Macy Beckett - Make You Mine

Pawpaw scrunched up his mouth, clearly working on a counterargument. “Doesn’t matter. You still can’t meddle with her, or the hex—”

“Oh, come on.” Ella threw her hands into the air. “Enough with the superstitious nonsense. There’s no hex on your family. You make your own beds and lie in them, just like everyone else.”

She was wrong—Marc knew firsthand. At the altar last week, he’d felt that dark magic pressing against his ribs, smothering him when he’d tried to ask Allie to move in with him. Something very real had kept his words from escaping, and it wasn’t a mental block.

“Can we quit wasting time?” Beau checked his watch again. “I’ve got places to be, and we still need a status report on the train linkage.”

Thankful for the change in subject, Marc asked, “What’s wrong with it now?”

“Nothing.” Ella reached for Alex’s Coca-Cola and took a sip. Good Lord, why did she have to keep doing that? “It’s purring like a kitten. Lutz said the hiccup we had in St. Louis must’ve been a fluke.”

Marc shook his head. “It’s just a matter of time before Belle gets the hiccups again. Call Lutz and have him take another look. I don’t want any surprises on the next trip.”

Then Ella said something that made him sit a few inches straighter. “You always assume the worst. O ye of little faith.”

That was interesting. Little faith.

Marc couldn’t discern why, but the phrase resonated with him and bounced against the inner walls of his mind, repeating over and over.

Little faith.

Voices from around the table faded into obscurity as Marc puzzled on the reason for his sudden curiosity. There was something significant to be learned here; he sensed it. He seemed on the verge of an epiphany, the answer barely beyond his reach.

Little faith.

Wrinkling his brow, he stared out the side window to the placid river as if the solution might appear to him on the water. Then he recalled the last line from Juliette Mauvais’s hex, none but purest faith will set you free, and the jigsaw pieces clicked into place—complete and utterly clear for the first time.

“Holy shit,” he muttered under his breath.

Now he knew why he’d failed to break the curse, and it had nothing to do with Allie’s gravesite ritual being a fake. The fault was entirely his. Only one kind of ceremony would free him, and it wasn’t a voodoo cleansing.

“Did you say something?” asked Ella-Claire.

Marc’s mind reeled with the truth of his discovery. “I’m in love with Allie Mauvais,” he said to no one in particular.

He was met with blank stares and silence.

“She’s selfless and sweet,” he continued. “I’m happy when I’m around her and miserable when I’m not. She even likes old Westerns.” He locked eyes with his sister. “I’ve never met a woman who liked Westerns.”

Ella gave him a sad smile. “She’s special, for sure.”

“She’s more than special,” Marc said. “She’s my perfect match.” And when a smart man found the love of his life, he didn’t ask her to move in with him—he married her. “That’s why I couldn’t break the spell. I showed a little faith, and it wasn’t enough.” Marc stood from the table so quickly his chair fell over. “I have to find her and ask her to marry me.” His chest went warm and tingly, a message that he finally had it right.

With that sole purpose in mind, he rushed toward the exit.

A scuffling noise sounded from behind, and a pair of arms tightened around Marc before he’d reached the door. Marc tried to squirm free, but the grip was too powerful.

“Hold up there, little brother,” Beau said. “You look like a vagrant and you smell worse than a distillery. Let’s not give Allie a reason to say no.”

Marc quit struggling long enough to let Beau’s advice sink in. He was right; Allie deserved the best, not some half-assed proposal from Marc with the kiss of Tequila Rose on his breath.

“Fine.” Marc let his arms go slack. “Give me a lift home, will you?”

“You got it.”

“No, to the jewelry store,” Marc corrected. “No, wait. Not the jewelry store—to the pawn shop. I want to buy a ring that’s completely nonrefundable.” The more faith the better. “Take me to the bank!”

“Simmer down,” Beau said with a good-natured laugh. “First let’s pour you another cup of coffee. Then we’ll go get your woman.”

“My woman.” Marc smiled. “I like the sound of that.”

Once Marc was sufficiently caffeinated, Beau delivered him to Richman’s Pawn & Loan, the swankiest resale shop in the city.

“Leave the car running,” he said to Beau. “This won’t take long.”

Marc pushed open the front door and strode directly to the jewelry section near the back of the store. He waved to the owner, Mrs. Richman. The old woman was so shrewd, she’d charge you for breathing, but that didn’t matter. He wasn’t here looking for a bargain.

