So he’d wait. He’d love her, be with her. And wait.
He settled back into the book, letting the quiet and the journey of the story lull him. He lifted the whiskey, took a small sip. His hand jerked at the pounding on the door, so whiskey splashed on his shirt.
“Oh, crap.”
Pulling off his glasses, he laid them on the table with the book. Triad protested when he pulled his feet free. “It’s not my fault. It’s whoever’s crazy enough to be out on a night like this.”
He got up reluctantly, then the thought struck that someone might’ve had an accident, and had come to the house for help. He quickened his pace, imagining skids and crashes on slippery roads. When he opened the door, his arms filled with Mac.
“Carter!”
“Mackensie.” Alarm gushed into his belly. “What is it? What happened?”
“Everything.” She turned her head, crushed her mouth to his. “Everything happened.”
“The estate?” Fire leaped into his mind again. “Was there a fire? Or—”
“No.” She clung. “You found me.”
“You’re cold. Come in where it’s warm. You need to sit down. Whatever happened, we’ll—”
“I forgot my gloves.” She laughed and kissed him again. “I forgot to turn on the heater in the car. I forgot to make the bed. I don’t know why I thought that was important.”
“Did you hit your head?” He pried her back to look into her eyes. They didn’t seem shocky to him, but they were a little wild. “Have you been drinking? And driving in these conditions? You can’t—”
“I haven’t been drinking. I was thinking about wine and phone sex in the bathtub, but that was before I realized I hadn’t made the bed or put my socks in the hamper.” She sniffed. “But someone’s been drinking. Is that whiskey? You drink whiskey?”
“Sometimes. It’s a cold night, and the snow, and . . . Wait a minute.”
“You see? You always surprise me. Carter drinks whiskey on a snowy night.” She spun away from him, then back. “And he can take a punch in the face. He buys diamond earrings and laughs with his father in the kitchen. Oh, I wish I’d had my camera, so I could’ve stolen that moment and showed you. I need another chance at that, when I’m not fighting off nerves and envy. But I have another for you.”
She dragged the box out of the deep pocket of her coat. “Third part of the gift.”
“For God’s sake, you drove all the way over here in this mess to give me a picture? You could’ve been hurt, had an accident. You—”
“Yes. I could’ve. Things happen. But I didn’t, and I’m here. Open it.”
He dragged a hand through his hair. “Let me get your coat.” “I can get my coat. Open it. Look.” She dragged off the coat, threw it over the banister. “That’s the kind of thing I do. Toss my coat somewhere. You don’t even mind. You might some day. So what? Open it, Carter.”
He untied the ribbon, opened the box. She smiled out at him, her cheek against his. It made him remember the kiss, her pleasure in his gift. The warmth afterward, and the feel of her face brushing his. “It’s wonderful.”
“It really is. I kept one of the kiss. You didn’t know I took the shot. It’s a great kiss, a great image. But this—this is us. Looking out, looking forward. Tonight, after the work, and the dealing with things that can’t be controlled, can’t be predicted—good or bad, happy or sad—and then the closet. I’d messed up my shirts, and your jacket was in there.”
“Oh, I must’ve put it there when—”
“It doesn’t matter. That’s the point. It doesn’t matter that my mother is my mother, or that things don’t always work exactly the way you thought they should. Moments matter. I know that better than anyone, but I never let it apply to me. Not to me. People matter, how they feel, how they connect, who they are alone and together. All that matters, no matter how quickly the moment passes. Maybe because it passes. What matters is you’re the blue butterfly.”
“I’m . . . what?”
“Come on, Professor. Dr. Maguire. You know all about metaphors and analogies and symbolism. You flew into my life, just landed in it unexpectedly. Maybe miraculously. And the picture formed. It just took me a while to see it.”
“I’m not . . . Oh, the picture. Wedding Day, the one you took when you were a girl.”
“Epiphanies. I had one then, and I had one tonight. I want this.” She took the picture from him. “I want . . . Here.” She looked around, chose a spot on one of his bookshelves. “I want that. It looks right there, doesn’t it?”
