Нора Робертс - Vision in White

“I’m sure you’re right.” Parker got up, draped her arm around Mac’s shoulders as they walked out of the kitchen. “Interesting dateage is in short supply around here, unless you’re Emma.”

“You don’t make time to date.”

“I know. It’s a conundrum. What kind of movie? Weepy or happy-ever-after?”

“Gotta go with the HEA, especially with chicken pot pie.”

“Good call. Why don’t we see if the others want in?”

They started the climb to the third floor. “Hey, Parks, what’re you going to do when you’re really old and can’t trudge up all these stairs?”

“I guess I’ll put in an elevator. I’m not giving this place up. Ever.”

“The house or the business?”

“Either.”

Before they could start up the last flight, the cell phone hooked to Parker’s waistband jingled.

“Crap.”

“Go on up,” Parker told her. “Grab the pjs. I’ll deal with this and be right behind you.” She flipped the phone open after a quick glance at the readout. “Hi, Shannon! Are you ready for next week?” Laughing, Parker turned toward her office. “I know. It’s a thousand things. Don’t worry. We’re on top of every one.”

Brides, Mac thought as she finished the climb. Most of them were so worried about the minutiae. If she ever got married—highly unlikely—she’d focus on the big picture.

And leave the details to Parker.

She stepped into Parker’s room where the duvet on the luscious four-poster was fluffed under its straw-colored cover, and the flowers were fresh and perky in their vase. No clothes strewn, no shoes kicked in corners.

No dust, no fuss, Mac thought as she opened the drawer of the bureau where she found—as she knew she would—four pairs of pajamas neatly folded.

“I’m tidy,” Mac muttered. “I’m just not so anal about it.”

She took a pair into the guest bedroom, tossed them on the bed. A long, hot bath sounded too good to miss. She ran one, tossed some bath salts in. As she slid down in the hot, fragrant water, she considered their options for girl movies with happy endings.

Movies, she thought—certainly about love and romance—

should have happy endings. Because life, too often, didn’t. Love faded, or flipped over into loathing. Or settled somewhere in between into a kind of grinding detachment.

It could snap like a dry twig, with one careless step. Then you needed a week at a spa, Mac thought sourly. That someone else paid for.

She knew how Parker felt about the house, and the business. But to Mac’s mind, nothing lasted forever.

Except friendship, if you were really lucky—and there, she was Lady Luck herself.

But homes, love affairs? Different deals. And she wasn’t looking for forever there. Right now was plenty.

A Saturday night date. A guy who interested and attracted her across the table. Yeah, that was just enough. A week from Saturday? Well, you just couldn’t tell, could you?

That’s what photographs were for—everything changes, so you can preserve what was. Before tomorrow took it all away.

She sank down to her chin in the water just as Laurel stepped in. “What’re you doing? Hot water out at your place?”

“No, I’m seizing the moment, also chicken pot pie and chick flick. Want in? And I don’t mean the tub.”

“Maybe. I just finished—for the fifth time—redesigning the Holly-Deburke wedding cake. I could use chicken pot pie.”

“It’s warming in the oven. Emma needs a call, in case.”

“Fine. I’ll go do that and leave you to your seizing.”

Mac closed her eyes and sighed. Yeah, friendship. That was the one thing a woman could always count on.

IN THE MORNING, STILL WEARING PARKER’S PAJAMAS, MAC LET herself into her studio. She’d woken just after dawn, curled up like a shrimp on the sofa of the sitting room, and tucked in with a cashmere throw.

Two helpings of Mrs. G’s chicken pot pie made the idea of breakfast somewhat revolting. But coffee . . .

Still, before she set up her morning hit, she wandered—casually—to her answering machine.

No messages.

Instant disappointment made her feel foolish. She hadn’t sat around waiting for him to call—again. She’d enjoyed her evening. Besides, it had been her turn to call, if she’d wanted to extend the little game.

And besides, she was being stupid.

She wasn’t going to think about Carter Maguire and his sexy glasses or frumpy tweed jacket—and his amazing lips. She had coffee to brew, work to do, life to lead.

“SATURDAY NIGHT DATE? OKAY, THIS IS MAJOR.”

Why, Carter asked himself,

why had he opened his mouth? What had made him think mentioning it would simply be a little conversation over coffee in the teachers’ lounge before classes began?

