Page 19 of My Dearest Mackenzie

“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.”

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