Vision in White

boo-hoo Paris. I turned around and left. Points for me because the usual MO would be for me to, resentfully, calm her down, get her into bed.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

“I don’t know.” With a shake of her head, she blew out a breath. “I really don’t. It wasn’t one of those proud mother-daughter moments, so I guess I tried not to think about it afterward. I walked out, and told her I wouldn’t come the next time she called. I said very hard things and left.”

“They needed to be said, and you needed to leave.”

“You’re right, both counts,” Mac agreed. “And today, she whirls in here in her new fur and refrigerator-box-sized diamond as if none of it happened. Talk about flicking switches. She’s getting married in June. Ari is forgiven due to fur, diamond, and proposal. And she expects us to do the wedding. June is like a parade of brides around here. We’re booked. Much fury and anger ensues. Then she took on Parker. That was the good part. Parker shut her down, showed her the door. Then there was ice cream.”

She took a sip of wine. “I like your day better.”

“She had to know you’d be booked.”

“No, not really. Honestly, that wouldn’t have entered her mind. She doesn’t see outside her own wants. Nothing else exists. And her anger and shock, even hurt, when those wants aren’t met are sincere. They’re genuine. She has the emotional maturity of a fruit fly, encouraged by a mother who indulged her every whim and taught her she was the center of the universe. She’s a product of that.”

“It doesn’t mean she’s allowed to treat you this way.”

“She is. She’s allowed to do as she pleases. I’m responsible for my reactions. And I’m working on them. Garrett and I are showing some improvement. She didn’t get what she wanted.”

“That’s not the point, only a result. She’ll repeat this cycle. She’ll come back and hurt you again. And when she does, she’ll have to deal with me.”

“Carter, you don’t want to take that on. It’s sweet, but—”

“It’s not sweet. She’ll deal with me.”

She remembered him taking a punch from an angry drunk. “I know you can handle yourself. But she’s my mother, and I need to handle her.”

“Sharing some DNA doesn’t make her your mother.”

Mac said nothing for a moment. “No,” she agreed, “it really doesn’t.”





CHAPTER TWENTY




THE SNOW STARTED LATE MORNING, AND BY NOON THE WORLD outside the studio was a storm of white. It fell, thick and fast, obliterating the brief end-of-February thaw. March, Mac thought, was coming in with the lion’s fangs and claws.

The steady, spinning snow, the howl of wind that kicked it toward fury, made her want to curl up under a throw with a book and a pot of hot chocolate close at hand. Except for the fact they had a rehearsal scheduled at five. Apparently, Saturday’s control-freak bride hadn’t been able to work her will on Mother Nature.

Knowing the drill under such circumstances, Mac prepared to bundle herself and her equipment in protective gear, and trudge over to the main house. She packed her notes, opened a drawer for extra memory cards—and found the photo of her and Carter, along with his framed in the box.

“Yet to deliver on part three,” she said aloud, and to please herself she set the photo she intended to keep on her workstation. “Reminder,” she decided.

She headed upstairs to change into rehearsal clothes, then had to dash to answer the ringing phone. “Hey, Professor. Where are you?”

“Home. They cancelled afternoon classes. It’s nasty out there. I needed to stop by here, get a few things, including the cat. I don’t want to leave him here in case I can’t make it back tomorrow.”

“Don’t.” She carried the phone to the window to watch the trees whip and shudder in the violent lash of wind. “Don’t go out in this again. Stay home—warm and safe so I don’t have to worry about you on the roads. I’m getting ready to trek over to the house anyway. We have a rehearsal at five.”

“In this?”

“We have contingency plans, which include the ritual sacrifice of a chicken.”

“I could help. Except with the chicken.”

“You could, or you could end up in a snowdrift, or skidding into a tree. All I have to do is walk a few hundred yards.” She flipped through her clothing options as she spoke, settled on sturdy cords and a turtleneck. “Parker will have the head of the National Weather Service on the phone by now.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, only slightly exaggerating.” She sat to pull off her thick, walk-around-the-house socks, then, cradling the phone on her shoulder, wiggled out of her flannel pants. “We’ll do a conference call rehearsal if necessary, or a virtual one if the client has the computer capability. We’ll shovel, plow, and clear. We’ve done it before. Barring genuine blizzard conditions, we’ll have a wedding tomorrow. Maybe you could be my date. And bring the cat. That way the two of you could stay through the weekend.”

“We’ll be there. I’d rather be with you tonight than here grading papers.”

She yanked up her cords. “I’d rather be with you than dealing with an hysterical, anal-retentive bride.”

