Vision in White, Page 26

  to me Georgia—that’s Nick’s mom—it never occurred to me

  she’d be nervous, too. Later, she told me she’d changed her outfit three times before I got there. It made me feel better. So, Mom’s nervous. Feel better.”

  “Thanks. I do.”

  As Sherry whisked her in, Mac had an impression of people, of movement inside a bright, open space, of Carter laughing with a handsome man with white hair and a trim beard. Of the good aromas of home cooking.

  A moment, was all Mac could think. Easy family moment. She’d never once had one of her own, but she recognized it.

  “Hey, everybody, Mac’s here.”

  Then the movement stopped—freeze-frame, Mac thought—as the attention shifted to focus on her.

  Carter moved first, pushing off the counter where he’d been leaning to come to her. “You made it.” He kissed her lightly over the fragrant white lilies and Bianca roses. Since her hands gripped the basket, he brushed a hand over her shoulder as he turned. “Mom, this is Mackensie.”

  The woman who walked over from the stove had a strong face, clear eyes. Her smile was polite, with a hint of warmth. And, Mac thought, a hint of reservation. “It’s nice to meet you, at last.”

  “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Maguire.” She offered the basket. “These are from today’s event. Emma—you know Emma—does the flowers. We thought you might like them.”

  “They’re stunning.” Pam leaned in to sniff. “And delicious. Thank you. Sherry, put these on the coffee table, will you? We’ll all enjoy them. How about a glass of wine?”

  “I’d love one.”

  “Diane, pour Mac some wine.”

  “My sister Diane,” Carter said.

  “Hello. Cabernet or Pinot? We’re having chicken.”

  “Ah, Pinot, thanks.”

  “My father, Michael Maguire. Dad.”

  “Welcome.” He gave Mac’s hand a strong shake. “Irish, are you?”

  “Ah, some of me.”

  “My grandmother had hair like yours. Bright as a sunset. You’re a photographer.”

  “Yes. Thanks,” she said when Diane handed her a glass of wine. “My partners and I run a wedding business. Well, you know that, as we’re doing Sherry’s wedding.”

  He shot out a teasing grin. “As father of the bride, I just get handed the bills.”

  “Oh, Dad.”

  He winked at Mac as Sherry rolled her eyes at him.

  “We send a flask along with the final invoice.”

  His laugh was full and rich. “I like your girl, Carter.”

  “So do I.”

  By the time they sat down to the meal, Mac had a good sense of who was who. Mike Maguire liked a laugh, adored and was adored by his family. While he might have been the doctor, it was his wife who had her finger on every pulse. She’d have said they worked as a team, and it appeared to be a strong one. But when nitty met gritty, Pam ran the show.

  Sherry was the baby, a bundle of energy and fun, secure, loving, and in love. Her fiance behaved like and was treated like a son. She imagined his obvious delight in Sherry earned him major points.

  Diane, the oldest, leaned toward the bossy side. Motherhood suited her, and the kids beamed bright, but she came off vaguely dissatisfied. Not young and starting her life as Sherry was, not content and secure in her position like her mother. Her husband was easygoing, a joker with his kids. Mac sensed his unruffled nature often irritated his wife.

  She understood dynamics and personalities, how they formed and re-formed images. Here was tradition for them, conversation over a Sunday family dinner, bits and pieces of their lives passed around like the mashed potatoes.

  She was the X factor. The outside element that—at least for the moment—altered the image.

  “Weekends must be your busiest time,” Pam commented.

  “Generally. We do a lot of weekday evening events.”

  “A lot of work during the week, too,” Carter pointed out.

  “All the planning. It’s not just showing up with a camera. Then there’s after the event. I’ve seen a couple of the packages, the albums Mackensie’s done. They’re works of art.”

  “Everything’s digital now.” Diane shrugged, poked at her chicken.

  “Primarily. I still work with film now and then. This is a wonderful meal, Mrs. Elliot. You must love to cook.”

  “I like the production and drama of big meals. And it’s Pam. I also like the idea of four women, four friends, forming and running a business together. Running your own company takes a lot of stamina, a lot of dedication, along with the creativity.”

