Нора Робертс - Vision in White

“He talks about you. Dr. Maguire says, Dr. Maguire thinks. His grades in his other classes are improving—not by leaps and bounds, but they’re better. You did that.”

“Garrett did that.”

“You . . . engaged him so that he could do that. Would do that. He’s talking about taking your creative writing course next year. He thinks he may want to be a writer.” Her eyes filled. “Last year he barely passed. We had to meet with the dean. And now he’s telling me about Shakespeare, and he thinks he may want to be a writer.”

She blinked at the tears while he stood, speechless. “Dr. Maguire, according to Garrett, is pretty cool for a brainiac. I wanted you to know that whatever he does, whatever he becomes, he’s never going to forget you. I wanted to thank you.”

CARTER WALKED INTO MAC’S STUDIO WITH A LARGE PIZZA AND a light step. She sat on the sofa, her feet propped on the coffee table.

“Pizza,” he said, walking into the kitchen to set it on the counter. “I knew you had an afternoon shoot, and I have a briefcase full of papers to grade, so I thought pizza. Plus, it’s a happy food. I had a really good day.”

She groaned a little and had him crossing to her with concern. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Mostly. Pizza. I have a gallon of ice cream in my stomach. Possibly two gallons.”

“Ice cream.” He sat on the coffee table. “Was there a party?”

“No. Maybe. I guess it depends on your definition of party. Tell me about your really good day.”

He boosted up to kiss her, then sat back. “Hello, Mackensie.” “Hello, Carter. You’re wearing a very big smile.”

“I had one of those very big moments, for me. I have a student. He’s been a challenge, the sort who sits down and turns a switch in his head that takes him anywhere but the classroom.”

“Oh yeah, I had that switch. It was handy, especially during lectures on the Revolutionary War, or tariffs. Tariffs hit the switch automatically. Did your challenging student do well today?”

“He’s been doing well. It’s about finding another switch, the one that turns on interest and ideas. It shows in the eyes, just like the turn-off switch.”

“Really?”

“Garrett’s the kind of student who pushes a teacher to work a little harder. And when you find that switch, it’s intensely rewarding. He’s the one who got a B on that paper I graded on Valentine’s Day. Or the day before. I think of that as our Valentine’s Day.”

“Right. I remember. Good for Garrett.”

“His mother came to see me today. The majority of the time when a parent comes in, it’s not to bring an apple to the teacher. She brought me an orchard. She thanked me.”

“She thanked you.” Curious, Mac cocked her head. “That’s an orchard?”

“Yes. It’s not just about teaching facts and theories, or assignments and grades. It’s about . . . finding the switch. I found Garrett’s, and she came in to thank me. Now you have a very big smile.”

“You changed a life. You change lives.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“No, you do. I document them, or at least pieces of them. And that’s important, it’s valuable. But you change them, and that’s amazing. I’m going to get you some pizza. Which I can’t share with you,” she said as she rose. “Due to ice cream stomach.”

“Why did you eat a gallon, or possibly two?”

“Oh.” She shrugged as he followed her into the kitchen. “Greed.”

“You told me you turn to ice cream in times of emotional upheaval.”

She glanced over her shoulder as she got down a plate. “I sometimes forget how well you listen. Let’s just say I didn’t have a really good day. Or maybe I did,” she considered. “It depends on the point of view.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s not important. And you have Garrett pizza. Do you want a glass of wine with that?”

“Only if you’re having one when you tell me. We can spend the next few minutes circling around it, or you can save time and just tell me.”

“You’re right. Circling around it makes it more important than it deserves to be.” Another bad habit to break, she decided. “My mother’s getting married again.”

“Oh.” He studied her face as she poured the wine. “You don’t like him.”

“I have no idea. I’ve never met him.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t.” She laid a hand over his briefly. “You can’t see how a mother could be getting married without her daughter at least being able to pick the guy out of a lineup. I doubt Eloisa’s met him either, or that it’s occurred to Linda either of us should. Anyway the Elliot/Meyers/Barrington . . . God, I don’t know what her last name’s going to be this time. The Elliot/Meyers/ Barrington slash name to be determined connections don’t have family dinners, so meeting this new one isn’t a priority.”

“I’m sorry it upsets you.”

“I don’t know what it does. I don’t know why it surprises me. The last time I saw Linda was when she called here, hysterical at midnight, and I drove over there in a damn ice storm thinking she’d been raped or attacked or God knows.”

