Christmas at Two Love Lane

by Kieran Kramer

  “Scarves?” asked Aunt Fran.

  “Miss Thing enjoys knitting scarves every year with the Marine Corp seal on them,” Macy explained. “To give to the marines who come help us.”

  “I normally send two,” Colonel Block said, “but everyone fights over your party and those scarves, so I’m sending three this year.”

  “Excellent.” Macy beamed.

  “Deacon and I would love to crash the party,” Aunt Fran said.

  “Oh, please come,” Macy said. “Everyone’s invited. We do it every year. The only requirement is to bring a new, unwrapped toy. We’re collecting for infants all the way up to fifteen-year-olds.”

  Aunt Fran smiled. “We’ll be there.”

  Of course, they would. Deacon couldn’t wait to see all those bikes lined up. And he wanted to be there for Macy. Sure, she’d have marines helping her, but maybe he could do something to help out too.

  “It’s next Saturday, noon to two,” Macy said. “We’ll have a cocoa and coffee bar set up from Roastbusters and lots of Christmas cookies that I spend a whole two days making with my business partners in the kitchen at Two Love Lane. We’ve got some carolers coming, and we might even have Santa Claus.” She tossed a conspiratorial grin at the colonel.

  “You’re an imposing man,” Aunt Fran said, “who can be jolly if you want to be—not that I’ve seen that yet.”

  The colonel lowered his brow. “I’m always jolly, madam.”

  “Should we put two and two together then?” Aunt Fran asked. “I’m guessing you have a red suit in your closet.”

  “I’ll never tell,” the colonel replied stiffly.

  “Oh, lighten up, Frances.” Aunt Fran laughed.

  “My name isn’t Frances,” the colonel said with great dignity.

  “It’s an expression,” Aunt Fran explained.

  The colonel sniffed and stared off into the distance. “Pardon me for not recognizing it.”

  Aunt Fran shrugged. “No wonder, since you’re sitting on such a high horse.”

  Macy’s eyes widened, and she looked to Deacon. Let’s get outta here, her expression said.

  “Let’s go, everyone.” Deacon led the way down the stairs, Macy’s arm wrapped through his.

  It felt right, so right, he had to think about something else. But what? It was impossible when she was this close. Not even the friction between Aunt Fran and the colonel could really bother him.

  “What is your first name?” Aunt Fran asked the colonel as they crossed the vast hall.

  “Frederick,” the colonel replied.

  “I’ll call you Freddie.” Aunt Fran was a mischief-maker.

  “I prefer Frederick,” the colonel shot back.

  Aunt Fran tried unsuccessfully to block a yawn. “I can’t wait to get into a warm taxi. Or Uber car. You like Uber, Colonel?”

  “No. Nor do I like taxis. I like to travel under my own power.”

  “So how do you get to New York? Flap your arms?” Aunt Fran obviously thought her own joke was very funny. She laughed.

  Deacon and Macy exchanged a look. Whatever, hers said, her eyes twinkling. He agreed. It was the colonel and Aunt Fran’s problem, not Deacon and Macy’s. He had her arm. She stayed close. He was happy.

  The colonel glared at Aunt Fran. “I don’t go to New York.”

  That was like cold water poured on Aunt Fran’s head. “That’s crazy,” she said.

  “I’m hardly crazy,” said the colonel.

  “I think you are.” She huffed. “Anyone who misses out on New York is nuts. But I’ll forgive you, Colonel. Curmudgeonly behavior aside, you’ve got your good points.”

  “Please elucidate,” he replied drily.

  “I’m not telling. You’ll have to charm them out of me. And since that’s not going to happen, they stay in the vault.” Aunt Fran lifted her chin.

  The colonel glared at her.

  This was how older people flirted? And fought? Deacon squeezed his fingers gently around Macy’s arm. She stifled a giggle. “So,” he said briskly, “we’re off to the Grand Bohemian.”

  “One of my favorite places.” Macy wanted to sound upbeat too.

  “That sounds good,” said Aunt Fran coolly. “I’m a bohemian, unlike the colonel here.” She strode like a queen toward the exit door.

  “Hey!” Colonel Block called after her. “I’ve been a bohemian plenty of times.”

