Love on a Deadline (12 page)

“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.

“If that editor at the
Heritage
isn't smart enough to hire you when he reads that interview with Blake, then I will. As my assistant editor. Now I have a wedding to attend.”

“
You're
going to Hollis's wedding?”

“Beverly bought a new dress. She can't believe she's actually going to one of Lilah Channing's fancy shindigs.”
Grant slid a business card across Mac's desk. “And you have an interview with Senator Tipley in an hour.”

“But—”

“What?” Grant tossed the word over his shoulder as he stomped toward the door. “I'm still your boss and I promised you this story. This was what you wanted.”

Yes, it was.

So why wasn't she jumping up and down at the chance to meet with the senator?

And why hadn't she already hit Send?

The door snapped shut behind Grant and Mac closed her eyes.

What should I do?

As soon as the prayer slipped out, Mac realized it was the first time she'd asked God for direction. Asked him to direct her steps, the way Ethan had, instead of forging ahead on her own.

Mac had told Grant she wanted to write real stories. She hadn't considered that was what she'd been doing all along. Writing real stories about real people.

People who'd known her for years. People who were frustrating and quirky and fascinating and amazing.

People she loved.

People who loved
her.

Hollis was right. It did change things.

What do you want me to do, Lord? I promise I'll listen this time.

Coach always said God had a sense of humor, but Mac still laughed when her cell phone rang.

“Where are you?” Hollis demanded.

“I'm at my desk.”

“I figured that out, but why aren't you
here
?”

For some reason the imperious tone made Mac smile. “Because you're getting married in . . .” She glanced at the clock on the wall and choked. “An hour.”

“I know what time the ceremony is. I'm the bride,” Hollis said. “I thought you were supposed to be covering the wedding for the
Register
.”

“You hired a photographer. And I can get the rest of the details from your mother.” The excuse sounded weak even to Mac's ears. She was hiding, plain and simple.

In fact, she'd been hiding for the past few days.

From Ethan. From herself. From the future.

Hollis's very unladylike snort told her that she knew it too.

“I'm not technically on the guest list.”

“You're my friend.”

The Channing siblings didn't fight fair. “All right.”

“I'll see you in five minutes,” Hollis said.

Panic squeezed Mac's chest, but it wasn't because she was imagining what the ramifications would be if she postponed the interview with Senator Tipley. She'd just taken a silent inventory of her closet. “Fifteen.”

“Ten.” Hollis hung up.

He'd lost her.

One moment Ethan had been watching Mac teach his grandfather—a man Ethan was convinced had been born wearing a three-piece suit—how to polka, and the next she was . . . gone.

“I heard you're moving back to Red Leaf.” Grant Buchanan, Mac's editor, blocked Ethan's path as he reached for a cupcake on the buffet table. “Would you be willing to sit down for an interview?”

“Sure.” Ethan discreetly scanned the yard. Where was Mac? He hadn't been able to talk to her since she'd arrived for the ceremony. Their eyes had met briefly when Hollis and Connor were exchanging vows, but Ethan had been busy making sure the day went smoothly.

Now it was time to start thinking about the future . . .

“I'll call you Monday and set up a time,” Grant said.

“A time?”

“For the interview. Unless you want to talk to Mac about it now.” Grant's face was the picture of innocence. “I saw her walking up the hill a few minutes ago.”

“Thanks,” Ethan said over his shoulder as he strode toward the path leading through the rose garden.

Mac wouldn't be going home already. Not without saying good night. Would she?

His steps slowed when he spotted a flash of yellow inside the gazebo. Mac sat on the bench, stunning in the strapless yellow dress she'd worn to the wedding.

He couldn't repress a grin when he noticed she'd kicked off her strappy high heels.

“Hey.”

Mac's head jerked up. “What are you doing here? You're supposed to be at the reception.”

“I know. I came up here to get some fresh air.”

“It's an outdoor wedding, Ethan.”

“Truth? I wanted to ask you to dance.” Ethan held out his hand.

She stared at him. “Here?”