Something squeezed his heart. “Yes. It belongs there.”
“It doesn’t come with a guarantee. Why should it? It’s not a car or a computer. It’s life, and it’s messy, and it breaks down. It’s a promise, to try. I want to promise to try. Carter.”
She walked back to take his face in her hands. “Carter Maguire, I love you.”
As the fist around his heart clenched and released, he lowered his brow to hers. “Say it again, would you?”
“It’s the first time I’ve said it to anyone—this way, I mean. I don’t know why I thought it would be so hard. It’s not. I love you. I love who we are together. I love who I think we might be. I’ll screw up. So will you, you’re not perfect. We’ll hurt each other, and make each other laugh. We’ll make love and we’ll fight. I want us to promise to try not to let each other go. Trying’s all we can do.”
He met her lips with his. There was the promise, he thought. There was everything he’d waited for. There was Mackensie, and she loved him.
“I’m so glad you didn’t make the bed.”
Her laugh muffled against his lips before she tipped her head back. “That was one element of many that coalesced into a moment of absolute clarity. And I needed to tell you. I couldn’t wait. You’re the one who waits so well.”
“It was worth it. Look what I’ve got.”
“I want to tell you something. On Valentine’s Day—our Valentine’s Day—when it wasn’t a ring in the box, part of me was disappointed. That’s what scared me. I’m not scared now.”
His eyes focused on hers, and what he saw in them had his heart leaping. “I want a life with you, Mackensie.”
“I’m asking you to ask me.”
Gently, he brushed his lips to her forehead. “I love your face, and your hands.” He took them in his to press a kiss to her palms. “The way you look when you hold a camera, or hunch at the computer. I have dozens of images, pictures, and moments of you in my head. In my heart. I want a lifetime more. Marry me.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.” He drew her to him, held on. “She said yes. Let’s get married in June.”
She pulled back. “June? We’re booked solid. That’s—” When he grinned, she narrowed her eyes. “You’re a funny guy, Carter.”
Laughing, he wrapped his arms around her once more. “I’ll take the first open date, if that suits you.”
“That’s a deal. Speaking for my partners, let me say Vows is thrilled to provide its services, and promises to give you a perfect wedding.”
“I’ve got you. It’s already perfect.”
She held him, strong and close, through the kiss. Then she laid her head on his shoulder with a sigh.
From the bookshelf their faces smiled out at her. Moments came and went, she thought. It was love that bound them together into a life.
She had love.
KEEP READING FOR A SPECIAL PREVIEW OF THE NEXT BOOK IN THE BRIDE QUARTET BY NORA ROBERTS
BED of ROSES
COMING IN DECEMBER 2009 FROM BERKLEY BOOKS
SINCE DETAILS CROWDED HER MIND, MANY OF THEM BLURRY, Emma checked her appointment book over her first cup of coffee. The back-to-back consults gave her nearly as much of a boost as the strong, sweet brew. Basking in it, she leaned back in the chair in her cozy office to read over the side notes she’d added to the entries for each client.
In her experience, the personality of the couple—or often, more accurately, o
f the bride—helped her determine the tone of the consult, the direction they’d pursue. To Emma’s way of thinking, flowers were the heart of a wedding. Whether they were elegant or fun, elaborate or simple, the flowers were the romance.
It was her job to give the client all the heart and romance they desired.
She sighed, stretched, then smiled at the vase of petite roses on her desk. Spring, she thought, was the best. The wedding season kicked into full gear—which meant busy days and long nights designing, arranging, creating, not only for this spring’s weddings, but the next as well.
She loved the continuity as much as the work itself.
That’s what Vows had given her and her three best friends. Continuity, rewarding work, and that sense of personal accomplishment. And she got to play with flowers, live with flowers, practically swim in flowers every day.
Thoughtfully, she examined her hands, the little nicks and tiny cuts. Some days she thought of them as battle scars and others as medals of honor. This morning she just wished she’d remembered to fit in a manicure.
