Chapter Seven
We went to a Mediterranean place near Hudson Yards. Of course it was hip and popular, loud and frenetic, and felt like the distraction Mack seemed to always seek. After what I’d classify as a few run-ins with the man, I already knew he evaded feelings like the plague.
Now, he sat across from me, showered and back in his suit. Literally and figuratively—he’d cloaked himself back in his emotional armor.
We ordered drinks and Mack asked the server, Luke, to bring a platter of dips while we continued our small talk. He called Luke by his first name, making eye contact, and acting as if they were old friends. I realized this was part of the reason why he was so successful: he could turn on the charm better than most and make it feel realer than anyone. Also, money and connections helped.
“An old friend of mine got heavily invested in Hudson Yards, and he suggested I take my offices there,” Mack explained. Like most of his reasoning, it felt bleached of emotion, except he added a personal tidbit. “My dad would have hated it here, so I knew it was a good move. He was risk averse, and I’m not.”
With my wine and his scotch, neat, in front of us, I asked, “Why do you think you’re so accepting of risk?”
He smirked. “You don’t know already? You didn’t read it somewhere on the interwebs?”
“No, should I have seen it somewhere?”
He took a slug of his drink, and I watched his muscles work as the liquid traversed his throat, rippling over his Adam’s apple. My fingers twitched to touch him, feel his pulse, bring his humanity to the surface.
“I just thought it was obvious to anyone who studied me, like you did. I have no ties to anyone, no real responsibility other than to the health of the company, so I make aggressive moves. Maybe they’re bold or risky, but this business is my legacy and I can chance it.”
“Is that what Milly wanted? You to chance life?” I couldn’t help myself, and judging by the stare coming from Mack, he knew I couldn’t resist.
He took a carrot and dipped it into hummus, stalling, crunching, and eyeing me.
I did the same.
“Is it?” I kept at it.
“No. Milly wanted a love story for me. A big Disney-worthy saga for generations to tell.”
“The type of story she didn’t have for herself?” My heart pounded in my chest. I wasn’t sure why, but Paps’s life called to me. The what-ifs and could-have-beens.
“Like I said, I don’t know. Do those kinds of stories even exist other than in our imagination?” He ran a palm through his hair, his giant watch glinting in the light.
“They do,” I said with determination.
Despite the small wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, he looked like a little boy who’d been told Santa wasn’t real. It wasn’t often optimism led to such defeat in someone’s expression.
“For some people,” I clarified matter-of-factly. “Not for Milly or my Paps…or—” I almost added me, but he interrupted me.
“My parents,” he said cautiously, avoiding my gaze. With another pull on his drink, he cleared his throat. “Shit, I didn’t mean to get this deep or dark. My parents’ history is a tale meant to stay in the past, untold and not repeated.”
“Maybe Milly and my Paps had a small period of happiness. A sliver. I guess that’s why I’m so eager to understand what happened. Why did they give it up?”
“What about you? What about your happiness?” He parroted my word back to me, deflecting off himself and his grandmother.
Luke interrupted the moment. “Can I get you anything else?”
Thank God.
“Frances?” Mack looked at me.
“Um, sure. I’ll have the fatoosh salad, thank you,” I mumbled, almost forgetting to make eye contact with the server, quickly catching myself. Mack had knocked the bravado out of me with his question, and I was hoping he forgot the conversation after ordering.
“Any interest in fried chicken for two?”
Another punch to the gut. Fried foods only made my stomach bloated and that never boded well for my mental state.
“A bite or three?” Mack asked, driving me out of my deep thoughts.
“Sure,” I found myself agreeing. “I didn’t take you for a fried chicken guy,” I spit out when Luke left us alone.
“Milly was the queen of comfort foods…there was a recipe for every problem. She believed in eating at home, and all this eating out we do was bad. But since I don’t cook, she’s made my personal trainer a very wealthy man. I eat and he does damage control.”
“Hmmm, my Paps loved to eat home-cooked food. He always talked about never finding a soup quite like one he had growing up… I wonder if it was something to do with Rosie.”
“Milly, you mean. We agreed.” His voice was terse and tense.
I didn’t know what set him off, other than guilt over fried foods. Despite his sharp tone, a quick flash of something else crossed over Mack’s face, and I made a mental note to mention the home cooking at a later date.
“Back to you. Tell me about your own proposed happiness after you find out about your grandpa…” He plucked another carrot, this time dipping it in tahini, while waiting.
My throat burned with the truth… “That is my happiness. Finding out about him. That’s all I want.”
Mack leaned back in his chair. “Can’t be. That was his life. What about yours? Certainly you want to do your own living?” His face was now gentle, a soft gaze and relaxed cheekbones. The guy was a myriad of people—stern, authoritative, kind, soulful.
“I love my work.” With my statement out there, I gulped my wine.
“I’m sure you’re very good at it. Thorough, smart, flirty with an eye for detail. But work isn’t enough.”
“Seems like it’s enough for you though? And flirty? I’ll have you know I’m the ultimate professional.” Finally, my cynicism returned.
“Ha!” He moved forward again. “As for me, I have fun. Don’t you worry, Feisty Frances, but longtime love isn’t my thing. And I believe you have built a book of business based on your sheer doggedness in doing it. Nothing sinister.” This came with a wink and a finger in the air, signaling for me to wait a second. “But you, my newfound friend, are a happily-ever-after girl whether you admit it or not. You believe there is a knight in shiny white armor out there for every princess. Otherwise you wouldn’t be cornering me every chance you had to find information on our dead grandparents, who were some version of Romeo and Juliet—you claim.”