“What? When was this?” He turned his hand over to grip Mac’s “Was she hurt?”

“Oh, it was . . . that night of the parent thing at the academy, and no, she wasn’t hurt. Except in Linda Universe. She was curled up on the floor

dying because Ari—that’s the new fiancй—had to fly to Paris on business and didn’t take her. I was about to call the police, and an ambulance, then she’s all boo-hoo Paris. I turned around and left. Points for me because the usual MO would be for me to, resentfully, calm her down, get her into bed.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

“I don’t know.” With a shake of her head, she blew out a breath. “I really don’t. It wasn’t one of those proud mother-daughter moments, so I guess I tried not to think about it afterward. I walked out, and told her I wouldn’t come the next time she called. I said very hard things and left.”

“They needed to be said, and you needed to leave.”

“You’re right, both counts,” Mac agreed. “And today, she whirls in here in her new fur and refrigerator-box-sized diamond as if none of it happened. Talk about flicking switches. She’s getting married in June. Ari is forgiven due to fur, diamond, and proposal. And she expects us to do the wedding. June is like a parade of brides around here. We’re booked. Much fury and anger ensues. Then she took on Parker. That was the good part. Parker shut her down, showed her the door. Then there was ice cream.”

She took a sip of wine. “I like your day better.”

“She had to know you’d be booked.”

“No, not really. Honestly, that wouldn’t have entered her mind. She doesn’t see outside her own wants. Nothing else exists. And her anger and shock, even hurt, when those wants aren’t met are sincere. They’re genuine. She has the emotional maturity of a fruit fly, encouraged by a mother who indulged her every whim and taught her she was the center of the universe. She’s a product of that.”

“It doesn’t mean she’s allowed to treat you this way.”

“She is. She’s allowed to do as she pleases. I’m responsible for my reactions. And I’m working on them. Garrett and I are showing some improvement. She didn’t get what she wanted.”

“That’s not the point, only a result. She’ll repeat this cycle. She’ll come back and hurt you again. And when she does, she’ll have to deal with me.”

“Carter, you don’t want to take that on. It’s sweet, but—”

“It’s not sweet. She’ll deal with me.”

She remembered him taking a punch from an angry drunk. “I know you can handle yourself. But she’s my mother, and I need to handle her.”

“Sharing some DNA doesn’t make her your mother.”

Mac said nothing for a moment. “No,” she agreed, “it really doesn’t.”

THE SNOW STARTED LATE MORNING, AND BY NOON THE WORLD outside the studio was a storm of white. It fell, thick and fast, obliterating the brief end-of-February thaw. March, Mac thought, was coming in with the lion’s fangs and claws.

The steady, spinning snow, the howl of wind that kicked it toward fury, made her want to curl up under a throw with a book and a pot of hot chocolate close at hand. Except for the fact they had a rehearsal scheduled at five. Apparently, Saturday’s control-freak bride hadn’t been able to work her will on Mother Nature.

Knowing the drill under such circumstances, Mac prepared to bundle herself and her equipment in protective gear, and trudge over to the main house. She packed her notes, opened a drawer for extra memory cards—and found the photo of her and Carter, along with his framed in the box.

“Yet to deliver on part three,” she said aloud, and to please herself she set the photo she intended to keep on her workstation. “Reminder,” she decided.

She headed upstairs to change into rehearsal clothes, then had to dash to answer the ringing phone. “Hey, Professor. Where are you?”

“Home. They cancelled afternoon classes. It’s nasty out there. I needed to stop by here, get a few things, including the cat. I don’t want to leave him here in case I can’t make it back tomorrow.”

“Don’t.” She carried the phone to the window to watch the trees whip and shudder in the violent lash of wind. “Don’t go out in this again. Stay home—warm and safe so I don’t have to worry about you on the roads. I’m getting ready to trek over to the house anyway. We have a rehearsal at five.”

“In this?”

“We have contingency plans, which include the ritual sacrifice of a chicken.”

“I could help. Except with the chicken.”

“You could, or you could end up in a snowdrift, or skidding into a tree. All I have to do is walk a few hundred yards.” She flipped through her clothing options as she spoke, settled on sturdy cords and a turtleneck. “Parker will have the head of the National Weather Service on the phone by now.”