She glanced at the time, calculated. Boosted again, she sprang up. Detouring into her bedroom, she grabbed a scarlet hoodie to zip over her pjs. There was time to walk to the main house before she dressed and prepared for the day. At the main house Mrs. Grady would have breakfast, so Emma wouldn’t have to forage or cook for herself.
Her life, she thought as she jogged downstairs, brimmed with lovely perks.
She passed through the living room she used as a reception and consult area, and took a quick scan around as she headed for the door. She’d freshen up the flowers on display before the first meeting, but oh, hadn’t those stargazer lilies opened beautifully?
She stepped out of what had been a guest house on the Brown Estate and was now her home, and the base for Centerpiece—her part of Vows.
She took a deep breath of spring air. And shivered.
Damn it, why couldn’t it be warmer? It was April, for God’s sake. It was daffodil time. Look how cheerful the pansies she’d potted up were. She refused to let a chilly morning—and, okay, it was staring to drizzle on top of it—spoil her mood.
She hunched inside the hoodie, stuck the hand not holding her coffee mug in her pocket, and began to walk to the main house.
Things were coming back to life all around her, she reminded herself. If you looked closely enough you could see the promise of green on the trees, the hint of what would be delicate blooms of dogwood and cherry blossoms. Those daffodils wanted to pop, and the crocuses already had. Maybe there’d be another spring snow, but the worst was over.
Soon it would be time to dig in the dirt, to bring some of her beauties out of the greenhouse and put them on display. She added the bouquets, the swags and garlands, but nothing beat Mother Nature for providing the most poignant landscape for a wedding.
And nothing, in her opinion, beat the Brown Estate for showing it off.
The gardens, showpieces even now, would soon explode with color, bloom, scent, inviting people to stroll along the curving paths or sit on a bench, relax in sun or shade. Parker put her in charge—as much as Parker could put anyone else in charge—of overseeing them, so every year she got to play, planting something new, or supervising the landscape team.
The terraces and patios created lovely outdoor living spaces, perfect for weddings and events—poolside receptions, terrace receptions, ceremonies under the rose arbor or the pergola, or perhaps down by the pond under a willow.
We’ve got it all, she thought.
The house itself? Could anything be more graceful, more beautiful? The wonderful soft blue, those warm touches of yellow and cream. All the varied rooflines, the arching windows, the lacy balconies added up to elegant charm. And really, the entrance portico was made for crowding with lush greenery or elaborate colors and textures.
As a child she’d thought of it as a fairyland, complete with castle.
Now it was home.
She veered toward the pool house where her partner Mac lived and kept her photography studio. Even as she aimed for it, the door opened. Emma beamed a smile, shot out a wave to the lanky man with shaggy hair and a tweed jacket who came out.
“ ’Morning, Carter!”
“Hi, Emma.”
Carter’s family and hers had been friends almost as long as she could remember. Now, Carter Maguire, former Yale prof and current teacher of English Lit at their high school alma mater, was engaged to one of her best friends in the world.
Life wasn’t just good, Emma thought. It was a freaking bed of roses.
Riding on that, she all but danced to Carter, tugged him down by the lapels as she angled up on her toes and kissed him noisily.
“Wow,” he said, and blushed a little.
“Hey.” Mackensie, her eyes sleepy, her cap of red hair bright in the gloom, leaned on the doorjamb. “Are you trying to make time with my guy?”
“If only. I’d steal him away but you’ve dazzled and vamped him.”
“Damn right.”
“Well.” Carter offered them both a flustered smile. “This is a really nice start to my day. The staff meeting I’m headed to won’t be half as enjoyable.”
“Call in sick.” Mac all but purred it. “I’ll give you something enjoyable.”
“Hah. Well. Anyway. Bye.”
Emma grinned at his back as he hurried off to his car. “God, he is so cute.”
“He really is.”
“And look at you, Happy Girl.”
“Happy Engaged Girl. Want to see my ring again?”
“Oooh,” Emma said obligingly when Mac wiggled her fingers. “Ahhh.”
