Page 55 of My Dearest Mackenzie

“I bet,” I said while working my way back over to him. Since the night in the pool, this was our way. We teased, poked, prodded, and let our actions do the talking. “First, we’ll celebrate your birthday. Which, according to the internet, is today. Lucky forty-seven…and then we’ll eat cake before we do all the things you want.”

“Is that so? All of them?”

I nodded.

“You don’t even know what they are.”

“That’s the thing. When it comes to you, I don’t care.” Clamping my mouth shut, I couldn’t believe the brazenness spilling from my lips.

Mack didn’t seem to mind. He pulled me in for a brutal kiss, giving me all he had, slipping the hat off my head and running his fingers through my hair. He held the strands in the back and kept me steady while his lips crushed into mine.

When he broke free, he whispered, “Thank you. It’s been a long while since I did anything more than grab a scotch and a cigar with my friends.”

“No cigars here, but I have some other lucky surprises,” I mentioned while walking to the open kitchen area.

“Is that so?”

Nodding, I said, “I do have mishy-mashy soup.”

A veil of sadness washed over his face.

Startled, I asked, “What? I called Connie, and she told me the recipe. I thought it would be fun to replicate one of Milly’s recipes for you.”

Turning, Mack spoke to the window. “She used to make the soup for me. All the time. I never knew its origin or that she made it for Jimmy until I met you and read the letters. Now it feels strange, like it was their thing, not ours.”

“Maybe that’s the point. It was Milly’s way of bridging the gap between you and Paps.”

Facing me, he walked toward the kitchen. “Thank you, again.” He spoke softly. “Not forgetting her cooking, specifically mishy-mashy soup, was one of the tasks in her letter to me. And I’ve neglected the delicacy for a moment. But here you are—my Feisty Frankie—not letting me forget a thing.” He put his arm around me, his hand at the small of my back and whispered, “Frances, I’m so lucky to have met you. But my birthday? Really?”

Needing a breather from the serious moment, I joked, “Well, taste the soup first before you make proclamations. I didn’t tell anyone, if that matters to you.”

“It’s been a long time since anyone cared about the day, that’s all. Milly always did.” He paced while speaking, presumably not wanting to ruin the occasion. “I had a girlfriend in college who was going to fix me and all my issues…and then keep me.”

“You had a girlfriend? The self-proclaimed commitment-phobe? Scandalous!” I feigned shock, clutching my imaginary pearls.

“I did, but in terms of importance she’s not that high up. We were young, she was disillusioned, and well, that’s a story for another time. On this very day in prehistoric times, she blabbed about my birthday to the whole football team and planned a surprise party for me after a huge home game. I didn’t want any part of it. The worst was she’d known I’d invited my mom to the game and witnessed her no-show performance, and still wanted me to carry on as if nothing happened.”

I approached him slowly, running my hands up his chest, placing a small kiss above his heart. I wanted to repair what had been done to him more than my next breath. “I didn’t invite anyone or blab about your birthday, so we’re in the clear.”

I was desperate to be the positive energy he needed. And yet here we stood, neither of us able to make the necessary declarations.

“It’s like you ordered rain for my birthday so we could have soup…and stay in… If the weather was better, we could have gone to the Hamptons.” Instead of initiating any more serious conversation, that was what he said.

“Come on, sit,” I told him, taking the hint, pointing to the counter and stools.

“Drink? I think a scotch goes with soup?”

“Scotch goes with anything.”

I poured Mack his cocktail and a healthy glass of red wine for myself, and we sat and chatted over our drinks. I mentioned my new client being in the restaurant biz, and Mack said, “You’re lucky I’m not the jealous type. All these powerful men, calling you and working with you.”

“Oh, is the birthday boy having a pity party?” I teased.

“A small one…”

“Aw, poor baby.” I leaned in and kissed him as the words floated off my tongue. He tasted smoky, like expensive scotch, and I’d quickly grown to be a fan of the flavor.

“So where’s the soup? I’ll be the one to let you know if it’s any good.”

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