Vision In White

by Roberts, Nora

  “If I promise to change my shirt, will you leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “Before you leave will you pick out some music? Because I can’t take any more pressure.”

  “Got you covered. Go up, change your shirt.” Grabbing his hand, she pulled him out of the kitchen. “I’ll pick the mood music and be gone before you get down. Take the present up, will you? Don’t tell me where you hide it in case I try to sneak over and get it before V-Day.”

  “Done.”

  “Carter?” she added when he started upstairs. “Light the candles about ten minutes before she’s due.”

  “Okay.”

  “And have a nice time.”

  “Thanks. Be sure to go away now.”

  He changed the shirt, dawdling over it to give Sherry enough time to finish up and go. He hid the gift-wrapped box in his office closet.

  When he went down, he found a sticky note on his CD player. Hit Play five minutes before she’s due. XXOO

  “It’s like a war campaign,” Carter muttered, and crumpled up the note as he walked into the kitchen to start the chicken.

  He minced, he crushed, he sautéed, measured, timed—and only burned himself once. When the chicken simmered fragrantly, he lit the candles on the table, the ones on the skinny sideboard. He set out the little bowls of olives and cashews. When he hit the five-minute mark, he switched on the stereo. Alanis Morissette.

  Nice choice.

  At seven, she knocked.

  “I’m Parker-trained,” Mac told him when he opened the door. “So I’m obsessively prompt. I hope that’s okay.”

  “It’s absolutely okay. Let me take your coat. Oh, and . . .”

  “Dessert,” she said, handing him the glossy Vows bakery box. “Italian cream cake, a personal favorite. Nice house, Carter. Very you,” she added wandering into the living room with its wall of books. “Oh, you have a cat.”

  “I didn’t think to ask if you were allergic.”

  “I’m not. Hello, pal.” She started to crouch, then stopped, angling her head. “You have a cat with three legs.”

  “Triad. He was hit by a car.”

  “Oh, poor baby!” Instantly, she was down on the floor, stroking and scratching the delighted cat. “It had to be awful for both of you. Thank God you were home.”

  “No, actually I was driving home from school. They—the car in front of me hit him, and just kept going. I don’t understand how anybody could do that. When I pulled over, I thought he’d be dead, but he was lying there, in shock, I guess. The vet couldn’t save the leg, but he does okay.”

  Mac continued to stroke the cat down his length as she stared at Carter. “I bet he does.”

  “Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “I would.” She gave Triad a last scratch, then rose. “And I’d like to check out what smells so good.”

  “I thought that was you.”

  “Besides me,” she said while he hung her coat tidily in his hall closet.

  “Come on back.” He took her hand to lead her to the kitchen. “You look nice. I should’ve said that right away.”

  “Only if you’re working off bullet points.”

  As he felt himself wince, he was grateful her attention focused on the kitchen instead of his face.

  “It really does smell good. What’ve you got going here, Carter?” She walked to the stove to sniff at the skillet.

  “Well, let’s see. There’s a field green salad, rosemary chicken in a white wine reduction, roasted red-skinned potatoes, and asparagus.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You’re kidding me.”

  “You don’t like asparagus? I can—”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. You made all this?” She lifted the lid of the skillet.

  “You’re not really supposed to take that off until . . . Well, okay.” He shrugged as she sniffed again, then replaced the lid.

  “This is trouble, Carter.”

  “Why? Is it the chicken?”

  “You went to all this trouble. I figured you’d toss a couple steaks under the broiler, or dump a jar of Ragú in a pot and call it your own. But this is cooking. Considerable time and trouble. I’m wowed. And look at the pretty table you made.”

  She wandered into the dining room to walk around it. “You’re just a man of levels, aren’t you?”

  “Why didn’t I think of the Ragú?” He picked up the bottle of wine he’d opened. “I got white because of the chicken, but I didn’t know what kind you liked. This is supposed to be good.”

  “Supposed?”

