Vision in White

CHAPTER FOUR

SOME MORNINGS YOU JUST NEEDED MORE THAN A POP-TART and a hit of coffee, Mac decided. She figured she’d been spared the unhappiness of a hangover—thank you, Carter Maguire—but several fresh inches of snow meant she’d be hauling out the shovel. She wanted real fuel. Knowing where she’d find it, she pulled on her boots, dragged on her coat, and headed out.

And went back inside immediately for her camera.

The light, bold and bright, blasted out of the hard blue sky onto the still white sea. Untouched, untrampled, that sea spread over the ground, washed over it. Drowned it. Shrubs became hunched creatures crossing that frozen sea, and the rocks forming the lagoon of the swimming pool a tumbled barricade.

Her breath drew in, the cold like tiny shards of glass, then expelled in frigid clouds as she framed in the winter palace of a grove.

Landscapes and pictorials rarely gripped her imagination. But this, she thought, this black and white, with so many shades of each, the shadow and light under the almost savage blue sky demanded its moment. So many shapes, so many textures with branches buried and bark laced offered countless possibilities.

And the grand and gorgeous house rose out of the sea, an elegant and graceful island.

She worked her way to it, experimenting with angles, using the light, honing in on the sparkling cotton balls of azaleas that would burst into bloom come spring. A movement caught her eye, and as she turned to follow it she saw the cardinal take its perch on the snow-covered branch of a maple. It sat, a single spot of vivid red, and sang.

Mac crouched, zoomed in rather than risk going closer and losing the shot. Was it the same bird who’d smacked into her kitchen window? she wondered. If so, he certainly seemed undamaged and unruffled as he sat like a single flame on the white-laced branch.

She caught the moment then, taking three shots in rapid succession, slight changes in angles that coated her jeans with snow as she inched left.

Then the bird took wing, swooped over the frozen sea, through the bright light, and was gone.

Emmaline, beautiful Emmaline in her old navy coat, white cap and scarf trudged toward her through the snow. “I wondered how long I’d have to stand there until you finished or the damn bird took off. It’s

cold out here.”

“I love winter.” Mac swung the camera up again, and with Emma in the crosshairs, depressed the shutter.

“Don’t! God, I look awful.”

“You look cute. Gotta love the pink Uggs.”

“Why did I buy them in pink? What was I thinking?” She shook her head as she joined Mac, and both continued to the house. “I thought you’d already be inside, nagging Laurel to make breakfast. Wasn’t it you who called me and said

pancakes nearly an hour ago?”

“It was, and now we can both nag her into it. I got caught up. It’s amazing out here. The light, the tones, the texture. And that damn bird? Bonus round.”

“It’s twenty degrees, and after pancakes, we’re going to be shoveling this snow and freezing our asses off. Why can’t it always be summer?”

“We hardly ever get pancakes in the summer. Crepes maybe, but it’s not the same.”

As she stomped snow off her pink Uggs, Emma slid her baleful gaze toward Mac, then opened the door.

Mac scented coffee instantly. She dumped her gear, set her camera carefully on top of the dryer, then strode in to give Laurel a rib-crushing squeeze. “I knew I could count on you.”

“I saw you playing nature girl out the window, and figured you were coming over to whine for pancakes.” Hair clipped back, sleeves rolled up, Laurel measured out flour.

“I love you, and not only for your snowy-day pancakes.”

“Good, then set the table. Parker’s already up, answering e-mail.”

“Is she calling for snow removal?” Emma asked. “I’ve got three consults today.”

“For parking. The consensus is there’s not enough to call in the troops for the rest. We can handle it.”

Emma’s face clouded into a pout. “I hate shoveling snow.”

“Poor Em,” Mac and Laurel said together.

“Bitches.”

“I’ve got a breakfast story.” Riding on the impromptu photo session and the near occasion of pancakes, Mac dumped sugar in the coffee she’d poured. “A

sexy breakfast story.”

Emma paused in the act of opening a cabinet for plates. “Spill.”

“We’re not eating. Anyway, Parker’s not down yet.”

“I’m going up to drag her down. I want a sexy breakfast story to keep me warm while I’m shoveling this stupid snow.” Emma scurried out of the kitchen.