  “What would you know about letting loose?” she flung over her shoulder at him.

  She was holding her own. Deacon wasn’t surprised, but he wondered if the colonel was.

  “I suggest we take a brisk winter’s walk there,” the colonel said outside. “It’s only on Wentworth Street. It’s good for your soul, to be out in the cold.”

  “This isn’t cold, Colonel,” Aunt Fran said. “This is balmy compared to Manhattan at this time of year.”

  “Which is why you left,” he replied smugly.

  “Absolutely not. It had nothing to do with snow and everything to do with seeking new adventures.”

  He harrumphed. “As if we’re some sort of exotic creatures below the Mason-Dixon line.”

  “Well, to me you are,” Aunt Fran said, “especially here in Charleston. What’s a Huguenot torte? And do I really need to eat grits every day at breakfast?”

  “Yes to both,” the colonel said. “And MoonPies and Goo Goo Clusters. They weren’t invented here in Charleston, but they’re true Southern delights.”

  “As is Cheerwine,” Macy chimed in, “which comes from North Carolina. Where Pepsi was created too.”

  Deacon was glad the cold, fresh air had blown away at least some of the older folks’ animosity by the time they’d reached the Grand Bohemian Hotel. They went up the elevator to the rooftop bar, where several fires flickered heartily at chic, Scandinavian-inspired hearths, and took seats at one of the long, rectangular pits.

  When the beverages came, including the colonel’s rum and Coke, Macy remembered something. “Coca-Cola is from Atlanta.”

  “Ah, yes.” The colonel took a big sip of his drink.

  “But you don’t have good New York pizza.” Aunt Fran had managed to sit almost in the colonel’s lap. And interestingly enough, he hadn’t scooted over.

  “And our bagels,” said Deacon, “are the best in the world.”

  “I’ve heard they’re delicious,” Macy agreed.

  “But are they as good as a Southern biscuit?” The colonel eyed the flames thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had a bagel, much less one from New York.”

  “We know.” Aunt Fran pretended to yawn. “You’ve never been there.”

  The colonel’s brows lowered again.

  “Maybe we should invent a dish that combines the best of New York and Charleston,” Macy said quickly.

  She was brilliant. And Deacon liked brilliant.

  Aunt Fran’s mouth fell open. “I love it! We’ll make it into a contest.”

  “A contest it is.” The colonel looked a little less unhappy.

  “I’m not a real cook.” Deacon was a take-out king. “But I’m an excellent taster.”

  “We’ll have teams.” The colonel pointed his drink in Deacon’s direction. “You’re on Macy’s. And Fran”—he hesitated—“you’re on mine.”

  “Keeping your enemies close, Colonel?” She patted his knee, and he didn’t flinch. “Never mind. This way the best of both worlds will be sure to be represented on each team.”

  Deacon and Macy shared another amused look. Did the colonel and his aunt like each other? Or hate each other?

  “The winner will be announced on New Year’s Day, after my annual cannon firing,” the colonel declared.

  Aunt Fran laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re firing a cannon?”

  “A small ceremonial one.” The colonel drew himself up. “It’s the highlight of the year in Charleston.”

  “It’s the colonel’s thing,” Macy whispered to Deacon. “And he thinks it’s everyone else’s too. H
e takes it personally when someone’s not in town for it.”

  But Deacon wasn’t thinking about the colonel’s cannon ceremony. He wished he could lean over and kiss Macy. Run his hand over her thigh. Hold her fingers and squeeze them, hinting at sexy promises for later that night.

  “Who will judge?” Aunt Fran’s very good point reluctantly brought him back to the topic at hand. “No contest is worth its salt without fair, impartial judges.”

  “George,” Macy said instantly, “because he’s from New York. And how about Mrs. Beauchamp?”

  Deacon remembered she was the elderly librarian who’d been to his aunt’s boat parade party.

  “A fine pair,” said the colonel. “But we need a tiebreaker judge.”

  “Penelope Gordon,” Macy suggested.

  “Perfect,” said Aunt Fran.

  “Penelope’s a delight,” the colonel agreed. “A true gem of a lady. She’d make an excellent wife.” He looked pointedly at Deacon.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he said. “I’m only here for a few weeks. Besides, she’s Macy’s friend too.”

