Vision In White

by Roberts, Nora

  “Yeah, they’re nice.” She scrolled to the second pose.

  “Okay, these are great. Sexy, female, powerful, fun. I love them. This one, especially, where she’s got her head down and her eyes on the camera? Just a hint of witchy. The lighting really adds to it.”

  “I’m going to finesse that even more. We did one more setup.”

  Once again, Mac scrolled down, then eased back.

  Parker straightened in her chair. “My God, Mac, these are amazing. They’re . . . She looks like a Roman goddess.”

  She studied each shot as the slide show projected them. The white drapery spread from the waist, under that turgid belly, and pooling like a river scattered with deep red rose petals. And the woman, her hair tumbled over her shoulders with an arm crossed over her breasts, a hand at the peak of that pregnant mound.

  And the eyes, straight at the camera.

  “I love the curves, the folds, the lines. The light—the way it brings out her eyes. The knowledge and power in them. Did you show her any?”

  “All. She was so nervous about them I had to show her the lot, so she’d be sure I’d delete any she didn’t like.”

  “What did she think?”

  “She cried. In a good way. Must be a hormone thing. Tears just started rolling down her cheeks and scared the shit out of me. Then she said the best thing.” Mac paused, letting the memory glow inside her. “She said she was never going to think of herself as big and clumsy because she was magnificent.”

  “Oh.”

  “I know. I got teary myself. She wanted to order right then and there. I had to put her off until I tweak a little, and I want her to wait until she’s not so emotional before she picks.”

  “It’s rewarding, isn’t it, to make someone so happy, to bring that into their life by what you do? Here we are, tired and hungry, but we did damn good work today.”

  “In that case, how about lending me a pair of pajamas?”

  “Why don’t you put that in the oven on low, and we’ll both get some pajamas.”

  “Deal. I feel like a chick flick. Do you feel like a chick flick? Dinner and a movie?”

  “Sounds really good actually.”

  “Speaking of dinner and a movie, I’m doing at least the first with Carter Saturday night.”

  “I knew it.” Parker wagged a finger.

  “I’m going to keep it low-key. Sex will, potentially, be involved at some point. But low-key.”

  “Establishing limitations to the relationship prior to embarking thereon. Wise.”

  “Subtle underlayments of sarcasm can’t hide from me.” Mac shut the oven door, leaned back against it. “Yesterday was just an anomaly, a spurt of panic brought on by the lack of interesting dateage in my life recently.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” Parker got up, draped her arm around Mac’s shoulders as they walked out of the kitchen. “Interesting dateage is in short supply around here, unless you’re Emma.”

  “You don’t make time to date.”

  “I know. It’s a conundrum. What kind of movie? Weepy or happy-ever-after?”

  “Gotta go with the HEA, especially with chicken pot pie.”

  “Good call. Why don’t we see if the others want in?”

  They started the climb to the third floor. “Hey, Parks, what’re you going to do when you’re really old and can’t trudge up all these stairs?”

  “I guess I’ll put in an elevator. I’m not giving this place up. Ever.”

  “The house or the business?”

  “Either.”

  Before they could start up the last flight, the cell phone hooked to Parker’s waistband jingled.

  “Crap.”

  “Go on up,” Parker told her. “Grab the pjs. I’ll deal with this and be right behind you.” She flipped the phone open after a quick glance at the readout. “Hi, Shannon! Are you ready for next week?” Laughing, Parker turned toward her office. “I know. It’s a thousand things. Don’t worry. We’re on top of every one.”

  Brides, Mac thought as she finished the climb. Most of them were so worried about the minutiae. If she ever got married—highly unlikely—she’d focus on the big picture.

  And leave the details to Parker.

  She stepped into Parker’s room where the duvet on the luscious four-poster was fluffed under its straw-colored cover, and the flowers were fresh and perky in their vase. No clothes strewn, no shoes kicked in corners.

  No dust, no fuss, Mac thought as she opened the drawer of the bureau where she found—as she knew she would—four pairs of pajamas neatly folded.

