AllFreeNovel
Share Us
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.
M
an 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