  “But it’s such a happy business,” Sherry put in. “It’s like an endless celebration. Flowers and beautiful dresses, music, champagne.”

  “Weddings keep getting more elaborate. All that time, that stress, that expense, for one day.” Diane lifted a shoulder even as her mouth turned down in a frown. “People more worried about who sits where or what color ribbon to use than what marriage means. And the people getting married are so tired and stressed from all of that the day’s just a blur anyway.”

  “You had your day, Di.” A little fire burned in Sherry’s eyes.

  “I’m having mine.”

  “And all I’m saying is that by the time I got to the altar I was so worn out I can barely remember saying I do.”

  “You said it.” Her husband smiled at her. “And looked beautiful when you did.”

  “Be that as it may—”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Mac cut in. “It can be exhausting. And what should be the most vivid and important day of your life to that point can become anticlimactic, even tedious. That’s what we’re there to prevent. Believe me, if you’d had my partners when you were planning your wedding, the day wouldn’t have been a blur.”

  “I don’t mean to be critical, really, of what you do. I’m just saying that if the people involved didn’t feel obliged to put on such a production, well, they wouldn’t need companies like yours to handle everything.”

  “Probably true,” Mac said easily. “Still, a bride’s going to stress and worry, even obsess, but she can leave the details to us. As many as she feels comfortable with. She—sorry, Nick,” she added with a smile. “She’s the focus of the day, and for us, she’s the focus for months leading up to that day. It’s what we do.”

  “I’m sure you’re very good. In fact, everything I’ve heard about you and your company indicates you are. I just think simple is better.”

  “It’s all a matter of taste and individuality, isn’t it?” Pam reached for the basket of dinner rolls. “More bread?”

  “And I don’t want simple. I want fun.”

  “We’ve got it.” Mac sent Sherry a quick grin. “But simple can be better, depending on that taste and individuality. Even simple takes an eye for detail. We did a small, simple wedding today. Late morning ceremony. The bride’s sister was her only attendant. She carried a small, hand-tied bouquet and wore flowers in her hair instead of a veil. We had a champagne brunch after and a jazz trio for dancing. It was lovely. She looked radiant. And I’d estimate Vows put about a hundred and fifty hours in, to make sure it was perfect for her. I’m pretty sure she’ll remember every moment of it.”

  WHEN THE EVENING WAS DONE, AND THEY WENT TO CARTER’S, he waited until they were inside and hugged her. “Thanks. I imagine it’s nerve-wracking to meet a horde like that—and to get the third degree.”

  “Let me just say: Whew. Do you think I passed the audition?”

  “Definitely.”

  She bent down to pet the cat who came to greet them. “You have a very nice family. I figured you would. You love each other. It shows.”

  “We do. Should I apologize for Diane? She likes to pull off the silver lining to find the clouds inside.”

  “No. I get her, because I often do the same. I just internalize it more. I liked them, even her. They’re all so normal. It gives me family envy.”

  “You can share mine. And I wish I could
say that without putting that look in your eyes.”

  “So do I. It’s my fatal flaw, not yours.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  Her jaw dropped. He rarely swore. “It’s—”

  “You don’t have any fatal flaw. What you have is an ingrained habit of looking at marriage, for yourself, from one angle only. And from that angle all you see is failure.”

  “That may be true, it’s probably true. But I’ve shifted that angle more for you, with you, than I have with anyone. I don’t know if I’m capable of more.”

  “I’m not going to push you, but I won’t lie and say I haven’t thought about it. That I haven’t thought about making a life with you. It’s difficult to look inside myself and know, without a single reservation, that’s what I want. And to look at you, and know it’s not what you think you can have.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t know if you can understand I’m more afraid of that than being hurt myself.”

  “I don’t need your protection.” He reached out, tapped the dangle of diamonds she wore. “You thought when I gave you these there might be an engagement ring in that box. You looked stricken.”

  “Carter—”

  “What would you have said, I wonder, if there had been? I’m not asking. We’ll call it a rhetorical question. I’ll make you a promise right here and now, which may put your mind at ease. There won’t be a ring or a question until you ask for them.”

  “You’re too good for me.”

