by Nora Roberts
“We’re really on a schedule,” Charles began.
“It’ll take less than five minutes. Stand up, Elizabeth. Let me just move the stool.” She dragged it away, then took her camera from the tripod. “How about a hug? Not me. Each other.”
“I don’t—”
“Hugging’s legal in Connecticut, even when you’re not engaged. Just a little experiment, and I’ll have you out of here in two minutes.” She grabbed her light meter, checked, adjusted.
“Put your right cheek on his chest, but cheat it toward me. Turn your face a little toward me,” Mac explained. “And look this way. Charles, angle your head down to hers, but tip your chin my way. Take a deep breath, then let it go, just let it go. You’re holding on to the person you love, right? Enjoy it. And eyes on me, right on me, and think about what you felt like the first time you kissed.”
There!
The smiles were quick, spontaneous. Soft on her part, even a little sly, and delighted on his.
“One more, just one more like that.” She got three before they stiffened up again. “Done. I’ll have several proofs for your approval by—”
“Can’t we see some now? It’s digital, isn’t it?” Elizabeth pressed. “I’d just like a quick idea.”
“Sure.”
Mac walked to the computer with the camera, set it up to display. “These are raw, but you’ll get the gist.”
“Yes.” Elizabeth frowned at the screen as Mac started the slow slide show. “Yes, they’re nice. That’s—that one.”
Mac stopped on one of the formals. “This?”
“That’s what I had in mind. It’s very good. We both look good, and I like the angle. This one, I think.”
“I’ll mark it. Might as well see the rest, to be sure.” Mac started the slide show again.
“Yes, they’re really very good. Very good. I do think the one I picked is . . .” She trailed off as the shot of them hugging came on screen. “Oh. Well, that’s lovely. Really lovely, isn’t it?”
“My mother will like the first one you picked.” Behind her, Charles rubbed Elizabeth’s shoulders.
“She will. Exactly. We’ll get it for her, have it framed for her. But . . .” She looked at Mac. “You were right; I was wrong. This is the one I want, the way I want to be portrayed in our engagement photo. Remind me I said the first part in September, when I try to tell you how to do your job.”
“I will. I was wrong, too. I think it’s going to be a pleasure to work with you after all.”
It took Elizabeth a moment, but she laughed.
She sent them off to Parker, figured Parker now owed her. She was sending off clients who—for the moment, at least—were more open to ideas and direction than they had been.
She settled down to complete packages for clients. One set of proofs, and the other the complete choices, all displayed in albums. For Bride and Groom, for MOB, MOG, the extra photos requested by various members of the families and wedding party.
When they were boxed, she decided she had just enough time for a quick dish of leftover pasta salad before she carted them and herself over to the main house.
She managed a couple of bites, eating over the sink. Frozen fairyland, she thought, staring out the window. Everything still and perfect. She grabbed her glass of Diet Coke, started to drink.
The cardinal smacked right into the window, a bang and blur of red. Diet Coke spewed up at the jerk of her hand to splash all over her shirt.
She watched the idiot bird wing away while her heart vibrated in her throat. Then she looked down at her shirt. “Damn it.”
She stripped it off, tossed it on top of her stacked washer/ dryer in the kitchen pantry. In bra and black pants, she wiped up the spill on the counter. Irritated, she grabbed the ringing phone. Since the readout indicated Parker’s cell, she answered with an aggrieved, “What?”
“Patty Baker’s here to pick up her albums.”
“Well, she’s twenty minutes early. I’ll be there, and so will they—on time. Keep her occupied,” she added as she moved toward the studio. “And don’t bug me.” She clicked off, turned.
Then she stared at the man who stood inside her studio.
His eyes popped, he blushed, then with a choked, “Oh God,” he spun around. And with a gunshot crack, smacked straight into the doorjamb.
“Jesus! Are you okay?” Mac tossed the phone on a table as she rushed over to where he was currently staggering.