“Sexy breakfast story.” Considering Mac, Laurel picked up her wooden spoon to stir the batter. “Must involve Carter Maguire, unless you got an obscene phone call and consider that sexy.”

“Depends who’s calling.”

“He’s fairly adorable. Not your usual type, though.”

Mac looked back as she opened the drawer for flatware. “I have a type?”

“You know you do. Athletic, fun-loving, may have creative bent but not a strict requirement, not too intense or serious-minded. Nothing in past history to include cerebral, scholarly, or quietly charming.”

It was Mac’s turn to pout. “I like smart guys. Maybe I just haven’t run into one who hit my hot-o-meter.”

“He’s also sweet. Not your usual.”

“I like sweet,” Mac objected. “Taste my coffee!”

With a laugh, Laurel set the batter down to get mixed berries out of the fridge. “Set the table, Elliot.”

“I’m doing it.” As she did, she evaluated Laurel’s list. Maybe it was accurate—to a point. “Everybody’s got a type. Parker’s got a type. Successful, well-groomed, well-read.”

“Bilingual a plus,” Laurel added as she washed berries. “Should be able to distinguish between Armani and Hugo Boss at twenty paces.”

“Emma’s got a type. They must be men.”

Laurel’s laugh rolled out as Emma came back in. “Parker’s heading down. What’s the joke?”

“You, sweetie. Griddle’s hot,” Laurel announced. “Better get moving.”

“Good morning, partners.” Parker swung in—dark jeans, cashmere sweater, her hair neatly tied back in a tail, makeup subtle. Mac had an errant thought that it would be easy to hate Parker if she didn’t love her. “I just booked three more appointments for the tour and pitch. God! I love the holidays. So many people get engaged during the holidays. And before you know it, it’ll be Valentine’s Day, and we’ll get more hits. Pancakes?”

“Get the syrup,” Laurel told her.

“The roads are clear. I don’t think we’ll have any cancellations on today’s schedule. Oh, and the Paulsons sent an e-mail—just back from their honeymoon. I’m going to pull off some quotes for the website.”

“No business,” Emma interrupted. “Mac has a sexy breakfast story.”

“Really?” Eyebrows lifted, Parker set the syrup and butter on the table of the breakfast nook. “Tell all.”

“It began, and sexy tales often do, when I spilled Diet Coke on my shirt.”

She started the story as Laurel brought a platter of pancakes to the table.

“He

said he walked into a wall,” Emma interrupted. “Poor Carter!” She snorted out a laugh as she cut the first tiny sliver of a single pancake.

“Hard,” Mac added. “I mean, the guy rammed it. In a cartoon, he’d have gone through the wall and left a Carter-shaped hole in it. Then he’s sitting on the floor and I’m trying to see how bad it is, and my tits are in his face—which he very politely points out.”

“ ‘Excuse me, Miss, your tits appear to be in my face’?”

Mac wagged her fork at Laurel. “Except he didn’t say tits, and he kind of stuttered. So I go pull a shirt out of the dryer, get him a bag of ice, and ultimately determine he probably doesn’t need the ER.”

She continued on while plowing her way through a short stack.

“I’m a little let down,” Laurel said. “I expect a sexy breakfast story to have sex, not just your very pretty boobs.”

“I’m not done. Part two begins when I’m back home working, and carelessly answer the phone. My mother.”

Smile fading, Parker shook her head. “That’s not sexy. I’ve told you to screen, Mac.”

“I know, I know, but it was the business line, and I wasn’t thinking. Anyway, I did worse. She broke up with her latest, and went on one of her riffs. She’s shattered, she’s devastated, blah blah blah. The pain and suffering requires a week in a Florida spa and three thousand from me.”

“You didn’t,” Emma murmured. “Tell me you didn’t.”

Mac shrugged, stabbed another forkful of pancakes. “I wish I could say no.”

“Honey, you’ve got to stop,” Laurel told her. “You just have to stop.”

“I know.” Under the table, Emma rubbed Mac’s knee in sympathy. “I know, but I cracked, that’s all. After which I opened a fresh bottle of wine and proceeded to drown my sorrow and disgust.”

“You should’ve come back here.” Parker reached out, touched Mac’s hand. “We were here.”

“I know that, too. I was too mad, sad, and full of self-pity and disgust. Then guess who knocked on my door?”