  “I’m tidy,” Mac muttered. “I’m just not so anal about it.”

  She took a pair into the guest bedroom, tossed them on the bed. A long, hot bath sounded too good to miss. She ran one, tossed some bath salts in. As she slid down in the hot, fragrant water, she considered their options for girl movies with happy endings.

  Movies, she thought—certainly about love and romance—should have happy endings. Because life, too often, didn’t. Love faded, or flipped over into loathing. Or settled somewhere in between into a kind of grinding detachment.

  It could snap like a dry twig, with one careless step. Then you needed a week at a spa, Mac thought sourly. That someone else paid for.

  She knew how Parker felt about the house, and the business. But to Mac’s mind, nothing lasted forever.

  Except friendship, if you were really lucky—and there, she was Lady Luck herself.

  But homes, love affairs? Different deals. And she wasn’t looking for forever there. Right now was plenty.

  A Saturday night date. A guy who interested and attracted her across the table. Yeah, that was just enough. A week from Saturday? Well, you just couldn’t tell, could you?

  That’s what photographs were for—everything changes, so you can preserve what was. Before tomorrow took it all away.

  She sank down to her chin in the water just as Laurel stepped in. “What’re you doing? Hot water out at your place?”

  “No, I’m seizing the moment, also chicken pot pie and chick flick. Want in? And I don’t mean the tub.”

  “Maybe. I just finished—for the fifth time—redesigning the Holly-Deburke wedding cake. I could use chicken pot pie.”

  “It’s warming in the oven. Emma needs a call, in case.”

  “Fine. I’ll go do that and leave you to your seizing.”

  Mac closed her eyes and sighed. Yeah, friendship. That was the one thing a woman could always count on.

  IN THE MORNING, STILL WEARING PARKER’S PAJAMAS, MAC LET herself into her studio. She’d woken just after dawn, curled up like a shrimp on the sofa of the sitting room, and tucked in with a cashmere throw.

  Two helpings of Mrs. G’s chicken pot pie made the idea of breakfast somewhat revolting. But coffee . . .

  Still, before she set up her morning hit, she wandered—casually—to her answering machine.

  No messages.

  Instant disappointment made her feel foolish. She hadn’t sat around waiting for him to call—again. She’d enjoyed her evening. Besides, it had been her turn to call, if she’d wanted to extend the little game.

  And besides, she was being stupid.

  She wasn’t going to think about Carter Maguire and his sexy glasses or frumpy tweed jacket—and his amazing lips. She had coffee to brew, work to do, life to lead.

  “SATURDAY NIGHT DATE? OKAY, THIS IS MAJOR.”

  Why, Carter asked himself, why had he opened his mouth? What had made him think mentioning it would simply be a little conversation over coffee in the teachers’ lounge before classes began?

  “Well, I should go over the quiz I’m—”

  “Major,” Bob repeated, drilling a finger into the coffee counter to mark his point. “You need to take her flowers. Not roses. Roses are too important, too symbolic. A more casual flower, or those mixed deals.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Something else to worry about now.

  “Nothing big or flashy. She’s goin
g to want to put them in a vase, and that gives you time to go in, talk, break that ice. So make sure you make the reservations accordingly. What time are they?”

  “I haven’t made them yet.”

  “You need to get on that.” With a wise nod, Bob sipped his coffee with low-fat creamer. “Where are you taking her?”

  “I’m not entirely sure.”

  “You need a place just a click over middle range. Don’t want to go all-out first time, but you don’t want to run on the cheap either. You want atmosphere, but not stuffy. A nice established place.”

  “Bob, you’re going to give me an ulcer.”

  “This is all ammunition, Cart. All ammo. You want to be able to order a nice bottle of wine. Oh, and after dinner, if she says how she doesn’t want dessert, you suggest she pick one and you’ll split it. Women love that. Sharing dessert’s sexy. Do not go on and on about your job over dinner. Certain death. Get her to talk about hers, and what she likes to do. Then—”

  “Should I be writing this down?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt. If dinner goes to say ten, or over, you should have a second venue picked out. Music’s best. A place you can go listen to music. If it winds up earlier, you should have a movie picked out. This is assuming she isn’t sending you the ‘let’s go back to my place’ signals. In that case—”

  “Don’t go there, Bob. Let’s just not go there.” He thought, Literally, saved by the bell, when it rang. “I’ve got to get to my first period class.”

