Kiss the Bride (36 page)

Ethan was no longer looking at Hollis . . . He was looking at
her
.

He didn't think . . .

Mac instinctively took a step backward. “I should go.” Her throat started to close. “So you can talk to Connor.”

“Mac—”

Mac didn't wait to hear what Ethan had to say. Because his expression had said it all.

Mac caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror as she
finished getting ready for work the next morning and winced. Now she understood why most women took the time to apply makeup. Right now she could have used something to hide the lavender shadows under her eyes.

She could call Grant and tell him that she was sick. Under the circumstances, it wouldn't be a lie . . .

“Sweetheart?” Coach's voice floated up the stairs. “You have company.”

Mac's stomach turned a slow cartwheel. “I'll be right down.”

She wove her hair into a loose braid and padded downstairs. Cast a longing look at the door before she followed her dad's cheerful baritone to the kitchen.

Hollis sat at the table, sipping hot chocolate from the lopsided cup Mac had made at summer camp when she was in fifth grade. Connor stood at her shoulder, the smile absent from his eyes.

The fact that Ethan wasn't with them added to the weight pressing down on Mac's chest.

“I'm going to take Snap for his morning walk.” Coach set a cup of hot chocolate on the table across from Hollis before he left the room.

Mac didn't know whether to sit or stand. And for someone who made her living stringing words together, she had no idea what to say.

Connor's ragged sigh broke the silence as he pulled out a chair and sat down next to Hollis. “Ethan told you how we met—”

“Yes, but I wasn't the one who leaked the story,” Mac interrupted. “I wouldn't do that.”

“What . . . of course you wouldn't.” Hollis looked stunned by the suggestion. “Why do you think I was so happy you were doing the interview? When you were on the high school newspaper, you had a reputation for being honest but fair”—she smiled—“even if you didn't particularly like the person you had to interview.”

Mac managed to smile back.

“We came to ask for your help,” Connor said.

“My help?”

“I told my agent about the cancer when I signed with her, but the opportunity to audition for the movie came up a few months after I'd finished treatment.

“Maybe it was pride, but I didn't want anyone to know about it because I was afraid it would become my identity.
That's Connor Blake. He's the actor who had cancer.
Brenda was more afraid that it might jeopardize future contracts. I could be considered a risk because I'm not technically in remission yet.”

“The media has a way of twisting things, so we want to shut the rumors down as soon as possible,” Hollis said. “And the only way to do that is to let people know the truth.”

Mac realized they were both looking at her expectantly. “You want
me
to write the story?”

Connor flashed a smile that Mac knew would be on the cover of every entertainment magazine in a few months. “Mackenzie Davis is the only person I would consider sitting down with for an interview.”

An exclusive.

Mac swallowed hard. “I'm honored—”

“Great.” Connor folded his hands behind his head. “Then let's get started.”

“You want me to interview you
now
?” Forget the hot chocolate. Mac needed a cup of coffee.

“I've got other things on my mind. In two days we'll be getting married.” Connor waggled his eyebrows at Hollis. “And leaving for our honeymoon.”

“Men.” Hollis rolled her eyes. “Where do we start, Mac?”

“We start by deciding what social media outlet you want to use.”

“You decide.” Connor shrugged. “Make it count, though. I only want to do this once.”

“And I get to see the photographs first.” Hollis lifted her chin. “Just to make sure you got my best side.”

Mac could feel the tension slipping away. “I will.”

“Speaking of best sides . . .” Hollis leaned forward. “You don't look so good. Your eyes are all red-rimmed and puffy.”

“So are yours.”

“Betty at the Clip and Curl can work miracles.” Mischief lit Hollis's eyes. “She'll even do your nails.”

“I'd rather eat a minnow.”

They burst out laughing.

Connor's gaze bounced between them. “Should I even ask?”

Hollis rested her cheek against his shoulder. “Inside joke, honey.”

“Got it.” Connor smiled at Mac. “So . . . what's your first question?”

Mac asked the first one that popped into her head. “Does Ethan know you asked me to write the story?”

“Know?” Connor repeated. “It was his idea.”

By Saturday morning, Hollis's wedding day, Ethan was convinced that suggesting Mac write Connor's story was the most idiotic idea he'd ever come up with.

“The media is always looking for a story that will grab people's attention,” Hollis had said. “They don't necessarily care if it's the truth.”

Ethan realized they could have both. Mac could help his sister and future brother-in-law—and have a shot at her dream job.

He'd had a long conversation with Connor and Hollis after Mac had disappeared, but it hadn't taken long for them to see the wisdom of choosing who would tell Connor's story.
The fact they'd immediately agreed it should be Mac was a testimony to her character, not his powers of persuasion.