“Oh-oh.” Laurel’s eyes popped. “Tell me you didn’t have drunk, self-pity sex with Carter—but if so, please include all details.”

“I invited him in for a drink.”

“Oh, boy!” In celebration, Emma ate another sliver of pancake.

“I dumped all over him. My family, suck, suck, suck. The guy comes by to drop off a package and ends up with a half-drunk woman in the middle of a pity party. He listened, which I didn’t really understand at the time, being half drunk and on a rant, but he listened to me. Then he took me out for a walk. He just put my coat on me, buttoned it up like I was three, and took me out. Where he listened some more until I’d pretty well run it down. Then he walked me back and—”

“You invite him back in and have sex,” Emma prompted.

“Get your own sexy breakfast story. I felt mildly embarrassed, and really grateful, so I give him a little peck. A ‘thanks, pal’ kind of peck. The next thing I know I’m in the middle of a brain-frying, blood-pumping, jungle-drum-beating kiss. The jerk-you-forward-then-shove-you-back-against-a-solid-surface type.”

“Oh.” Emma shuddered in pure delight. “I

love those.”

“You love any type of lip-lock,” Laurel pointed out.

“Yes, yes, I do. I’d have guessed Carter more for the sexy, slow, and shy type.”

“Maybe he is, usually. Because while my head was busy exploding, he stopped, apologized—a couple of times—then slipped and slid his way back to his car. He was gone by the time I regained the power of speech.”

Parker nudged her plate away, picked up her coffee. “Well, you have to go get him. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Emma concurred, and looked toward Laurel to complete the vote.

“Could be trouble.” Laurel shrugged. “He’s not her usual type, and he has moves that don’t coincide with his general demeanor. I smell complications.”

“Because he’s a nice, sweet, slightly klutzy guy who kisses like a warrior?” Emma gave Laurel a light kick under the table. “

I smell romance.”

“You smell romance in a traffic jam on ninety-five.”

“Maybe. But you know damn well you want to see what happens next. You can’t just let a kiss like that hang there,” Emma added, turning to Mac.

“Maybe, because as it stands it’s a nice sexy breakfast story, and nobody gets hurt. Now, I have to go call the bank and toss away three thousand dollars like it was confetti.” She scooted out of the nook. “I’ll see you all outside, with shovels.”

Parker plucked a raspberry out of the bowl after Mac left. “She’s not going to let it hang there. It’ll drive her crazy.”

“Second contact within forty-eight hours,” Laurel agreed, then scowled. “And damn it, she skated out of helping with the dishes.”

AT HIS DESK AT THE ACADEMY, CARTER WENT OVER THE DISCUSSION points he planned to introduce in his final period class. Keeping energy and interest up were keys in that last class of the day, when freedom was only fifty short (or endless depending on your point of view) minutes away. The right slants could snag the wandering attention of the clock watcher.

They might learn something.

The problem was he couldn’t keep his own attention focused.

Should he call her and apologize again? Maybe he should write her a note. He did better writing things down than saying them. Most of the time.

Should he just let it go? It had been a couple of days. Well, one day and two nights to be anal about it.

He knew he was being anal about it.

He wanted to let it go, just let it go and mark it down on the lengthy list of Carter’s Embarrassing Moments. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. About her.

He was right back where he’d been thirteen years before. Suffering from a pathetic crush on Mackensie Elliot.

He’d get over it, Carter reminded himself. He’d gotten over it before. Almost entirely.

He’d just lost his head for a moment, that’s all. And it was understandable considering the rest of the experience.

Still, he should probably write her a note of apology.

Dear Mackensie,

I want to offer my sincere apology for my untoward behavior on

the evening of January fourth. My actions were inexcusable, and

deeply regretted.

Yours, Carter

And could he possibly be any more stiff and stupid?

She’d probably forgotten about it anyway, after having a quick laugh with her friends. Who could blame her?

Let it go, that was the thing to do. Just let it go and get back to leading the class on a discussion of Rosalind as a twenty-first-century woman.

Sexuality. Identity. Guile. Courage. Wit. Loyalty. Love.

How did Rosalind use her dual sexuality in the play to become the woman at its end, rather than the girl she was in the beginning, and the boy she played throughout?

Say “sex,” and you drew teenagers’ attention, Carter thought.

