Bride Quartet Collection (7 page)

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.

“Y
OU 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 escaped, moving quickly through the largely empty school with his footsteps echoing behind him.

CHAPTER FIVE

S
HE 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.

The lights were too bright, the voices too loud.

“Sorry I’m late. The shoot ran over.”

He blinked as Mac slid into the chair across from him. “What?”

“You must’ve really been into your book.” She angled her head to read the title. “Lawrence Block? Shouldn’t you be reading Hemingway or Trollope?”

“Popular fiction’s a strong and viable force in literature.

That’s why it’s popular. Reading for nothing more than pleasure is . . . another lecture coming on. Sorry.”

“Teacher mode suits you.”

“I suppose that’s a good thing, in the classroom. I didn’t realize you were working when you stopped by. We could’ve made it later.”

“Just a couple of client meetings, and a shoot. I have a bride who for some reason wants every moment of her plans photo-documented professionally. Okay with me, as it’s money in the bank. I documented her fitting—wedding dress—with her mother in weeping attendance. The weeping added a little more time than I’d scheduled.”

She pulled off her cap, finger fluffed her hair as she gazed around the shop. “I haven’t stopped in here before. Nice energy.” She notched up the smile for the girl who came over to take her order.

“I’m Dee. What can I get you?”

“I think we’ll have some fun. How about a tall latte macchiato, double shot, squirt of vanilla.”

“Coming up. Another green tea for you, Dr. Maguire?”

“No, I’m good, Dee. Thanks.”

“Not a fancy coffee fan?” Mac asked as Dee went to put in the order.

“Just not this late in the day. But it’s good here—the coffee. I usually stop in for a cappuccino in the morning before work. They sell the beans, too, so if you like the coffee . . . I have to get this out of the way. I can’t think. And not being able to think, my inane conversation’s going to put you to sleep despite the double shot.”

“Okay.” Mac propped her chin on her fist. “Get whatever out of the way.”

“I had a crush on you in high school.”

Her eyebrows shot up as she straightened. “On me? Seriously?”

“Yes, well, yes, for me. And it’s mortifying to bring this up, a dozen years or so after the fact, but it’s coloring the current situation. From my side, that is.”

“But . . . I barely remember you ever actually speaking to me.”

“I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was painfully shy back then, especially in any kind of social situation. Anything, particularly that involved girls. Girls I was attracted to, that is. And you were so . . .”

“Tall latte mach, double with vanilla.” Dee set the oversized cup on the table, added a couple of mini crescents of biscotti on a saucer. “Enjoy!”

“Don’t stop now,” Mac insisted. “I was so what?”

“Ah, you. The hair, the dimples, the everything.”

Mac picked up the biscotti, leaning back to nibble on the end as she studied him. “Carter, I looked like a beanpole with carrots growing out of my head in high school. I have pictures to prove it.”

“Not to me. You were bright, vivid, confident.” Still are, he thought. Just look at you. “I feel like an idiot telling you this, but I keep tripping over it. I’m clumsy enough without putting up my own stumbling blocks. So, well. There.”

“Would the kiss the other night be the result of that old crush?”

“I’d have to say it played a part. It was all so surreal.”

She scooted forward again to pick up her coffee. “Neither one of us are who we were in high school.”

“God, I hope not. I was a mess back then.”

“Who wasn’t? You know, Carter, most guys would’ve used that high-school crush bit as a pickup ploy, or kept it locked away. It interests me, you interest me, because you did neither. Are you always so forthright over coffee dates?”

“I don’t know. You’re the only one I ever had a crush on.”

“Oh boy.”

“And that was stupid.” Flustered again, he raked his fingers through his hair. “Now I’ve scared you. That sounded scary and obsessive, like I have an altar somewhere with your pictures over it where I light candles and chant your name. Jesus, that’s even scarier. Run now. I won’t hold it against you.”

She burst out laughing, had to set her coffee back down before she sloshed it over the rim. “I’ll stay if you swear you don’t have the altar.”

“I don’t.” He swiped his finger in an X over his heart. “If you’re staying because you pity me, or because you really like the coffee, it works.”

“It is really good coffee.” She drank again. “It’s not pity, but I’m not sure what it is. You’re an interesting man, and you helped me out when I needed it. You give really good kiss. Why not have coffee? Since we are, tell me why someone who was painfully shy went into teaching?”

“I had to get over it. I wanted to teach.”

“Always?”

“Practically. I did want to be a superhero previous to that. Possibly one of the X-Men.”

“Supermutant teacher. You could’ve been Educator.”

He grinned at her. “Now you’ve unmasked my secret identity.”

“So how did Shy Guy become the mighty Educator?”

“Study, practice. And some practicalities. I panic-sweated my way through the first couple weeks of a public-speaking course I took in college. But it helped. And I worked as a TA for several classes, as a kind of transition. I TA’d one of Delaney’s classes our sophomore year. Ah . . .”

He turned his cup in circles. “In case it ever comes up, I did—occasionally—ask him about you. All of you, so you weren’t singled out. ‘The Quartet’ as he called you.”

“Still does now and then. He’s our lawyer now. The business’s.”

“I hear he’s a good one.”