“Yes. Fine. Sorry.”
“You’re bleeding. Wow, you really hit your head. Maybe you should sit down.”
“Maybe.” And with that, eyes dazed and slightly unfocused, he sort of slid down the wall to the floor.
Mac crouched, brushed at the dark brown hair that flopped over his forehead and the bleeding scrape that was already growing into an impressive knot. “Okay, it’s not cut. You’ve escaped stitches. It’s just really bashed. Boy, it sounded like you hit the door with a hammer. Ice maybe, and then—”
“Excuse me? Um, I’m not sure if you realize . . . I just wonder if you shouldn’t . . .”
She saw his gaze aim down, followed it with her own. And noted while she considered triage, that her barely bra-covered breasts were very close to pressing into his face.
“Oops. Forgot. Sit there. Don’t move.” She leaped up, dashed away.
He wasn’t sure he could’ve moved. Disoriented, bewildered, he sat where he was, back braced against the wall. Even with the cartoon birds circling over his head, he had to admit they’d been very pretty breasts. He couldn’t help but notice.
But he wasn’t at all sure what to say or do in his current situation. So sitting there, as she’d told him, seemed best all around.
When she came back with a bag of ice, she had a shirt on. It was probably wrong to feel the quick tug of disappointment. She crouched down again on what he noticed—now that her breasts weren’t in view—were very long legs.
“Here, try this.” She put the ice in his hand, put his hand on his throbbing forehead. And sat back on her haunches like a catcher behind the plate. Her eyes were the green of a magic sea.
“Who are you?” she asked him.
“What?”
“Hmm. How many fingers do you see?” She held up two.
“Twelve.”
And smiled. Dimples creased into her cheeks with the curve of her lips and his heart did a little dance in his chest.
“No, you don’t. Let’s try this. What are you doing in my studio—or what were you doing here before you concussed yourself over my boobs?”
“Ah. I have an appointment? Or Sherry does. Sherry Maguire?” He thought her smile dimmed a little, and the dimples disappeared.
“Okay, wrong place. You want the main house. I’m Mackensie Elliot, photography end of the business.”
“I know. I mean I know who you are. Sherry wasn’t very clear, which is usually the case, on where.”
“Or when, since your appointment’s not until two.”
“She said she thought one thirty, which I know means she’ll get here at two. I should’ve gone by Sherry Time, or called to confirm myself. Sorry again.”
“It’s no problem.” She angled her head. His eyes—very nice eyes—were clear again. “How do you know me?”
“Oh. I went to school with Delaney, Delaney Brown, and with Parker. Well, Parker was a couple years behind us. And, you, sort of. For a little while.”
She shifted for a closer look at him. Dense, disordered brown hair that needed a style and trim by most standards. Clear, quiet blue eyes surrounded by a forest of lashes. Straight nose, strong mouth in a thinnish face.
She was
good with faces. Why didn’t she place his?
“I knew most of Del’s friends, I think.”
“Oh, we didn’t exactly run in the same circles. But I tutored him once, when we were studying
Henry the Fifth.”
That clicked. “Carter,” she said, pointing at him. “Carter Maguire. You’re not
marrying your sister, are you?”
“What? No! I’m a stand-in for Nick. She didn’t want to do the consult alone, and he got held up. I’m just . . . I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, actually.”
“Being a good brother.” She patted his knee. “Think you can stand up?”
“Yeah.”
She straightened, held out a hand to help him. His heart did another little dance as their hands met. And by the time he’d gained his feet, his head was beating the drum for the rhythm. “Ouch,” he said.
“I bet. Want some aspirin?”
“Oh, only enough to beg.”
“I’ll get it. While I do you can sit down on something that isn’t the floor.”
When she went back in the kitchen, he started to, but the photographs lining the walls caught his eye. Magazine shots, too, he noted, and had to assume them hers. Beautiful brides, sophisticated brides, sexy brides, laughing brides. Some in color, some in atmospheric black and white—and some with that odd and compelling computer trick of one spot of intense color in a black-and-white shot.