  “I don’t know a lot about wine. I looked it up.”

  She took the glass he offered, sampled, watching him all the while. “Your research paid off.”

  “Mackensie.” He leaned down, brushed his lips lightly over hers. “There. I feel better.”

  “Than?”

  “Probably every man within a twenty-mile radius because they can’t kiss you in the kitchen.”

  “You’re dazzling me, Carter.”

  “That was part of the plan. I just have to put a few things together. You should sit down.”

  “I could help.”

  “I have a system—I hope. If you’re in the system, it changes the, well, system. I did a draft Tuesday night, so I think I have it down.”

  “A draft?”

  He asked himself why he’d babbled that one out as he adjusted the heat under the skillet. “Ah, well, I wasn’t sure how it might turn out, and there’s the whole getting everything done at the right time. So, I did a draft of the meal.”

  “You had a dinner rehearsal?”

  “More or less. Bob’s wife had her book club meeting, so he came by. I cooked. We ate. So, you should be safe. How did your studying go?”

  “My studying?”

  “For the presentation on Monday.”

  “I am so ready. Which is good because starting tomorrow we’re booked back-to-back. We had a roundup this morning, two rehearsals this afternoon. The second of which was full of pitfalls as the maid of honor and best man, who are recent exes since his affair with his business partner came to light, aren’t speaking.”

  “How do you handle that?”

  “Like you would a handful of sweating dynamite. The wedding biz isn’t for sissies.”

  “I can see that.”

  “And come Monday, we’ll be putting on a show for Mrs. Seaman Furniture that’ll make her stand up and cheer.”

  “Seaman Furniture’s the potential client?”

  “Technically Seaman Furniture’s daughter, but the mother’s paying the freight.”

  “We’ll be eating on a table and sitting in chairs I bought there. I’d say that counts as good luck.”

  They sat in the lucky chairs at the lucky table with candlelight and wine and music. She was, Mac realized, being thoroughly and unashamedly romanced.

  And she liked it.

  “You know, Carter, this is so good I’ve stopped feeling guilty about the fact you’ve eaten this exact meal twice this week.”

  “You could consider it upscale leftovers. Leftovers are a major part of the menu around here, usually.” He glanced over at the cat who sat beside his chair, staring up with unblinking yellow eyes.

  “I guess your pal’s waiting for his.”

  “He’s not used to seeing me eat at the table. It’s usually counter food, so I guess he’s confused. Do you want me to put him out?”

  “No. I like cats. In fact, I’ve been married to cats several times.”

  “I didn’t know that. I take it things didn’t work out.”

  “That depends on your point of view. I have very fond memories of those marriages, however fleeting. When we were kids, the four of us used to play Wedding Day. A lot.” She laughed over her wine. “I guess we began as we meant to go on, even if we didn’t know it. We had costumes and props, each took different roles. We married each other, pets, Del if Parker could blackmail him into it.”

  “The photograph in your studio. With
the butterfly.”

  “The camera was a gift from my father that was probably age inappropriate. My grandmother used the gift to bitch about him. Again. A hot summer day when I wanted to go swimming instead of playing the game. Parker placating my mood by declaring me official wedding photographer instead of the MOH.”

  “Sorry?”

  “MOH. Maid of honor. I didn’t want to put on the dress, so Parker deemed me official wedding photographer.”

  “Portentous.”

  “I guess so. Add the serendipitous flight of that butterfly and elements coalesced into a personal epiphany. I realized not only that I could preserve a memory, a moment, an image, but I wanted to.”

  She ate another bite of chicken. “I bet you made Sherry play Classroom.”

  “Maybe. Now and then. She could be bribed with stickers.”

  “Who can’t? I don’t know if it makes us lucky or boring that we knew what we wanted to do when we were still so young.”

  “Actually, I thought I’d impart my wisdom in the halls of the rarified air of Yale while I wrote the great American novel.”

  “Really? Why haven’t you? Or didn’t you?”

