Vision in White

CHAPTER THREE

SKIPPING OUT A LITTLE EARLY GAVE MAC ENOUGH TIME TO answer calls, log in appointments, then add a selection of the latest photos to the website. Since the rest of the afternoon—what was left of it—was free, she decided to spend it doing a last pass of the New Year’s Eve wedding shots.

The phone annoyed her, but she reminded herself business was business and picked up. “Mac Photography at Vows.”

“Mackensie.”

Mac instantly closed her eyes, mimed stabbing herself in the head.

Why didn’t she learn to check the readout, even on the business line? “Mom.”

“You haven’t answered any of my calls.”

“I’ve been working. I told you I’d be swamped this week. Mom, I’ve asked you not to call on the business line.”

“You answered, didn’t you? Which is more than you did the other

three times I called.”

“Sorry.” Just roll with it, Mac told herself. Rolling with it might get it over with quicker since there was no point in telling her mother she didn’t have time to chat during work hours.

“So, how was your New Year’s?” she asked her mother.

There was a single catchy breath that warned Mac a storm was coming.

“I broke up with Martin, which I’d have told you if you’d bothered to answer my calls. It was a horrible night. Horrible, Mac.” The catchy breath became thick with tears. “I’ve been devastated for days.”

Martin, Martin . . . She wasn’t sure she could conjure a clear picture of the current ex-boyfriend. “I’m sorry to hear that. Holiday breakups are tough, but I guess you could look at it as starting the new year with a fresh slate.”

“

How? You know how I loved Martin! I’m forty-two years old, alone and completely shattered.”

Forty-seven, Mac corrected. But what was five years between mother and daughter? At her desk, Mac rubbed her temple. “You broke up with him, right?”

“What difference does it make? It’s over. It’s over, and I was crazy about him. Now I’m alone again. We had a terrible fight, and he was unreasonable and mean. He called me

selfish. And overly emotional, and oh, other awful things. What else could I do but break it off? He wasn’t the man I thought he was.”

“Mmmm. Has Eloisa gone back to school?” she asked, hoping to switch the topic to her half sister.

“Yesterday. She just left me here in this state, when I can barely get out of bed in the morning. I have two daughters. I devoted myself to my girls, and neither of them will make the effort to support me when I’m emotionally shattered.”

Since her head was already starting to throb, Mac leaned over to lightly bang it against her desk. “The semester’s starting. She has to go back. Maybe Milton—”

“Martin.”

“Right, maybe he’ll apologize, then—”

“It’s over. There’s no going back. I’d never forgive a man who treated me so shabbily. What I need is to heal, to find myself again. I need some me time, some quiet, a place to detox from the stress of this ugly situation. I’ve booked myself a week at a spa in Florida. It’s just what I need. To get away, out of this awful cold, away from the memories and the pain. I need three thousand dollars.”

“Three—Mom, you can’t expect me to cough up three grand so you can go get facials in Florida because you’re pissed at Marvin.”

“Martin, damn it, and it’s the least you can do. If I needed medical treatment would you quibble about paying the hospital? I have to go. It’s already booked.”

“Didn’t Grandma send you money last month? An early Christmas—”

“I had expenses. I bought that horrible man a TAG Heuer, a limited edition, for Christmas. How was I to know he’d turn into a monster?”

She began to weep, pitifully.

“You should ask for it back. Or—”

“I would

never be so tacky. I don’t want the damn watch, or him. I want to get away.”

“Fine. Go somewhere you can afford, or—”

“I need the spa. Obviously, I’m strapped financially after all the holiday expenses, and I need your help. Your business is doing very well, as you’re always happy to tell me. I need three thousand dollars, Mackensie.”

“Like you needed another two last summer so you and El could have a week at the beach? And—”

Linda burst into tears again. This time Mac didn’t beat her head against the desk, but simply laid it there.

“You won’t help me? You won’t help your own mother? I suppose if they put me out on the street, you’d just look the other way. Just go on with your own life while mine’s destroyed. How can you be so selfish?”

“I’ll transfer the money into your account in the morning. Have a good trip,” she said, then hung up.

And, rising, she walked to the kitchen, pulled out a bottle of wine.

She needed a drink.

WITH HIS BRAIN NUMB FROM NEARLY TWO HOURS OF TULLE, roses, headdresses, guest lists, and God all—and his system overhyped on coffee and cookies (damn good cookies), Carter walked back to his car. He’d left it parked closer to Mac’s studio than the main house. Because of that geographical choice, he’d been given the assignment of dropping off a package that had been delivered to the main by mistake.

