“This is the nicest house in Greenwich,” Kay stated.“I thought so the first time I saw it, and I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Thank you. It means a lot to us.”

“It ought to. It’s got history. I worked some parties here in your grandmother’s day, and later on when your mother had them. I liked your mother’s better.”

Del laughed as he laid a hand on the small of Kay’s back to guide her through. “Our Grandmother Brown was a tyrant.”

The scents streamed out of the kitchen, along with female voices. Malcolm picked Parker’s out, and a knot he hadn’t known was tied in his belly loosened.

She sat at the work bar, snapping beans. He tried to think of the last time he’d seen anyone snapping beans—then lost the thought as she glanced over, met his eyes.

Jesus, he’d missed her, to the point of pain. He wanted to resent it, wanted to step back from it. But she smiled, slid off the stool.

“Happy Thanksgiving.” She greeted his mother first, kissing her cheek as Del had. Then she brushed her lips lightly over his. The knot loosened again.

Everyone started talking at once, but he barely heard them. Just static. Movement and color—somebody took the pie out of his hand. And he was caught, just trapped in the look of her, the shape, the sound.

Del replaced the pie with a beer.“Let’s go be men before they put us to work. Because, believe me, they can and they will.”

“Yeah. I just need a minute.”

“Hesitate at your own risk. Still, you’d look so pretty in an apron.”

“Blow me,” he said, and earned a quick cuff from his mother.

“Mind your manners. I wouldn’t mind that apron. Half the fun of Thanksgiving is putting it together.”

As Parker started to sit again, Malcolm took her arm. “Take five.”

“I have an assignment,” she told him as he pulled her out of the kitchen.

“The beans aren’t going anywhere.” He turned into the music room. “I got you something.”

“Oh.That’s a nice surprise.”

He handed her the box. “When a guy screws up, he’s gotta pay.”

“I won’t argue, since I like presents. I see your mother won the suit battle.”

“My mother always wins.”

“It’s a nice suit.” She set the box on a small table, pulled the bow. “How’s business?”

“Steady. I picked up a recondition job on a ’62 Caddy on a referral from Channing.”

“That’s terrific.”

He watched, unsurprised, as she carefully unfastened the paper. No ripping and shredding, not for Parker Brown. He imagined, as oddly enough his own mother did, she’d save the paper for some future mysterious purpose.

“How about yours?”

“We’re always busy around the holidays. Party events on top of weddings. And Mac’s wedding’s in two weeks. I can’t believe it. We’ll be jammed until after New Year’s, then ...”

She trailed off when she saw the shoe box, then thoughtfully opened the lid.

Her mouth dropped open. He doubted any other reaction could have been as satisfying.

“Shoes? You bought me shoes? Oh, really fabulous shoes.” She took out one of the high, skinny-heeled pumps, holding it like a woman might hold a fragile gem.

“You like shoes.”

“Like is a soft, weak word for my feelings regarding shoes. Oh, these are gorgeous.Look at the way all those deep jewel tones flow together. And the texture.”

She slipped off the heels she wore, slipped on the new ones. Then sat there admiring them. “How did you know my size?”

“I’ve been in your closet.”

She continued to sit, studying him. “I have to say, Malcolm, you astonish me.You bought me shoes.”

“Don’t expect me to ever do it again. It was . . . grueling. I thought, I should just go get her some sexy underwear, but that seemed self-serving. It would’ve been a lot easier and less weird. You women are vicious in the shoe department.”

“Well, I love them.” She rose, did what he thought of as a little runway walk. Pivoted. Smiled. “How do they look?”

“I can’t take my eyes off your face. I really missed your face.”

“Okay.” She breathed it out, then stepped to him.“You just flatten me,” she murmured, and moved into his arms. “I really missed yours, too.”

“We need to be okay. It would really piss me off if my deal with Artie screwed us up.”

“Asshole Artie isn’t going to screw anything up.”

He drew back. “Asshole Artie?”

“That’s what we call him around here.”

He let out a half laugh.“I like it. I want to be with you, Parker.”

“That’s good, because you are with me.”

He rested his forehead on hers. “Listen I ...” He didn’t have the words, wasn’t sure of his moves. “Hell. Let’s just say you’re the first woman I’ve bought shoes for.” Again, he drew back, met her eyes. “And the last.”

“It means a lot.” She laid her hands on his cheeks, kissed him. “So, we’ll take today to be grateful we’re okay.”

THE WEEK BEFORE MAC’S WEDDING MEANT SALON APPOINTMENTS. Manicures, pedicures, facials. It meant logging those last-minute acceptances and regrets and adjusting the seating chart.

It meant final fittings, opening gifts, updating the spreadsheet Parker had created for keeping track of the gift, the sender, the relationship of the sender to the bride or groom, and the mailing address for thank-you notes.

It meant errands and phone calls, confirmations, final consults.

When added to the business of planning and prepping for other events, it meant insanity.

“Why did we think December was a good idea for this?” Mac demanded with a wild look in her eye. “We’re swamped, we’re crazed. We’re not going on the honeymoon until next month anyway, so why didn’t I take advantage of the slow time to get married? God, I’m getting married.Tomorrow.”

“And it’s going to be perfect.” Parker said it with grim determination as she worked at her laptop. “Hah! The weather’s going to be perfect. Cold, light snow in the morning, one to two inches, and clear in the afternoon. Light winds and low thirties for the evening. Just what I wanted.”