Vision In White

Chapter EIGHT


MAC PUT IN A SOLID FOUR HOURS WITH THUMBNAILS, Photoshop, prints. The work kept her focused and level. There could be no mind-wandering journeys about sexy English teachers when she had clients expecting—and deserving—her best.

She concentrated on balancing color, brightening or dulling the saturation to translate the mood, the emotion.

She sharpened a candid of the bride and groom, both laughing as they charged down the aisle, hands locked together, and blurred the background, everything but the two of them.

Just the two of them, she thought, wildly happy in those first seconds of marriage. Everything around them soft-focus and dreamlike, and their faces, their movement, their unity vivid.

It would come rushing back, she thought, other voices, movement, demands, connections. But in this instant, in this image, they were all.

Pleased, she added noise, just a hint of grain before she tried a soft proof to test her paper. Once she’d printed it, she studied it, searching for flaws.

She added it, as she sometimes did, to the order placed. A little gift for the new couple. Shifting work stations, she unboxed the combination album her clients had chosen, and began to assemble the pages with images that told the story of the day.

She repeated the process for the smaller albums and photos chosen by parents.

Back at the computer, she generated the custom thank-you cards using the portrait the client had selected. She boxed them in units of twenty-five, tied each with a thin white ribbon before taking a break.

She still had to mat and frame a dozen portraits for the couple’s personal gallery and what they’d chosen as gifts.

But she’d get it done, today, Mac thought as she stood and stretched. She was on a roll, and she’d contact her client in the morning to arrange pickup or delivery.

She bent over at the waist, letting her arms hang loosely, and called out at the knock on her door. “It’s open.”

“You’ve still got no ass.”

Mac turned her head for an upside-down view of Delaney. “I had a feeling.”

“Stopped by to drop off some paperwork, catch up with Parker before I headed over to Jack’s to watch the game.” He peeled off his coat, tossed it toward the couch. “So, how was the wine?”

“Good, thanks, Mr. Cutie.”

“You and Carter Maguire, huh?” At home, he strolled into her kitchen. She heard the fridge open, then his aggrieved voice. “Mac, you have no ass. Why do you only have Diet Coke in here?”

“So people like you don’t suck down all my supply.”

She straightened as he came back, popping the top on a can. “Beggars, choosers. Word is you and Carter hooked up because his sister’s a client.”

“We ran into each other again because of that.”

“And you flashed him your tits, first chance.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “Those would not be Parker’s words, which is your source. If you’re going to be such a girl about this, why don’t we sit down and braid each other’s hair while we gossip.”

“You don’t have enough hair.” He took a slug of the soft drink, grimaced a little. “Blah. Anyway, back to topic. A man’s got to be curious, and mildly suspicious about other guys and his honorary little sister.”

She went in for her own Coke. “We went out to dinner. According to my data, people have been doing that for several years.”

“Date two, according to my unimpeachable source. Not including the flashing.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her when she came back in.

“There was no flashing, only the momentary lack of shirt. Pervert Boy.”

“I’m known by many names. And your evasions make me wonder if this is serious business.”

“I’m not evading, and what’s your problem with Carter?”

“I don’t have a problem with Carter, other than you’re you and he’s a man. I like him.” With a shrug, he sat on the arm of her sofa. “Always did. I haven’t run into him since he moved back, until last night. I heard he’d been hooked up with Corrine Melton—she worked for a client of Jack’s—and he, that would be Jack, found her a pain in the ass.”

“What do you know about her?”

“Aha, so we are serious.”

“Shut up. Tell me.”

“Impossible to do both at once.”

“Come on, Del.”

“I know nothing, except she irritated Jack and apparently came on to him. While she was still hooked up with Carter. Which I’m now assuming she’s not.”

“What does she look like? Is she pretty?”

“Jesus, Mac, now you are being a girl. I have no idea. Ask Jack.”

Scowling, she pointed to the door. “If you have no juice, take your drink and go. I’m working.”

He grinned at her, that potent flash of Brown grin. “But I’m having such a good time.”

“No juice from you, you get none from me.”