As he carted it under his arm, the first thin flakes of snow began to swirl. He needed to get home, he thought. He had to finish a lesson plan and fine-tune a pop quiz he planned to spring at the end of the week.

He wanted his books, and the quiet. The afternoon of estrogen, sugar, and caffeine had worn him out. Plus his head hurt again.

The snow and the house brought gloom, enough to have the path lights along the walk glow on. Yet, he noted, none glowed in Mackensie’s studio.

She could’ve gone out, he mused, be taking a nap, be walking around half naked again. He considered just propping the package against the front door, but it didn’t seem responsible. Added to that, the package served as the perfect excuse to see her again—and reexplore the secret crush he’d had on her when he’d been seventeen.

So he knocked, shifted the package, waited.

She opened the door, fully dressed, which brought both relief and disappointment. In the dim light she stood, a glass of wine in one hand, her other braced on the door.

“Ah, Parker asked if I’d bring this over on my way out. I just—”

“Good, fine. Come on in.”

“I was just—”

“Have some wine.”

“I’m driving so—” But she was already walking away—that way she did, he noted, that was a kind of gliding, sexy stride.

“I’m having some, as you can plainly see.” She got down another glass, poured generously. “You don’t want me drinking alone, right?”

“Apparently I’m too late for that.”

With a laugh, she pushed the glass into his hand. “So, catch up. I’ve only had two. No, three. I believe I’ve had three.”

“Uh-huh. Well.” Unless he was mistaken, there was anger and upset under the three-glass buzz. Instead of drinking, he reached over to turn on the kitchen light. “Dark in here.”

“I guess. You were nice with your sister today. Some families are nice. I observe and so I note. I recall yours being. Didn’t know you and Sherry all that well, but I recall. Nice family. Mine sucks.”

“Okay.”

“Y’know why? Lemme tell you why. You got a sister, right?”

“I do. In fact, I have two. Maybe we should sit down.”

“Two, yeah, yeah. Older sister, too. I never met her. So two sibs. Me? I’ve got one, comprised of two halves. A half sister, a half brother—from each parent—which could be smooshed together into one sib. This is not to count the number of steps I’ve had throughout. I’ve lost track there. They come and go, go and come, as my parents marry willy-nilly.” She took a glug of wine. “Bet you had a big-ass family Christmas thing, huh?”

“Ah, yes, we—”

“Know what I did?”

Okay, he got it. It wasn’t a conversation. He was a sounding board. “No.”

“As my father is . . . somewhere. It might be Vail,” she considered with a frown, “or possibly Switzerland, with his third wife and their son, he wasn’t a factor. However, he did send me a ridiculously expensive bracelet, which did not come from guilt or particularly paternal devotion, of which he has neither. But from the fact that as a trust fund baby he’s just careless with money.”

She stopped, forehead furrowing, and drank some more. “Where was I?”

“Christmas.”

“Right, right. Family Christmas as applies to me. I paid the courtesy call on my mother and Eloisa—that’s the half sister—on the twenty-third, because none of us were the least bit interested in spending Christmas together. No goose for us. Exchange gifts, have a drink, wish you the merry, and escape.”

She smiled, but there was no humor in it. “We did not sing Christmas carols around the piano. Actually, El escaped quicker than I did, to go out with friends. Can’t blame her. My mother’ll drive you to drink. See.” She held out her glass.

“Yes, I do. Let’s take a walk.”

“A what? Why?”

“Why not? It’s starting to snow.” Casually, he took the glass from her hand, set it and his untouched one on the counter. “I like walking in the snow. Hey, there’s your coat.”

She frowned at him when he retrieved it, then came back to bundle her in it. “I’m not drunk. Yet. Plus, can’t a woman have a drunken pity party in her own house if she wants to?”

“Absolutely. Do you have a hat?”

She dug into her coat pocket, dragged out the vivid green cap. “It’s not like I sit around every night sucking down the wine or whatever.”

“I’m sure you don’t.” He pulled the cap over her head, then wound her scarf around her neck before buttoning her coat. “That’ll do it.” He took her arm, led her to the door. And out.

He heard her hiss through her teeth as the cold hit her face, and kept hold on her arm, just in case.

