Christmas at Two Love Lane

by Kieran Kramer

  “Thanks for sharing it with us.”

  “My pleasure. I have many more pounds where these came from. I have to have shrimp and grits at least a couple times a month. Somehow it grounds me. You have anything like that?”

  “Yep. There’s a pizza place in my neighborhood, Frantoni’s, that makes incredible upside-down pizza.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They put the cheese on the crust first, and then the sauce on top. I don’t know why it tastes so good that way, but I wake up craving it. If I don’t have it at least every other weekend, my life falls apart.”

  They both laughed and locked gazes. Damn if he didn’t want to stop stirring those grits and go over and kiss her.

  “Keep stirring.” She knew exactly what he was thinking. She bent her head and got back to peeling shrimp. “Anyway,” she said like they were old friends, “Tiffany’s a writer. She grew up in Nantucket, so you two will have some geography in common, I’m sure.”

  “I love Nantucket. What kind of writing does she do? In her file, it just said she was self-employed in the arts.”

  “Essays, mainly. Enjoyable nonfiction pieces she writes for magazines, mainly about gardening. Flora and fauna. She moved down not too long ago to be near her sister. The sister owns a candle shop on Society Street.”

  “That’s interesting, I guess. A whole store full of candles.”

  “That’s where you’re meeting Tiffany.”

  “Really?” Deacon was surprised. “When we texted, we decided to go to a bar for drinks.” He’d been planning on calling Tiffany that night to strategize how to get Macy there.

  “I encouraged her to do something more exciting,” Macy, ever the matchmaker, said. “So y’all are going to make candles at her sister’s shop instead. One section of the store is devoted to classes.”

  “Oh.”

  Macy laughed. “You don’t sound too excited.”

  Deacon loved hearing her laugh. “Can you come with us? This seems like a chick thing.”

  “That’s not fair. Guys like candles too.”

  “You’re right. I’m into candlelit dinners. And candles in the bedroom.” He waited for her to object, but she didn’t. “A naked woman by candlelight is a beautiful sight.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  He heard a bit of sass and sizzle in her tone. “Yeah,” he said, his voice roughening at the thought of seeing her naked. “I’m not a crafts person, though.”

  She laughed again. “This is some conversation. ‘Not a crafts person.’”

  “And your problem with that is…?”

  “You make doing crafty things sound so awkward. And dull.”

  “I will never make a wreath with a hot glue gun. Ever. And I sure as hell thought I’d never make a candle.”

  “Aw, you can handle it. It’s a good icebreaker.”

  “I’ll do it,” he said. “For you.”

  She looked over at him again. “Not for me. For your aunt. And yourself. You might like Tiffany.”

  “I told you—”

  “You don’t know in advance that you won’t connect with her.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  She peeled her last shrimp and washed her hands under the faucet. “You can’t know that.”

  “Sure, I can. I’m already thinking of someone else. And that someone is you.”

  She dried her hands on a tea towel. “But we’ve never even—”

  “Never what? Made a candle together? Come with me, and we will.”

  “No.” She folded her arms over her beautiful breasts. “I was going to say we’ve never even … you know. You can’t like me enough to say you’ve sworn off all the other women in Charleston.”

  “Did Maria and Captain von Trapp even get to first base before they knew they had the hots for each other?”

  She laughed aloud. “So you really do know musicals. Can you sing?”

  He kept stirring. “I’m the best tenor on the planet, at least in my own head. I sing in the shower every morning and wonder how Broadway has done without me all these years. I’d make a helluva leading man. I see myself as Yul Brynner with lots of hair.”

  “Oh my God.” She was giggling again.

  He loved that. “You want to check on these grits? Make sure I’m stirring them right?”

  She came over, carefully, it seemed, as if she were afraid he’d be the Big Bad Wolf and eat her up. She peeked into the pot. “You can stop. They’re done.” She looked up at him with a distinctly amused, if frustrated, light in her eye. “You’re a real troublemaker, you know.”

  “Thank you.” He put the spoon down. And this time he did place his hands at her waist. “I’m glad you came over to cook shrimp and grits for us.”