  “I realized I like playing Classroom.”

  Yes, she thought, he did. She’d seen that for herself. “Did you write the book?”

  “Oh, I’ve got a novel in progress like any self-respecting English professor. And it’ll likely be in progress for the considerable part of ever.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “It’s about two hundred pages so far.”

  “No.” She poked his shoulder. “What’s the story?”

  “It’s about great love, loss, sacrifice, betrayal, and courage. You know, the usual. I’ve been thinking it needs a three-legged cat, possibly a potted palm.”

  “Who’s the main character?”

  “You can’t possibly want to hear about this.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t. Who is he, what does he do?”

  “The protagonist is—and you’ll be shocked to hear this—a teacher.” He smiled as he topped off her wine. He could always drive her home. “He’s betrayed, by a woman, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “His life is shattered, along with his career, his soul. Damaged, he has to start again, has to find the courage to fix what’s broken in him. To learn to trust again, to love again. It really needs the potted palm.”

  “Why did she betray him?”

  “Because he loved her but didn’t see her. She ruined him so he would. I think.”

  “So the three-legged cat could be a metaphor for his wounded soul, and his determination to live with the scars.”

  “That’s good. You’d get an A.”

  “Now, for the important question.” She leaned toward him. “Is there sex, violence, and adult language?”

  “There is.”

  “Sold. You need to finish it. Isn’t there that publish-or-perish business in your world?”

  “It doesn’t have to be a book. I’ve got articles, papers, short stories published to keep that wolf from the door.”

  “Short stories? Seriously?”

  “Just small press. The sort of thing that doesn’t move out of academia. You should publish your photography. An art book.”

  “I play around with it sometimes. I guess it’s like the novel. When it’s not what you actually do, it gets shuffled back. Parker’s idea is for us to put together coffee table books. Wedding flowers, wedding cakes, wedding photography. The best of our best kind of thing.”

  “It’s a good idea.”

  “Parker rarely has any other kind. It’s a matter of carving out the time to put it all together in a way that could be pitched to whoever publishes that kind of thing. Meanwhile we’ve got three events in three days, with our Saturday job a very thorny rose. You should come.”

  “To . . . to someone’s wedding. I couldn’t. I wasn’t invited.”

  “You’ll be staff,” Mac decided on the spot. “God knows we could use another man with a brain in his head for this one. I use a photographer’s assistant for some events—when I have to. For the most part I like not to. But I was going to for this one due to holding all that sweating dynamite. The couple of people I usually tap aren’t available. You’re hired.”

  “I don’t know anything about photography.”

  “I do. You’ll hand me what I ask for, do stand-ins, and play pack mule when necessary. Do you have a dark suit? That isn’t tweed?”

  “I—yes, but—”

  She gave him a slow, seductive smile. “There’ll be cake.”

  “Oh, in that case.”

  “Jack’s pinch-hitting as escort for the MOH, due to CBBM.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Maid of Honor, Cheating Bastard Best Man. And Del’s helping out because Jack’s making him. You know them. You know us.” She ate another bite of potato. “And you’ll have cake.”

  None of which turned the tide for him. But the idea of being with her instead of just thinking about being with her did. “All right, if you’re sure.”

  “Three o’clock Saturday. It’ll be great.”

  “And I’ll see you in your natural habitat this time.”

  “Yes, you will. Speaking of cake, I don’t have room for dessert yet. I’ll work off this amazing meal by doing the dishes.”

  “No, I don’t want you to bother.”

  “You made dinner, twice. I’ll clean it up while you have brandy and a cigar.”

  “I don’t have any brandy, or a cigar.”

  She patted his shoulder as she rose. “An English professor ought to recognize a metaphor when he hears one. Have another glass of wine since you’re not driving.”

  She poured it for him herself before stacking the plates. “I actually like doing dishes. It’s the only household chore I do like.”