“Well, I should go over the quiz I’m—”

“Major,” Bob repeated, drilling a finger into the coffee counter to mark his point. “You need to take her flowers. Not roses. Roses are too important, too symbolic. A more casual flower, or those mixed deals.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Something else to worry about now.

“Nothing big or flashy. She’s going to want to put them in a vase, and that gives you time to go in, talk, break that ice. So make sure you make the reservations accordingly. What time are they?”

“I haven’t made them yet.”

“You need to get on that.” With a wise nod, Bob sipped his coffee with low-fat creamer. “Where are you taking her?”

“I’m not entirely sure.”

“You need a place just a click over middle range. Don’t want to go all-out first time, but you don’t want to run on the cheap either. You want atmosphere, but not stuffy. A nice established place.”

“Bob, you’re going to give me an ulcer.”

“This is all ammunition, Cart. All ammo. You want to be able to order a nice bottle of wine. Oh, and after dinner, if she says how she doesn’t want dessert, you suggest she pick one and you’ll split it. Women

love that. Sharing dessert’s sexy. Do

not go on and on about your job over dinner. Certain death. Get her to talk about hers, and what she likes to do. Then—”

“Should I be writing this down?”

“It wouldn’t hurt. If dinner goes to say ten, or over, you should have a second venue picked out. Music’s best. A place you can go listen to music. If it winds up earlier, you should have a movie picked out. This is assuming she isn’t sending you the ‘let’s go back to my place’ signals. In that case—”

“Don’t go there, Bob. Let’s just not go there.” He thought,

Literally, saved by the bell, when it rang. “I’ve got to get to my first period class.”

“We’ll talk later. I’ll try to write some of this down for you.”

“Great.” Carter made his escape, joined the flock of students and teachers in the corridor.

He thought he might not make it to Saturday. At least not sanely.

HE BOUGHT FLOWERS. IT ANNOYED HIM BECAUSE HE’D INTENDED to take her flowers in the first place. But Bob’s tutorial changed the simple gesture into a complex and essential symbolic act so fraught with pitfalls, he’d decided to skip the step.

One of her best friends was a florist, wasn’t she? Mackensie could carpet her studio with flowers if she wanted to.

Then he worried that by not bringing the damn flowers he’d be committing some unwritten but universally known dating faux pas. In the end, he’d doubled back—he’d left plenty of time for the drive from his place to Mackensie’s. There might’ve been traffic, a five-car collision. Many casualties.

He rushed into the supermarket, and had stood studying, debating, questioning the flowers on display until sweat beaded on his forehead.

Bob, he assumed, would have something cutting to say about the choice of supermarket flowers. But he’d left it too late for a florist, and he could hardly rush over to Emma’s and throw himself on her mercy.

He wished he’d just left it at coffee. They’d had a nice conversation, a pleasant time. You go your way now, I’ll go mine, and that’s that. All this was just too complicated, too intense. But he could hardly call her now, make up some excuse, even if he could successfully lie his way through it. And the chances of that were slim to none.

People dated all the time, didn’t they? They rarely died due to the activity. He grabbed what seemed to be a colorful, casual arrangement, and stalked over to the express line.

They were colorful, he thought with some resentment. They smelled nice. A couple of those big gerbera daisies were mixed in, and they struck him as a friendly flower. None of the dreaded roses, he mused, which, according to the Law of Bob, meant he’d basically be asking Mackensie to marry him and bear his children.

So, they should be safe.

Maybe they were too safe.

The kind-eyed cashier gave him a quick smile. “Aren’t those pretty! A surprise for your wife?”

“No. No. I don’t have a wife.”

“Oh, for your girl then.”

“Not exactly.” He fumbled out his wallet as she rang them up. “Just a . . . Could I just ask you if you think these are appropriate for a date? I mean to give to the woman I’m taking out to dinner.”

“Sure they are. Most everybody likes flowers, don’t they? Especially us girls. She’s going to think you’re real sweet, and thoughtful, too.”

“But not too . . .” Stop while you’re ahead, Carter told himself.

She took the money, made the change. “Here you go now.” She slid the bouquet into a clear plastic bag. “You have a real good time tonight.”

“Thank you.” More relaxed, Carter walked back to his car. If you couldn’t trust the checker in the express line at the supermarket, who could you trust?