  She looked at his mouth. “Me too. Will you ever sing for me?”

  “Only when we’re in the shower. I could arrange that. Tomorrow morning? Your house?”

  She turned a deep red. “No.”

  They both listened to Jeopardy for a few seconds. Alex Trebek was insulting a contestant. Aunt Fran said, “Alex, you never came on my show, and now I know why. You’re a pill. A real pill.”

  George was snoring.

  Jeopardy went to commercial, its theme song making Macy and Deacon both grin for some reason.

  “What a weird and wonderful holiday this has been so far,” she said softly.

  “And to think before I came here, I didn’t even know you existed,” he said. “If I’d seen you on Bless Your Heart, I would have taken the next plane down here to meet you, long before Christmastime. Maybe even Halloween.”

  She smiled. “I like that we met now. You dressed up for Halloween—”

  “I was a vampire this year,” he interrupted her.

  She chuckled. “You as a vampire, and pumpkins, and my favorite candy together … that might be too much awesomeness for me to handle.” Her eyes were luminous.

  “This ex-vampire wants to kiss you,” he said.

  And he did. This time it was slow, and it was sexy from the very beginning. Nothing innocent or young about it. They were two adults, and Deacon wanted Macy. He hoped he was making that clear. She, he was happy to sense, wanted him too, judging by the way she wrapped her hands around his neck and moaned a little against his mouth. He hardened against her, and she didn’t move away. She clung even closer, tilted her chin so he could get better access to her neck.

  If only George and Aunt Fran weren’t there—and Alex Trebek. The Jeopardy theme, the most unromantic song in the world, came back, and so they finally came up for air.

  “Uh-oh,” she said low. “We shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I disagree. We totally needed to do that.” He ran his hand down her back and back up to her waist. “You sure you won’t come with me and Tiffany?”

  “No.” She pushed gently against his chest, and he released her. “I’m not babysitting you and Tiffany.” She sighed. “I need to cook the shrimp.”

  “Okay,” he said, and felt his body—heated and ready for sex—slowly surrender its primal need, at least for the moment. Macy was obviously unsettled. Maybe even upset. He got that. They were crossing lines that she’d had no intention to cross. She’d told him so, and—poof—those lines were gone. “Is there anything else I can do to help in here?” he asked her, putting every ounce of understanding that he could into those words.

  She sent him a bright smile, but he could tell it was contrived—pure Southern politeness. He’d learned in the short time he’d been in Charleston that you didn’t show your backside. You kept up a front. You retained your dignity—and your graciousness—at all costs.

  “Please call Fran and George to the table in five minutes,” she said. “If you want to check the wine in the meantime, that would be good. I brought over a nice pinot grigio to go with the shrimp.”

  “Okay, then.” He put on his own brisk air, more to accommodate her need for distance than to express any discontent on his part—and how much his body felt wrecked by lust and long
ing. He walked out into the living room. “Shrimp and grits in five,” he said.

  George and Fran were quite the pair.

  “Who are Salt-N-Pepa!” George was awake again and yelling at the television set.

  “Salt and Pepper, Alex!” Fran cried at the same time.

  “You lost,” said George. “You forgot to put it as a question. And they’re Salt-N-Pepa. No R on the end, you nerd.”

  “I hate you.” Fran hit George with a couch pillow.

  “Guys,” Deacon told them. “Forget about Jeopardy. Go wash up. Macy’s been working hard in the kitchen.”

  It was like rounding up two puppies. But eventually, everyone got to the table. Macy was there, beaming as she handed around plated shrimp and grits.

  “Mmm-hmm,” said George. “This smells divine.”

  Everyone dug in.

  “And tastes like a million bucks,” said Fran.

  Thankfully, their Jeopardy fervor was forgotten.

  “This is really good,” Deacon said. And it was. Even the grits, which were smooth and creamy, not gooey at all. The shrimp were plump and swimming in some kind of delicious gravy. He could see why Macy had to have this a couple times a month.