“I think you win. Try to stay warm. Maybe you could call me later, after you’re done with everything. You can tell me how it went.”

“I will. Oh, wait. Are any of those papers you’ll be grading Garrett’s?”

“As a matter of fact.”

“Hope he gets an A. See you tomorrow.”

She hung up the phone, then pulled off her sweatshirt, pulled on the sweater. She grabbed her makeup bag and a pair of dress boots should the bride insist on braving the elements.

Five minutes later, she hunched against the frigid blast of wind to trudge through the snow. It would take a miracle, she thought, if the storm didn’t abate in the next few hours. Even with a miracle, the guest attrition rate would soar. It would take all her skill to pull any glowing bride shots of the client.

Or possibly liquor.

She dumped everything in the mudroom, stomped and shook away snow. She checked Laurel’s kitchen.

Her friend stood, coating the second of three tiers with pale pink fondant.

“Wait. I have down the marquetry cake, white icing, pink and lavender flowers, traditional B and G topper.”

“Changed to pleated, pale pink with nosegay of English violets topper. I guess you didn’t get the memo—or honestly by the time we got to this, I probably didn’t send one.”

“No problem. I’ll put it in my notes.” Mac dragged them out to do just that. “How many guys do you figure she changed her mind about before she stuck with the one she’s marrying tomorrow?”

“One shudders to think. Forecast is for twelve to eighteen.”

“We can handle twelve to eighteen.”

“We can. I’m not sure about the bride.” She moved on to the last tier. “Parker’s been dealing with her almost since the first flake fell. Emma’s in her shop, dealing with the flowers.”

“Is it still a pomander for the flower girl?”

“As of now. My mission was to match the fondant to the color of the roses.” Laurel paused to pick up the bud Emma had given her, held it by the fondant. “I think mission accomplished. Now scram. I still have a couple acres of pink and white sugar paste to deal with before I even assemble this baby.”

“I’ll go help Parker.”

In her office, Parker lay on the floor, eyes closed, talking in calm, soothing tones into her headset. “I know, Whitney. It’s just so unfair. But . . . No, I don’t blame you a bit. I’d feel the same way. I do feel the same way.” She opened her eyes, looked up at Mac. Closed them again.

“I’m here for you. We all are. And we have a few ideas that may . . . Whitney! I want you to stop. Listen to me now. Stop and breathe. Breathe. Now, just listen. The weather is out of our control. Some things in life just are. It’s what we do about them that counts, and one of the things you’re going to do is marry the man you love and start a wonderful life together. The weather can’t change that.”

Listening with half an ear, Mac opened Parker’s cabinet and got her friend a fresh bottle of water.

“Don’t cry, honey. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to worry about today. At five, we’re going to do a conference call with you and Vince and the wedding party, and your parents. We’re going to go over every step of what’s going to happen tomorrow. Wait, just wait. Today first. We’re going to go over every step, as long as it takes. I know how much you were looking forward to the rehearsal dinner tonight.”

With her eyes closed, she listened for several moments. “Yes, Whitney, but I agree with your mother, and with Vince. It’s not worth risking the roads to try to get everyone here, or to the restaurant. But I’ve arranged, if you agree, for one of the caterers I know to deliver a wonderful meal to you. She only lives a couple of blocks away. She’ll deliver it, and she’ll set it all up. You can make this a party, Whitney, or a tragedy. I’ve talked to your mother, and she’s thrilled with the idea.”

Bending down, Mac tapped the bottle against Parker’s hand. Parker took it, just held it.

“She’ll have a houseful, and host a party with her daughter. You’ll have dinner, wine, family, friends, a sleepover, a fire in the hearth. You’ll have a rehearsal dinner that’s unique and yours, and that makes something lovely and fun out of an inconvenience.”

“Damn you’re good,” Mac whispered.

Parker reopened her eyes, rolled them. “That’s right. Let me worry about tomorrow. I promise you, one way or the other, we’re going to give you a beautiful day. And the most important thing, you’re marrying Vince. Now I want you to relax, to enjoy yourself. We’re going to have fun with this. I’ll call you back. Yes. I promise. Go help your mother.”

Parker pulled off the headset. “God!”

“I bet she’s not worrying about pomanders now.”

“No, she’s too busy cursing the gods.” As she sat up, Parker twisted the top off the bottle, took a long, long drink. “I don’t blame her for being upset. Who wouldn’t be? But a winter wedding means the possibility of snow. It’s March in Connecticut, clue in. But in her mind, the snow is a personal insult aimed at ruining her life. Twelve to eighteen.”

