running his hand up and down her side, from her bare shoulder down to her hip. She felt curvy and attractive. “You’re right,” he said.
And then he pushed her palms back on the coats, positioned himself over her, and kissed her, just kissed her, until she felt like that adored queen on the barge on the Nile that she’d wanted to feel like ever since she first saw him.
Finally, he pulled back. “This was a long time coming.”
Christmas at Two Love Lane Page 17