Page 8 of My Dearest Mackenzie

Google was my friend. He’d mentioned golf, and that was where I started. After a quick search, the internet turned up a decade’s worth of pictures of Mack at his golf club with several of his football teammates and wealthy buddies. One giant in particular, who had played professionally. Most recently, the handsome and generous Mack Miller—their words—had recently attended a fundraiser for a local women’s shelter and played in a tournament benefitting the Boys and Girls Club with Ryder Fyrst and Spencer Kline.

I barely looked at the other subjects, my eyes laser focused on the source of my investigation. He was smiling in every picture, standing next to a friend or two, and never beside a woman. In one picture, Mack was standing with a cousin named Tom. And I could tell by his body language that he didn’t care for this guy, but was in it for the cause. My initial research proved Mack Miller had a heart somewhere inside his tough exterior.

When I dove deeper, the articles on his business dealings said otherwise. Miller is ruthless when it comes to his negotiations and takeovers—again, their words—but his rating as an employer was sky-high. Everyone who worked at Silky Skin, Milly’s, or the factory or offices loved their job. It was a safe environment with full benefits and a family-like atmosphere.

It was an enigma how such a staunch businessman created such a warm work environment.

I’d been on my Mack Miller internet search for more hours than I cared to admit…when Saturday afternoon I’d fallen asleep on the couch, the laptop still on my legs. I’d woken to my phone buzzing and my thighs on fire from the computer’s heat.

“Hello?” My throat scratchy from sleep, I didn’t bother to look at caller ID.

“Frankie? What are you doing home? It’s Saturday… I sent a colleague, Matthew, in to see you.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and wished I hadn’t answered. “Hello, Jeremy. So nice of you to check in. I’m well, thanks.”

“I’m not checking in. I sent you a client, and you’re not at work on a Saturday. Isn’t that the busiest day of the week for retail?”

Sitting up, I set the laptop on the coffee table and leaned back into the couch, sticking the phone on speaker. “Not that I owe you an explanation, Jer, but I don’t work Saturdays anymore unless someone asks me to. I’m mostly working with my book of business and not taking new customers. It’s been a long time since I’ve depended on weekend walk-ins. Not that you should care or it’s any of your business.”

I hated that his nickname came out of my mouth, a habit I’d never been able to kick. A long time ago, I’d thought Jeremy Ross was the love of my life. Yeah, he’d been captain of the football and basketball teams, and I was a cheerleader. And we all knew those relationships only worked out in the movies. But somewhere in my brain, I’d believed I was the one who would make it happen.

I was a sucker for love stories and fancied myself above a tragic breakup, until it was my reality.

“Matthew just made partner at his law firm. He really needs to up his game. A real shame you don’t want to keep growing your book. Don’t you think that is self-limiting? Oh, it must be the settlement you got from me?”

I felt my body shaking before I visibly saw my hands tremble. “Listen, I’m not up for this. Not now or ever. Please don’t send me clients or call me. You paid me off to get out of your world and take care of a baby you didn’t want. Then I lost the baby and almost died in the process. So stay out of my life. I’m living it how I want, considering I almost lost it.”

I disconnected the call before he could respond. Standing up, I decided a fresh cup of coffee was needed. Then I could start figuring out how I could get through to Mack Miller.

My Paps’s great love story needed to be heard and the blanks filled in.

It wasn’t until later that day I saw it—boom. I’d been half searching while getting dressed to meet my friend Rachel for dinner, and there it was—a pot of gold at the end of my rainbow. This coming week, Silky Skin was partnering with a different department store than the one I worked for to do makeovers for women heading back to the workforce. I wasn’t sure if the CEO would be there, but all I had to do was take a few hours off work and go see.

I mean, he should go. Right? It was a big publicity boon…

“Honestly, the guy is strange. He’s all hard edges and formidable in person, but then he sponsors an event like this.” I admitted more than I wanted to over a cocktail with Rachel.

“Frankie, darling, I have to be the voice of reason. This guy isn’t interested in what you’re peddling, and I just don’t want to see you get hurt.” Her hand stilled while smoothing her own black hair and she took my fingers in hers.

A laugh tumbled out of my chest, remembering how I’d done the same to Mack. “I don’t like the guy, Rach. I don’t even know if like is in my vocabulary after Jeremy. I just want to put all the pieces together of my Paps’s story. And maybe Mack Miller can help me find some clues. There has to be something Rosie left behind. I could help him find it.”

Rachel took a sip of her cabernet and looked at me dead-on, “Frankie, I know you. Remember, I was there when Jeremy sidelined you. I was the one who took you to the emergency room when everything went down, and you mumbled the whole time, ‘Where’s my happily-ever-after?’ I just don’t want you to think Mack is it.”

Knocking back the last dregs of my scotch, I allowed it to burn my throat in the way my Paps had taught me to appreciate. Rachel had been there for me until my sister showed up and took over, and then when Ashley disappeared, my friend took over. Again. “Don’t worry. I should’ve thought about your candor when making you my best friend. You know you can be brutal?”

Her head fell back, exposing her smooth olive skin down her neckline into the V-neck of her summer cashmere vest. “My candor? My grandma would call it chutzpah. Nerve, you know?”

I know. I remember your bubbe, Sophie, saying what chutzpah Jeremy had…”

Rachel smiled at my butchering of the ch sound. It was supposed to sound more raspy, less stilted than my using an h, leaving off the c all together.

“Don’t get hurt, okay? Paps wouldn’t want that.” Rachel let it go at that.

We spent the remainder of the night having a second drink, gabbing about her blind date, and munching on a charcuterie plate.

Sunday, I woke with a resolve to think about letting the whole mission go. Maybe Rachel was right, and I was looking at Mack Miller through rose-colored sunglasses.

Until Monday, when Jeremy’s friend Matthew showed up at my store, harassing me over a sale suit, and I spent every free moment daydreaming about my grandpap and some woman named Rosie. I imagined them stealing away for kisses in back alleys and him bringing her daisies the way he used to bring me. In a weird turn of events, my fantasy switched to Mackenzie Miller bringing me expensive bouquets—bright wildflowers—and leaning in to brush his lips along my cheek.

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