shadow of the academy, with all the ghosts stirring in its corridors, all the old dreams shifting.
“Way to go, Dr. Maguire,” someone called out, with a few hoots of approval following.
Her face full of fun, she gave his tie another tug. “Now I’ve ruined your reputation.”
“Or seriously improved it.” He cleared his throat when they reached her car. “I suppose you’ll be busy all week with the proposal.”
“Busy, yes,” she agreed when he opened the door for her. “But I’ll come up for air.”
“I could make you dinner, maybe Thursday, if you could come up for air then.”
“You cook?”
“I’m not entirely sure. It’s a gamble.”
“I’m not opposed to gambling, especially when food’s involved. Seven? Your place?”
“That would be perfect. I’ll give you my address.”
“I can find you.” She got in the car. “I’ll bring dessert,” she said, then went breathless with laughter at his expression. “That wasn’t a metaphor for sex, Carter. I meant actual dessert. I’ll hit Laurel up for something.”
“Understood. But I do love a good metaphor.”
She drove away shaking her head. Points for the professor. Now she had until Thursday to decide if she’d settle for a piece of Laurel’s Italian cream cake, or add on the metaphor.
CHAPTER TEN
CARTER CHECKED THE TABLE IN WHAT PASSED FOR HIS DINING room for a third time. He rarely used it as he tended to eat at the kitchen counter or at his desk. In fact, this was the first time he’d put a tablecloth on it.
He thought it hit the right tone between fussy and casual. White plates on a dark blue cloth, and the yellow stripes in the napkins brightened it up. He thought. He hoped.
He took the trio of votive candles off the table, they were too studied. Then put them back. It looked unfinished without them.
After dragging his hand through his hair, ordering himself to stop obsessing, he turned his back on the table to go into the kitchen.
That was the real worry, after all.
The menu passed muster. He’d run it by the Domestic Science instructor, adjusted for her suggestions, and added her recipe for the honey vinaigrette for the field greens salad.
She’d given him a list—what had to be done and when, how much time to allow, and helpful suggestions for presentation.
Presentation, apparently, was as important as the food. Which was why he now owned a tablecloth and cheerful napkins.
He’d had his dry run. Everything was set, everything looked . . . fine.
He had nearly an hour to drive himself completely crazy. In that spirit, he eased open the drawer holding Bob’s list. The list Carter promised himself he would ignore.
“Music. Damn it. I’d have thought of it,” he muttered to Bob’s spirit. “I would have.”
He hurried to the living room to tear through his collection of CDs. The cat uncurled itself from a chair and walked its lop-sided way to join him.
“It’s not going to be Barry White, I don’t care what Bob says about slam dunk. No offense to Mr. White, but we’re not going to be a clichй. Right?”
Triad bumped his head against Carter’s knee.
While he obsessed over CDs, the door opened and Sherry burst in.
“Hi! Can I leave this here?”
“Yes. Why? What is it?”
“It’s a Valentine’s Day present for Nick. It’s a doctor’s bag. I had it engraved, and just picked it up. He’s going to love it! I know if I take it home I won’t be able to resist giving it to him now. So you have to hide it from him. And me.” She sniffed the air. “Are you cooking?”
“Yes. God, is something burning?”
He was up like a shot.
“No, it smells good. Really good.” Since he was already running toward the kitchen she went after him. “And not like the grilled cheese sandwiches you usually . . . Wow, Carter, look! You have food in the oven. Oh, the table’s so pretty. Candles and wineglasses and . . . You’re cooking dinner for a woman.” She drilled her finger into his belly the way she had ever since they’d been kids. “Mackensie Elliot!”
“Stop.” He could literally feel the fresh nerves sprouting in his stomach. “I’m begging you. I’m already a lunatic.”
“I think it’s wonderful. So sweet. Nick made me dinner when we were first going out. It was a disaster.” She sighed, dreamily. “I just loved it.”
“You loved the disaster?”
“He tried so hard. Too hard, because he’s actually good in the kitchen. He screwed everything up because he was so worried about impressing me. Oh.” She sighed again, with a hand to her heart. “It was so sweet.”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to screw everything up. Why isn’t there a handbook for this sort of thing?”
“No, no, you’re not supposed to. It just worked for him because, well, because.” She pulled open the fridge to snoop. “You’re marinating chicken. Carter, you’re
marinating. It must be love.”
“Go away. Get out.”
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
His voice took on a dangerous bite. “I’m a man on the edge, Sherry.”
“Just change your shirt. Put on the blue one, the one Mom got you. It looks really good on you.”
“If I promise to change my shirt, will you leave?”
“Yes.”
“Before you leave will you pick out some music? Because I can’t take any more pressure.”
