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?”