  “We’ll talk later. I’ll try to write some of this down for you.”

  “Great.” Carter made his escape, joined the flock of students and teachers in the corridor.

  He thought he might not make it to Saturday. At least not sanely.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  HE BOUGHT FLOWERS. IT ANNOYED HIM BECAUSE HE’D INTENDED to take her flowers in the first place. But Bob’s tutorial changed the simple gesture into a complex and essential symbolic act so fraught with pitfalls, he’d decided to skip the step.

  One of her best friends was a florist, wasn’t she? Mackensie could carpet her studio with flowers if she wanted to.

  Then he worried that by not bringing the damn flowers he’d be committing some unwritten but universally known dating faux pas. In the end, he’d doubled back—he’d left plenty of time for the drive from his place to Mackensie’s. There might’ve been traffic, a five-car collision. Many casualties.

  He rushed into the supermarket, and had stood studying, debating, questioning the flowers on display until sweat beaded on his forehead.

  Bob, he assumed, would have something cutting to say about the choice of supermarket flowers. But he’d left it too late for a florist, and he could hardly rush over to Emma’s and throw himself on her mercy.

  He wished he’d just left it at coffee. They’d had a nice conversation, a pleasant time. You go your way now, I’ll go mine, and that’s that. All this was just too complicated, too intense. But he could hardly call her now, make up some excuse, even if he could successfully lie his way through it. And the chances of that were slim to none.

  People dated all the time, didn’t they? They rarely died due to the activity. He grabbed what seemed to be a colorful, casual arrangement, and stalked over to the express line.

  They were colorful, he thought with some resentment. They smelled nice. A couple of those big gerbera daisies were mixed in, and they struck him as a friendly flower. None of the dreaded roses, he mused, which, according to the Law of Bob, meant he’d basically be asking Mackensie to marry him and bear his children.

  So, they should be safe.

  Maybe they were too safe.

  The kind-eyed cashier gave him a quick smile. “Aren’t those pretty! A surprise for your wife?”

  “No. No. I don’t have a wife.”

  “Oh, for your girl then.”

  “Not exactly.” He fumbled out his wallet as she rang them up. “Just a . . . Could I just ask you if you think these are appropriate for a date? I mean to give to the woman I’m taking out to dinner.”

  “Sure they are. Most everybody likes flowers, don’t they? Especially us girls. She’s going to think you’re real sweet, and thoughtful, too.”

  “But not too . . .” Stop while you’re ahead, Carter told himself.

  She took the money, made the change. “Here you go now.” She slid the bouquet into a clear plastic bag. “You have a real good time tonight.”

  “Thank you.” More relaxed, Carter walked back to his car. If you couldn’t trust the checker in the express line at the supermarket, who could you trust?

  He checked his watch, calculated that barring fatal collisions he was still on schedule. Though he felt foolish, he pulled the list the helpful Bob had printed out from his pocket, and carefully crossed off Buy Flowers (not roses).

  Following, there were several suggestions for greetings or initial conversation points such as You look beautiful, Great dress, I saw these (flowers) and thought of you.

  Carter stuffed the list back in his pocket before any of them imprinted on his brain. But not before he’d noted Bob’s decree to tune the car radio to classic lite or smooth jazz, on low volume.

  He might end up killing Bob, Carter mused.

  He drove the next few miles while obsessing about background music before snapping off the radio. The hell with it. He turned into the long, winding drive of the estate.

  “What if she’s not wearing a dress,” he muttered, as despite all efforts Bob’s list popped back into his mind. And unfortunately, his own question had the image of Mac in black pants and white bra crowding Bob out.