The lump in my throat grew to a boulder, and I swallowed five or six times trying to dislodge it. “I… did have my happily-ever-after, and now it’s solidly placed in the happily-never pile.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t believe it. You’re a keeper, Frances Burns. You’re the type of woman men get a hold of and don’t let go. Secure, independent but not flashy with it, supportive alongside it. Caring, unconditionally. Men eat that shit up.”
“Are you drunk?”
A belly laugh rang between us. “No! I just know what I’m talking about.”
“Well, I think my ex would disagree with you.”
“Hmmm, an ex. Interesting, but not for now. Let’s change the vibe. Where did your Paps grow up?”
“Finally, we can talk about what I want. Brooklyn.”
He nodded. “Milly too,” he added. “And tell me what you found. What treasures of their past?”
“Is that snark I detect in your tone?” I came right out and asked. “Are you mocking me?”
He reached over and took my hand in his and small fireworks played out when our skin touched. It was one of those moments you read about and thought was bullshit, but then it was happening to you.
“Never. I wouldn’t dare not believe you and mock you.” His fingers gave mine a squeeze meant to comfort me, but it was laced with sarcasm. He was definitely questioning if my mission was believable.
As I was about to open my mouth and tell him this was true for certain, the salad and an enormous plate of fried chicken and artichokes arrived.
Mack offered me the plate first, and I took a smaller breast before watching him grab a piece and take a bite.
“Mmm,” he moaned, and under other circumstances it would have rattled my soul, causing me to be jealous because I wasn’t the reason for the sound. There was a time in my life that I’d brought moans out of mouths. Or a mouth.
But we were getting to my part, my mission.
Taking a nibble of my salad, I chewed and spoke. “I found letters after my Paps died. One from each week of their dating, just shy of a year. They spoke of the days prior, noting their experiences together, almost like she was documenting their time and love for one another. Each one ended with what they had to look forward to, always including a family and making their own way. She started every letter with ‘My Dearest James.’”
Mack dropped his chicken on the plate, wiped his slick hands on a napkin and stood. “You know what? I forgot I had to be somewhere. Don’t worry about the bill, Corey will settle up with them. Enjoy your evening.”
“What?” It was a whisper. My body was shocked—I was about to be deserted at a table for two. Definitely a first for me, and not something I’d expected out of Mackenzie Miller. I didn’t know why; he was a bona fide jerk.
He certainly had not shown much of his softer side.
“Good night, Frances.”
And in an instant, he was gone.
After a second piece of chicken, Luke approached and said the bill was taken care of, and asked if I wanted anything else. I didn’t think they had peppermint bark ice cream, nor was I willing to display my addiction in public, so I declined his offer and took an Uber back to my apartment on the Upper East Side, falling asleep with my makeup and pencil skirt still on.
The next morning, after a strong cup of coffee, two trips to the bathroom, and a vitamin C mask, I made myself get to work. Where, luckily, I had a slammed day. Several of my regular customers had weddings to attend in July and August, and all wanted summer-weight suits and linen pants for the rehearsal dinners. My day was a constant stream of pulling the aforementioned garments, sizing and fitting the men who paid my bills, and reassuring them their clothes would be ready for whatever weekend celebration they had in the Hamptons. I was too busy to even think about how I had nowhere to be any weekend of the summer or how I was just about too old for the nuptials circuit. Then my cell rang.
I happened to be in the back, steaming a shirt, when it buzzed in my pocket, and I yanked it out.
The screen said PRIVATE, but that wasn’t uncommon when it came to my clients.
“Hello, this is Frankie Burns,” I answered, hoping there wasn’t a wardrobe emergency on Fire Island. Some salespeople had been known to make house calls. Not me.
“Frankie, it’s Corey.”
With the phone tucked against my neck, this was a surprise, considering I didn’t want to hear from Mackenzie Miller after being ditched, let alone his assistant. “Listen, whatever it is, I don’t care. I’m at work, and it’s clear your boss is a coldhearted jerk.”
“He feels very badly about what happened last night.”
I set the steamer wand down, fearing I might scald the fabric or my hand. “I don’t care about what went down or Mack at all. Don’t get me twisted—I’m all about this mission of mine. But not at the expense of my fragile ego.”
“I don’t know what, but something triggered Millsy. And even if I did, I wouldn’t be at liberty to say. It happens from time to time, but he always rights it. Anyway, he asked me to call you and see if you wouldn’t mind having the letters couriered over to him. He said you’d know what he meant.”
I began to pace. “You’re kidding, right? And you think using a cutesy nickname for the heartless man you call boss is going to help your case?”
“I can send someone to you, to pick them up—”
“No, you can’t. I’m not parting with those. Your boss will probably light them on fire for funsies.”
“Millsy doesn’t do funsy.”
“No kidding.”
“Look, Frankie, I like you. I’ve said it before. Mack is complicated. I don’t know what the letters are or what they mean, but he said to tell you he’d look at them himself so you can talk after. That’s his offer.”
I blew out a long breath, a strand of hair flying in front of my face.
“I don’t accept the terms. And, as I said before, I’m over Mack. But if he wants to read the letters, I can bring them and sit in an adjacent office. That way, if I smell smoke, I’ll know there’s been foul play. That’s my offer.”
“I’ll take it back to him. God, I adore you for him. It’s like I picked you myself, but you fell out of the sky like manna from heaven.”
I was about to argue—I wasn’t manna, and I didn’t believe in heaven… But I didn’t have a chance because Corey hung up as soon as he was finished speaking.