“Got you covered. Go up, change your shirt.” Grabbing his hand, she pulled him out of the kitchen. “I’ll pick the mood music and be gone before you get down. Take the present up, will you? Don’t tell me where you hide it in case I try to sneak over and get it before V-Day.”
“Done.”
“Carter?” she added when he started upstairs. “Light the candles about ten minutes before she’s due.”
“Okay.”
“And have a nice time.”
“Thanks. Be sure to go away now.”
He changed the shirt, dawdling over it to give Sherry enough time to finish up and go. He hid the gift-wrapped box in his office closet.
When he went down, he found a sticky note on his CD player.
Hit Play five minutes before she’s due. XXOO
“It’s like a war campaign,” Carter muttered, and crumpled up the note as he walked into the kitchen to start the chicken.
He minced, he crushed, he sautйed, measured, timed—and only burned himself once. When the chicken simmered fragrantly, he lit the candles on the table, the ones on the skinny sideboard. He set out the little bowls of olives and cashews. When he hit the five-minute mark, he switched on the stereo. Alanis Morissette.
Nice choice.
At seven, she knocked.
“I’m Parker-trained,” Mac told him when he opened the door. “So I’m obsessively prompt. I hope that’s okay.”
“It’s absolutely okay. Let me take your coat. Oh, and . . .”
“Dessert,” she said, handing him the glossy Vows bakery box. “Italian cream cake, a personal favorite. Nice house, Carter. Very you,” she added wandering into the living room with its wall of books. “Oh, you have a cat.”
“I didn’t think to ask if you were allergic.”
“I’m not. Hello, pal.” She started to crouch, then stopped, angling her head. “You have a cat with three legs.”
“Triad. He was hit by a car.”
“Oh, poor baby!” Instantly, she was down on the floor, stroking and scratching the delighted cat. “It had to be awful for both of you. Thank God you were home.”
“No, actually I was driving home from school. They—the car in front of me hit him, and just kept going. I don’t understand how anybody could do that. When I pulled over, I thought he’d be dead, but he was lying there, in shock, I guess. The vet couldn’t save the leg, but he does okay.”
Mac continued to stroke the cat down his length as she stared at Carter. “I bet he does.”
“Would you like a glass of wine?”
“I would.” She gave Triad a last scratch, then rose. “And I’d like to check out what smells so good.”
“I thought that was you.”
“Besides me,” she said while he hung her coat tidily in his hall closet.
“Come on back.” He took her hand to lead her to the kitchen. “You look nice. I should’ve said that right away.”
“Only if you’re working off bullet points.”
As he felt himself wince, he was grateful her attention focused on the kitchen instead of his face.
“It really does smell good. What’ve you got going here, Carter?” She walked to the stove to sniff at the skillet.
“Well, let’s see. There’s a field green salad, rosemary chicken in a white wine reduction, roasted red-skinned potatoes, and asparagus.”
Her jaw dropped. “You’re kidding me.”
“You don’t like asparagus? I can—”
“No, that’s not what I mean. You made all this?” She lifted the lid of the skillet.
“You’re not really supposed to take that off until . . . Well, okay.” He shrugged as she sniffed again, then replaced the lid.
“This is trouble, Carter.”
“Why? Is it the chicken?”
“You
went to all this trouble. I figured you’d toss a couple steaks under the broiler, or dump a jar of Ragъ in a pot and call it your own. But this is cooking. Considerable time and trouble. I’m wowed. And look at the pretty table you made.”
She wandered into the dining room to walk around it. “You’re just a man of levels, aren’t you?”
“Why didn’t I think of the Ragъ?” He picked up the bottle of wine he’d opened. “I got white because of the chicken, but I didn’t know what kind you liked. This is supposed to be good.”
“Supposed?”
“I don’t know a lot about wine. I looked it up.”
She took the glass he offered, sampled, watching him all the while. “Your research paid off.”
“Mackensie.” He leaned down, brushed his lips lightly over hers. “There. I feel better.”
“Than?”
“Probably every man within a twenty-mile radius because they can’t kiss you in the kitchen.”
“You’re dazzling me, Carter.”
“That was part of the plan. I just have to put a few things together. You should sit down.”
“I could help.”
“I have a system—I hope. If you’re in the system, it changes the, well, system. I did a draft Tuesday night, so I think I have it down.”
“A draft?”
He asked himself why he’d babbled that one out as he adjusted the heat under the skillet. “Ah, well, I wasn’t sure how it might turn out, and there’s the whole getting everything done at the right time. So, I did a draft of the meal.”
“You had a dinner rehearsal?”
“More or less. Bob’s wife had her book club meeting, so he came by. I cooked. We ate. So, you should be safe. How did your studying go?”
“My studying?”
“For the presentation on Monday.”
