Celia sat.
“No stirring the pot,” Aunt Fran promised her. “No using bad words. Although avoiding ‘asshat’ might be hard. It’s so much fun to say. And there are so many asshats in the world.” She plopped down on the sofa. “Witches with a capital B, too. Don’t take this wrong, but you’re a little bit of one, Celia, aren’t you?”
Oh, God. Would Celia last? Deacon kind of hoped she wouldn’t. He took off down the stairs. His only exposure to Southern ways was The Andy Griffith Show. He’d never had coconut cake, but he was sure he’d keep it all to himself if he baked one.
But this was Macy. Maybe this wasn’t an Aunt Bea–type gesture. Maybe she’d made this cake to get to know him better—so she could get deets on him, to use to find his soulmate.
Not a chance in hell!
But look how quickly she was on the move. He was impressed.
On the ground floor, there was a locked inner double door. On the other side, Macy waited in a tiny tiled foyer with three ancient brass mailboxes. Another set of double doors loomed behind her, at least fourteen feet high. Behind those was the blue of the harbor and a splash of pale winter green from a palmetto tree on the Battery wall.
In her hands was a magnificent cake.
Deacon unbolted the inner door, and she stepped inside the main hallway.
“Wow,” he said. The toasted coconut on top of the cake curled like wood shavings. “That’s beautiful.”
She was beautiful, glowing with pride but even more with excitement. She liked to make people happy. That was obvious.
“I brought you the contract to sign, if you want to,” she said. “It’s in my purse. You can read it and sign it and stick it through my mail slot tomorrow morning. It’ll save you a trip back to my office.”
She made a quarter turn.
He pulled a rolled sheaf of papers from her purse. “Will do.”
So it was official.
“I love that tiny foyer.” Her voice echoed off the staircase and walls. “You don’t need a key to get into it. If there was a thunderstorm, I could stand in there to get out of the rain. Or if I were a kid and just wanted to find out what it was like to be in one of these big houses, I could go in there and pretend. I’ve always liked tiny places.” She paused. “I miss phone booths, even though they were already on the way out when I was born. I got to stand in one once at Disney World. A British one painted red. I liked it as much as some of the rides.”
He was unduly charmed by every little thing she said. “That tiny foyer is where the UPS guy leaves George and Aunt Fran packages,” he said. “I found five this morning. The mail carrier opens it every day to get to the mail boxes too.”
“My house doesn’t have that.”
“You have the phony front door leading onto your porch.”
“Onto the piazza,” she said with a smile.
“Okay, piazza.” He’d agree to anything she wanted to call it.
“I have to keep my fake door locked, though,” she said. He was gratified that she’d decided to ignore his slow learning curve and keep teaching him about her way of life. “Otherwise, tourists walk right in. The real front door is halfway down the length of the piazza.”
“How does the UPS man leave packages? Or the postman?”
“They can’t. They leave me a note. And then I have to figure out how to pick the packages up. Or I take my chances the next day and leave the outer door unlocked. That way they can open it and leave the package on the piazza. Neither way is particularly comfortable.”
“What a funny town. In a good way. There are secret places all over.”
“Yes, like Love Lane.”
“I never would have found it. I would have stopped at Roastbusters, but Sherry the Realtor told me about the tiny jog around the corner past the hydrangeas, and there it was.” They started toward the stairs. “You were nice to bake a cake.”
“Thank you.”
“Maybe it’s about more than being nice.” He had no idea why he wanted to taunt her, except that he felt the same way he did when he chased his crush around the playground as a kid, supposedly to pull her ponytail. He wanted to be near her, talk to her, listen to her. To see how her emotions moved across her face. “Could it be a strategy of yours—to get over here and get intel on me from Aunt Fran as fast as you can?”
“Oh, I did it for both reasons,” she said, blithely. “To learn more about you, yes. But I also want to welcome your aunt. I enjoy baking. I have a trick. Mix four layers at a time in my KitchenAid—enough for two cakes—bake them, wrap them, and keep them in the freezer. I only had to make the icing when I got home from work.”
