Christmas at Two Love Lane Read online

  “No, actually.” Macy braced herself for something loud and raucous. “I changed my mind and went after him.”

  “You did?” Greer’s face lit up.

  “That’s my girl!” Miss Thing clapped her hands madly.

  “Woohoo!” Ella put her hands in the air and pumped her arms, like she was dancing to Beyoncé. “I would have chased him, too!”

  Macy couldn’t help grinning. Her colleagues occasionally went a little nuts. But so did she. She had that very morning, as a matter of fact. “After he left here, I chased him down the street, and we had lunch at Fast and French.”

  “You literally chased him?” Greer asked.

  Macy nodded. “And these boots don’t do great over cobblestone. I chased him for three blocks.”

  Greer laughed. It was one of Macy’s favorite things about her. She had a big honk of a laugh. Hah! Hah-hah-hah! Nothing prissy about it. Sometimes it made Macy jump, but it was always worth it.

  Everyone started laughing then. You just couldn’t help it when Greer did. After they all caught their breath, Greer said, “I liked the guy, personally.”

  “So he’s likeable,” Macy said. “But I’m not sure I should have agreed to work with him.”

  Greer still had high spots of color on her cheeks from laughing so hard. “Why wouldn’t you work with Mr. Banks? He’s eye candy. Rich. Powerful. He could bring us some good connections in New York. So could his aunt! What if she’s really happy with what you accomplish with him? She could tell all her Hollywood friends about us—”

  Macy shook her head. “I can’t ask for referrals in this case.”

  “Why not?” A small squiggle appeared on Miss Thing’s freshly massaged brow.

  “Because he’s not a willing client.” Macy spoke bluntly—the ladies were getting carried away. “He’s doing this under duress.”

  Ella’s mouth dropped open. “But he told us it would make his aunt happy to see him settle down.”

  “It wouldn’t make him happy,” Macy replied. “He flat out said he’s not interested in commitment.”

  “Oh dear,” said Miss Thing. “I had such high hopes since he cleared the decks here just to speak to you uninterrupted. I assumed he was desperate for you to find him a love match.”

  “No, not at all.” Macy wasn’t happy to admit that fact. “I think he learned from his aunt how to catch people off guard. He probably guessed he wasn’t a typical client. He assumed I just might throw him out, which I did, at first.” Guilt assuaged her. “I don’t know why I went after him, honestly.”

  “What’s done is done,” said Greer.

  Miss Thing nodded. “Your instincts are always on target.”

  “You’re very kind.” Macy cast a grateful smile around the room. Because really, how lucky was she to have such nice, supportive friends? And when they smiled back at her, she felt fresh resolve. She could do this.

  “So here’s the situation,” she said. “I’ve got to set Mr. Banks up on lots of dates because that’s his Christmas gift to his aunt. Casual dates that go nowhere. That’s not what we do. But I agreed on one condition.”

  “Which is?” Ella asked.

  “I get to try to find him his One and Only anyway.”

  “We’re Two Love Lane,” Greer said. “That’s what we do.”

  “He agreed to my terms, but he also said he’s not going to cooperate in the soulmate search.” Macy lifted and dropped her shoulders.

  “That won’t stop you,” said Miss Thing.

  “Yes, recruiting potential dates should be fairly straightforward,” Greer said.

  “But finding someone who will turn out to be the love of his life in less than a month?” Ella sounded skeptical.

  Macy bent down and scratched Oscar’s ears, her favorite thing to do when she needed time to calm down. “I know it seems impossible. But I want to try.”

  “I can see why you’d enjoy the challenge,” said Ella. “I’m proud of you.”

  “So am I,” Miss Thing chimed in.

  “Me too,” Greer said, “but who’s his perfect match?”

  Nerves struck Macy hard. She gave up on Oscar’s ears and started fiddling with her earring again. “I have no idea.” And she truly didn’t.

  “Let’s sit on the couch,” Miss Thing said.

  It was their thinking spot sometimes. And sometimes it was simply their place to be a united team.

  They squeezed in. The only way they could fit was to link arms. Everyone sighed a cozy sigh, their legs all crossed in the same direction.