“I got the bulletin.”

“We’ll need the drive and parking plowed, the paths, porches, and terraces cleared.” She drank again, and did what she’d advised Whitney to do. She breathed. “The road crews are out, so we’ll have to trust them to do their part.”

“Four-wheel drives?”

“The limo company can switch to the Hummer. The groom’s willing to forgo the limo and load up his SUV with his party. I’ve talked to all the subs. We shouldn’t have a problem.”

“Then I guess I’d better get a shovel.”

BY EIGHT, WITH THE SNOW SLOWED TO A FITFUL TRICKLE, MAC sat in the kitchen with her friends devouring a bowl of Mrs. G’s beef stew.

“When is she coming home?” Mac demanded. “We’re nearly out of provisions.”

“First of April,” Parker said, “as usual. We can make it. We’ll make tomorrow, too. I just talked to a very happy, slightly drunk bride. They’re having a wonderful time. They have a karaoke machine.”

“We’re plowed, forecast is for clear skies tomorrow, with a high of thirty-eight. The wind’s already easing off. Cake’s in the cooler and is a thing of beauty.”

Emma nodded at Laurel. “Flowers are the same.”

“The kids will be here first thing in the morning to shovel the path, clear the portico and terraces,” Parker put in. “So that’s cleared off our list.”

“Thank God,” Emma said with feeling.

“I’ve got the FOB taking pictures tonight at the rehearsal party with his pocket digital. I’ll play with them, put something fun together in one of the small albums. We’ll gift it to the bride. And now.” Mac pushed up. “I’m going home, ease my aching body into a hot bath.”

She walked home in the thinning snow, the path lights sparkling. It made her think of Carter, how he’d talked her into walking in the snow instead of wallowing.

She’d call him. Sink into that hot bath with a glass of wine, some candles glowing—and Carter on the line. She wondered how he’d react to phone sex, and heard herself laugh. He was always surprising her. She’d bet he’d be a phone sex champ.

She let herself in, listened to the silence. She liked the quiet, liked her space. Funny how he didn’t disturb either by being there. He just seemed to make it more theirs. Their quiet, their space.

Weird thought.

She glanced at the photo on her workstation as she stripped off her coat. Maybe not so weird. They framed up together nicely.

It was good, this phase they were in, she thought as she started upstairs. Not a holding pattern, not exactly, just staying in that nice, comfortable space. A kind of order and ease.

She walked into the bedroom, tossed the dress boots she hadn’t needed after all toward the closet. She took off her earrings, dropped them on the dresser.

Then stopped, hissing out a breath as she looked around. She hadn’t made the bed that morning. She’d tossed clothes on the chair. She’d dropped socks there, too. Her beautiful closet . . . It wasn’t a disaster, she thought, but why had she put the gray shirt with the white ones? And the black skirt belonged in the skirt section, not in the jacket section. And that was Carter’s jacket.

She’d fallen back into old habits, she thought in disgust. She had a place for everything now, so why couldn’t she

put it there. Control her own space, her own things, her own . . .

Life, she thought.

Because she was messy, she admitted. Because life was. Because Carter’s jacket was hanging with hers, and what did it matter? Socks got lost, beds got rumpled. Your mother was a selfish woman, your father was careless.

And sometimes it snowed on your wedding rehearsal.

What had Parker said?

Some things in life are out of your control. You can make it a party or a tragedy.

Or, Mac thought, you could refuse to take the next step. You could refuse to take what you wanted most because you’re afraid some day you might lose it.

She jogged back downstairs, picked up the photo. “He just happened,” she said quietly as she studied how they looked, framed together. “He just happened into my life, and everything changed.”

She looked up, saw the photo of three young girls under an arbor of white roses. And a blue butterfly over a clutch of wild violets and dandelions.

Her breath came out in a jerk that had her pressing a hand to her heart. Of course. Of course. It was so absolutely clear, if she just looked at it.

“Oh my God. What am I waiting for?”

WITH THE CAT WARMING HIS FEET AND THE MUSIC ON LOW, Carter stretched out on the living room sofa with a book and a short glass of Jameson.

He’d spent winter evenings like this before, he mused, with the cat and a book for company after work was done. It contented him.

He wished he had a fire. Of course, he’d need a fireplace first. But a fire would add a nice civilized evening-at-home touch. A kind of

Masterpiece Theatre touch.

The professor and his cat by the fire, reading on a snowy evening.

He could almost see the portrait as Mackensie would take it, and the idea both pleased and amused him.