“Clever.” He couldn’t get enough of her. “Can I hold it for you?”
“Oh, no thank you. I’ve got it.”
They walked up the wide staircase side by side, and neither of them said a word. It was a bit awkward. But he felt awkward. He was lusting after a wholesome Christmas elf. Luckily, it only took ten seconds to reach Aunt Fran’s door.
“Aunt Fran looks forward to meeting you,” he finally said, and made the decision then and there to make mad love to his next-door neighbor, the sooner the better. She’d forget all about finding him a soulmate, and she’d have just enough energy afterward to arrange the dates he needed to satisfy Aunt Fran.
“No,” Macy said.
“No, what?”
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“You do?”
“You want to have a fling with me to pass the time while you’re here. And maybe I’d forget all about my plan for you, to find you a soulmate. That’s an old and tired strategy, wouldn’t you say? Men have been avoiding commitment forever that way. Through sex.”
“I suppose you’re right. And it’s really fun.”
“Well, look into my eyes.”
“I’m looking.” They were that fantastic color, the brown and gold of deep autumn.
“It’s never gonna happen.”
“Really?”
“Really.” She lifted her chin. “The door, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He swung it wide open, proud that he’d said “ma’am.” He’d heard it about a thousand times already in one day. “Watch out for the Corgis,” he added.
But it was too late. They rushed at Macy and began sniffing her pink Chuck Taylors.
“Come in, come in!” Aunt Fran said a little belatedly, standing up from the couch. Deacon noted that she looked quite pretty in a shockingly peach caftan she must have quickly changed into while they were downstairs.
Celia stood, reluctantly, it seemed.
When Macy saw her, she seemed to freeze for a second, the same way she had at Fast and French. She set the cake on a table, petted the dogs swarming around her, and said, “Hello, Miss Banks.”
Fran had always kept her maiden name.
His aunt strode over—ever on stage, her head held high, her shoulders thrown back—to share an air kiss with Macy. The dogs scattered, content that their mistress had taken over the welcoming duties. “Call me Fran.”
“Only if you call me Macy.”
“Of course.” Aunt Fran got busy examining the cake from all sides, oohing and aahhing over it.
Macy wore a pretty little sweater over her shoulders. Beneath it was a faded purple band T-shirt. “Hello, Celia.”
“Hello, Macy.” Celia was polite, and no more.
“This cake is enchanting,” Aunt Fran told Macy. “You made it?”
She was doing well so far. “Enchanting” was an elegant word.
“I did make it.” Macy sounded a little out of breath, as if she’d just finished making her creation—which she had—and now had to return home to brush all the leftover coconut flakes off the counter and wash the frosting bowl.
Aunt Fran made her “shocked” face. The daytime talk show audience loved it. Her brows shot up. Her chin flattened. Her mouth hung open, and her eyes registered intense astonishment. “Really? Really? And you’re not married?”
In some ways, Aunt Fran was too predictable for words. Old-fashioned, too.
“No, I’m not,” Macy said.
Her little “no” must have saddened his aunt because she put a palm over her heart. “Are you kidding me? When you make such good-looking cakes and are so beautiful yourself?” She didn’t wait for an answer—as usual. “What’s wrong with the single people of Charleston?” She made another famous face—her “I-know-your-deepest-secrets” expression, the same one that had made Beyoncé, LeBron James, and Scarlett Johansson laugh and then reveal a juicy detail about their lives. “Maybe you have a married lover you don’t want to tell us about.”
Aunt Fran waited. Her expression this time was indescribable. But if Deacon had to try, he’d say she looked as if she had to use a public bathroom and there were too many people in line.
If they didn’t like that look in Charleston, then too bad. Although he did feel a little sorry for Macy. But she was tough. She could take it.
Celia was frozen in her seat, a fake smile pasted on her lips.
Macy stole a quick glance at Deacon—what could he say?—then she smiled kindly at his aunt. “I actually don’t have a married lover. Sorry.”
See? She was a trooper.
“That’s a travesty,” his aunt replied sternly. “You’re prettier than any of the girls on Bless Your Heart. And they’re always bragging about their conquests.”
