Page 2 of My Dearest Mackenzie

“What’s up, Corey?” It came out gruff, but a perpetual frog stuck in my throat left me hoarse throughout the day. My assistant knew this fun fact about me, and I was sure paid it no mind.

Corey also happened to be obsessive and easily excited on his worst day; when he was having a good day, his exuberance was obscene. My mood barely ever registered on him through his own jubilation.

“There is some woman here, Frances is her name. Wait, what? My apologies…”

I imagined him flapping his lips as fast as he could. Hallelujah, his work was impeccable.

Corey trailed off in the background, mumbling to the mysterious woman. “I’m here, sorry, Frankie is her name. And she’s here to see you, boss.”

“Hmmm? Did I miss an appointment?”

“No, no, you didn’t miss a thing. She doesn’t have one.”

Tugging my French cuffs down and inserting the cuff link in the holes while my phone sat on the dresser, I tried to remember if I knew a Frances or a Frankie.

“Do we have business with her?” I was already on my second cuff link, and five steps ahead in my day. We had a ribbon cutting at a new store, and afterward I was meeting with a bergamot supplier in town.

“She won’t say. All she said is she needs to see you. ‘The Mr. Mackenzie Miller’ was how she referred to you.”

“Corey, I hope this isn’t some dramatic plan of yours to set me up.” I growled the last part into the phone. A few times over the last several years, Corey got it in his mind that I needed a happily-ever-after and added me to dating sites. “The last time, I fired you.”

“You were kidding. You couldn’t live without me. But, yes, yes, I still took you seriously.”

I could live without Corey, but it wasn’t worth the energy explaining that to my needy assistant.

“No, it’s not a fix-up. Frances, I mean Frankie, walked right in here this morning, somehow dusted right past security, sped into the elevators and straight up to the top floor, asking to see you.”

I could tell Corey lowered his voice and was attempting to be private, but imagined he wasn’t as stealthy as he thought he was.

Snagging my money clip off the top of my dresser, I shoved it in my pocket and walked out of my massive bedroom. The smell of coffee dragged me down the hall toward the kitchen.

“As you’re aware, I’m off to Westchester this morning for an opening there. The car is getting me here, and I won’t be back until lunchtime. And then I have meetings. So if Miss…what is this woman’s last name?”

Stealing a mug from the cabinet and pouring a healthy dose of coffee, I waited while Corey asked.

“Miss Will-Tell-You-When-She-Meets-You. Her words, not mine.”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m forty-six and graying by the minute. I don’t have time for these games. Have her make an appointment. I think I’m booking for October.”

I disconnected the call without any further conversation spent on this ridiculous woman and what was more than likely Corey’s hijinks.

Double-checking my phone was in silent mode, I made sure it was June and laughed to myself. October was a long way off for Miss Will-Tell-You-When-She-Meets-You to wait.

Oh well.

As I climbed into the black SUV idling outside my building, I remembered the exact moment I’d received the call about my grandmother dying. I’d graduated from a very prominent business school—based on my own merit and not my family’s name—almost a year to the day, and I was working myself to the bone, climbing the ranks at a shitty, albeit huge cosmetics company, hoping my dad would let me come on board at the family business soon. At twenty-six, my only goal was proving myself worthy enough for my father, turning out better than my mom ever imagined, and being richer than anyone I knew. To me, money and notoriety and success were the ultimate companions. People became too messy, involving themselves where they were not wanted, and were largely unreliable. Other than one friend in college, who forced me under his wing, I’d had no one to lean on. Ever.

My dad had delivered the news about Milly as if it was the daily sales conference call. Those two always had beef, but my dad couldn’t run the business and raise me at the same time, so he leaned on my grandmother, allowing her involvement when it came to me.

Currently seated in the back of my chauffeured SUV, as we hit the highway my mind traveled back to Grammy’s funeral. Ironically, today was mostly about her. Tears no longer came when I thought of the feisty old lady who helped raise me. But on the day of her burial, I cried when I slipped into my car. I still drove myself back then—in the car gifted to me by my father.

Later that week, after the funeral, the lawyer who managed Milly’s estate handed me the infamous letter and access to a sizable trust. I would never forget my aunt, Susie, eyeing the envelope, and later asking me what it was. I’d replied, “Oh, nothing. Silly nothings,” when she’d asked, not admitting I’d welled up again reading it.

That same evening, over a double Lagavulin, I couldn’t help but think how Grammy handed out her advice without strings; I wondered why the trust wasn’t connected to my doing the tasks in her letter. Probably because she knew I wouldn’t ever follow through.

Now, in the present moment, at a godforsaken mall, I did the only thing I knew how to do when it came to my grandmother—honor her name. Here I was, dedicating another store to the woman. Carrying on her legacy was the best I could do. It was more than my aunt or dad ever did, so I considered it a win as I entered the mall with a squadron of magazine and newspaper journalists following me.

After the ribbon cutting and obligatory pictures, I stood in the hallway and admired the storefront.

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