“Are you going for breakfast?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Wait.” Mac leaned in, grabbed a jacket, then pulled the door closed behind her. “I didn’t have anything but coffee yet, so . . .” As they fell into step together, Mac frowned. “That’s my mug.”
“Do you want it back now?”
“I know why I’m cheerful this crappy morning, and it’s the same reason I haven’t had time for breakfast. It’s called Let’s Share the Shower.”
“Happy Girl is also Bragging Bitch.”
“And proud of it. Why are you so cheerful? Got a man in your house?”
“Sadly no. But I have five consults booked today. Which is a great start to the week, and comes on the heels of the lovely end to last week with yesterday’s tea party wedding. It was really sweet, wasn’t it?”
“Our sexagenarian couple exchanging vows and celebrating while surrounded by his kids, her kids, grandchildren. Not just sweet, but also reassuring. Second time around for both of them, and there they are, ready to do it again, willing to share and blend. I got some really great shots. Anyway, I think those crazy kids are going to make it.”
“Speaking of crazy kids, we really have to talk about your flowers. December may be far away—she says shivering—but it comes fast, as you well know.”
“I haven’t even decided on the look for the engagement shots yet. Or looked at dresses, or thought about colors.”
“I look good in jewel tones,” Emma said and fluttered her lashes.
“You look good in burlap. Talk about bragging bitches.” Mac opened the door to the mud room, and since Mrs. Grady was back from her winter vacation, remembered to wipe her feet. “As soon as I find the dress, we’ll brainstorm the rest.”
“You’re the first one of us to get married. To have your wedding here.”
“Yeah. It’s going to be interesting to see how we manage to run the wedding and be in the wedding.”
“You know you can count on Parker to figure out the logistics. If anyone can make it run smooth, it’s Parker.”
They walked into the kitchen, and chaos.
While the equitable Maureen Grady worked at the stove, movements efficient, face placid, Parker and Laurel faced off across the room.
“It has to be done,” Parker insisted.
“Bullshit, bullshit, bul
lshit.”
“Laurel, this is business. In business you serve the client.”
“Let me tell you what I’d like to serve the client.”
“Just stop.” Parker, her rich brown hair sleeked back in a tail, was already dressed in a meet-the-client suit of midnight blue. Eyes of nearly the same color flashed hot with impatience. “Look, I’ve already put together a list of her choices, the number of guests, her colors, her floral selections. You don’t even have to speak to her. I’ll liaise.”
“Now let me tell you what you can do with your list.”
“The bride—”
“The bride is an asshole. The bride is an idiot, whiny baby bitch who made it very clear nearly one year ago that she neither needed nor wanted my particular services. The bride can bite me because she’s not biting any of my cake now that she’s realized her own stupidity.”
In the cotton pants and tank she’d slept in, her hair still in sleep tufts, Laurel dropped onto a chair in the breakfast nook.
“You need to calm down.” Parker bent to pick up a file. Probably tossed on the floor by Laurel, Emma mused. “Everything you need is in here.” Parker laid the file on the table. “I’ve already assured the bride we’ll accommodate her, so—”
“So you design and bake a four-layer wedding cake between now and Saturday, and a groom’s cake, and a selection of desserts. To serve two hundred people. You do that with no previous preparation, and when you’ve got three other events over the weekend, and an evening event in three days.”
Her face set in mutinous lines, Laurel picked up the file and deliberately dropped it on the floor.
“Now you’re acting like a child.”
“Fine. I’m a child.”
“Girls, your little friends have come to play.” Mrs. Grady sang it out, her tone overly sweet, her eyes laughing.
“Ah, I hear my mom calling me,” Emma said and started to ease out of the room.
“No, you don’t!” Laurel jumped up. “Just listen to this! The Folk-Harrigan wedding. Saturday, evening event. You’ll remember, I’m sure, how the bride sniffed at the very idea of Icings at Vows providing the cake or any of the desserts. How she sneered at me and my suggestions and insisted her cousin, a pastry chef in New York who studied in Paris and designed cakes for important affairs, would be handling all the desserts.
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