  “The house is listening,” said Ella.

  They were quiet for a second. Some winter birds chirped and tweeted in the camellia bushes behind the house, and a hanging shutter on the front porch creaked. Macy felt the peace of the house wrap them up and hug them.

  “Maybe it sounds corny, but I think the house is rooting for us,” whispered Miss Thing.

  Greer wasn’t into mojo, karma, magic, and feelings. She liked numbers and was very practical. But she was also a good sport. She started their secret three-squeeze handshake, which meant I love you, and passed it down to Ella, who passed it to Macy. Macy passed it to Miss Thing, who then patted Oscar, who’d leaped up onto the sofa arm.

  He meowed and jumped down, only to strut across the Persian carpet with his tail in the air. Oscar wasn’t into corny. Not one bit.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Deacon sat on the sofa in Aunt Fran’s new condo, the middle floor of a two-hundred-year-old mansion cut into three layers like a luscious cake. He was restless in the secret way that all men are when they’re waiting on couches for women to tell them what to do.

  After all, when he was staying with Aunt Fran, he was no longer the intuitive, ruthless tech entrepreneur who’d made a name for himself buying start-up companies and transforming them into success stories. He was merely Deacon, the garbage taker-outer; Deacon, the wine-cork remover; Deacon, the lover of all things cooked by George, who was Aunt Fran’s houseman; and Deacon, the repository for his aunt’s hopes and dreams for him. Those included a devoted wife, a home with tea towels in the kitchen, a job that allowed him to take a vacation whenever Aunt Fran stayed at her house on Nantucket, and a strong peppering of dogs and babies in the mix.

  At the moment George was buying up Charleston’s champagne stock before the holiday stampede, and Aunt Fran was talking to Celia Waterford in the kitchen about who was who in Charleston. Aunt Fran still couldn’t believe that the people featured on Bless Your Heart weren’t the crème de la crème of local society.

  “Most of the people on that show aren’t even from here,” Celia insisted. “However, there’s one local on it, Trent Gillingham, who’s a notorious jerk. But he’s from a good family, so people endure him.”

  “Oh no. He’s my favorite!” Aunt Fran talked much faster than the people in Charleston did, with an impatient but good-humored edge. That was normal in New York City—where life was always colorful and busy, busy, busy—but it was very noticeable here. “I was hoping he was misunderstood. He’s really that bad?”

  “Yes.” Celia rolled her eyes. “He’s high on himself. Always has been. Never worked a day in his life and drinks too much.”

  “Deacon, do you hear that?” Aunt Fran practically shrieked.

  “I heard!” Of course, he’d told her a million times already that the show was a total set-up. He went back to focusing on testing out a video game one of his smaller companies had recently produced, but all he could think about was the fact that Macy Frost was next door. He knew she was home from work. When he’d sat on the porch smoking a cigar with George, he’d seen her walking down the street with a bright-orange tote bag on her shoulder zipped shut except for a little hole where the face of that cat he’d met at the office peeked out at the world.

  “Deacon, could you come get this wine?” Aunt Fran called.

  “Sure.” He stood, braced himself to enter the kitchen—because the very-much-married Celia was clearly interested in him, and
he already knew he wasn’t interested in her—and put on a polite, neutral expression.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Aunt Fran ribbed him. She really meant, of course, that he’d been impolite not to join in the conversation earlier.

  “Nothing,” he replied, feigning innocence. “I didn’t want to interrupt any social strategy sessions.” That was his way of reminding the two of them that they were on Celia’s office time, and that Aunt Fran had better pay attention since she was shelling out big bucks for Celia’s social advice.

  Celia leaned on the butcher block countertop. She wore clothes that reminded him of the British royal family when they were roughing it at one of their lesser castles in the country: silk scarf; cashmere sweater; pants made of something warm but expensive; and fine leather boots with good, discreet hardware and elegant stitching. “So you had lunch with Macy Frost?”

  “I did.” Deacon wasn’t fond of answering “yes” or “no.” It was a quirk of his. He had no idea how this habit had ever started. Most of the time, he wasn’t even aware of it. He only became cognizant of it when he was annoyed at having to answer unwelcome questions, as he was now.