  “I’m forced to repeat myself. That’s bullshit.”

  “It’s not. And I actually think quite a bit of myself. What I should be, Carter, is on my knees asking you if you’d have me. And I can’t get it out. It’s stuck. It’s stuck right here.” She pressed her fist to her chest. “And every time it starts to loosen, just a little, something slams it back down. You’re so much better than I deserve.”

  “Don’t do that to me.” He took her by the shoulders. “Don’t put me somewhere I don’t want to be.”

  “I don’t know what I’d have said if there’d been a ring in that box. And that scares me. I don’t know, and I can’t see if whatever I’d have said would’ve been the right thing or the wrong thing for both of us. I have to see. I know the angle’s wrong. More, the lens is defective, and I

  know it.”

  She stepped back from him. “I want to change it, and that’s a first.”

  “That’s a start. I’ll settle for that, for now.”

  “You shouldn’t settle for anything. That’s my point.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, or who to love. You’re the one. You’re going to be the one tomorrow, and fifty years from tomorrow.”

  “I’ve never been the one. Not for anybody.”

  He closed the distance between them. “You’ll get used to it.” He tipped her face up to his, kissed her.

  “Why? Why am I the one?”

  “Because my life opened up, and it flooded with color when you walked back into it.”

  She wrapped her arms tight around him, pressed her face to his shoulder as emotion swamped her. “If you asked, I couldn’t say no.”

  “That’s not good enough, for either of us. When I ask, you need to want to say yes.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MAC HEARD THE THUMP, THE HISS OF BREATH, AND OPENED one eye. Snuggled in bed, she watched Carter hobble over to get his shoes.

  “What time is it?”

  “Early. Go back to sleep. I managed to get up, shower, and nearly get dressed before I ran into something and woke you up.”

  “It’s all right. I should get up, get an early start anyway.” Her eyes drooped closed again.

  Carrying his shoes—and limping only a little—he walked over to kiss the top of her head. She made a murmuring sound of pleasure, and dropped back into sleep.

  By the time she surfaced, the sun was beaming in.

  Not such an early start after all, she mused as she rolled out of bed. Still, one of the perks of running your own business—and having no morning appointments—was sleeping in a little. She started for the bathroom, then shook her head and went back to make the bed.

  It was the new Mac, she reminded herself. The tidy and organized in all areas of her personal and professional lives Mackensie Elliot. The Mac with the new, fabulously designed closet where everything had its place—and was in it.

  She fluffed the pillows, smoothed the sheets, spread the duvet neatly. See, she told herself as she did every morning, it only took two minutes. With a nod of satisfaction, she surveyed her room.

  No clothes tossed anywhere, no shoes kicked under a chair, no jewelry carelessly scattered on the dresser. This was the room of a grown-up, a woman of taste—and a woman in control.

  She showered, then reminded herself to hang up the towel. In the bedroom she gave herself the pleasure of opening her closet and just standing there, looking at it.

  “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  Her clothes hung in precise lines, according to function and color. Every pair of her impressive collection of shoes nestled inside its clear protective box, in stacks of type. Evening shoes, daywear, sandals, boots—pumps, peeps, spikes, wedges.

  Things of beauty.

  Handbags, again by function and color, sat easily accessed in generous cubbies. Inside the glossy white drawers of the built-ins lived scarves—once doomed to tangled knots or jumbled piles, neatly folded, as did her dressier sweaters, her hosiery.

  It made getting dressed an absolute stress-free pleasure. No more hunting, no more cursing, no more wondering where the hell she’d put that blue shirt with the French cuffs then having to settle for another blue shirt when she couldn’t find it.

  Because the blue shirt with the French cuffs was right there, where it belonged.

  She pulled on a white tank, a navy V-neck with jeans, suitable wardrobe for the morning’s work, and the early afternoon shoot. Satisfied and smug, she strolled out.

  Strode back in to stuff her pajamas in the hamper.

  She walked downstairs just as Emma came in the front door.

  “I’m out of coffee. Help me.”

  “Sure. I was just about to . . . Oh, Carter must’ve made some before he left.”