  Here he was sitting with Macy—whom he’d just slept with—and the old folks were trying to marry him off to one of her good pals.

  “Penelope’s modest. And quiet,” said the colonel.

  Aunt Fran lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “That’s not always a good thing.”

  “Oh, yes it is.” The colonel’s “Ho Ho Ho” wasn’t exactly friendly.

  Aunt Fran sat up higher. “I suppose you’re right, Colonel. Choosing a quiet, modest mate makes a lot of sense, especially if you’re scared to have someone stand up to you.” She shrugged. “Luckily, Deacon’s not intimidated by anyone.”

  The colonel drew in his chin. “What are you implying, Miss Banks? You think I’m scared of you?”

  “You wouldn’t be that unusual,” she said. “Even the commander of our armed forces—the President—confessed he’s scared of me. I think he was kidding. Because at the dinner I shared with him and his family at the White House, he and I cracked jokes all night.” She turned a gimlet gaze on him, raised her glass, and took a sip.

  The colonel drained his rum and Coca-Cola. “Well, then. That’s a fine memory you have.” He sounded sincere.

  “Yes, it is.” Aunt Fran was on fire.

  “I’m impressed,” said the colonel.

  “You are?” Aunt Fran squeaked.

  He chuckled. “Of course!”

  Aunt Fran’s mouth dropped open, but she quickly shut it when Deacon winked at her. She chuckled. “You keep me on my toes, Colonel.”

  “Likewise,” he said with a grin.

  Aunt Fran had won that round, and she was very happy, which made Deacon happy for her.

  “Back to Penelope,” Macy said helpfully. “She’ll be fair. So she’s our final judge.”

  “I’ll have a New Year’s Eve luncheon.” Aunt Fran’s tone brooked no arguments. “They’ll taste the dishes there.”

  “We have a plan,” the colonel said.

  Maybe, just maybe, he and Aunt Fran could be friends. At least Deacon hoped so. He liked the colonel, despite the dicey last half hour.

  Macy’s eyes lit up. “Hey, it’s Rena!”

  Two women about Macy’s age both stopped walking toward the exit.

  “Hey, yourself,” one of them said with a big grin. “We were in the corner. Didn’t see y’all.”

  So this was Rena. She was pretty. Over the next few minutes, Deacon saw she had a bubbly personality.

  “Still on for tomorrow?” she asked him.

  “Looking forward to it,” he said.

  “You’ll love the RKW. It’s my favorite art gallery,” Macy said, and grinned at both of them. She was in full-on matchmaker mode, which Deacon must endure, despite everything that had gone on between them. It was his fault too. He was the one who’d said love was for naïve people. Not that he was in love. But he liked Macy. A lot.

  A lot lot.

  “I haven’t seen the latest exhibit, so I’m extra excited,” said Rena.

  After a flurry of farewells, she and her friend took off.

  “Such lovely Southern belles you’ll be meeting this month, Deacon,” said Aunt Fran.

  The colonel cleared his throat. “The loveliest Southern belle is right here—Miss Macy Frost.”

  “Of course.” Aunt Fran smiled at her. “But she’s not available, sadly for us. She’s helping Deacon find dates through Two Love Lane.”

  “What does a man of Deacon’s good looks and status need with a matchmaker?” asked the colonel. “That makes no sense to me.”

  Deacon felt none too happy. “It’s a gift,” he said, “to Aunt Fran. From me. She’d like to see me settled down.”

  The colonel narrowed his eyes at Deacon’s aunt. “You’re making a big mistake interfering like this. Love can’t be forced.”

  “I know.” Aunt Fran shook her glass and looked at the ice as she did so. Maybe she regretted putting her nephew in a corner, asking for a gift like this. “I’m not pressuring Deacon. But I’m hoping Macy can help him see that “commitment” is not a dirty word. That’s all.”

  “Hmmph,” said the colonel. “Nothing wrong with being single either.”

  “Amen to that, Colonel.” Deacon winked at him.

  “Don’t you dare get involved in my romantic life, Macy,” the colonel warned her.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, Colonel.” Macy’s smile was affectionate. “Not unless you come to see me at Two Love Lane.”