He wished she could be here with him. Stretched out opposite him on the sofa, so he could see her face whenever he glanced up from the story. Sharing the quiet of a winter night, and the imaginary fire.

One day, he thought, when she was ready. Part of him had been ready the moment he’d seen her again; there was no point in denying it. No sooner looked but he loved—to paraphrase Rosalind. And the rest of him caught up so quickly with that part of him. But she hadn’t had that spark, that old flame inside her as he had, waiting to reignite.

Man for woman this time, not boy for girl.

He couldn’t blame her for needing more time.

“Well, maybe a little,” he said to Triad. “Not so much for needing more time, but for not trusting herself. How can a woman who has so much of it in her not trust love? I know, I know, Mommy Dearest, Absentee Father. A lot of scar tissue there.”

So he’d wait. He’d love her, be with her. And wait.

He settled back into the book, letting the quiet and the journey of the story lull him. He lifted the whiskey, took a small sip. His hand jerked at the pounding on the door, so whiskey splashed on his shirt.

“Oh, crap.”

Pulling off his glasses, he laid them on the table with the book. Triad protested when he pulled his feet free. “It’s not my fault. It’s whoever’s crazy enough to be out on a night like this.”

He got up reluctantly, then the thought struck that someone might’ve had an accident, and had come to the house for help. He quickened his pace, imagining skids and crashes on slippery roads. When he opened the door, his arms filled with Mac.

“Carter!”

“Mackensie.” Alarm gushed into his belly. “What is it? What happened?”

“Everything.” She turned her head, crushed her mouth to his. “Everything happened.”

“The estate?” Fire leaped into his mind again. “Was there a fire? Or—”

“No.” She clung. “You found me.”

“You’re cold. Come in where it’s warm. You need to sit down. Whatever happened, we’ll—”

“I forgot my gloves.” She laughed and kissed him again. “I forgot to turn on the heater in the car. I forgot to make the bed. I don’t know why I thought that was important.”

“Did you hit your head?” He pried her back to look into her eyes. They didn’t seem shocky to him, but they were a little wild. “Have you been drinking? And driving in these conditions? You can’t—”

“I haven’t been drinking. I was thinking about wine and phone sex in the bathtub, but that was before I realized I hadn’t made the bed or put my socks in the hamper.” She sniffed. “But someone’s been drinking. Is that whiskey? You drink whiskey?”

“Sometimes. It’s a cold night, and the snow, and . . . Wait a minute.”

“You see? You always surprise me. Carter drinks whiskey on a snowy night.” She spun away from him, then back. “And he can take a punch in the face. He buys diamond earrings and laughs with his father in the kitchen. Oh, I wish I’d had my camera, so I could’ve stolen that moment and showed you. I need another chance at that, when I’m not fighting off nerves and envy. But I have another for you.”

She dragged the box out of the deep pocket of her coat. “Third part of the gift.”

“For God’s sake, you drove all the way over here in this mess to give me a picture? You could’ve been hurt, had an accident. You—”

“Yes. I could’ve. Things happen. But I didn’t, and I’m here. Open it.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “Let me get your coat.” “I can get my coat. Open it. Look.” She dragged off the coat, threw it over the banister. “That’s the kind of thing I do. Toss my coat somewhere. You don’t even mind. You might some day. So what? Open it, Carter.”

He untied the ribbon, opened the box. She smiled out at him, her cheek against his. It made him remember the kiss, her pleasure in his gift. The warmth afterward, and the feel of her face brushing his. “It’s wonderful.”

“It really is. I kept one of the kiss. You didn’t know I took the shot. It’s a great kiss, a great image. But this—this is us. Looking out, looking forward. Tonight, after the work, and the dealing with things that can’t be controlled, can’t be predicted—good or bad, happy or sad—and then the closet. I’d messed up my shirts, and your jacket was in there.”

“Oh, I must’ve put it there when—”

“It doesn’t matter. That’s the point. It doesn’t matter that my mother is my mother, or that things don’t always work exactly the way you thought they should. Moments matter. I know that better than anyone, but I never let it apply to me. Not to me. People matter, how they feel, how they connect, who they are alone and together. All that matters, no matter how quickly the moment passes. Maybe because it passes. What matters is you’re the blue butterfly.”

“I’m . . . what?”

“Come on, Professor. Dr. Maguire. You know all about metaphors and analogies and symbolism. You flew into my life, just landed in it unexpectedly. Maybe miraculously. And the picture formed. It just took me a while to see it.”

“I’m not . . . Oh, the picture. Wedding Day, the one you took when you were a