He turned as she came back and had the errant thought that her hair was like that—an intense spot of color.
“Do you take anything else, photographically?”
“Yes.” She handed him three pills and a glass of water. “But brides are the focal point and the selling point of a wedding business.”
“They’re wonderful—creative and individual. But she’s the best.” He stepped over, gestured to a framed photo of three young girls, and the blue butterfly resting on the head of a dandelion.
“Why?”
“Because it’s magic.”
She stared at him for what seemed like forever. “That’s exactly right. Well, Carter Maguire, I’m going to get my coat, then we’ll walk over and take our consult.”
She took the bag of melting ice out of his hand. “We’ll get you fresh at the main house.”
Cute, she thought as she went for a coat and scarf. Very, very cute. Had she noticed he was cute in high school? Maybe he was a late bloomer. But he’d bloomed nicely. Enough that she’d felt a little twinge of regret when she’d thought he was a groom.
But a BOB—Brother of the Bride—that was a different kettle.
If she were interested, that is.
She put on the coat, wound the scarf—then remembered the blast of wind earlier, and pulled a cap over her head. When she went down, Carter was putting his glass of water in the sink like a good boy.
She picked up the enormous cloth bag holding some of the albums, handed it to him. “Here you go. You can carry this. It’s heavy.”
“Yes. It is.”
“I’ve got this one.” She picked up the second, and a smaller one. “I’ve got a bride waiting for her finished albums, and another due for her proofs. Main house, like the consult.”
“I want to apologize for just coming in before. I knocked, but nobody answered. I heard the music, so I just walked in, and then . . .”
“The rest is history.”
“Yes. Ah, don’t you want to turn the music off ?”
“Right. I stopped hearing it.” She grabbed the remote, hit Off, tossed the remote down. Before she could open the door, he moved in, opened it for her. “You still live in Greenwich?” she began as her breath sucked in at the shock of cold.
“Well, more again than still. I lived in New Haven awhile.”
“Yale.”
“Yes, I did some postgraduate work and taught for a couple years.”
“At Yale.”
“Yes.”
She narrowed her eyes at him as they walked the path. “Seriously?”
“Well, yes. People do teach at Yale. It’s highly recommended, given the students.”
“So you’re like a professor.”
“I’m like a professor, only now I teach here. At Winterfield Academy.”
“You came back to teach high school at your alma mater. That’s kind of sweet.”
“I missed home. And teaching teenagers is interesting.”
She thought it was bound to be more volatile, though that might be interesting. “What do you teach?”
“English Literature, Creative Writing.”
“
Henry the Fifth.”
“There you go. Mrs. Brown had me out here a couple of times when I was working with Del. I was sorry to hear about the accident. She was an incredibly nice woman.”
“Best ever. We can go in this way. It’s too cold to walk all the way around.”
She led him in through the mudroom, into the warmth. “You can stow your gear in here. You’re still on the early side. We’ll get you some coffee in the meantime.” She shed coat, scarf, hat while she spoke, moving quickly. “No event today, so the main kitchen’s clear.”
She picked up her bags again while he carefully hung his coat, as opposed to the way she’d tossed hers in the direction of the hook. She seemed to vibrate with movement while standing still as he hauled up the large bag again.
“We’ll find you a place to—” Mac broke off as Emma walked toward the main kitchen.
“There you are. Parker was about to . . . Carter?”
“Hi, Emmaline, how are you?”
“I’m fine. Good. How did you . . . Sherry. I didn’t realize you were coming with Sherry.”
“He is and he isn’t. He’ll explain. Get him some coffee, will you, and some ice for his head? I’ve got to get these to the bride.”
She grabbed the heavy bag from Carter, and was off.
Emma pursed her lips as she studied the scrape, and said, “Ouch. What did you do?”
“I walked into a wall. You can skip the ice, it’s doing okay.”
