Vision in White, Page 6

  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 escape
d, moving quickly through the largely empty school with his footsteps echoing behind him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SHE WAS LATE. MAYBE SHE WASN’T COMING AT ALL. ANYTHING could’ve come up, Carter thought. If he’d had any brain cells working he’d have given her his cell number so she could call and cancel.

  Now he just had to sit here, alone.

  For how long? he wondered. The fifteen minutes he’d already waited wasn’t long enough. A half an hour? An hour? Did waiting alone for an hour make him a pathetic loser?

  He thought it probably did.

  Stupid, he told himself and pretended to drink more green tea. He’d dated before—plenty. He’d been in a serious, intimate relationship with a woman for nearly a year. For God’s sake, he’d lived with her.

  Until she’d dumped him and moved in with someone else.

  But that was beside the point.

  It was

  just coffee. Or, well, tea in his case. And he was working himself up over a casual . . .

  encounter, he decided for lack of a better term, like some silly girl over a prom date.

  He went back to pretending to read his book while he pretended to drink his tea. And ordered himself not to watch the door of the coffee shop like a starving cat watches a mouse hole.

  He’d forgotten—or had stopped noticing long ago—how noisy the place was. Forgotten how many of his students frequented the cafe. Bob had been right about the bad locale.

  Colorful booths and stools were crowded with upperclassmen from the academy and the local high school, along with twentysomethings, with a scatter of teachers.