“Warm’s better,” she mumbled, but when she tried to turn around, he just kept walking.

“I like when it snows at night. Well, it’s not night yet, but this looks like it’ll go into it. I like watching it out the window, the white against the black.”

“We’re not watching it out the window. We’re in the damn stuff.”

He just smiled and kept walking. Plenty of paths, he thought, and all of them carefully cleared before this dusting. “Who shovels all this?”

“This what?”

“Snow, Mackensie.”

“We do, or we draft Del or his pal Jack. We pay some teenagers sometimes. Depends. Gotta keep the paths clear. We’re a business here, so we have to maintain it. We get the plow guy for the parking areas.”

“A lot of work, with a place this size, and a business with this many facets.”

“All part of the whole, plus it’s home, too, so we . . . Oh, you’re changing the subject.” Eyes narrowed, she peered up at him from under the cap. “I’m not stupid, just a little buzzed.”

“What was the subject?”

“The enormous suckatude of my family. Where was I?”

“I think you left off with Christmas, and your mother driving you to drink.”

“That’s right, I did. Here’s how she drove me to drink this time. She broke up with her latest boyfriend. I use the term

boyfriend deliberately, as her mind-set is that of a teenager when it comes to men, relationships, marriage. Anyway, drama, drama, and of course now she has to go to a spa to recover from the ordeal and the stress and heartbreak. Which is bullshit, but she

believes it. And since she can’t keep ten dollars in her pocket for more than five minutes, she expects me to front the expense. Three thousand.”

“You’re supposed to give your mother three thousand dollars because she broke up with her boyfriend and wants to go to the spa?”

“If she needed an operation, would I just let her die?” Trying to express her mother’s method of attack, Mac wheeled both arms in the air. “No, no, no, that’s not the one she used this time. It was homeless and on the streets this time. She has a collection like that. Maybe she used both. It started to blur. So, yes, I’m supposed to pay for it. Correction, I

am paying for it because she’ll keep hounding and hammering at me until I do, so I’ll pay for it. Ergo, the wine, because it disgusts and infuriates me that I always cave.”

“It’s none of my business, but if you kept saying no, wouldn’t she have to stop? If you keep saying yes, why would she?”

“I

know that.” She rapped him in the chest. “Of course, I know that, but she’s relentless and I just want her to go away. I keep thinking, why won’t she just get married again—make it lucky number four—and move away? Far, far away, like maybe Burma. Effectively disappear like my father. Only pop up occasionally. Maybe she’ll meet some guy at this spa, sitting around the pool drinking carrot juice or whatever, fall in love—which is as easy for her as buying shoes. No, easier. Fall in love,” Mac continued, “move to Burma, and leave me alone.”

She sighed, lifted her face. It didn’t feel so cold now, she realized. And the thickening fall of snow was pretty and peaceful. Walking in it, she had to admit, made for a better idea than drinking.

“You’re a saver, aren’t you?” she asked him.

“Ah, you mean like money or old papers?”

“No, as in rescue. I bet you always open the door for somebody if their hands are full, even if you’re in a hurry. And listen to your students’ personal problems even if you have something else you need to do.” She lowered her face to look into his now. “And take marginally drunk women for walks in the snow.”

“It seemed like the thing to do.” Less buzz, he noted, looking into those fascinating green eyes. More sadness.

“I bet you’re sick of women.”

“Do you mean altogether or just at the moment?”

She smiled at him. “I bet you’re a really nice guy.”

He didn’t sigh, but he wanted to. “I’ve been accused of it.” He glanced around, looking for something else to talk about. He should get her back inside, he thought, but he wanted just a little longer with her. In the snowy dark. “So, what kind of birds do you get?” He gestured toward two pretty feeders.

“The kind that fly.” She shoved her hands in her pockets. Neither of them had thought of finding her gloves. “I don’t know much about birds.” Angling her head, she gave him another study. “Are you, like, a bird-watcher?”

“No, not seriously. Just as sort of a hobby.” And God, could he get any geekier? Cut your losses, Carter, and go before it’s too late. “We’d better go back. The snow’s getting heavier.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me what kind of birds I should be watching for? Emma and I stock the feeders since they’re between her place and mine.”

“Her place?”

“Yeah, see.” She gestured toward the pretty two-story house. “The old guest house, and she uses the greenhouses beyond it. I took the pool house. Laurel and Parker third floor of the main, east and west wings, so it’s like having their own place. It’s Parker’s house, pretty much. But Laurel needs the kitchen, I need studio space, Emma the greenhouses. So this setup made the most sense. We hang out at the big house a lot, but we all have our separate spaces.”