“Well, come in, have a seat and some coffee. I was just coming back to do a setup for the consult.”
She led the way, gestured to a stool and a long, honey-toned counter. “Are you here to give moral support to the bride and groom?”
“I’m standing in for the groom. He had an emergency.”
Emma nodded as she got out a cup and saucer. “You’ll have that with doctors. And aren’t you the brave brother?”
“I said no, in several different ways. None of them worked. Thanks,” he added when she poured the coffee.
“Take comfort. You’ll just have to sit there and eat cookies.”
He dumped some cream into his coffee. “Can I get that in writing?”
She laughed and began to arrange cookies on a plate. “Trust me. Added to it, you’ll score major good brother points. How’re your parents?”
“Good. I saw your mother last week, at the bookstore.”
“She loves that job.” Emma handed him a cookie. “Mac should be about done with her client. I’m going to take these in and I’ll come back for you.”
“I guess if I just hid in here, I’d lose the brave brother title.”
“You would. I’ll be back.”
He’d known Emma through Sherry, and their respective parents’ friendship, since they’d been children. It was odd, just odd to think of Emma making his sister’s bridal bouquet. It was just odd that his little sister would need a bridal bouquet.
It was as disorienting somehow as walking into a stupid wall.
He gave his forehead a little poke, winced. It wasn’t so much that it hurt, which it did, but that everyone would ask him what happened. He’d be explaining his own clumsiness repeatedly—and every time he did, he’d get a mental flashback to Mackensie Elliot in a really tiny bra and low-slung black pants.
He ate the cookie and tried to decide if that was a perk or a burden.
Emma came back for him, and for another tray. “You might as well come on out. I’m sure Sherry will be here any minute.”
“Because she’s already ten minutes late.” He took the tray from her. “She’s on Sherry Time.”
The house was much as he remembered it. The walls were a soft, muted gold now where his memory said they’d been an elegant, understated green. But the
wide, ornate trim was as glossy, the space as generous, the furnishings as gleaming.
Art and antiques, flowers in old, exquisite crystal illuminated wealth and class. Yet, as he remembered, it felt not like a mansion, but a home.
It smelled female, sort of floral and citrusy at the same time.
The women sat, forming a cozy conversation area in the large, coffered-ceilinged drawing room where a fire snapped and sizzled in the big hearth, and winter sunlight splashed through the trio of arched windows. He was used to being outnumbered by females, as he was the middle child, with two sisters bookending him.
So he supposed he’d survive the next hour.
Parker popped out of her chair, all smiles and polish, crossing the room, hands extending. “Carter! It’s been a while.”
She kissed his cheek, kept his hand in hers as she drew him toward the fire. “Do you remember Laurel?”
“Ah . . .”
“We were all kids.” Smooth and easy, Parker nudged him into a chair. “Emma mentioned you’d come back to teach at Winterfield. Was it strange, going back as a teacher?”
“At first it was. I kept waiting for somebody to assign homework, then remembered, oh yeah, that’s me. Sorry about Sherry. She’s on her own clock, and it usually runs behind. I could call—”
The doorbell cut him off, and brought him desperate relief.
“I’ll get it.” Emma rose, headed out.
“How’s the head?” Mac asked, lolling back in her chair with her coffee cup tucked in both hands.
“It’s fine. It’s nothing.”
“What happened?” Parker asked.
“Oh, I just rapped it. I’m always doing things like that.”
“Really?” Mac smirked into her coffee.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Sherry came in like a whirlwind—color, energy, motion, and giggles. “I’m
never on time. I hate that. Carter, you’re the best—” Her happy, flushed face shifted into concern. “What happened to your head?”
“I was mugged. There were three of them, but I fought them off.”
“What! Oh my God, you—”
“I hit my head, Sherry. That’s all.”
“Oh.” She dropped down, easy and relaxed, on the arm of his chair. “He’s always doing that.”