Because what Ethan really wanted to do was persuade Mac to stay in Red Leaf.

His mother breezed into the study, wearing the designer dress she'd purchased for the wedding. “The idea is to pin the boutonniere to your lapel, not your thumb. Now give me that poor flower before you turn it into potpourri.”

Ethan handed it over. “How's Hollis doing?”

“She's crying,” she said matter-of-factly as she anchored the single red rosebud in place. “But that's normal for a bride on her wedding day.”

“And the bride's mother?” Ethan saw the telltale sheen in his mother's eyes.

“The pollen is absolutely wretched this time of year.” She stepped back to survey her handiwork. “You're as handsome as your father . . . and just as stubborn, I might add. I—”

“Mom.” Ethan didn't want to revisit his decision to move to Red Leaf. Not on Hollis's wedding day. “Can we talk about this later?”

“Ethan Monroe Channing, please don't interrupt me when I'm speaking.”

“Sorry,” Ethan muttered.

“I was going to say it was one of the things I loved about your father,” his mom said softly. “When he accepted the job in Red Leaf after medical school, I thought it would be temporary, just a few years until he got some experience. But your father loved Red Leaf. He loved the people and the
slower pace of life in a small town. I think he even liked the snow. To ask him to give it up . . . it would have been like asking him to cut off a limb.”

“But you weren't happy here.”

“I was happy with him.” Their eyes met in the mirror and she smiled. “Your father was home to me . . . everything else was just geography. I don't think I told him that often enough.

“After he died, I couldn't face the memories. The whole town was grieving and I didn't feel strong enough to carry their burden and the weight of my own grief. Besides that, Chicago was my home too. Your grandparents were there. Friends I'd known since high school. I knew your father would understand why I couldn't stay.”

“If you never planned to come back, why didn't you sell the house?”

“Because”—his mom reached out and straightened his tie—“even though I wanted my son to have a prestigious, fulfilling career in Chicago, I had a feeling that someday he would need a place to live.”

Ethan wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly. “You
knew
I'd want to come back?”

“Ethan. Please. I'm your mother. I know everything. I also know you're going to be a brilliant doctor and this little town won't even realize how blessed they are to have you.”

Ethan finally found his voice. “I'm the one who's blessed.”

“Your father would have said that too.”

Ethan wrapped her in a hug and breathed in the familiar scents of hair spray and White Diamonds. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Not so tight, dear. Satin wrinkles.” But she clung to him
a moment longer. “I'm proud of you, Ethan,” she whispered. “I haven't told you that often enough, either.”

“I suppose I better get ready to walk my baby sister down the aisle.” Before Ethan started blubbering like a baby and was forced to turn in his man card.

“It gives me peace, knowing my child found someone who will love them as much as your father and I loved each other.”

“Connor and Hollis will have a great life together.”

His mother tucked her arm through his. “Who said I was talking about them?”

“You did a great job on the interview.”

Mac lifted her head at the sound of Grant's voice. She hadn't expected him to stop by the office on a Saturday. “Do you really think so?”

“Don't you?” her editor countered.

The words on Mac's computer monitor blurred. “It's hard to be objective about your own work.”

“Fishing for compliments?”

Mac shook her head. “Just the truth.”

“Well, then, here it is.” Grant gripped the edge of her desk and hunkered down until they were almost nose to nose. “You're a gifted writer, Mackenzie.”

Mac stared at him in disbelief. “Then why won't you give me a real story? You want me to cover garden club meetings and fashion shows and community fund-raisers. It's like you don't trust me.”

“Not trust you?” Grant sputtered. “You're the only one I do trust . . . because people trust you.”

“Because I'm Coach's daughter.”

“Because you're . . .
you.
You don't just ask questions; you listen. Remember when I sent you over to Lakeland Terrace to take a picture of Sylvia Morris because she was about to celebrate her one hundredth birthday?”

“Of course I do.”

“You didn't just take a picture of her, did you? You interviewed her for almost two hours.”

Mac wasn't sure where Grant was going with this. She'd noticed a wicker basket filled with crocheted baby blankets in Sylvia's room and found out the woman sent them to an orphanage in Uganda where her granddaughter served as a missionary.

On the way back to the newspaper, Mac had decided a photograph of Sylvia wasn't enough.

“Sylvia's an amazing woman, but she didn't see herself that way.”

“That's what I'm talking about, Mac. The stories you write . . . they're like a mirror. People see themselves and realize they matter.”

Mac jumped when Grant pounded his fist on the desk like a gavel.