  “I don’t mean that. For God’s sake. I mean, she might be wearing something other than a dress. What do I say then: Nice pants? Outfit, outfit, great outfit. You know it’s called an outfit. Dear God, shut up.”

  He rounded the main house and followed the narrowing drive to Mac’s.

  The lights were on, up and down, so the entire place glowed. Through the generous windows of the first floor he could see her studio, the light stands, a dark blue curtain held up with big, silver clips. In front of the curtain stood a small table and two chairs. Wineglasses glinted on the table.

  Did that mean she wanted to have drinks first? He hadn’t allowed time for drinks. Should he move the reservation? He got out of the car, started down her walk. Went back to the car to get the flowers he’d left on the passenger seat.

  He wished the evening was over. He really did. With a sick feeling in his gut he had to force his hand up to knock. He wanted it to be tomorrow morning, a quiet Sunday morning. He’d grade papers, read, take a walk. Get back to his comfortable routine.

  Then she opened the door.

  He didn’t know what she was wearing. All he saw was her face. It had always been her face—that smooth milk skin framed by bright, bold hair. Those witch green eyes and the unexpected charm of dimples.

  He didn’t want the evening to be over, he realized. He just wanted it to begin.

  “Hello, Carter.”

  “Hello, Mackensie.” None of Bob’s listed suggestions occurred to him. He offered the flowers. “For you.”

  “I was hoping they were. Come on in.” She closed the door behind him. “They’re so pretty. I love gerbera daisies. They’re happy. I want to put these in water. Do you want a drink?”

  “Ah . . .” He glanced over at the table. “If you’d planned to.”

  “That? No, that’s a setup from a shoot I had this afternoon.” She walked toward the kitchen, giving him a little come-ahead gesture. “Engagement shoot. They’re wine buffs. Actually, she writes for a wine-buff mag, and he’s a restaurant critic. So I got the idea of doing it as a bistro deal.” She got out a vase as she talked, and began to unwrap the flowers.

  “It’s great the way you’re able to tailor a photograph like that to the people in it. Sherry loved what you did with hers.”

  “That was easy. A couple of people madly in love snuggling on the couch.”

 
“It’s only easy if you’ve got the instincts to know Sherry and Nick wouldn’t sit in a sophisticated bistro drinking wine, or sit on the floor surrounded by books—and a very big cat.

  “The Mason-Collari engagement. That ran today, didn’t it? Do you always check on the wedding and engagement section of the paper?”

  “Only since I met you again.”

  “Aren’t you the smooth one?”

  As no one had ever applied that adjective to him, he couldn’t think of anything to say.

  She set the vase in the center of her kitchen counter. “Those will perk me up in the morning, even before coffee.”

  “The cashier at the market said you’d like them. I had a small crisis; she got me through it.”

  Amusement made the dimples flicker in her cheeks. “You can always count on the cashier at the market.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  She walked out, and over to the couch to pick up the coat draped over the arm. “I’m ready if you are.”

  “Sure.” He crossed to her to take the coat. As he helped her into it, she glanced back over her shoulder. “Every time you do this I wish I had longer hair, so you’d have to pull it out of the collar.”

  “I like your hair short. It shows off your neck. You have a very nice neck.”

  She turned, stared at him. “We’re going out to dinner.”

  “Yes. I made reservations. Seven thirty at—”

  “No, no, I mean we’re going out to dinner, so this is not to be interpreted as let’s stay in. But I think I really need to get this out of the way, so I can enjoy the meal without thinking about it.”

  She rose on her toes, linked her hands behind his head. And laid her mouth, soft and inviting, on his. The jolt of pleasure shot straight through him. He had to fight the urge to grab her as he had before, to release even a portion of that pent-up lust. He ran his hands up her body, regrettably shielded by the coat, then down it again until the jolt mellowed to a shimmer.

  She drew back, and a pretty flush warmed that milk porcelain skin. “You have a real talent for that, Professor.”

  “I spent a lot of time thinking about kissing you back—way back. I’ve recently revisited that thinking. That might be why.”