Page 14 of My Dearest Mackenzie

“It never is really all that.” He contradicted my sentiment. “My grandmother is Rosie in this scenario. At least, you suspect?” Mack looked at me, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes. I know Rosie is your grandma. He’d mention her from time to time when we were teenagers. And then in his final years he spoke about Rosie a lot. For my own peace of mind, I just want to know their story. Maybe it would explain the low level of sadness always lingering on him.”

Mack had leaned forward to speak when a server swung by asking if we wanted a drink.

Mack looked to me, and I spoke up, needing a bit more courage. “White wine, something dry. I’m not picky.”

The server nodded.

“Bloody Mary,” came from the man across from me. It was an interesting choice. “They do a prix fixe brunch, is that okay with you? I went ahead and requested it for us.”

I could’ve argued, but a gentle nod came from me.

While a basket of muffins and pastries arrived, followed by our cocktails, I spotted a few other tables occupied by city dwellers who hadn’t escaped to the Hamptons, enjoying their weekend, sipping drinks and eating eggs.

“What about the sadness you carry?”

“I’m sorry?” My hand shook, forcing me to set my wineglass back down.

“You. I can’t help but notice there is a current of unease—of hurt, or pain—that flashes off you every so often. Yeah, you’re funny, and your words can bite, and you kickbox, but you’re also sad. What happened, Frances?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his bulky gold watch catching the light.

“This isn’t about me.”

“Do you want to find out about Rosie, who let’s refer to as Milly from here on out?”

“I do.”

“Then that’s the price. I answer what you ask, and you tell me what I want to know.”

“Why? W-why do you want to know about me?” I stuttered over my words.

I watched him swallow, a lump passing over his Adam’s apple, and waited. This man ran a multimillion-dollar empire. And yeah, I’d harassed him to meet with me, but not to inquire as to my feelings. Yes, he was sexy and exuded some sort of hormone that made me want to run my fingers over his skin, but that wasn’t the point.

“I don’t know why, but I do.”

Again, more honesty. It was such a contradiction to the man’s position and authority.

A server interrupted again, this time with frittatas and toast and some sort of arugula salad.

I stuck my fork into the greens and then stopped. Mack’s heated gaze was on me; he was waiting for an answer.

“I was hurt,” I said. “I thought I’d found my fairy tale, but it turned out to be more than a nightmare. Now, I work and enjoy time with friends, but I don’t believe in that sort of happily-ever-after for myself anymore.” Without waiting, I stuffed my mouth with lemon-dressed arugula so I wouldn’t say any more. Next thing, I’d spill my guts and talk about the stillbirth and start crying.

“So, you’re going to live vicariously through your grandpa’s past? Is that it?”

“Bingo!”

“Tell me about the kickboxing.” That’s what he said before taking a bite of his frittata, skipping the arugula.

I laughed. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. We’ll come back to all that pain and suffering later. Besides, I know what you do for work. And I buy custom-made suits, so it’s a bad subject for us.”

Guzzling a little wine, I let the alcohol tingle my throat. “I like it. Kickboxing. It feels liberating. A time when we can be aggressive and express ourselves…”

“Hmmm. I get it. I used to feel that way in college sports. It’s probably why Milly enrolled me in soccer as a kid. It was a way to take out the anger, be competitive, and earn my own…I don’t know what. Pride, perhaps.”

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