“Fran,” Celia tried to interject.
“Not that I have a problem with those girls and their sex lives.” Aunt Fran spoke right over her paid consultant. “But I would think the men of Charleston would fall over themselves to win Miss Macy Frost, maker of cakes.”
Deacon wondered if Macy wished she could go home and watch TV or make more cakes. Most people probably would want to disappear at this point.
But she rallied. “That’s very kind of you,” she said. “I think.”
Good for her!
“You’re getting too personal too fast, Fran,” said Celia.
“Oh, I meant it as a compliment.” Aunt Fran waved a hand. “You’ve got that all-American girl thing going on, Macy, with hidden depths. Like Jennifer Lawrence or Emma Stone. Not Reese Witherspoon. She comes across as prissy. You’re not prissy. Celia’s prissy. I couldn’t handle two prissy women at once.”
“Get used to it,” Celia said blandly. “You’re in the heart of prissy country.”
“Shit,” said Fran. “Then I’m screwed.”
Deacon laughed. Macy giggled.
“She needs to stop,” Celia said.
“Oh, right.” Aunt Fran’s expression was an odd mix of fear and bravado, which was what Deacon loved about her.
“Well, um,” Macy said, “you asked about the eligible guys here, Fran, and the truth is I haven’t met any I’m seriously interested in. Maybe I’ll change my mind at some point.”
“I like a discerning woman,” Aunt Fran insisted. “I know a fellow”—She gave Deacon a theatrical nudge in the side, and he grimaced. He wasn’t a fellow! He was a man! A hot-blooded one, too!—“who’ll meet your criteria for the perfect guy.”
“Don’t listen to my aunt, but do stay for dinner, Macy,” said Deacon. It went against his best interests, but sooner or later, she was going to grill Aunt Fran about him. He might as well be there.
“Yes, you must stay,” echoed Aunt Fran. “I’ll get George to set another place. If he ever gets back. He’s enjoying all the Southern people.”
As if he were on an alien planet.
Macy chuckled. “I can stay for dinner, thank you very much. But don’t get your hopes up, Fran. Deacon’s hired me through Two Love Lane. I don’t date my clients.”
“Why not?” His aunt picked up one of her Corgis, the wriggly one named Whitney, kissed his nose, and put him back down.
“We want them to feel we have their best interests at heart,” Macy said, “not our own.”
“She’s the consummate professional.” Celia swung a leg over her knee in lazy fashion. “I suppose.”
“Thanks for the ringing endorsement, Celia.” Macy’s tone was only slightly dry.
“My pleasure.” Celia kept that leg swinging.
Deacon felt serious tension developing.
Macy looked at Fran. “I’m sorry. I feel like we’re on Bless Your Heart right now, with Southern-fried conflict. But ours isn’t contrived.”
“I thought I sensed something going on.” Aunt Fran gathered her Corgis close. They panted in unison, their ears pricked up.
Deacon felt for Macy.
Celia stood. “Perhaps I should go.”
“Oh, no,” said Aunt Fran. “It could be that real Charleston drama is even better than the television version.” She patted the seat next to her. “Sit, Macy. Tell us what’s going on. You have a right to defend yourself against Celia’s lukewarm support. You sit back down, too, Celia, and let her do it, since you brought it up. Deacon, pour us all a glass of wine.”
“My pleasure.” All he could think of at the moment, however, was getting Macy away from Celia and his meddling aunt and onto the porch—the piazza—where they would look out at Fort Sumter together. He’d watch her profile. And admire her figure. All while she was talking to him in that absurdly husky-yet-sexy voice.
Of course, the Corgis would be there, scratching themselves and yawning and wagging their tails. They ruined the daydream, in a way, which made it easier for Deacon to focus on pouring everyone wine.
Macy sat gingerly next to Aunt Fran, almost on the head of a sleepy Corgi named Bubbles. “I feel like I’m on your talk show.”
Aunt Fran laughed. “My talk show was fun. You have nothing to fear. And maybe everything to gain.” Gareth, the fattest Corgi, put his snout in Aunt Fran’s lap, and she petted him fondly, like the Wicked Witch might pet her favorite flying monkey.