The phone rang. She checked the readout, didn’t recognize the name or number. “Mac Photography at Vows.”

“Mackensie! Hello from beautiful, sunny Florida.”

“Mom.” She immediately held a finger at her temple and flicked her thumb like a trigger.

Del tossed his coat back on the couch. Friends didn’t leave friends in a twist. And if Linda was on the phone, Mac would end up twisted.

“I’m having the best time. I feel like a new woman!”

“Whose phone is this?”

“Oh, it’s Ari’s. I left mine in my room, and we’re sitting out by the pool. Or I am. He just went to see what’s taking so long with our drinks. The sweetie. It’s glorious here! I have a treatment soon, but just had to talk to you first, so Ari lent me his phone. He’s such a gentleman.”

Jesus, Mac thought, she’d actually predicted this. “I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

“It’s been amazing for me. For my health and well-being, my mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being. I need another week.”

Mac closed her eyes. “I can’t help you.”

“Of course you can! Sweetie, I have to finish this. If I don’t I’ll come back and slide right down again. It’ll all have been wasted, as if you’d thrown your money away. I just need you to clear another thousand. Well, two to be absolutely safe. I need to complete myself.”

“I don’t have any more to spare.” She thought of the work she’d done, more than four hours of work on a Sunday.

“You can charge it,” Linda said with a trill that went sharp around the edges. “It’s not like you have to run down here with cash, for God’s sake. Just call the office here with your credit card information, and they’ll do the rest. Simple as that. I’ve already told them you’d be calling, so—”

“You can’t keep doing this to me.” Her voice wanted to break. “You can’t keep expecting me to pay and pay and pay. I—”

Mac jolted when Del grabbed the phone out of her hand. “Don’t,” she began, and he cut her off with a look.

“Linda? Hi, this is Delaney Brown. Sorry, Mackensie’s been called away from the phone.”

“We haven’t finished—”

“Yes, you have, Linda. You’ve finished. Whatever you’re pushing her for this time, she said no. Now she’s busy.”

“You have no right to talk to me this way. You think because you’re a Brown, because you have money you can push yourself between me and my own child?”

“No, I think I can do that because I’m Mac’s friend. You have a real good day.”

He hung up and turned to where Mac stood, misery shining in her eyes. “Don’t cry,” he ordered.

She shook her head, went straight into his arms to press her face to his shoulder. “Goddamn it, goddamn it, why do I let her do this to me?”

“Because if you had the choice, you’d be a good and loving daughter. She doesn’t give you the choice. It’s on her, Mac. Money again?”

“Yes, again.”

He rubbed her back. “You did the right thing. You said no. Keep saying that. Now I want you to promise me you’re not going to answer the phone if—when—she calls back. If you don’t give me your word, I’m dragging you out of here, forcing you to watch the game at Jack’s.”

“I promise. I wouldn’t have answered, but I didn’t recognize the number. She used somebody named Ari’s phone and called the business line. She knows how to get to me.”

“Screen your calls, at least for a while, unless you’re sure who it is. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks, Del. Thanks.”

“I love you, baby.”

“I know.” She stepped back, smiled at him. “I love you, too. Go watch football. Don’t tell Parker. If I need to, I will.”

“All right.” He picked up his coat again. “If you need me—”

“I’ll call. That’s another promise.”

She couldn’t go back to work, not yet, not until she cleared her head and could focus again. And the pity party she felt coming on, with balloons and streamers, wouldn’t clear anything.

Take a walk, she thought. It had worked before, with Carter. She’d see if it worked on her own.

It wasn’t evening, and it wasn’t snowing, but the air was clear and cold. Everyone else tucked inside, she thought. Tucked in, but close. If she wanted or needed company, she could find it.

Not now, she thought again, not yet. Remembering the bird feeders, she hiked through the snow to fill them from the lidded can. Running low, she realized as she scooped out feed. Something for the grocery list.

Ten pounds of bird feed. A quart of milk. A new spine.

Too bad she couldn’t buy the last on the list at the local market. She’d just have to grow one when it came to Linda Elliot Meyers Barrington.