How did—

He kept scanning notes, and called out an absent, “Come in,” at the knock. Ah, evolution, he thought, of identity and courage through disguise and . . .

He glanced up, blinked.

With his mind full of the engaging Rosalind, he stared at Mac.

“Hi, sorry to interrupt.”

He lurched to his feet, scattered his papers so some sailed to the floor. “Ah, it’s all right. No problem. I was just . . .”

He bent to retrieve papers as she did the same, and knocked his head against hers.

“Sorry, sorry.” He stayed down, met her eyes. “Crap.”

She smiled, and the dimples came out to play. “Hello, Carter.”

“Hello.” He took the papers she offered. “I was just going over some launch points for a discussion on Rosalind.”

“Rosalind who?”

“Ah, Shakespeare’s Rosalind.

As You Like It?”

“Oh. Is that the one with Emma Thompson?”

“No. That’s

Much Ado. Rosalind, niece of Duke Frederick, is banished from his court, and disguises herself as Ganymede, a young man.”

“Her twin brother, right?”

“No, actually that’s

Twelfth Night.”

“I get them confused.”

“Well, while there are some parallels between

As You Like It and

Twelfth Night as far as theme and device, the two plays address markedly divergent . . . Sorry, it doesn’t matter.”

He laid the papers down, took off his reading glasses. And prepared to face the consequences of his actions. “I want to apologize for—”

“You already did. Do you apologize to every woman you kiss?”

“No, but under the circumstances . . .” Let it

go, Carter. “Anyway. What can I do for you?”

“I dropped by to give you this. I was going to leave it at the front office, but they told me you had a free period, and were in here. So I thought I’d give it to you in person.”

She offered him a package wrapped in brown paper. “You can open it,” she said when he only looked flustered. “It’s just a token—appreciation for letting me dump on you the other night, and for the hangover you spared me. I thought you might like it.”

He opened it carefully, peeling up the tape and flapped ends. And took out the photograph matted in a simple black frame. Against the black and white of snow and winter trees, the cardinal sat like a living flame.

“It’s wonderful.”

“It’s nice.” She studied it with him. “One of those lucky breaks. I took it early yesterday morning. It’s no belly-crested whopado, but it’s our bird, after all.”

“Our . . . Oh. Right. And you came in to give it to me.” Pleasure flustered him nearly as much as embarrassment. “I thought you’d be angry with me after I . . .”

“Kissed my brains out,” she finished. “That would be stupid. Besides, if I’d been pissed, I’d have kicked your ass at the time.”

“I suppose that’s true. Still, I shouldn’t have—”

“I liked it,” she interrupted, and rendered him speechless. Turning, she wandered the room. “So, this is your classroom, where it all happens.”

“Yes, this is mine.” Why, dear God, why couldn’t he make his brain and his mouth work together?

“I haven’t been back here in years. It all looks so much the same, feels so much the same. Don’t people usually say the school seems smaller when they go back as an adult? It actually seems bigger to me. Big and open and bright.”

“It’s a strong design, the building I mean. Open areas, and . . . But you meant that more metaphorically.”

“Maybe I did. I think I had some classes in this room.” She walked around the desks to the trio of windows along the south wall. “I think I used to sit here and look out the window instead of paying attention. I loved it here.”

“Really? A lot of people don’t have fond memories of high school. It’s often a war of politics and personalities, set off by the cannon fire of hormones.”

Her grin flashed. “You could put that on a T-shirt. No, I didn’t like high school all that much. I liked it here, because Parker and Emma were here. I only went here a couple of semesters. One in tenth and one in eleventh, but I liked it better than Jefferson High. Even though Laurel was there, it was so big we didn’t get to hang out all that much.”

She turned back. “Politics and warfare aside, high school’s still a social animal. Since you’re back in the classroom, I bet you loved every minute.”

“For me, high school was a matter of survival. Nerds are one of the low levels on the social strata, alternately debased, ignored, or reviled by those on others. I could write a paper.”

She eyed him curiously. “Did I ever do that?”

“Write a paper? No, you meant the other part. Not noticing is different from ignoring.”

“Sometimes it’s worse,” Mac murmured.

“I wonder if we could go back to the other night, and your ‘I liked it’ response. Could you be more specific, in case I’m misinterpreting?”

He just made her smile. “I don’t think you’re misinterpreting. But—”

“Dr. Maguire?”