“You’ve been friends a long time.”

“Forever.”

“That’s family, isn’t it? The kind without suckatude?”

She gave him a half laugh. “Smart, aren’t you? About those birds . . .”

“You’d spot cardinals easily this time of year.”

“Okay, everybody knows what a cardinal looks like. It’s a cardinal that provided you with a look at my breasts.”

“I beg your . . . What?”

“He flew into the kitchen window and I spilled my drink on my shirt. So. Birds. Besides the red ones that fly into windows. I’m thinking of a belly-crested whopado, like that?”

“Unfortunately, the belly-crested whopado is extinct. But you could spot some of the streaked sparrow species in this area, in the winter.”

“Streaked sparrow species. Since I managed to repeat that without slurring, I must not be close to drunk anymore.”

They walked down the path between the glowing lights and the dark while the snow fell in thick Hollywood flakes. As pretty a night, Mac realized, as you could ask for in January. And she’d have missed it if he hadn’t come by, and insisted—in his low-key way—that she take a walk.

“At this point, I feel like I should say I don’t make a habit of tossing back multiple glasses of wine before sundown. Usually I’d have channelled the frustration into work or I’d have gone over and dumped on Parker and company. I was too mad for either. And I didn’t feel like ice cream, which is also a personal crutch in trying times.”

“I figured that out, except for the ice cream. My mother makes soup when she’s really upset or seriously mad. Big pots of soup. I’ve eaten a great deal of soup in my life.”

“Nobody really cooks around here but Laurel and Mrs. G.”

“Mrs. G. Mrs. Grady? Is she still here? I didn’t see her today.”

“Still here, still running the place and everybody in it. Thank God for it. She’s on her annual winter vacation. She goes to St. Martin’s on January first, like clockwork, and stays until April. As usual, she made a freezer full of casseroles, soups, stews, and so on before she left so none of us would starve in the event of a blizzard or nuclear war.”

She stopped by her front door, cocked her head at him again. “It’s been a day. You held up, Professor.”

“It had some interesting moments. Oh, Sherry’s going for Number Three, with buffet.”

“Good choice. Thanks for the walk, and the ear.”

“I like to walk.” He pushed his hands in his pockets since he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “I’d better get going because driving in it’s a little trickier. And . . . school night.”

“School night,” she repeated and smiled.

Then she laid her pocket-warmed hands on his cheeks, brushed her lips to his in a light, friendly, close to sisterly kiss.

He blanked. He moved before he thought, acted before he checked. He took her shoulders, pulled her in—pressed her back to the door as he took the simple brush of lips into the long and the dark.

What he’d imagined at seventeen plunged into reality at thirty. The taste of her, the

feel. That moment of lips and tongue, and the heat rising in the blood. In the quiet of snowfall, that elemental hush, the sound of her breath sighing out broke in his mind like thunder.

A storm gathering.

She didn’t nudge him back, push him away, protest his shoving open the door of her friendly gesture into the hot and wild. Her first thought was, who knew? Who knew the nice-guy English professor who walked into walls could

kiss like this?

Like he planned to drag you off into the nearest cave and rip off your clothes, while you eagerly ripped off his.

Then thinking stopped being an option, and all she could do was try to keep up.

Swept away. She’d never actually believed that one, but this was swept away.

Her hands slid up from his face, forked through his hair. Gripped.

The movement slapped him back. Now he did step away, nearly slipping on the snow that covered the path. She didn’t move an inch, but stared out at him from eyes that gleamed in the dark.

God, he thought, God. He’d lost his mind.

“I’m sorry.” He fumbled it as arousal and mortification warred inside him. “Sorry. That was—wasn’t—Just . . . really sorry.”

She continued to stare as he hurried away, his strides made awkward by the fresh fall of snow. She heard, somewhere in the roaring in her head, the beep of his key lock, and watched him climb into his car in the overhead light after he wrenched open the door.

He pulled out before she got her breath and her voice back. As he drove away, she managed a weak, “No problem.”

Feeling a lot more buzzed than she had on wine, she let herself into the house. She went to the kitchen, poured his untouched wine down the sink, followed it with what was left in hers. After looking blindly around, she turned, leaned back on the counter.

“Wow,” she said.