After locking the lid back down, she walked to the pond, stepped under one of the willows. There, she brushed off the snow on the bench under the fan of whippy branches and sat for a while. The grounds remained coated in white, but the sun had stripped the branches so trees speared up, winter bones, toward a sky the color of old, faded denim.

She could see the rose arbor, white as the snow, with the canes twined and twisted, and sharp with thorns. And beyond, the pergola, massed with dormant wisteria.

She supposed it looked peaceful, color and life sleeping through the winter. But at the moment, at that moment, lonely was the only word that came to mind.

She rose to go back to the house. She’d do better with work. If she made mistakes, she’d do it over and over until she passed through this mood.

She’d turn on music, loud, so she didn’t have to hear her own thoughts.

Even as she opened the door she heard the weeping, and her mother’s sobbing voice. “I don’t know how you can be so cold, so unfeeling. I need your help. Just a few more days, Mackensie. Just—”

And, thank God, her machine cut the call off.

Mac closed the door, took off her coat. Work? Who was she kidding?

She curled on the couch, dragged the throw over her. She’d sleep it off, she promised herself. Sleep off the misery.

When the phone rang again, she tucked into a defensive ball. “Oh God, oh God, leave me alone, please leave me alone. Give me some peace.”

“Ah, hello. It’s Carter. You must be working, or you needed to go out. Or, ha, you’re just not in the mood to talk.”

“Can’t talk,” she murmured from the couch. “Can’t. You talk. You just talk to me.”

She closed her eyes and let his voice soothe her.


IN HIS TOWNHOUSE, CARTER HUNG UP THE PHONE. THE THREE-LEGGED orange cat he called Triad leaped into his lap. He sat, scratching the cat absently between the ears and wishing he’d been able to talk to Mac. Even just for a minute. If he had, he wouldn’t be sitting here, thinking about her, instead of doing his Sunday chores.

He had laundry to deal with, tomorrow’s lesson plans to review. More papers to grade, and the story outlines from his Creative Writing class to read and approve. He hadn’t finished his paper on “Shakespeare’s Women: The Duality.” Or given enough attention to the short story he had in the works.

Then he was expected for Sunday dinner at his parents’.

He was mooning over her, and realizing it didn’t seem to make a damn bit of difference.

“Laundry first,” he told the cat, and poured Triad onto the chair as he himself vacated it. He put the first load in the washer in the claustrophobic little laundry room off his kitchen. He started to make himself a cup of tea, then scowled.

“I can have coffee if I want. There’s no law that says I can’t have a damn cup of coffee in the afternoon.” He brewed it with a kind of defiance that made him feel foolish even though no one was there to see it. While his clothes washed, he took the coffee back upstairs to the smaller of the two bedrooms, outfitted as his office.

He began grading the papers, and sighed over the C minus he was forced to give one of his brightest—and laziest—students. He felt a conference coming on. No point in putting it off, he decided, and wrote See me after class under the grade.

When the timer he’d set signaled, he went back down to put the wet clothes in the dryer, load a second batch in the washer.

Back at his desk, he evaluated outlines. He made comments, suggestions, corrections. Using his red pencil he added words of praise and advice. He loved this kind of work—seeing how his students used their minds, organized thoughts, created their worlds.

He finished the work, and the laundry, and still had more than an hour to kill before he needed to leave for dinner.

Casually, he began to search for recipes on the Internet.

It didn’t mean he’d ask her over for dinner. It was just an in case sort of thing. If he lost his mind and actually followed Bob’s advice, it would be good to have a plan.

An outline, so to speak.

Nothing too fancy or complicated, he thought, as that would be a disaster. But not too basic or ordinary. If you were going to cook for a woman, shouldn’t you make more of an effort than tossing something in the microwave?

He printed out a few possibilities, and made notes on potential menus. And wines. She liked wine. He didn’t know anything about wine, but he could learn. He put everything in a file.