“I need an engagement ring, and fast,” Marc said when Mrs. Richman made her way behind the counter. “Something huge. Sky’s the limit.”

The woman’s eyes glazed over with delight. She indicated several cases, each teeming with glistening gems. “What style? Solitaire, three-stone, cathedral setting?”

Marc decided to go with his gut. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

“This one’s nice.” She pulled free an oval-shaped diamond set in platinum. “Two and a half carats, excellent cut, nearly colorless.”

“Wow.” She wasn’t kidding—the thing was spectacular. Marc slipped the ring on his pinkie finger and admired the way it sparkled. Allie would love it. With any luck, he’d have this ring on her finger by noon. He was about to tell Mrs. Richman to wrap it up when a stone from the adjacent display caught his eye.

It was round, set low in a thin band of filigreed gold, and about half the size of the diamond in Marc’s hand. But despite that, the stone captured the overhead fluorescents and refracted the light in a spray of rainbows. It was like nothing he’d ever seen.

“Tell me about that one,” he said.

“Ah.” Mrs. Richman’s voice flattened in disappointment, likely because the second ring was less expensive. “That’s an estate piece, came in last week.”

“It doesn’t look like the others.”

“That’s because diamonds aren’t faceted that way anymore,” she explained. “It’s an old European cut, popular in the early 1900s. The woman who sold it to me said her great-great-granddaddy bought it off Juliette Mauvais.” She scoffed. “Can you believe that? Probably bad luck to have it in the store.”

Marc’s skin prickled. “You think it’s really hers?”

She shrugged. “No way to tell, but it gives me the willies just looking at it.”

That was good enough for Marc. His face broke into a grin so wide he nearly sprained his cheeks. “I’ll take it.”

Two hours later, a freshly showered, clean-shaven Marc arrived at the Sweet Spot with a century-old solitaire in his shirt pocket and a single-minded determination to change Allie’s last name from Mauvais to Dumont.

His blood rushed, but this time with excitement, not fear. He had faith—the purest kind—that he and Allie were meant to be, and he couldn’t wait to begin their life together. If she wasn’t ready to forgive him, then he’d return tomorrow. And the day after that. However long it took to win her back, he was in it for the long haul.

“Don’t forget those,” Beau said, thumbing at the bouquet of roses resting on the SUV’s backseat. “Got the ring?”

Marc grabbed the flowers and patted his breast pocket. “Right here.”

Thoughtfully, Beau glanced at the bakery window. “Mind if I come with you? I want to give it another shot with Dev when you take Allie upstairs to pop the question.”

“Another shot?” Marc asked.

“At apologizing,” Beau said. “I doubt she’ll give me more than that.”

“Maybe not, but forgiveness is the first step.” Allie was always saying You can’t win if you don’t play. Marc shrugged and opened the passenger door. “Good luck.”

They pulled open the bakery door, which dinged to announce their arrival, and right away Marc noticed several things weren’t right.

For starters, the heavy aroma of cupcakes and frosting was missing, replaced by vacant air-conditioning. Also, nobody was manning the cash register, and the glass display cases were empty. Marc glanced at the front door, wondering if Allie had taken the day off and forgotten to secure the dead bolt.

“Hello?” he called. “Allie?”

A college-aged brunette pushed open the swinging door leading to the back room. She smiled and greeted him with an apology in her voice. “Hey. We’re actually closed today. I’m waiting for someone to pick up a wedding cake; then I’m locking up.” She glanced between Marc and Beau. “You’re not with the Jefferson party, are you?”

“No,” Marc said. “I’m here to see Miss Mauvais. Is she upstairs?”

The girl shook her head. “She’s on vacation with her sister.”

Vacation?

Marc’s stomach sank. The two hours that had passed since his realization aboard the Belle had crawled by slower than a millennium. He had to see Allie—now. Marc peered toward the rear of the store as if willing her to appear. When she didn’t materialize, he asked, “When’s she coming back?”

“Monday, I think.”

“Is she staying somewhere local,” Marc asked, “like the beach?”

The girl’s face went blank while her eyes darted to the bouquet of roses in Marc’s fist. She probably thought he was some kind of stalker. “Um,” she told him, “I don’t think it’s my place to say.”