One really shouldn’t mess with Aunt Fran. She was a strange mix of adorable senior citizen and, well, evil incarnate.
Deacon handed Macy a nearly brimming glass of a good Australian shiraz. “Don’t let my aunt bully you. Or let Bubbles put you in a corner.”
Macy giggled.
He had to figure out a way to make her do it again. His fingers touched hers when she accepted the glass. And he liked it. Very much.
“Now I know where you get your intrepid nature,” Macy said.
No one had ever told him he had an intrepid nature. Tech magazines had called him “adventurous,” but there was something so much more noble and glamorous about being called “intrepid.”
“You might as well tell them,” said Celia from her corner of the boxing ring that was Aunt Fran’s living room.
“Or you will, I assume,” Macy replied.
Celia shrugged. “They’ll find out somehow.”
“Spill the beans, my dear,” Aunt Fran commanded Macy.
“Oh, all right.” Macy sighed. “Once, long before I had a matchmaking service, I set two people up. I had a friend—”
“An acquaintance,” Celia interrupted her, “who was born here but went to boarding school far away.”
“Obviously, you, Celia,” said Aunt Fran, in her best listening mode. She was the most impressive as an interviewer when she listened.
“Yes,” Macy went on, “it was Celia. She was at the end of her rope about men. So I promised I’d help her find the right guy, and I thought I had. But I found out these two were wrong for each other a week before the wedding. I told her”—she paused and looked guiltily at Celia—“that she should reconsider the whole plan.”
“It was none of Macy’s business,” said Celia. “But she had to butt in.”
“What happened?” asked Aunt Fran.
Celia took a swig of wine. “The day after I talked to Macy, the groom”—Deacon could tell Celia wanted to call him a very bad name, and he wished she would—“decided to call off the wedding.”
“Was it the wrong decision?” Aunt Fran rivaled Katie Couric and Barbara Walters when she felt like appearing deeply, professio
nally involved in ferreting out good gossip.
“At the time, I thought so,” said Celia, “and for several years afterward.”
Macy looked miserable. “I’m really sorry.”
“What happened to the son of a bitch groom?” Aunt Fran asked.
“Fran—” Celia attempted to rebuke her.
“We’re in private,” Fran said. “And you hate him, right?”
“Yes, but you don’t say so. It’s not done.”
“You poor Southern society people.” Aunt Fran shifted in her seat. “To be so constrained.”
“We’re happy that way,” Celia said. “Anyway, my fiancé decided he was in love with another woman.”
“Who?” asked Fran. “Macy? It must be. Your resentment is obvious.”
“No,” said Macy. “It was someone else. He told me because he was too cowardly to tell Celia. He wanted me to do it for him, and I had no choice. He was going to leave town without telling her.”
“Well, that takes the cake!” said Aunt Fran.
Poor Celia. She sat unmoving and silent as a fencepost.
“Lemme tell ya, sweetheart,” Aunt Fran went on to say, “you lost nothing—nothing—when he left the picture.” Her voice became gentle. “And you shouldn’t kill the messenger. I’m sure Macy didn’t relish sharing such horrible news with you.”
Celia sighed. “I know. It’s not your fault.” She looked stonily at Macy.
Macy’s pink cheeks were pale now. “I knew he was preoccupied. I knew he wasn’t treating you the way a loving groom should treat his future wife. But that was all. When I found out he was in love with that other woman—well, I was shocked. And devastated, on your behalf.”
“Where is he now?” Deacon felt for Celia. He needed to ask at least one question to show he was paying attention.
“Married to that woman,” Celia enunciated properly but with disdain. “They have three children.”
“Surely the devil’s spawn,” said Aunt Fran helpfully.
“They’re living in Atlanta.” Celia sat up a little higher.
“Which Sherman burnt,” his aunt said agreeably.
Celia shook her head. “It’s best not to refer to the War Between the States.”
“That’s what you call it here?”
Christmas at Two Love Lane Page 6
