“I think this is our last piazza bourbon,” Deacon told George. “It’s time for fireside bourbon.”
George laughed. “You’ve said that already. But we keep coming out here.”
Deacon sighed. “I like Yo-Yo Ma, but I hate to leave.” No man wanted to dress up in a tux, sit in a box at the symphony, and make small talk when there was a college football game on television, a stocked bar, pimento cheese on crackers, and fireside bourbon.
The only bright spot for him was that Macy was coming over to attend the concert with Fran, and he’d get to escort them both as far as the lobby of the Gaillard, where they would meet up with Celia, their hostess, and he’d linger behind and wait for Louisa, his blind date.
His blind date who wasn’t a blind date, that is. It was a complicated operation, but Louisa had it all figured out, how she’d ditch him and leave Macy with no choice but to step in.
Speaking of which—the totally in-the-dark object of his desire came walking down her front porch steps at that very moment in a gown the color of a well-circulated penny.
“Get a look at that,” said George.
“Whoa.” Deacon couldn’t take his eyes off the plummeting neckline until he noted that Macy also wore an unbuttoned dramatic black coat with a big, furry collar that made him think of Cruella de Vil—in a good way, an erotic way that he was appalled and turned on by. So he tried to focus on the little shiny things holding her blonde curls together, baubles that picked up the last few rays of sunshine.
She was a Southern goddess who looked like she might have a whip hidden in the folds of that coat, and now she stopped on the sidewalk below their piazza and looked up at them. “Hey! How are y’all?”
“Fantastic!” said George with more verve than usual.
“Very well, thanks,” said Deacon. “I’m looking forward to our evening.”
Macy beamed. “I’m excited, too! I can’t wait for you to meet Louisa. You’ll love her, Deacon.”
She couldn’t hear George’s diabolical chuckle. “If she only knew,” he murmured.
“Shut up,” Deacon hissed, then said to Macy, “I’m sure I’ll enjoy Louisa’s company”—he felt generous, and slightly liquored up—“if she’s a friend of yours.” And he meant it. Any friend of Macy’s was a friend of his.
“She’s wonderful,” Macy assured him while he tried not to ogle her cleavage, which he could drop a peppermint down if he merely stuck out his arm and released one from his fingers. There was a bowlful of the red-and-white striped sweets on the piazza, and he was sorely tempted.
“Fran said you’d have me a drink prepared.” Macy squinted up at George, having no idea how close she’d come to getting a free piece of candy in addition to a free drink. “Is that right?”
“A mere drink, milady?” George called down to her as if he were in a Shakespeare production. He loved attention, especially from beautiful women and men—and passing tourists, several of whom stopped across the street on the Battery wall to watch the goings-on at the glamorous mansion with three piazzas.
He put his hands on the balcony railing and tossed his head, which made the sweeping curl on his forehead drop over his eye, lending him a Hollywood look. “Au contraire! I made a special, one-of-a-kind cocktail to commemorate this beauteous evening.”
“Awesome!” Macy’s surfer-girl exclamation broke the dramatic spell. But George didn’t care because she was clapping, and she hadn’t removed her gaze from his.
The people across the street clapped too. One even whistled.
George turned to Deacon, “God, I love this town,” he said.
Deacon still wanted to drop the peppermint down Macy’s gown and then run downstairs to the sidewalk and fish it out himself. With his mouth. What else was he supposed to think about when her luscious breasts were on such classy display?
“This cocktail,” George continued to explain to Macy in his Shakespearean tone—because he really didn’t know when enough was enough—“is to celebrate Fran’s debut in Charleston society, Deacon’s date tonight with a Southern belle, and most important of all, our neighbor Macy’s kindness in putting up with the motley, needy, dare I say ‘panting’ crew next door. And I’m not talking about the Corgis.”
The tourists, thankfully, moved on, their attention diverted by two yellow labs trotting toward them, their tails at full wag; a horse-and-carriage ensemble carrying even more tourists; and the blood-red of the setting winter sun.
“You belong here, George.” Macy laughed up at him, then winked at Deacon.
Damn. That wink went straight to the high school crush center in Deacon’s brain and then down his body, testing the elastic stretch of his very expensive boxer briefs. Indeed, if Aunt Fran were to come out onto the piazza, he’d feel compelled to turn the other way.
“What’s this illustrious beverage called?” she asked George.
George hesitated but a second. “The Yo Yo Ma-garita,” he declared.
Deacon groaned. “Really?”
“I made that up right this minute,” George said, “and I think it’s pretty clever.” He turned back to Macy with a delighted smile. “The secret ingredient is a splash of limoncello! Get it? Cello?”
Deacon shook his head. George glared at him, but brightened again when Macy said, “Of course I get it! You clever man!”