  “I don’t want to hate you for having someone who’ll make coffee while you sleep, but I need caffeine for my altruistic side to wake up.” Emma poured herself a mug, all but inhaled the first sip. “Life. It’s good again.”

  Mac poured her own and drank in agreement. “Wanna see my closet?”

  “I’ve seen it three times now. Yes, it’s the queen of all the closets in all the land.”

  “Well, Parker’s is the queen.”

  “Parker’s is the goddess of closets. You take queen. Saturday’s bride called,” Emma continued. “She thinks she wants to change the flower girl flowers from rose petals in a basket to a blush pink pomander.”

  “I thought she changed from the pomander to the basket.”

  “Yes. And from crescent bouquet to cascade and back again.” Emma closed her big brown eyes, circled her neck. “I’ll be glad when this one’s over.”

  “She’s the kind who makes Carter’s sister right.”

  “Sherry?”

  “No, his older sister who says weddings are too stressful, too elaborate, and basically too big a deal. It’s just one day.”

  “It’s

  the day. Plus, you know, our livelihood.”

  “Agreed. But Saturday’s bride is going to be a handful right up to the walk down the aisle. She called me yesterday, and faxed a shot she’d found in a magazine. Which she wants me to duplicate on Saturday. Hey, no problem. Except for the fact her dress is completely different, as is her body type, her headdress, her hair. Oh, and we don’t happen to have the stone archway from an ancient Irish castle for her to pose in. At least not right handy.”

  “It’s just nerves. The nerves of a control freak. I need another hit, then I’ve got to get to work.” Emma topped off
the mug. “I’ll bring it back.”

  “That’s what you always say.”

  “I’ll bring the entire collection back,” Emma promised and scooted out.

  Alone, Mac turned to open a cupboard. Some sugar and preservatives, she thought, along with her coffee. When she opened the cupboard, she found a shiny red apple in front of the box of Pop-Tarts. The note propped on it read:

  Eat me, too!

  She snorted out a laugh as she took the apple, and laid the note on the counter. Sweet boy, she thought, taking a bite. Funny boy. What could she do for him short of marrying him at this stage?

  She destroyed him with La Perla, she’d cooked an actual meal. She—“The photograph!”

  She dashed to her workstation to boot up her computer. She hadn’t forgotten about phase three of the gift. She just hadn’t been able to decide which shot, and how to present it.

  “Should be working, should be working,” she mumbled. “But it’ll only take a minute.”

  It took her more than forty, but she selected the shot—one of the post-kiss, cheek-to-cheek images. He looked so relaxed and happy, and she . . . right there with him, she mused as she studied the final result. Tweaked, cropped, printed, and framed. To do it right she boxed it, tied it with a red ribbon, and tucked a sprig of silk lily of the valley in the bow.

  Delighted, she printed out another of the shots for herself, selected a frame. She put the finished photo in a drawer. She wouldn’t set it out until he had his.

  She turned music on, clicked the volume down to background. She worked, happy with the world in general, until the timer she’d set beeped telling her it was time to set up for her studio shoot.

  Engagement portrait. She a doctor, he a musician. Mac had some ideas for them, and had asked him to bring his guitar. Medium gray background, bride and groom sitting on the floor and—

  She turned, a fat floor pillow in her hands as her door burst open. Her mother all but exploded into the room, wrapped in a new jacket of sheared silver mink.

  “Mackensie! Look!” She did a twirl, ending in a hipshot runway pose.

  “You can’t be here now,” Mac said flatly. “I have clients coming.”

  “I’m a client. I’m here for a consult. I came here first, but we have to get the rest of the team. Oh, Mac!” Linda rushed forward, all scissoring legs, gorgeous shoes, sumptuous fur. “I’m getting married!”

  Caught in her mother’s perfumed embrace, Mac just closed her eyes. “Congratulations. Again.”

  “Oh, don’t be that way.” Linda eased back, pouted for half a second, then did another laughing spin. “Be happy. Be happy for me. I’m so happy! Look what Ari brought me back from Paris.”

  “Yes, it’s a beautiful jacket.”

  “It really is.” Tipping her head down, Linda rubbed her chin against the fur. “But that’s not all!” She flung out her hand, wiggled her fingers. On the third