He’d probably ask her to the movies anyway. The standard movie date, followed by pizza. Casual, no pressure or expectations. That was what he’d most likely do, he thought as he walked out of the office into his bedroom to change into a fresh shirt.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to pick up some candles, maybe some flowers. He glanced around the room, and imagined her there. In candlelight. Imagined lowering her to the bed, feeling her move under him. Watching her face, the light shimmering over it, as he touched her. Tasted her.

“Oh boy.”

After a calming breath, Carter stared down at the cat who stared up at him. “She’s right. Sex is a whopper.”


THE HOUSE ON CHESTNUT LANE WITH ITS BIG YARD AND OLD trees had been one of the reasons Carter had given up his position at Yale. He’d missed it—the blue shutters and white clapboard, the sturdy porch and tall dormers—and the people who lived inside it.

He couldn’t say he came to the house any more often now than when he’d lived and worked in New Haven. But he found contentment knowing he could drop by if the mood struck. He stepped in, turned out of the foyer to glance into the big parlor where Chauncy, the family cocker spaniel, curled on the sofa.

He wasn’t allowed on the furniture, and knew it, so his sheepish expression and hopefully thumping tail were pleas for silence.

“I didn’t see a thing,” Carter whispered, and continued on toward the great room, and the noise. He smelled his mother’s Yankee pot roast, heard his younger sister’s laugh, followed by multiple male shouts and curses.

The game, he concluded, was on.

He stopped at the entryway to study the tableau. His mother, raw-boned, sturdy as New England bedrock, stirred something on the stove while Sherry leaned on the counter beside her talking a mile a minute and gesturing with a glass of wine. His older sister, Diane, stood with her hands fisted on her hips, watching through the wall of windows. He could see her two kids bundled to the eyeballs, riding a couple of colorful sled disks down the slope of the backyard.

His father, his brother-in-law, and Nick continued to shout at the action on the TV on the other side of the breakfast counter. Since football either gave him a headache or put him to sleep, Carter chose the girls’ side of the room and came up on his mother from behind to lean down and kiss the top of her head.

“Thought you’d forgotten about us.” Pam Maguire offered her son a tasting spoon of the split-pea soup simmering on the range.

“I had a couple of things to finish up. It’s good,” he said when he’d obediently tasted the soup.

“The kids asked about you. They assumed you’d be here in time to sled with them.”

There was the faintest hint of censure in Diane’s tone. Knowing she was happiest if she had something or someone to complain about, he walked over to kiss her cheek. “Nice to see you.”

“Have some wine, Carter.” Behind Diane’s back, Sherry gave him a quick eye-roll. “We can’t eat until the game’s over anyway. Plenty of time.”

“We don’t put off family dinner for sports at our house,” Diane said.

Which, Carter thought, probably explained why his brother-in-law took advantage of the more lax Maguire rules.

His mother just hummed over her soup as, to a man, the football enthusiasts leaped from chair and sofa to cheer.

Touchdown.

“Why don’t you have a nice glass of wine, too, Di?” Pam tapped her spoon, adjusted the flame under the pot. “Those kids are fine out there. We haven’t had an avalanche in more than ten years now. Michael! Your son’s here.”

Mike Maguire held up a finger, pumping his other hand as the kicker set for the extra point. “And it’s good!” He sent Carter a grin over his shoulder, his pale Irish skin flushed with joy and framed by his neat silver beard. “Giants are up by five!”

Sherry handed Carter a glass. “Since everything’s under control in here, and in there,” she added, nodding toward the stands, “why don’t you sit down and tell us all about you and Mackensie Elliot.”

“Mackensie Elliot? The photographer? Really?” Pam said, drawing out the word.

“I think I’ll catch the end of the game.”

“Not a chance.” Sherry maneuvered him back against the counter. “I heard from someone who heard from someone who saw the two of you getting cozy at Coffee Talk.”

“We had coffee. And talked. It’s the Coffee Talk way.”

“Then I heard from someone who heard from someone that you were even cozier at the Willows last night. What gives?”

Sherry was always hearing from someone who’d heard from someone, Carter thought wearily. His sister was like a human radio receiver. “We went out a couple of times.”

“You’re dating Mackensie Elliot?” Pam asked.

“Apparently.”