George chortled. “You’ll be hearing Yo-Yo Ma’s cello inside your head if you drink too many. Which might be a good thing, depending upon what he’s playing. God forbid, it’s a dirge. Or a march.”
Macy laughed. “I’ll be right up.”
“I’ll meet you downstairs.” Deacon was resigned to appearing dull at the moment. No red-blooded male could compete with George at his most charming. No one.
“I’ll be waiting in the little foyer,” she announced to Deacon with not an ounce of flirtation in her tone, sadly.
“We’d better have tequila,” he warned George. “And limoncello.”
“Of course we do.” George waved a dismissive hand at him. “Now stop taking out your sexual frustration on me, and go open the door for the person who’s really making you crazy. ’Kay?” He turned on his heel and hurried inside to whip up his new alcoholic creation.
And Deacon went to get Macy. He didn’t even mind any more that he was missing a good football game. He was recording it anyway. Earlier that afternoon, he’d decorated the cubbyhole of the foyer with real mistletoe from a nearby sea island farm. He’d picked it up at Harris Teeter, his new favorite social hangout.
“Don’t tell me any scores,” he said to George on his way out the front door, which was now covered on both sides with sparkly Christmas wrapping.
“Shut up and rescue that magnificent creature downstairs. She belongs up here, surrounded by Corgis on the burgundy velvet couch. And you’d better prepare yourself. Your aunt is on pins and needles. She thinks no one will like her tonight. I’m relying on you to see to it that she feels like a star.”
“George, she is a star.”
“I know, but she forgets.”
Ten seconds later, Macy announced, “I see it,” when Deacon unlocked the hall doors.
She should. The sprig of mistletoe was attached to a ribbon slowly spinning from the ceiling inside the tiny entryway.
Behind him, jazz music played from the first-floor condo belonging to a mysterious young man he’d glimpsed only twice. A few feet behind Macy, on the other side of the outer doors, two tourists discussed the oyster po-boys they’d had for dinner as they walked by.
Deacon crossed the threshold into the matchbox-sized chamber, his back squeezed against the brass mailboxes, and shut the doors to the hallway behind him.
They were now in an area about as big as an airplane bathroom.
Yes, it was a bold move. And he had no idea how Macy would react. Her ebony coat and gown took up almost the whole space—that, and his heady wonder at her utter gloriousness.
“Sorry, Frost.” His dazzled appreciation grew as he inhaled her flower scent and touched one of the dangly pearl earrings she wore. “You know the rules.”
“Good try, Banks.” She smiled up at the mistletoe, and a wispy black piece of fur from her coat caressed her cheek. “Those rules don’t apply when one of the kissers is employed by the other.”
He couldn’t help himself. He allowed his gaze to sweep over her plunging décolletage and back to her face. “Perhaps it’s too early for mistletoe anyway. I think the tradition goes back to pagan mating rituals that took place at the winter equinox, which isn’t for a few days.” Her pupils widened.
Ah. He’d gotten to her. An intoxicating, invisible heat rose between them.
“Shall we go upstairs?” He held out his arm.
“Good idea.” She took it without the slightest hesitation. He’d hoped that maybe he’d knocked her off her game and she’d need to lean—heavily—on him. Apparently not.
Their moment was over.
As they ascended the stairs, she said, “I can’t wait to see what Fran is wearing,” the way women do when they want to stick to innocuous topics rather than listen to you pointedly suggest making out beneath the mistletoe.
Deacon played along. “It’s a gown she says she borrowed from Rita Wilson and never gave back.”
“The Rita Wilson? Who appeared in Sleepless in Seattle? And married Tom Hanks?”
“The very same.”
“She was also in an episode of The Brady Bunch,” Macy informed him. “She played a rival to Marcia during cheerleading tryouts.”
He stopped on the stairs. “We really ought to talk out here more often.”
She smiled but said nothing. She knew just when to pull those Mona Lisa moments. He could never predict them. They drove him mad.
Once in the condo, they were swept up by all things Fran, like two trees sucked into a giant tornado. Deacon had no interest in George’s special cocktail. He never veered from bourbon, Scotch, and beer. But Macy and Aunt Fran threw back two Yo-Yo Ma–garitas apiece.
Afterward, Deacon called Uber—Aunt Fran despised limos—and helped the ladies inside a small compact car. The driver peppered Aunt Fran—the first celebrity he’d ever picked up in his car—with questions about Harrison Ford and Denzel Washington, his two favorite actors. He didn’t care that Deacon had to sit in the front seat on top of a pile of newspapers.
Deacon didn’t care either, honestly. He was glad his aunt was already having so much fun. Macy too. Together, they were slightly scary, especially post-tequila.
Deacon hated to admit it, but he felt cozy in the Uber car. He didn’t like words like “cozy.” He associated it with furry bunnies and babies’ bedrooms. But that was how he felt. He didn’t want to get out. Maybe they could ride around for a while and talk about non-work-related things with his two favorite women.
