Vision in White
Page 13
“You’re supposed to give your mother three thousand dollars because she broke up with her boyfriend and wants to go to the spa?”
“If she needed an operation, would I just let her die?” Trying to express her mother’s method of attack, Mac wheeled both arms in the air. “No, no, no, that’s not the one she used this time. It was homeless and on the streets this time. She has a collection like that. Maybe she used both. It started to blur. So, yes, I’m supposed to pay for it. Correction, I am paying for it because she’ll keep hounding and hammering at me until I do, so I’ll pay for it. Ergo, the wine, because it disgusts and infuriates me that I always cave.”
“It’s none of my business, but if you kept saying no, wouldn’t she have to stop? If you keep saying yes, why would she?”
“I know that.” She rapped him in the chest. “Of course, I know that, but she’s relentless and I just want her to go away. I keep thinking, why won’t she just get married again—make it lucky number four—and move away? Far, far away, like maybe Burma. Effectively disappear like my father. Only pop up occasionally. Maybe she’ll meet some guy at this spa, sitting around the pool drinking carrot juice or whatever, fall in love—which is as easy for her as buying shoes. No, easier. Fall in love,” Mac continued, “move to Burma, and leave me alone.”
She sighed, lifted her face. It didn’t feel so cold now, she realized. And the thickening fall of snow was pretty and peaceful. Walking in it, she had to admit, made for a better idea than drinking.
“You’re a saver, aren’t you?” she asked him.
“Ah, you mean like money or old papers?”
“No, as in rescue. I bet you always open the door for somebody if their hands are full, even if you’re in a hurry. And listen to your students’ personal problems even if you have something else you need to do.” She lowered her face to look into his now. “And take marginally drunk women for walks in the snow.”
“It seemed like the thing to do.” Less buzz, he noted, looking into those fascinating green eyes. More sadness.
“I bet you’re sick of women.”
“Do you mean altogether or just at the moment?”
She smiled at him. “I bet you’re a really nice guy.”
He didn’t sigh, but he wanted to. “I’ve been accused of it.” He glanced around, looking for something else to talk about. He should get her back inside, he thought, but he wanted just a little longer with her. In the snowy dark. “So, what kind of birds do you get?” He gestured toward two pretty feeders.
“The kind that fly.” She shoved her hands in her pockets. Neither of them had thought of finding her gloves. “I don’t know much about birds.” Angling her head, she gave him another study. “Are you, like, a bird-watcher?”
“No, not seriously. Just as sort of a hobby.” And God, could he get any geekier? Cut your losses, Carter, and go before it’s too late. “We’d better go back. The snow’s getting heavier.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me what kind of birds I should be watching for? Emma and I stock the feeders since they’re between her place and mine.”
“Her place?”
“Yeah, see.” She gestured toward the pretty two-story house. “The old guest house, and she uses the greenhouses beyond it. I took the pool house. Laurel and Parker third floor of the main, east and west wings, so it’s like having their own place. It’s Parker’s house, pretty much. But Laurel needs the kitchen, I need studio space, Emma the greenhouses. So this setup made the most sense. We hang out at the big house a lot, but we all have our separate spaces.”
“You’ve been friends a long time.”
“Forever.”
“That’s family, isn’t it? The kind without suckatude?”
She gave him a half laugh. “Smart, aren’t you? About those birds . . .”
“You’d spot cardinals easily this time of year.”
“Okay, everybody knows what a cardinal looks like. It’s a cardinal that provided you with a look at my br**sts.”
“I beg your . . . What?”
“He flew into the kitchen window and I spilled my drink on my shirt. So. Birds. Besides the red ones that fly into windows. I’m thinking of a belly-crested whopado, like that?”
“Unfortunately, the belly-crested whopado is extinct. But you could spot some of the streaked sparrow species in this area, in the winter.”
“Streaked sparrow species. Since I managed to repeat that without slurring, I must not be close to drunk anymore.”
They walked down the path between the glowing lights and the dark while the snow fell in thick Hollywood flakes. As pretty a night, Mac realized, as you could ask for in January. And she’d have missed it if he hadn’t come by, and insisted—in his low-key way—that she take a walk.
“At this point, I feel like I should say I don’t make a habit of tossing back multiple glasses of wine before sundown. Usually I’d have channelled the frustration into work or I’d have gone over and dumped on Parker and company. I was too mad for either. And I didn’t feel like ice cream, which is also a personal crutch in trying times.”
“I figured that out, except for the ice cream. My mother makes soup when she’s really upset or seriously mad. Big pots of soup. I’ve eaten a great deal of soup in my life.”
“Nobody really cooks around here but Laurel and Mrs. G.”
“Mrs. G. Mrs. Grady? Is she still here? I didn’t see her today.”
“Still here, still running the place and everybody in it. Thank God for it. She’s on her annual winter vacation. She goes to St. Martin’s on January first, like clockwork, and stays until April. As usual, she made a freezer full of casseroles, soups, stews, and so on before she left so none of us would starve in the event of a blizzard or nuclear war.”
She stopped by her front door, cocked her head at him again. “It’s been a day. You held up, Professor.”
“It had some interesting moments. Oh, Sherry’s going for Number Three, with buffet.”
“Good choice. Thanks for the walk, and the ear.”