“The same Mackensie Elliot you mooned over for months back in high school.”

“How do you know I . . .” Stupid, Carter thought. His mother knew everything. “We just had dinner. It’s not national news.”

“It is around here,” Pam corrected. “You could’ve invited her here tonight. You know there’s always plenty.”

“We’re not . . . it’s not . . . We’re not at the point of family gatherings. We had dinner. It’s one date.”

“Two with the coffee,” Sherry corrected. “Are you seeing her again?”

“Probably. Maybe.” He felt his shoulders hunch as he shoved his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know.”

“I hear good things about her, and she does very good work. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be doing Sherry’s wedding.”

“Isn’t she Linda Elliot’s daughter? Or it’s Barrington now.”

“I haven’t met her mother. It was dinner.”

The news pulled Diane away from the window. “Linda Barrington, sure. Her daughter’s close friends with the Browns, and Emmaline Grant, and that other one. They run that wedding business together.”

“I guess that’s the one then,” Carter acknowledged.

“Linda Barrington.” Diane’s jaw tightened as she compressed her lips in an expression Carter knew reflected disapproval. “That’s the woman who had an affair with Stu Gibbons, and broke up his marriage.”

“She can hardly be held responsible for her mother’s behavior.” Pam opened the oven to check her roast. “And Stu broke up his own marriage.”

“Well, I heard that she pushed Stu to leave Maureen, and when he wouldn’t she told Maureen about the affair herself. Maureen skinned Stu in the divorce—and who could blame her—and after that she wasn’t so interested anymore.”

“Are we talking about Mackensie or her mother?” Pam wondered.

Diane shrugged. “I’m just saying what I know. People say she’s always on the hunt for the next husband, especially if he’s someone else’s.”

“I’m not dating Mackensie’s mother.” Carter’s tone was quiet enough, cool enough, to light a fire in Diane’s eyes.

“Who said you were? But you know what they say about apples and trees. You might want to be careful, that’s all, so you don’t have another Corrine Melton on your hands.”

“Di, why do you have to be such a bitch?” Sherry demanded.

“I’ll just keep my mouth shut.”

“Good plan.”

Pam cast her eyes at the ceiling as her oldest daughter stalked back to the windows. “She’s been in a mood since she got here.”

“She’s been in a mood since she was born,” Sherry muttered.

“That’s enough. She’s a pretty girl, as I recall. Mackensie Elliot. And as I said, I’ve heard good things about her. Her mother’s a difficult woman, no question. As I recall, her father’s charming and absent. It takes a lot of spine and stomach to make yourself into something when no one gives you a foundation.”

Carter leaned down, kissed his mother’s cheek. “Not everyone’s as lucky as we are.”

“Damn right. Diane, call those kids in so they can get cleaned up. That’s the two-minute warning.”

When dinner conversation jumped from a rehash of the game, to his niece’s school play, veered into wedding talk and skipped over to his nephew’s desperate desire for a puppy, Carter relaxed.

His relationship with Mac—if there was one—had apparently been taken off the table.

Nick cleared, a gesture that had endeared him to Pam since his first family dinner. Mike sat back, looked down the long length of table in the formal dining room. “I have an announcement.”

“Are you going to get me a puppy, Grandpa?”

Mike leaned down to his grandson, whispered, “Let me work on your mom a little more.” He eased back again. “Your mother and I have an anniversary coming up next month. You’re still my valentine,” he added and winked at her.

“I thought you might like a small party at the club,” Diane began. “Just family, and close friends.”

“That’s a nice thought, Diane, but my bride and I will be celebrating thirty-six years of marital bliss in sunny Spain. That is, if she agrees to go with me.”

“Michael!”

“I know we had to put off the trip we’d planned a couple of years ago when I took over as chief of surgery. I’ve cleared two weeks in February, written them in stone. How about it, sugar? Let’s go eat paella.”

“Give me five minutes to pack, and I’m there.” Pam shot out of her chair, raced over, and dropped into Mike’s lap.

“You’re all excused,” he said, waving at his children.

There it was, Carter thought, there was another reason he’d come home.

The constancy.