  “I’m glad you like it,” she said. “It’s nothing fancy. I use bacon, not tasso, and whatever tomatoes I have on hand to help round it out.” She put down her fork. “I hate to leave the party, but I have to go.”

  “Where?” Deacon suddenly completely lost his appetite.

  “I just got a call in the kitchen,” she said. “An unexpected one. I’d never abandon one event for the other, I promise, unless it’s a really big deal and I can trust the people I’m with not to take it wrong. Which I do you. But I have a date I don’t want to miss.”

  “You do?” Deacon said like a disappointed high school boy.

  Fran and George exchanged delighted looks.

  “Of course she does,” said George.

  Fran waved a hand. “Honey, go paint the town red.”

  Macy laughed. “It’s not that kind of date. My sister’s sick, and she needs me to come over and bake eight dozen cookies for school tomorrow. Then I have to decorate them.” She stood, seemingly reluctant to go. Her gaze was a little strained. “See y’all soon. I knew you’d understand.”

  “Have a great time.” Deacon hated to see her go, but he was beyond thrilled she didn’t have a real date. “I mean, have as much fun as you can baking cookies.”

  “Oh, it’s fun, all right,” said George, “especially if there will be single guys there for you to feed raw cookie dough to. Any chance of that, my dear?”

  “No,” said Macy.

  Good, thought Deacon.

  “The single men here are idiots,” said Fran. “Complete fools. Macy should have had ten marriage proposals by now.”

  “Exactly,” said George.

  Deacon agreed, but that was a touchy subject. “I’ll walk you downstairs,” he said, feeling wooden all of a sudden.

  “Oh, no.” Macy’s smile was equally forced. “I’m fine.”

  That was a “no” if there ever was one, and Deacon had the thought that maybe this cookie caper was entirely made up. But he hoped not. Because that would mean she didn’t want to hang out with him and his kooky family.

  Yes, George was family. And so were all those roly-poly Corgis.

  “Okay, then,” he said. “I guess I’ll let you know later how my candle-making date goes tomorrow.”

  “Right,” she said, and walked meekly to the door, like she’d forgotten something.

  “Spit it out,” said Aunt Fran. “Is there something else you’d like to say, Macy?”

  “No.” She sounded firm.

  “Are you sure?” Fran asked.

  Macy nodded. But she looked completely miserable. “Bye,” she squeaked.

  When she shut the door behind her, Fran pointed her fork at Deacon. “You’re a fool,” she said.

  “What do you mean by that?” He felt his blood rise.

  But Fran wouldn’t say. George stayed silent too, although he wore such a smug expression, Deacon was annoyed. “Stop that,” he told him.

  George quit chewing and glared at him. “Don’t blame me.”

  “For what?” Deacon was really pissed now.

  “For your idiocy,” George replied, then looked at Fran. “This meal is delicious.”

  “It is,” she said serenely.

  It was superb. But Deacon sure as hell wasn’t going to eat it around these two Jeopardy-loving fools. He picked up his plate. “I’m eating in the kitchen.”

  “Suit yourself,” Fran replied airily.

  “Be that way,” said George. “Do nothing and sit back like a king on your throne.”

  And then they both laughed. Laughed! As if Deacon was a joke—as if his love life was too.

  Maybe you are, a voice in his head taunted him. And maybe it is.

  “I’ve never had a joke of a love life!” he called out to them. “And if I’m a king, you’re the court jester, George, and you’re the mean old nurse, Aunt Fran, the one who doesn’t do anything when she sees trouble happening except smirk and talk to the king like he’s the baby she used to take care of. Well, he’s not.”

  They didn’t say a word. All he heard was the clinking of knives and forks against china and the pounding of his miserable heart.

  He wanted Macy to feed him raw cookie dough.

  Maybe it wasn’t too late!

  Maybe that whole time she’d wanted him to come with her, but she hadn’t been sure how to ask, particularly as they were eating her specialty dish. He was an idiot, not to see her dilemma.

  He strode out into the dining room. “I’m going. Don’t wait up for me.”