“I like to walk.” He pushed his hands in his pockets since he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “I’d better get going because driving in it’s a little trickier. And . . . school night.”
“If she needed an operation, would I just let her die?” Trying to express her mother’s method of attack, Mac wheeled both arms in the air. “No, no, no, that’s not the one she used this time. It was homeless and on the streets this time. She has a collection like that. Maybe she used both. It started to blur. So, yes, I’m supposed to pay for it. Correction, I am paying for it because she’ll keep hounding and hammering at me until I do, so I’ll pay for it. Ergo, the wine, because it disgusts and infuriates me that I always cave.”
“It’s none of my business, but if you kept saying no, wouldn’t she have to stop? If you keep saying yes, why would she?”
“I know that.” She rapped him in the chest. “Of course, I know that, but she’s relentless and I just want her to go away. I keep thinking, why won’t she just get married again—make it lucky number four—and move away? Far, far away, like maybe Burma. Effectively disappear like my father. Only pop up occasionally. Maybe she’ll meet some guy at this spa, sitting around the pool drinking carrot juice or whatever, fall in love—which is as easy for her as buying shoes. No, easier. Fall in love,” Mac continued, “move to Burma, and leave me alone.”
She sighed, lifted her face. It didn’t feel so cold now, she realized. And the thickening fall of snow was pretty and peaceful. Walking in it, she had to admit, made for a better idea than drinking.
“You’re a saver, aren’t you?” she asked him.
“Ah, you mean like money or old papers?”
“No, as in rescue. I bet you always open the door for somebody if their hands are full, even if you’re in a hurry. And listen to your students’ personal problems even if you have something else you need to do.” She lowered her face to look into his now. “And take marginally drunk women for walks in the snow.”
“It seemed like the thing to do.” Less buzz, he noted, looking into those fascinating green eyes. More sadness.
“I bet you’re sick of women.”
“Do you mean altogether or just at the moment?”
She smiled at him. “I bet you’re a really nice guy.”
He didn’t sigh, but he wanted to. “I’ve been accused of it.” He glanced around, looking for something else to talk about. He should get her back inside, he thought, but he wanted just a little longer with her. In the snowy dark. “So, what kind of birds do you get?” He gestured toward two pretty feeders.
“The kind that fly.” She shoved her hands in her pockets. Neither of them had thought of finding her gloves. “I don’t know much about birds.” Angling her head, she gave him another study. “Are you, like, a bird-watcher?”
“No, not seriously. Just as sort of a hobby.” And God, could he get any geekier? Cut your losses, Carter, and go before it’s too late. “We’d better go back. The snow’s getting heavier.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me what kind of birds I should be watching for? Emma and I stock the feeders since they’re between her place and mine.”
“Her place?”
“Yeah, see.” She gestured toward the pretty two-story house. “The old guest house, and she uses the greenhouses beyond it. I took the pool house. Laurel and Parker third floor of the main, east and west wings, so it’s like having their own place. It’s Parker’s house, pretty much. But Laurel needs the kitchen, I need studio space, Emma the greenhouses. So this setup made the most sense. We hang out at the big house a lot, but we all have our separate spaces.”
“You’ve been friends a long time.”
“Forever.”
“That’s family, isn’t it? The kind without suckatude?”
She gave him a half laugh. “Smart, aren’t you? About those birds . . .”
“You’d spot cardinals easily this time of year.”
“Okay, everybody knows what a cardinal looks like. It’s a cardinal that provided you with a look at my br**sts.”
“I beg your . . . What?”
“He flew into the kitchen window and I spilled my drink on my shirt. So. Birds. Besides the red ones that fly into windows. I’m thinking of a belly-crested whopado, like that?”
“Unfortunately, the belly-crested whopado is extinct. But you could spot some of the streaked sparrow species in this area, in the winter.”
“Streaked sparrow species. Since I managed to repeat that without slurring, I must not be close to drunk anymore.”
They walked down the path between the glowing lights and the dark while the snow fell in thick Hollywood flakes. As pretty a night, Mac realized, as you could ask for in January. And she’d have missed it if he hadn’t come by, and insisted—in his low-key way—that she take a walk.
“At this point, I feel like I should say I don’t make a habit of tossing back multiple glasses of wine before sundown. Usually I’d have channelled the frustration into work or I’d have gone over and dumped on Parker and company. I was too mad for either. And I didn’t feel like ice cream, which is also a personal crutch in trying times.”
“I figured that out, except for the ice cream. My mother makes soup when she’s really upset or seriously mad. Big pots of soup. I’ve eaten a great deal of soup in my life.”
“Nobody really cooks around here but Laurel and Mrs. G.”
“Mrs. G. Mrs. Grady? Is she still here? I didn’t see her today.”
“Still here, still running the place and everybody in it. Thank God for it. She’s on her annual winter vacation. She goes to St. Martin’s on January first, like clockwork, and stays until April. As usual, she made a freezer full of casseroles, soups, stews, and so on before she left so none of us would starve in the event of a blizzard or nuclear war.”
She stopped by her front door, cocked her head at him again. “It’s been a day. You held up, Professor.”
“It had some interesting moments. Oh, Sherry’s going for Number Three, with buffet.”
“Good choice. Thanks for the walk, and the ear.”
“I like to walk.” He pushed his hands in his pockets since he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “I’d better get going because driving in it’s a little trickier. And . . . school night.”