  She ran hot water in the sink, found the detergent in the under-cabinet and squirted it in for the pots and pans. He liked sitting there, watching her perform the basic, mundane chore. And he hoped she wasn’t saying anything important because his mind was blurring.

  It had nothing to do with the wine, and everything to do with imagining her being there, tidying up the kitchen next week, next month. Next year. Imagining her sitting with him to share a meal.

  Too far, too fast, he knew it. But couldn’t help it. Infatuation had taken a quick, hard turn on him so he was rushing down the steep road into love.

  “Where are your dish towels?”

  “What? Sorry?”

  “Dish towels,” she said and opened a drawer at random.

  “No, not there. Other side. I’ll get it.”

  He rose, opened the right drawer and got out a towel. “Why don’t I dry the pans?” he began. When he turned, his stomach sank down to his toes.

  She stood, head cocked, reading Bob’s list.

  “You have a list.”

  “No. Yes. It’s not mine. I mean to say, yes, it’s mine, but I didn’t write it. Make it. God.”

  With a thoughtful expression, she continued to read. “It’s very detailed.”

  “Bob. You met him. He’s a lunatic—I don’t believe I mentioned that in the introduction.”

  “It has bullet points.”

  “I know. I know. I’m sorry. He’s determined to play Cyrano. I mean—”

  She looked over the paper, into his eyes. “I get the Cyrano reference, Carter.”

  “Oh, of course. He got married a couple years ago, has a baby on the way.”

  “Congratulations to Bob.”

  “He has this idea stuck in his head about helping me, ah, in this area. He brought it over Tuesday. I told you he came over for dinner Tuesday, didn’t I?”

  “For the draft.”

  “Yes, exactly, for the draft. I should’ve thrown it away after he left, but I tossed it in the drawer. Just . . .”

  “In case? Like backup.”

  “Yes. Yes, and I have no defense. I don’t blame you for being
upset.”

  She shifted her attention from the list to Carter. “Do I look upset?”

  “Ah . . . No, now that you mention it. You don’t. Which is good. Which is a relief. Would you say you’re . . . amused?”

  “That would be one level,” she replied. “According to the List of Bob, we’re pretty much on schedule.”

  “I didn’t go by that. My word on it.” He held up a hand, palm out as if taking an oath. “I have my own list. A mental list. Which I suddenly realize is equally stupid.”

  “How are we doing on yours?”

  She smiled, but he couldn’t quite read the meaning. There could be subtext. “Good. We’re fine. Maybe we could have cake.”

  She shook a finger at him when he reached for the printout. “I see here we were merely to stack the dishes—unless, I note here in parentheses, you sense I’d feel that was sloppy. Bob believes—and we know Bob—that doing the dishes together, if necessary, could be employed as foreplay.”

  Mortified, he closed his eyes. “Just kill me. Please.”

  “Sorry, but that’s not on the list. The list says that after making sure you have the appropriate music on—Barry White is his considered suggestion—you dance with me. Kitchen or living room each are acceptable as venues. Slow dance, which proceeds into the seduction portion of the evening. He advises that you should be able to tell, at this point, whether I’m amenable to taking it upstairs.”

  “Would you like me to kill him? I’ve thought about it.”

  “I don’t hear Barry White.”

  “I don’t think I have any . . . Even if I did, I wouldn’t have—Did I mention Bob’s a lunatic?”

  “Here’s something I wonder, Carter.” Watching him, she set the list on the counter. “I wonder why you’re not dancing with me.” She stepped to him, lifted her arms to wind them around his neck.

  “Oh.”

  “We wouldn’t want to disappoint Bob.”

  “He is an awfully good friend.” He rested his cheek on the top of her head as everything settled back into place. “I’m not a very good dancer. My feet are too big. If I step on yours just—”

  She tipped her face up to his. “Shut up and kiss me, Carter.”

  “I can do that.”

  Swaying, he covered her mouth with his. Soft and quiet, to fit the moment. He circled, cautiously, while her fingers slid into his hair, and her sigh filled his mind with mists.