“I am so ready. Which is good because starting tomorrow we’re booked back-to-back. We had a roundup this morning, two rehearsals this afternoon. The second of which was full of pitfalls as the maid of honor and best man, who are recent exes since his affair with his business partner came to light, aren’t speaking.”
“How do you handle that?”
“Like you would a handful of sweating dynamite. The wedding biz isn’t for sissies.”
“I can see that.”
“And come Monday, we’ll be putting on a show for Mrs. Seaman Furniture that’ll make her stand up and cheer.”
“Seaman Furniture’s the potential client?”
“Technically Seaman Furniture’s daughter, but the mother’s paying the freight.”
“We’ll be eating on a table and sitting in chairs I bought there. I’d say that counts as good luck.”
They sat in the lucky chairs at the lucky table with candlelight and wine and music. She was, Mac realized, being thoroughly and unashamedly romanced.
And she liked it.
“You know, Carter, this is so good I’ve stopped feeling guilty about the fact you’ve eaten this exact meal twice this week.”
“You could consider it upscale leftovers. Leftovers are a major part of the menu around here, usually.” He glanced over at the cat who sat beside his chair, staring up with unblinking yellow eyes.
“I guess your pal’s waiting for his.”
“He’s not used to seeing me eat at the table. It’s usually counter food, so I guess he’s confused. Do you want me to put him out?”
“No. I like cats. In fact, I’ve been married to cats several times.”
“I didn’t know that. I take it things didn’t work out.”
“That depends on your point of view. I have very fond memories of those marriages, however fleeting. When we were kids, the four of us used to play Wedding Day. A lot.” She laughed over her wine. “I guess we began as we meant to go on, even if we didn’t know it. We had costumes and props, each took different roles. We married each other, pets, Del if Parker could blackmail him into it.”
“The photograph in your studio. With the butterfly.”
“The camera was a gift from my father that was probably age inappropriate. My grandmother used the gift to bitch about him. Again. A hot summer day when I wanted to go swimming instead of playing the game. Parker placating my mood by declaring me official wedding photographer instead of the MOH.”
“Sorry?”
“MOH. Maid of honor. I didn’t want to put on the dress, so Parker deemed me official wedding photographer.”
“Portentous.”
“I guess so. Add the serendipitous flight of that butterfly and elements coalesced into a personal epiphany. I realized not only that I could preserve a memory, a moment, an image, but I wanted to.”
She ate another bite of chicken. “I bet you made Sherry play Classroom.”
“Maybe. Now and then. She could be bribed with stickers.”
“Who can’t? I don’t know if it makes us lucky or boring that we knew what we wanted to do when we were still so young.”
“Actually, I thought I’d impart my wisdom in the halls of the rarified air of Yale while I wrote the great American novel.”
“Really? Why haven’t you? Or didn’t you?”
“I realized I like playing Classroom.”
Yes, she thought, he did. She’d seen that for herself. “Did you write the book?”
“Oh, I’ve got a novel in progress like any self-respecting English professor. And it’ll likely be in progress for the considerable part of ever.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s about two hundred pages so far.”
“No.” She poked his shoulder. “What’s the story?”
“It’s about great love, loss, sacrifice, betrayal, and courage. You know, the usual. I’ve been thinking it needs a three-legged cat, possibly a potted palm.”
“Who’s the main character?”
“You can’t possibly want to hear about this.”
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t. Who is he, what does he do?”
“The protagonist is—and you’ll be shocked to hear this—a teacher.” He smiled as he topped off her wine. He could always drive her home. “He’s betrayed, by a woman, of course.”
“Of course.”
“His life is shattered, along with his career, his soul. Damaged, he has to start again, has to find the courage to fix what’s broken in him. To learn to trust again, to love again. It really needs the potted palm.”
“Why did she betray him?”
“Because he loved her but didn’t see her. She ruined him so he would. I think.”
“So the three-legged cat could be a metaphor for his wounded soul, and his determination to live with the scars.”
“That’s good. You’d get an A.”
“Now, for the important question.” She leaned toward him. “Is there sex, violence, and adult language?”
“There is.”
“Sold. You need to finish it. Isn’t there that publish-or-perish business in your world?”
“It doesn’t have to be a book. I’ve got articles, papers, short stories published to keep that wolf from the door.”
“Short stories? Seriously?”
“Just small press. The sort of thing that doesn’t move out of academia. You should publish your photography. An art book.”
“I play around with it sometimes. I guess it’s like the novel. When it’s not what you actually do, it gets shuffled back. Parker’s idea is for us to put together coffee table books. Wedding flowers, wedding cakes, wedding photography. The best of our best kind of thing.”
“It’s a good idea.”
“Parker rarely has any other kind. It’s a matter of carving out the time to put it all together in a way that could be pitched to whoever publishes that kind of thing. Meanwhile we’ve got three events in three days, with our Saturday job a very thorny rose. You should come.”