“Oh, Evelyn, there you are.”
Damn. I plaster on a smile and turn to face my mom, relieved to see she’s alone. In the hour since guests have been arriving for Thanksgiving dinner, Mom has forced me into conversations with two single thirty-something men, extolled my virtues to a man who was recently divorced and is apparently ready to start dating again, and promised a fourth man I’d sit next to him at dinner. Needing a break from my mother, her string of potential ‘suitors’, and the noise of more attendees than I’d expected, I managed to escape and slip into the back hall. I should have known Mom would find me within minutes.
“Why are you hiding out back here when you should be mingling with guests?” she asks. “Ned Goldberg was telling me how much he enjoyed talking to you and that he’d like to get to know you better.”
“Oh joy,” I mutter.
“What’s that?”
My phone buzzes in my hand with the text I’ve been impatiently waiting for. My salvation has arrived. “I said ‘oh joy’, the girls are here. I’ll go meet them at the door. Excuse me, Mom. Don’t hide out back here for too long.”
The sound of her sputtering follows me down the hall. At events like this, where I have to be ‘on’ nearly every second, forced into conversation with people I rarely have anything in common with, and feeling like I’m about to be auctioned off to the highest bidder, I take my kicks where I can get them. Immature? Probably. And yet, occasionally needling my mom seems like a better alternative to exploding at her and demanding she back off.
I hurry to the door and throw it open as the girls approach. Like the amazing friends they are, they offered to be here from the beginning, but I wanted to spare them as much boredom as possible, so I suggested they arrive closer to dinnertime. They’ll do their share of chatting with strangers in less than a week at my birthday party anyway.
I’m about to usher them inside when I notice the handsome man standing behind Hollie. The old-fashioned lamps above the door shine on his dark auburn hair, making me think of the beautiful autumnal floral arrangements Mom had me pick up yesterday.
“Evie, this is Fergus MacKinnon,” Hollie says. “Fergus, this is Evie Hathaway.”
Fergus steps forward with a smile and shakes my hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Evie.” Despite knowing he was Scottish, I’m delighted to hear his accent. “Hollie speaks of you often, and you made quite an impression on my cousin Hugh when you worked together recently.”
“Well, that’s nice to hear. I’m glad you could come tonight. Any friend of Hollie’s is a friend of ours.”
He leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial level as he says, “I hear you might need me to be a buffer of sorts between your mum and her matchmaking attempts. I’m happy to be of service.” It’s only when he squeezes my fingers that I realize our hands are still clasped. And am I…blushing?
The rapid click-clack of approaching high heels brings me back to the present a second before my mom says, “Evelyn, don’t leave our guests standing on the doorstep! Oh, hello there.” Without looking, I know her gaze has settled on Fergus. Looks like I’m not the only one who’s affected by the handsome Scot. Wait ’til she hears him speak.
Fergus winks at me as he moves past me to introduce himself to my mom, giving her a warm handshake and offering her a gift bag I hadn’t noticed before. “I figured a woman such as yourself would be well stocked with wine, so I brought a bottle of Drambuie for you and Mr. Hathaway. It was always a favorite of my mum’s.”
While Mom gushes over Fergus’s thoughtfulness, I turn to Hollie and grip her shoulders, planting a kiss on her cheek. “You’re a genius and I owe you.”
I hug Stella and Louisa next. Louisa looks pale, despite the small smile she gives me; parties like this have always set off her anxiety, although she’s come a long way over the years. She used to avoid large gatherings altogether because they distressed her so much she’d become physically ill.
I linger over our hug as the others greet my mom with embraces of their own. “If you need to escape at any point, we’ll all understand,” I say quietly into her ear. “You can head up to my bedroom or into the media room. Both places will be quiet and no one will disturb you there. Feel free to grab one of us for company if you want. Actually, feel free to grab me, whether you want company or not.”
I barely hear Louisa’s answering laugh as a shadow moves outside the still-open front door. A second later, Wesley steps into the light, looking like a dream come true in dark trousers and an eggplant-colored dress shirt that’s open at the collar.