  While a roast popped and sizzled in the oven, he poured the three of them a glass of red wine. He handed one to each of the ladies, raised his own glass, and said, “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” Aunt Fran said with such fervor, he knew she was very happy. She was the Evel Knievel of the Upper East Side. Moving to Charleston six months of the year was her version of a rocket-motorcycle jump across a canyon.

  He was glad he had come. She deserved this.

  Celia merely inclined her head and clinked.

  Each of them took a healthy sip.

  “Mmmm,” Celia said. “So tell me more, Deacon.” Her tone was sophisticated-playful. Not quite flirtatious but bordering on. “Are you friends with Macy?”

  “She’s Aunt Fran’s new neighbor,” he said, “so, yeah.”

  “She has such an eccentric family.” Celia gave a little chuckle.

  “I thought Southerners prided themselves on their eccentric families,” said Aunt Fran.

  “To some extent.” Celia sighed. “We do draw a line, however. Wyatt and Melanie Frost were always quite careless with those girls, letting them run around barefoot and in bathing suits in the summer along the Battery wall, like wild things for all the tourists to see.”

  Deacon thought of Macy and how awesome she seemed. He suspected being a wild child had been the making of her.

  “You sure do have a lot of interest in Macy’s life,” Aunt Fran said lightly.

  Celia lifted a delicate shoulder. “Welcome to Charleston. Everybody’s interested in each other here. And Macy and I—let’s just say we have a long history.”

  “Hopefully, a nice one.” Aunt Fran poured Celia another glass of wine. “Especially since Deacon hired her to help him dip his toe in the local dating pool. It could be Deacon meets a nice girl through Two Love Lane.”

  “Could be,” Celia said doubtfully, sending him an enigmatic smile. But he got the message, all right. He was flattered, but he wasn’t interested. He didn’t sleep with married women. And even if she were single, Celia didn’t intrigue him that way.

  “Actually, I’m doing this for Aunt Fran,” he said. “It’s my Christmas present to her.”

  “It was all I wanted.” Aunt Fran gazed at him fondly. “But you’re going to take it seriously, right? You’re over thirty now. Time to fall in love and settle down.”

  “I’ll think about it,” he said. Then he added, “The world’s greatest aunt calls all the shots at Christmas” and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. He never cringed at expressing devotion to the woman who’d taken him on when she’d been only twenty-eight and he’d been in the midst of the terrible twos.

  Aunt Fran wriggled away. “He loves to make me cry and embarrass myself.”

  Celia laughed the tinkling bell laugh that some of the more glossy women of Deacon’s acquaintance in New York learned at Swiss boarding schools.

  “How long has your family been here?” Aunt Fran asked their guest—her employee, although surely Celia would no doubt balk at being reminded of her hired status.

  “Since seventeen hundred,” she replied smoothly. “Robert Waterford, from Essex, England, was the first Waterford in the United States.”

  Somehow from that little speech, Deacon knew she’d always been the teacher’s pet. He also doubted she’d ever gone camping or slept on the beach and woken up with sand and the taste of stale vodka in her mouth. She’d always known what to say and when. Was Celia a robot with no heart, or did she only have really proper manners? He hoped, for his aunt’s sake, it was the latter.

  “What about Macy’s family?” Aunt Fran asked.

  “They’ve been here almost as long as mine has,” Celia replied.

  That flimsy word “almost.” It carried some weight in the diss department.

  It was time to change the subject. “You’ve got to go see Yo-Yo Ma this Friday,” Deacon told his aunt.

  Aunt Fran laughed. “Why, that was out of the blue!”

  “Not really. Macy told me to tell you.”

  “She’s right, you should go, Fran,” said Celia. “It’s too late to get tickets, but Walter and I have a box. I’d love if you’d sit with me. Walter will be out of town at a medical conference.” She smiled at Deacon. “The both of you, of course. Everyone will see you, and you’ll probably get some party invitations out of it.”

  “I’m there,” said Aunt Fran, draining her glass. She then set it with force on the counter to illustrate her extreme enthusiasm. “How about you, Deacon? Or will you be on a hot date?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, which was true.