“He is. Del set everything up—the legal stuff. When their parents died, the estate went to Parker and Del. He didn’t want to live there. He had his own place by then. Parker couldn’t have maintained it as a house, I mean just a house. Just her home. Or even if she could, I don’t think she could’ve stood it, living there alone. The big house, the memories. Not alone.”

“No, it would be hard, and lonely. It changes that with all of you there. Living and working together.”

“Changed everything for everyone. She had the idea for the business cooking already, had all of us talking about it. Then she went to Del about using the estate for it. He was great about that. His inheritance, too, so he took a hell of a chance on us.”

“It looks like he made the right choice. According to my mother and Sherry, Vows is
the
place for weddings in Greenwich.”

“We’ve come a long way. The first year was touch and go, and pretty scary because we’d all put our savings and whatever we could beg, borrow, or steal into it. The start-up costs, licenses, stock, equipment. The expense of turning the pool house into my place, the guest house into Emma’s. Jack did the designs for free. Jack Cooke? Do you know him? He and Del met in college.”

“Yeah, a little. I remember they were tight.”

“The small town that is Yale,” Mac commented. “He’s an architect. He put a lot of time into the transformation. And saved us God knows how much in fees and false starts. The second year we were barely treading water, with all of us still having to take side jobs to get by. But, by the third, we eased around the first corner. I understand working through the panic sweat to get what you want.”

“Why wedding photography? Specifically, I mean, for you. It doesn’t feel as if it’s only because it fit the bigger picture of the partnership.”

“No, not just that. Not even that first, I guess. I like taking photographs of people. The faces, the bodies, the expressions, the dynamics. Before we opened Vows I worked in a photography studio. You know the sort where people come for pictures of their kids, or a publicity shot. It paid the bills, but . . .”

“Didn’t satisfy.”

“It really didn’t. I like taking photographs of people in what I think of as moments. The defining moment? That’s the killer, that’s the top of the mountain. But there are lots of other moments. Weddings, the ritual of them and how those inside them tilt and angle the ritual to suit them personally—that’s a big moment.”

Smiling, she lifted her cup with both hands. “Drama, pathos, theater, grief, joy, romance, passion, humor. It’s got it all. And I can give them all that through photographs. Show them the journey of the day—and if I’m lucky, that one defining moment that lifts it out of the ordinary into the unique. Which is the really long way of saying I just like my work.”

“I get that, and what you mean by the moment. The satisfaction of it. It’s like when I can
see
even one student’s mind open up and suck in what I’ve been trying to feed them. It makes the hours when it feels like routine all worth it.”

“I probably didn’t give my teachers many of those moments. I just wanted to get through it and out where I could do what I wanted. I never saw them as creative entities. More like wardens. I was a crappy student.”

“You were smart. Which cycles back to teenage obsession. But I’ll just say I noticed you were smart.”

“We didn’t have any classes together. You were a couple years ahead of me, right? Oh, wait! You were student teacher in one of my English classes, weren’t you?”

“Mr. Lowen’s fifth period American Literature. Now please forget I said that.”

“Not a chance. Now, I’m not running away, but I have to go. I have another shoot. Your sister’s engagement portrait, in fact.”

“I didn’t realize you were getting to that so quickly.”

“The doctor has the evening free, so we worked it out. But I need to go, get a sense of their place and the two of them together.”

“I’ll walk you to your car.” He took out bills, tucked the ends under the saucer of his cup.

Before she could shrug into her jacket, he’d taken it to help her into it. He opened the door for her, stepped out with her into the breathless cold.

“I’m a block and a half down,” she told him. “You don’t have to walk me to my car. It’s freezing out here.”

“It’s fine. I walked from my place anyway.”

“You walked?”

“I don’t live that far, so I walked.”

“Right. You like to walk. Since we are,” she said as they walked by cafes, restaurants, “I’ll mention something that got bypassed due to the path our conversation took. Dr. Maguire? You got your PhD?”

“Last year, finally.”

“Finally?”

“Since it was the major focus of my life for about ten years, ‘finally’ works for me. I started thinking thesis when I was an undergraduate.” Which probably made him Mayor Nerd of Nerdville, he supposed. “Are you going to see me again? I know that was a non sequitur but it’s buzzing around in my brain. So if the answer’s no, I’d rather find out.”

She said nothing until they’d reached the car, then studied him as she pulled out her keys. “I bet you have a pen and something to write on. I bet it’s pretty handy.”

He reached under his coat to the inside of his tweed jacket for a small notebook and pen.

With a nod, Mac took them, flipped to a blank page in the book. “This is my personal line, rather than my business line. Why don’t you call me?”

“I can do that. An hour from now’s probably too soon, isn’t it?”

She laughed, put the notebook and pen back in his hand. “You certainly boost my ego, Carter.”

She turned to open her door, but he beat her to it. Touched and amused, she got in, let him close the door behind her. She lowered her window. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Get out of the cold, Carter.”

When she pulled away from the curb, he watched her car until the taillights disappeared. Then he doubled back toward the coffee shop and walked the frigid three blocks beyond it, to home.

T
HE BRIEF JANUARY BUSINESS LULL GAVE MAC TOO MUCH TIME on her hands. She knew she could use it to organize her files, to update her various web pages. To clean out the embarrassing mess that was her closet, or to catch up on neglected correspondence. She could use it to read a good book, or fat-ass in front of the TV and gorge on DVDs and popcorn.