“Buttercup,” he says. “Sorry I’m late.”
I blink and realize Louisa is no longer in my arms, and I’m somehow standing in front of Wesley. I didn’t know if he was coming; Stella told me earlier that he was non-committal about attending. I can’t help the wild grin that overtakes my face at the sight of him.
Despite having feelings for Wesley for more years than I can count, I don’t remember ever being this affected by him. I haven’t been able to get him off my mind since the other night when we ran into each other downtown. Seeing him again has reminded me of all the things I forced myself to forget, like how heart-stoppingly beautiful his smile is, how sexy his voice is, how his hands look strong and capable and…gah, I need to stop.
I grab his hand and pull him inside. It’s something I’ve done a million times before, so I’m sure he’d never guess it’s because I’m desperate to touch him, even if it’s as innocent as holding his hand for the briefest of moments. “You’re right on time. Welcome back to Hathaway Manor, Wesley. It’s been way too long.”
*****
Mom was so taken with Fergus, she arranged for us to sit next to each other at dinner. When Ned Goldberg attempted to slide into the seat on my other side, Wesley headed him off with a request to sit beside his ‘long lost best friend’ so we could catch up. Apparently even Ned wasn’t immune to Wesley’s puppy dog eyes, which means I ended up feeling like the very lucky filling in an unlikely Thanksgiving sandwich between a hot Scot and my first love.
Dinner has been over for an hour and the party’s still going strong. I had hoped guests wouldn’t linger too long after the meal, but no such luck. Blame it on the free-flowing alcohol and the fact there are servers circulating with trays of tiny, delicious desserts.
My friends stick together, moving around the room like an inseparable flock of beautiful birds. Any time I’m with them for too long, my mom ushers me away to speak to someone else. While I knew there was no point in asking her not to play matchmaker, I did make one request before the evening began. It seemed like a simple enough request: no work talk. And yet, time and time again, Mom introduces me to people who are in the market for real estate, and I end up talking about houses on the market, good investment properties, rental opportunities, and, of course, my recent news-making deal with the MacKinnon Group.
“Hugh MacKinnon is my cousin, you know,” Fergus says, appearing out of nowhere and addressing the elderly white-haired man I’ve been speaking to. “He asked me to move into the caretaker’s apartment in the old funeral home after he bought it to keep vandals and such away while they organize a team to do renovations.”
The old man’s bushy eyebrows skyrocket. He fires off a series of questions at Fergus, who slips in front of me and makes a subtle shooing motion with his hand. Irritation surges through me until I realize his intention is to save me, not snub me.
Making a mental note to thank Fergus later, I dash away. Unfortunately, I don’t get far before I run into Ned. I swallow the groan that rises in my throat, covering it with a delicate cough.
“You seem to be in a hurry to get somewhere, Evelyn.”
And yet he makes no effort to get out of my way and let me pass. My mom sure knows how to pick ’em. “I was just looking for my friends.” I make a show of peering around the room. The show becomes real when I don’t spot the girls anywhere.
“They were all clustered around your mom with Wesley a few minutes ago,” Ned says. “Wesley was doing all the talking and then the four of them disappeared.”
“Oh.” I continue searching the room. There’s no way they’d leave without telling me.
“I’m more than happy to keep you company.” He doesn’t give me a chance to speak before he launches into details about a case he’s working on. Since my mother drilled good manners into me from a young age—and forced me to take actual etiquette lessons after she started hosting events for my dad’s coworkers and clients—I try my best to pay attention to what Ned is saying. It quickly becomes evident he’s one of those people who talks at you rather than to you, so my efforts turn to hiding the disinterest from my expression while I cast surreptitious glances around the room in search of escape.
I’m half listening to Ned, my eyes nearly crossing from boredom, when my gaze lands on my dad across the room. I send him a beseeching look, giving him my best ‘please get me out of this conversation’ eyes. Amusement plays across his face as he takes a few steps forward. My relief is short-lived as someone intercepts him. Dad shoots me an apologetic look over the man’s shoulder. If I’m not mistaken, he’s now giving off his own ‘someone save me’ vibes.