  “The seats will be available,” Celia reiterated. “If you have a date, bring her along.”

  Aunt Fran patted Celia’s arm. “You’re worth every bit of money I’m paying you.”

  Celia didn’t thank her. “Remember,” she said, “don’t ask anyone else about their net worth. And if you want invitations, please steer clear of asking those funny personal questions you’re known for. I don’t care how curious you are, Fran.”

  “Good Lord,” said Aunt Fran with excitement. “How am I going to hold myself back? Everyone in Manhattan—and let’s face it, around the country—loves when I’m slightly outrageous.”

  “There are a lot of rules in Charleston,” Celia said. “Are you sure you want to toe the line?”

  Deacon took a swig of wine. Funny. Macy had said Aunt Fran would sail through any social tests in Charleston with flying colors. Toeing the line was not his aunt’s natural way.

  Aunt Fran’s eyes shone with anticipation. “It’ll be a nice change of pace for me. My celebrity doesn’t give me a pass here.”

  It was true she could go anywhere in New York and get easy entrée.

  “How about following one rule?” Deacon said. “Be yourself.”

  Celia frowned. “That’s all well and good, but—”

  “Don’t worry.” Aunt Fran patted Deacon’s arm. “I’ll be fine. Celia, how do people dress here? Can I wear my caftans?”

  “Caftans are acceptable for Southern matriarchs.” Celia sounded like she was reading from a book.

  “Thank God.” Aunt Fran brushed pretend sweat off her brow. “I’m a matriarch. Aren’t I, Deacon? Of our little family?”

  “Of course, you are,” he said. “And you wear what you like.”

  Aunt Fran laughed. “I have to admit, I wouldn’t mind impressing that hunk Trent Gillingham from Bless Your Heart. I don’t care that he’s half my age and sleeping with all his female costars. Will we see him around?”

  “Sure,” said Celia. “Most everywhere I go. Consider yourself my plus-one to any party Walter can’t attend. I also plan on calling some friends and getting them to add you to their invitation lists—there are plenty of dinner and cocktail parties over the holidays, sometimes several a night.”

  “I can’t wait
.” If Aunt Fran had had a tail, it would have been wagging.

  “It will happen, I promise.” Celia’s queen-bee confidence was palpable. “You’ll feel like a Charlestonian before you know it.”

  If you toe the line, Fran, was the understood end to that sentence. Deacon didn’t like it. But if it made his aunt happy to play Celia’s game, who was he to interfere?

  There was a buzz on the intercom.

  “I’ll get it!” Aunt Fran grabbed a bowl of nuts and walked briskly out of the kitchen. “Come on, you two! Sit in the living room. It’s probably the delivery boy from the Bull Street Market. He’s coming over today or tomorrow to discuss regular meat-and-milk deliveries—fresh off the farm—with George.”

  “She’s a hoot,” Celia murmured over her shoulder.

  “She’s interesting, all right.” Deacon wasn’t sure about the word “hoot.” Was that good? Or bad? Why hadn’t Celia smiled when she used it? Would Aunt Fran’s brand of intelligence and personality—honed over years of chatting up taxi drivers and celebrities, hosting swanky cocktail parties at her Manhattan apartment, chairing various charitable boards, attending every Knicks home game, and fighting off the competition in the entertainment world—be appreciated here?

  But it was too late to worry, and too soon to tell. What was done was done, and he was here to help her make the best of it.

  “It’s Macy Frost,” the voice said from the intercom. “From next door. I brought you a homemade coconut cake to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

  Macy was coming up. Deacon felt a surge of happiness that had nothing to do with cake. It was about the girl bringing the cake.

  Aunt Fran pressed the intercom button. “Holy crap, Macy. A cake?”

  “Tone it down,” Celia whispered.

  Aunt Fran’s face fell. She pressed the intercom button again. “I mean, uh, George will be ecstatic,” she said meekly. “I’ll send Deacon down.”

  Deacon already had his hand on the doorknob. “Yourself,” he told his aunt. “That’s what you’ll be when we come back.”

  “Fine, but I’ll also avoid asking uncomfortable questions.” Aunt Fran pointed to a wingback chair. “Sit, Celia.”