A few days after Macy said she was done with him, Deacon saw Penelope again at Harris Teeter. She shyly asked him if it would be okay to go a Christmas party together—as friends, she assured him—and he said, of course it was. At the very least, he owed it to her for being so supportive. Plus, she was still doing research for him into his family tree.
After the party, which was tame verging on dull, he walked Penelope home, kissed her on the cheek, and didn’t make any definite plans. When he headed back to the Battery, he was caught by the light at the corner of East Bay and Broad and had to wait. To distract himself from the fact that he’d lingered on that corner with Macy a few times, he pulled out his cell phone and checked his messages. He’d received nothing from New York, for the first time since he’d arrived in Charleston. His colleagues were finally getting the message: Leave him alone.
He called George.
“You’re already done with your date?” George asked.
Deacon could hear barking in the background. “Yes. And it was fine. So don’t get on my case. I’ll be home in a minute. Wanna go out and play some pool?”
“No. I need to work on the Colonel Block problem and babysit the Corgis. Bubbles has a stomachache. She ate too many cream puffs. I put them out on the piazza to stay cool because the fridge is too full, and she got out there and gobbled them up.”
“Oh God no. Where’s Fran?”
“Playing bridge at Mrs. Beauchamp’s. Although I think it’s strip poker. Mrs. Beauchamp may be ninety, but you ought to hear her talk about living in Paris when she was an exotic dancer back in her twenties.”
“Wait—she’s a librarian.”
“And your point is? Are you making assumptions about librarians that are totally unfair and wrong?”
“No—”
“She became a librarian later. And she’s the best damned one in Charleston.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“You would too, if you’d been here for dinner. Colonel Block still hasn’t figured out Fran has a crush on him. I don’t think she has either. She thinks she hates him, and vice versa. He waxed poetic about my pork roast, but he didn’t say a word about Fran’s new hairdo or false eyelashes.”
“He’s old, George. Give him a break.”
“Those lashes were a bitch to put on. Fran’s used to her makeup man at the studio in New York. She said I had fat fingers. That woman knows how to hurt a guy’s feelings. She hurt the colonel’s too. She told him he needed his bushy eyebrows worked on. She’s right, of course, but that was low.”
“I’m about a block away. Maybe I’ll keep walking.”
“No, come home.”
Home. Deacon found that the grand living quarters his aunt had purchased had become a home of sorts. “Maybe this is the way old people do relationships.”
“Not on your life,” said George. “My grandparents were lovey-dovey until the end. Are you almost here? Whitney, Francine, and Gareth need you. They’re feeling neglected. Bubbles is getting all the attention. And that’s because she smells really bad.”
Oh God.
“What should I do about the colonel?” George couldn’t stop talking. “Pull him aside and tell him outright that a diminutive Yankee television personality has the hots for him?”
“Aunt Fran would hate our interfering. And so would he. No, we have to make it so he’s intrigued somehow.”
“Tonight she told him everything she knew about nineteenth-century artillery.”
“What does she know about that?”
“Next to nothing. She thought she was trying to upstage him, but you and I both know she actually wanted to impress him. Listening to her recite from The Encyclopedia of Cannons was as boring as watching Kardashian women discuss shopping. Or salads. They’re always eating salads.”
“George, get back on track. Did the colonel like what Aunt Fran had to say?”
“He couldn’t hear a damned word. He left his hearing aid at home.”
Deacon couldn’t help laughing. He was walking past a garden that even at night in the winter was stunning. Maybe it was the statues illuminated from below, or the perfectly manicured topiaries, or the shadowed brick wall. It exuded mystery and elegance, and he had a sudden yearning for Macy, the most elegant woman of his acquaintance—when she wanted to be. She was a mystery all the time, he decided, feeling slightly bitter about it.
But who was he kidding? Deep inside, he loved that about her. Life was never dull around Macy. He missed her terribly.
“Old people are adorable, aren’t they?” George chuckled. “The worst part is we can’t strategize with your aunt about this crush as long as she won’t admit she has one.”
“Maybe she’ll talk to Celia.”
“No. Fran is persona non grata with Celia at the moment.”
“Why?”
“Today they were at some Christmas luncheon on the Isle of Palms held by an elite book club, members only, but the president made an exception for Fran since Celia begged. So they were discussing the latest thriller by some well-known guy, and Fran said over her shrimp salad that she thought this author was a jackass. She’d had him on her TV show once, and he was rude to her crew, and she couldn’t wait to get him off the set.”
“Okay, so?”
“So his wife is a member of the book club. She was sitting right across from Fran.”
“No way. He lives in Charleston?”
“Yes. A lot of writers do, actually. And CEOs of big corporations in New York. They fly down on the weekends.”
“Poor Aunt Fran. Such bad luck.”
“Deacon, she knew he lives in Charleston!”
He groaned. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“She couldn’t have known his wife was there, though. Let’s give her that.”
“Sure,” George said. “But you don’t diss locals when you’re a guest or a newcomer—or both, as she was.”
“Okay, but we both know what she was thinking. She was trying to find a way to connect. That story was her ‘in.’”
“I get it. But they saw it as her showing off. And being rude. And she’d have gotten the same reaction in New York. It’s not just a Southern thing. People object to loudmouths. And harsh as that term is, that’s what Fran is.”
“She’s made millions off that mouth.” Deacon wished he knew what to do. “But she’s not perfect. And if she says the guy was an asshole, I believe her. She’s reliable that way.”
She’d called Deacon one the other night, as a matter of fact, for messing things up with Macy.
“Well, the wife was none too happy,” George said, “and Celia was caught in the middle. She told Fran she was taking a few days off from socializing with her and that Fran had better think long and hard about how many party invitations she wants to receive here.”
“Great.”
George sighed. “Don’t worry too much. She’ll rally.”
“She always does.” Deacon turned the corner and saw George standing on the condo balcony, lit up with soft white Christmas lights. A dog snout poked through the railing. That was no doubt stinky Bubbles, and she’d better stay there for a while.
George waved. “I guess we can get off the phone now. I’ll have a bourbon waiting. Cigars too.”
“Maybe skip the cigars.”
“You’re going to invite Macy over, right?”
“No. Get over it.”
“She can sit downwind.”
“She hates me.” And Deacon clicked off before George could agree.