Wow. That was a big thing to admit. But it was true. Macy and Aunt Fran were his favorites. His number ones. He’d do anything for either of them. He wasn’t sure he liked knowing there were now two women in his life who commanded that sort of devotion from him. But before he could think about it more, they were at the Gaillard Center.
Cars whizzed by in both directions. “Thanks for the ride,” he told the driver.
“You’re welcome.” The guy jumped out to help Aunt Fran, who’d sat directly behind him. They chatted and laughed and took their time.
It was inelegant to rush in Charleston.
Deacon took Macy’s hand. It was warm. Her slender fingers curled around his when he helped pull her up and out. When she stood her full height, he felt possessive all of a sudden and didn’t want any other man to get close enough to inhale her flower smell or cast secret glances at the tops of her breasts, so gracefully displayed in her dress and framed by that amazing coat.
She almost left her purse behind, a glittery little thing, but he saw it on the floor and handed it to her.
“Thanks,” she said, and clutched it to her stomach.
“I hope you’ll enjoy yourself tonight.” He meant it too. She had no idea she’d be sitting next to him, no idea that Louisa wasn’t going to show, that in effect, he and Macy would be on a date. He didn’t feel guilty either, because a woman who looked as glorious as she did in that gown should have a man who admired her escorting her into what was sure to be a wonderful performance.
The air was chilly. He was glad of his topcoat. And now he had Aunt Fran on one arm and Macy on the other. The impressive, well-lit Gaillard Center stood before them. Somewhere inside was Yo-Yo Ma—and Celia, demanding attention, because they would be sitting in her box.
Meanwhile, he was sure his arrangement with Louisa would go off without a hitch.
But for the thirty seconds it took to walk inside, he simply enjoyed the pressure of the ladies’ fingers on his coat, and Macy’s hip occasionally brushing his. He also reveled in their small talk.
“I love theater boxes,” said Aunt Fran, wobbling a little in her heels. “Important things always happen there. Apart from Abraham Lincoln’s assassination, I mean.”
Aunt Fran, he thought with affection. She was so odd sometimes.
“Such as?” asked Macy.
“Romantic liaisons,” Aunt Fran said. “Scandalous assignations. Covert affairs.”
“Oh.” Macy leaned a little more into him, the better to speak to his aunt. “I should learn more about that theory, being a matchmaker.”
“You should.” Aunt Fran’s tone was chipper. “And occasionally, people’s futures are crushed—or made—in theater boxes.” She was on a roll.
“How do you know all this?” asked Deacon.
“Edith Wharton.” Aunt Fran laughed softly. “But really, everyone knows. You probably just haven’t thought about it. Small spaces—wherever you have a lot of compressed life forces—are powerful places. Theater boxes, tree houses, gondolas, ship cabins, train berths.”
“Phone booths,” added Marcy.
“Yes,” said Aunt Fran. “Don’t discount them. Superman used them to great effect.”
Deacon exchanged a quick look with Macy. Did postage stamp–sized foyers with dented brass mailboxes and frosted door panes count? How about compact Uber cars, where big truths snuck up on a guy with no warning?
She sent him a small, tense frown, which he easily read. She’d made that phone booth comment, so surely she was thinking about the foyer at Aunt Fran’s house too and the kiss that never happened beneath the mistletoe.
He had only two more strides before he’d be required to open the door to the Gaillard Center and release both his aunt and Macy to their adoring fans—and Celia.
He stopped abruptly. “I just wanted to say that I’m a very lucky man to escort you two gorgeous creatures inside.” He looked first at Aunt Fran, who beamed up at him, and then at Macy, whose smile was tense.
“No, we’re the lucky ones.” Aunt Fran patted his arm.
“You’re very kind,” said Macy primly.
Where was the confident matchmaker? The masterful cake maker and waffle baker? The hot tamale taking up too much space in the foyer in her black coat and sexy copper-colored dress?
He didn’t know. But he missed her already.
“You think we’ll be okay?” Aunt Fran asked him. “These are very intimidating people here in Charleston—kind, generous, but they don’t suffer fools.”
“You’ve dined with a U.S. President,” he reminded her, “arm wrestled Sylvester Stallone, and sung harmony with Paul Simon. You’ll do great.”
“Of course you will,” echoed Macy, sounding spirited.
He relinquished both their arms to open the door. Aunt Fran walked through and was instantly engulfed by Celia and her posse. Macy swiftly followed, and Deacon was right behind her.
She turned all of a sudden. “If you go out with Louisa afterward—” Her expression was stark.
“Everything will be fine,” he assured her.
She hesitated a moment, then blurted out “Just don’t kiss her” and took off into a blur of colorful gowns and black tuxes before he could ask her if that was the matchmaker in her talking, or the siren under the mistletoe who’d turned down his kiss and might possibly regret it.