I’ve always considered my dad an extroverted introvert, or at least an introvert who’s good at putting on an act. When I was little, he seemed to thrive at the casual parties my mom hosted, and he was the grill master at our many summer barbecues. That continued for a while after we moved here, and our barbecues included pool parties in the Olympic-size pool out back. Things soon changed, though; those relaxed gatherings became fancy cocktail and dinner parties, charity events, and fundraisers.
Dad always appeared at ease as he circulated, but at nearly every event, there was a point when he’d slip away for a short period of time. Eventually, I realized he was going up to his office, and I assumed Mr. Workaholic was handling business. My curiosity got the best of me one night about ten years ago, and I followed him. Instead of taking a call or banging away at his computer like I expected, I found him sitting in the dark save for the glow of his Tiffany lamp, feet propped on the corner of his desk, and whiskey tumbler in hand.
He invited me in, poured me a glass of the Jameson whiskey he apparently kept hidden in a drawer in his desk, and we sat in silence. Since that night, it’s been our secret ritual at nearly every event my mom hosts. Sometimes we sit quietly, and other times we talk about work and life, books we’ve read, or places we’ve discovered around town. I cherish those times, and I was looking forward to our getaway tonight, but it appears it might not happen.
A throat clears beside me. Oops. I haven’t even been pretending to listen to Ned. He wasn’t the one trying to get my attention, though, which I realize as I glance up into Fergus’s moss-colored eyes. Disappointment rushes through me at the sight of his coat draped over one arm, until I notice my coat is tucked underneath it. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve been sent to collect Evie.”
Ned is surprisingly gracious about the interruption. Fergus places his hand on the small of my back as he leads me across the room.
“Where are we going?” I ask, and then in the same breath, add, “Actually, you know what, I don’t even care. I know we only met tonight, but you’re officially my new favorite person.”
Fergus chuckles. “I’m honored.”
We make our way through the house to the kitchen, which is still bustling with staff. At the French doors that lead to the backyard, Fergus dons his coat and then holds out mine for me to slip my arms into. The moment he opens the door, I catch the scent of woodsmoke in the air. Like countless other times in the past few days, I’m transported back to my childhood: cookouts, bonfires, camping in the backyard of my childhood home.
It’s a perfect autumn evening, with a slight chill in the air, and a full moon illuminating the yard. The moon isn’t the only bright spot out here; flames dance in the firepit past the pool. In the glow of the blaze, I can see my friends sitting on the padded benches surrounding the pit.
Fergus grins down at me as he offers me his arm. I hook my arm through his, and we set off across the perfectly-manicured lawn.
Wesley is the first one on his feet. He thanks Fergus for getting me out here, and Fergus squeezes my arm before moving to take the empty seat between Hollie and Louisa.
“How on earth did you manage this?” I ask.
“I used my powers of persuasion on your mom,” Wesley says, taking my hand and leading me to the bench where he was sitting. “I told her being back in town was making me nostalgic and I wanted to recreate a moment from our childhood.”
I glance around at my friends’ smiling faces. “And she actually went for it?”
“She made me promise to save her a s’more.”
“There are s’mores?” My ears perk up at the mention of the treat I haven’t had in years. Even though I’m stuffed full of turkey, half a dozen side dishes, and a giant slice of pumpkin pie, I can always make room for s’mores.
Stella holds up a bag of jumbo marshmallows, while Hollie brandishes a box of graham crackers and a giant chocolate bar.
“I also swiped a couple bottles of wine for us to pass around,” Wesley says.
“That was never part of our childhood bonfires.” My voice wobbles slightly as an expected wave of emotion washes over me.
Wesley’s hand tightens where it grips my arm, as if he’s trying to convey his understanding. “Perks of being an adult, Buttercup. Here, sit down. It’s time to get the real Thanksgiving party started.”