  “We won’t,” said Aunt Fran, her eyes alight.

  “Later, gator.” George raised his wine glass to him.

  Deacon wouldn’t tell them what he was up to, but he knew they knew. Because when he shut the door behind them, Fran said, “We love you!” in a semitrembling voice and George said, “Good night, Deacon!” in the sweet, simple tone that meant they’d been on his side the whole time.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Deacon got his cookie dough. Macy plopped some right into his mouth the night of the cookie baking at her sister’s house. But she also fed her sister’s dog some cookie dough, so Deacon didn’t feel particularly special. Her sister’s husband was in the kitchen too during the whole floury, buttery shebang, so nothing romantic happened. But at least Deacon had made the effort to be there. He could tell Macy appreciated it by the way her face lit up when he caught up with her on her walk down East Bay Street toward her sister’s house on Tradd.

  “It’s you,” she’d said.

  “Uh-huh,” he said back.

  They pretended he was just being helpful. But he knew—and he was sure she knew—that he was making an extra effort to chase her. It was the classic old-fashioned chase men took up when they wanted to be with a special woman. He was proud to join that fraternity.

  And being at her sister Anne’s house was easy. The kids, Lucy and Sam, were fun. So was Kyle, the brother-in-law. It was a low-key endeavor with lots of holiday music keeping them going through the scary parts, like rolling out the dough to the right thickness, which Deacon had never had to do before since he’d never made cookie dough.

  “It’s not hard,” Macy assured him.

  “That’s what she said,” he replied. Kyle laughed, but Macy had never seen The Office, so she didn’t get it.

  Deacon had been all ready to walk her back home when they finished up at eleven thirty, but she decided to spend the night and wake up with the kids in the morning to feed them breakfast. Anne would be in no shape to, and Kyle had to head to the hospital at five.

  So Deacon walked home alone. But he didn’t feel alone. He felt like maybe some Christmas elves were busy making a surprise for him since he’d been so helpful that evening. He hoped the surprise would be Macy, wrapped in nothing but a big red bow. But h
e knew that elves didn’t think like grown-ass men with sex on the brain. So he suspected he might get a book. Or socks.

  He got home and saw a text from Tiffany: Looking forward to messing with Macy tomorrow. I have a plan to get her there. You need to be surprised too, or she’ll catch on. Trust me?

  Sure, he said, willing to go along on the adventure. Looking forward to it.

  “Tell me,” said George. They were in the kitchen drinking late-night Irish coffees in glass mugs—as if they needed caffeine and alcohol at midnight, or fancy glass mugs for that matter—George was totally into presentation. “You look like you have a delicious secret you need to spill.”

  So Deacon told him how Macy’s clients were going to cooperate with him to get Macy and him together.

  “Together?” George asked. “As in in the sack? Or as in connecting with your true love and getting married?”

  “You got whipped cream on your lip.”

  George ignored him. “Are you turning into Jimmy Stewart before my very eyes? Or are you still Bruce Willis?”

  “Neither,” Deacon said. “I’m more like Ryan Gosling.” He reached out and swiped the fleck of whipped cream off George’s lip.

  George swatted at him. “You are no Ryan Gosling. I’d say you’re Channing Tatum. You’re noble enough. But you still ooze bad boy.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this devious plan a lot sooner?” George cocked his head like a seagull on the Battery wall.

  “I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do. And you’d have let me know.”

  “Damn straight. But I happen to think it’s a great idea. So much more exciting than going on deadly dull blind dates. And Macy likes you. I can tell. I don’t know why she’s so gun-shy, though. Could it be you already threw out Christmas-fling signals? If so, you were talking to the wrong girl.”

  “Yes, I threw out Christmas-fling signals.” Deacon was abashed. He so rarely was.

  “Dumb,” said George. “But understandable. She makes a helluva cake. That alone is a tremendous aphrodisiac.”

  “Well, I’m ramping up my game,” said Deacon, “and trying seriously to get her attention. But I’m a little uneasy about tomorrow. I have no idea what Tiffany is going to do at this candle shop.”