  A twinkle appeared in the older man’s eye. “Don’t need to. The odds are in my favor.”

  The colonel was a player, Deacon saw, and couldn’t help tipping up the corner of his mouth in amusement.

  “So there are that many older widows and divorcees in Charleston?” Aunt Fran asked her sofa mate a little acerbically.

  “Yes,” the colonel said, “and you left out the ones who’ve never married. I don’t like to call ’em old maids because they’re not dowdy in the least. They’re usually rich and have chosen to stay unattached because they’re having too much fun traveling and working and doing their thing. They’re loving life. Like you, Macy. But a couple decades older.”

  “Well,” Aunt Fran said drily. “It’s nice to know you won’t contemplate dating someone Macy’s age.”

  “Of course not.” The colonel’s brows formed a storm cloud over his nose. “What do you take me for? A silly old man? I want a woman of experience.”

  “I like how you think.” Aunt Fran sounded outright saucy.

  The colonel’s ears turned pink. “I’m speaking of life experience, madam.”

  “There are all kinds of life experience, Colonel.”

  “As I well know,” he replied.

  “Do you?” Aunt Fran said silkily and sent the colonel a frank stare.

  Macy suppressed a laugh. Deacon was in awe of his aunt’s ballsy approach to flirting. Or dissing. He couldn’t tell which one it was. Surely that antagonistic chat between the two older people wasn’t good for their blood pressure, but maybe it was good for their souls.

  They had a good walk home. Everyone was mellow. Deacon was sure the clear night sky bursting with stars had something to do with it, as well as their conversation about Yo-Yo Ma and what a talent he was. The colonel was the first to say good night, and he seemed reluctant. Deacon and Macy dropped Aunt Fran off next. She couldn’t stop talking about the colonel and how difficult he was, but her color was high and her eyes were blazing. Finally, Deacon escorted Macy to her own front door, the fake one that led onto her piazza.

  She looked up at him. “This was some night.”

  “That it was.”

  She wrapped her arms around her feathery coat. The wind off the Battery blew her hair.

  “Could you believe my aunt and the colonel?” he asked her.

  “No.” Macy laughed out loud, her gaze on the harbor, glinting with moonlight and starlight. “They’re funny together, aren’t they?�
�

  “Yes.” He couldn’t think of what else to say. She was so damned gorgeous.

  Their eyes met.

  “Don’t even think about it,” she said firmly.

  “I’m thinking about it.” He put his hands deep in his coat pockets. “It would be so easy. And no one would know. I won’t be able to sleep. I’ll tell you that much.”

  “One word.” She smiled. “Rena.”

  An instant bad mood descended. Deacon hated not getting his way, not being in charge, and being ensnared by his own plans that were now working against him.

  Macy’s phone rang and she glanced at it. “It’s awfully late for my sister to be calling me. I’d better take this.” She opened her massive front door. “I had fun tonight. Really. But we need to move forward.” She spoke softly, but the words were damned final.

  “Understood.”

  She looked at him hard for a second. “I’m glad you understand,” she said, then gently shut the door. Her heels clicked over the piazza floor. “Anne? Is everything all right?”

  There was the rattle of her keys in the actual front door. She laughed. “Oh, good. I just wondered. It’s kind of late. Tell me more.”

  The front door opened, and she went inside, talking all the way, and then shut the door behind her.

  Deacon had never had anyone tell him to get lost after he’d just made love to her. He’d always been in charge of his relationships—hell, even of his one-night stands.

  It was very clear that Macy was doing just fine without him.

  He actually chuckled aloud walking back to his aunt’s door, thinking about it. It felt better than he imagined it would to be taken down a notch.

  In fact, the notion that he couldn’t control everything was actually pretty invigorating. If he really took it to heart, he could relax. Let life happen more. Stop trying to construct it all around him, like a city—a fortress—to protect himself.

  He stopped on the sidewalk, hands in his tuxedo pants pockets, thumbs out, to look out at Fort Sumter, which seemed to float within a silver haze in Charleston Harbor. The battles this town had seen. The pain. The suffering. And not only during wartime. Yet it was stronger and more beautiful than ever. Rebuilt. Renewed. A real community, open and alive.