The girl hesitated in the doorway, radiating freshness and youth in the prim navy uniform of the academy. Mac noted the signs—the rosy flush, the dewy eyes—and thought: serious teacher crush.

“Ah . . . Julie. Yes?”

“You said I could come by this period to talk about my paper.”

“Right. I just need a minute to—”

“I’ll get out of your way,” Mac said. “I’m running behind as it is. Nice to see you again,

Doctor Maguire.”

She strolled out, passing pretty young Julie, and made the turn for the stairs. He caught up with her before she’d made it halfway down.

“Wait.”

As she stopped and turned, Carter laid a hand on her arm. “Would not misinterpreting include it being okay for me to call you?”

“You could call me. Or you could meet me for a drink after school.”

“Do you know where Coffee Talk is?”

“Vaguely. I can find it.”

“Four thirty?”

“I can make five o’clock.”

“Five. Great. I’ll . . . see you there.”

She continued down, glancing back as she reached the base of the staircase. He stood at that halfway point still, hands in the pockets of his khakis, his tweed jacket just a little saggy, and his hair carelessly mussed.

Poor Julie, Mac thought and continued on. Poor little Julie, I know exactly how you feel.

“YOU ASKED HER TO COFFEE TALK? WHAT’S WRONG WITH you?”

Carter scowled as he loaded files and books into his briefcase. “What’s the matter with Coffee Talk?”

“It’s a hangout for staff and students.” Bob Tarkinson, math teacher and self-proclaimed expert on affairs of the heart, shook his head sadly. “You want to make it with a woman, you take her out for a drink. A nice bar, Carter. Something with a little sense of atmosphere and intimacy.”

“Not every contact with a woman’s about making it.”

“Just every other one then.”

“You’re married,” Carter pointed out. “With a baby on the way.”

“Exactly why I know what I know.” Bob rested a hip against Carter’s desk, putting his wise expression on his pleasant face. “Do you think I got a woman like Amy to marry me by taking her out for a cup of coffee? Hell, no. You know what turned the tide for me and Amy?”

“Yes, Bob.” Because you’ve told me a thousand times. “You cooked her dinner on your second date, and she fell for you over your chicken cutlets.”

Still wise, Bob wagged his finger. “Nobody falls for somebody over a latte, Carter. Trust me.”

“She doesn’t even know me, not really. So the falling-for portion is irrelevant. And you’re making me nervous.”

“You were already nervous. Okay, you’re stuck with coffee, so see how it goes. If you’re still interested, do the follow-up call tomorrow. Next day latest. Dinner.”

“I’m not making chicken cutlets.”

“You can’t cook for shit, Maguire. Besides, this coffee thing isn’t officially a first date. Take her out. When you’re ready to close the deal, I can give you a recipe. Something simple.”

“God.” Carter rubbed the space between his eyebrows where tension built. “This is why I avoid dating. It’s hell.”

“You’ve avoided dating because Corrine screwed up your self-confidence. It’s good you’re getting back on the horse, and with somebody outside our sphere.” In support, he clapped Carter on the shoulder. “What did you say she does again?”

“She’s a photographer. She has a wedding business with three of her friends. They’re doing Sherry’s wedding. We—Mackensie and I—went to high school together for about five minutes.”

“Wait. Wait. Mackensie? The redhead you had a crush on in high school?”

Defeated, Carter rubbed the spot between his eyebrows again. “I should never have told you about that. This is why I rarely drink.”

“But, Cart, this is like kismet.” Excitement rushed through the words. “It’s like return of the nerd. It’s the big chance to follow up on a lost opportunity.”

“It’s coffee,” Carter muttered.

Flushed with enthusiasm, Bob jumped up, grabbed a piece of chalk. On the board he drew a circle. “Obvious, the circle. You’re completing one, and completing it just means taking point A and point B—” Within the circle he made two dots, connected them horizontally. “Up to point C.” He drew another dot at the apex, then joined it with the other points with two diagonal lines. “See?”

“Yes, I see a triangle inside a circle. I’ve got to go.”

“It’s the triangle of fate inside the circle of life!”

Carter hefted his briefcase. “Go home, Bob.”

“You can’t argue with math, Carter. You’ll always lose.”

Carter escaped, moving quickly through the largely empty school with his footsteps echoing behind him.