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“So, the salad-eating squeaky violin. No follow-up?”
“I don’t think either party was interested in one.”
“Do you go on many blind dates?”
“That was my first and last. You?”
“Never. Too scary. Plus, the four of us made a pact, years ago, never to try to fix each other up. It’s worked out for the best. So, are you interested in sharing a bottle of wine, Dr. Maguire?”
He slid the wine list toward her. “You pick.”
“That’s brave of you.” She opened it, scanned. “I’m not a wine buff, I just take pictures of them, but they do have this Shiraz I like.”
Even as she spoke, their server stepped to the table with a bottle of Shiraz.
“That’s excellent service,” Mac commented.
“Mr. Maguire? Mr. Brown phoned and would like you to have this with his compliments. Or, if it doesn’t suit, whatever bottle you’d like.”
“Those Brown kids.” Mac shook her head. “They never miss. I’d love a glass, thanks. Okay?” she said to Carter.
“Sure. That was awfully nice of him.”
It was, Mac thought, as well as a subtle little wink. First chance he got, she knew, Del would be teasing her brainless.
SHE DIDN’T EAT LIKE A HORSE IN CARTER’S ESTIMATION, BUT she didn’t pick her way through a lonely salad for ninety minutes either. He liked the way she gestured with her wineglass or with her fork as she talked. And the way she stabbed a bite of his sea bass from his plate to try it without asking if he minded.
He wouldn’t have, but not asking was . . . friendlier.
“Here, take a hunk of this steak.” She cut off a portion.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Do you eat red meat?”
“Yes.”
“Just try it. It’s like we’ve got the surf and turf thing going.”
“All right. Do you want some of this rice?”
“No. I can never figure out why anyone would. Anyway, back to the topic at hand. You actually had your English Lit class watch
Clueless to evaluate the updating of Austen’s
Emma.”
“It demonstrates that literature—and storytelling—isn’t stagnant, that the themes, dynamics, even social mores of
Emma translate to the contemporary.”
“I wished I’d had teachers like you. Did you like it?
Clueless ?”
“Yes. It’s clever.”
“I love movies. We had a double-feature last night, but I OD’d on the pot pie and fell asleep during
Music and Lyrics. Hugh Grant.” She gestured with her wineglass again. “
Sense and Sensibility. Did you see it?”
“I did. I thought it was a lovely and respectful adaptation. Did you read it?”
“No. I know, terrible. I did read
Pride and Prejudice. Loved it. I keep meaning to read it again now that I’d have Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy in my brain, so even better. What’s your favorite book-to-movie deal?”
“Personal favorite?
Mockingbird.”
“Oh, Gregory Peck. I read the book,” she added. “It’s great, but oh, Gregory Peck. Atticus Finch. The perfect father. That scene at the very end, where she’s—what’s her name?”
“Scout.”
“Yeah, where she’s narrating and you see him through the window, sitting beside his son’s bed. It kills me. It’s so beautiful. When I watched it as a kid, I used to imagine Atticus was my father. Or Gregory Peck—either one would do. He’d be there, when you woke up in the morning. I guess I’ve never gotten over that. Pitiful.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know what it’s like, growing up without a father. You don’t see yours often?”
“No, hardly ever. When I do—every few years—he’s enormously charming, very affectionate. I end up getting sucked in, then bruised when he goes off and ignores me immediately after. He’s an in-the-moment sort of person. If you’re not in that moment with him, you don’t exist.”
“It hurts you.”
“Yes, it does. Over and over. And that’s too depressing a topic for this really nice dinner. Give me one more. Another adaptation you like.”
He wanted to stroke her hair, to put an arm around her. But that wasn’t the comfort she wanted. He circled through his brain. “
Stand by Me.”
She frowned, obviously trying to place it. “I don’t know that one. Who wrote it? Steinbeck? Fitzgerald? Yeats?”
“Stephen King. It’s based on his novella
The Body.”
“Seriously? You read King? He scares the crap out of me, but I can’t resist it. Wait! That’s the one with the kids, the boys hiking to look for somebody, some dead guy, who maybe got hit by a train? I’m remembering this. Kiefer Sutherland plays a complete asshole hood. He was great.”
“It’s about friendship and loyalty. Coming of age, standing together.”
“You’re right,” she said, studying his face. “It is. I bet you’re a really amazing teacher.”
“Some days.”
She nudged her plate aside, then leaned back with her wine. “What do you do when you’re not teaching, reading, or watching movies based on novels or novellas?”
“That’s a lot right there.”
“Golf, rock climbing, stamp collecting?”
He smiled, shook his head. “No.”
“International intrigue, watercolors, duck hunting?”
“I had to give up the international intrigue due to travel fatigue. I’m pretty boring.”
“No, you’re not. And believe me I keep expecting you to be.”
“Ah . . . thank you?”
She leaned forward to poke a finger in his arm, leaned back again. “All right,
Carter, now that you’ve indulged in—good God—nearly three-quarters of a single glass of wine—”
“I’m driving.”
“At the speed limit,” she agreed. “It’s time to tell me about Corrine.”
“Oh, well, there’s really nothing to tell.”
She saw it, just a flicker of it in his eyes. “She hurt you. I’m sorry. I’m insensitive and pushy.”
“No, you’re not. And I keep expecting you to be.”
She smiled. “Look how cute you are in your smarty-pants. Now why don’t you order dessert, so I can pretend to be self-righteous and not—then eat half of yours?”
They lingered. She’d forgotten what it was like to have a meal with a man she could have long, twisty conversation with. One who listened, who paid attention—whether or not he was thinking about the possible bonus round at the end of the evening.
He made her think, she realized. And entertained her. And damn it, the man was charming, in such a low-key, unstudied way.
Plus, when he’d put his glasses on to read the menu, it just set her juices on simmer.
“Do you want to go somewhere else?” he asked her when they walked back to the car. “It’s probably too late for a movie. A club?”
“I clubbed out with the pals the other night.” Another time though, she thought. It occurred to her she might’ve been very wrong in assuming Carter Maguire wouldn’t fit in the club scene. “I should get back. I’ve put in a few long ones this week, and I have work to catch up on tomorrow.”
He opened her door. “Are you going to see me again?”
It gave her a little jump in the belly that he’d ask, and just that way. Giving her the power, she thought. Terrifying. “I’m thinking about it.”
“Okay.”
When he’d joined her, started the car, she angled toward him. “Top five reasons you want to see me again.”
“Do they have to be in order of priority?”
Damn it,
damn it, she really liked him. “No. Just quick, top of your head answers.”
