Vision in White
Page 27
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?
He checked his watch, calculated that barring fatal collisions he was still on schedule. Though he felt foolish, he pulled the list the helpful Bob had printed out from his pocket, and carefully crossed off Buy Flowers (not roses).
Following, there were several suggestions for greetings or initial conversation points such as You look beautiful, Great dress, I saw these (flowers) and thought of you.
Carter stuffed the list back in his pocket before any of them imprinted on his brain. But not before he’d noted Bob’s decree to tune the car radio to classic lite or smooth jazz, on low volume.
He might end up killing Bob, Carter mused.
He drove the next few miles while obsessing about background music before snapping off the radio. The hell with it. He turned into the long, winding drive of the estate.
“What if she’s not wearing a dress,” he muttered, as despite all efforts Bob’s list popped back into his mind. And unfortunately, his own question had the image of Mac in black pants and white bra crowding Bob out.
“I don’t mean that. For God’s sake. I mean, she might be wearing something other than a dress. What do I say then: Nice pants? Outfit, outfit, great outfit. You know it’s called an outfit. Dear God, shut up.”
He rounded the main house and followed the narrowing drive to Mac’s.
The lights were on, up and down, so the entire place glowed. Through the generous windows of the first floor he could see her studio, the light stands, a dark blue curtain held up with big, silver clips. In front of the curtain stood a small table and two chairs. Wineglasses glinted on the table.
Did that mean she wanted to have drinks first? He hadn’t allowed time for drinks. Should he move the reservation? He got out of the car, started down her walk. Went back to the car to get the flowers he’d left on the passenger seat.
He wished the evening was over. He really did. With a sick feeling in his gut he had to force his hand up to knock. He wanted it to be tomorrow morning, a quiet Sunday morning. He’d grade papers, read, take a walk. Get back to his comfortable routine.
Then she opened the door.
He didn’t know what she was wearing. All he saw was her face. It had always been her face—that smooth milk skin framed by bright, bold hair. Those witch green eyes and the unexpected charm of dimples.
He didn’t want the evening to be over, he realized. He just wanted it to begin.
“Hello, Carter.”
“Hello, Mackensie.” None of Bob’s listed suggestions occurred to him. He offered the flowers. “For you.”
“I was hoping they were. Come on in.” She closed the door behind him. “They’re so pretty. I love gerbera daisies. They’re happy. I want to put these in water. Do you want a drink?”
“Ah . . .” He glanced over at the table. “If you’d planned to.”
“That? No, that’s a setup from a shoot I had this afternoon.” She walked toward the kitchen, giving him a little come-ahead gesture. “Engagement shoot. They’re wine buffs. Actually, she writes for a wine-buff mag, and he’s a restaurant critic. So I got the idea of doing it as a bistro deal.” She got out a vase as she talked, and began to unwrap the flowers.
“It’s great the way you’re able to tailor a photograph like that to the people in it. Sherry loved what you did with hers.”
“That was easy. A couple of people madly in love snuggling on the couch.”
“It’s only easy if you’ve got the instincts to know Sherry and Nick wouldn’t sit in a sophisticated bistro drinking wine, or sit on the floor surrounded by books—and a very big cat.
“The Mason-Collari engagement. That ran today, didn’t it? Do you always check on the wedding and engagement section of the paper?”
“Only since I met you again.”
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?
He checked his watch, calculated that barring fatal collisions he was still on schedule. Though he felt foolish, he pulled the list the helpful Bob had printed out from his pocket, and carefully crossed off Buy Flowers (not roses).
Following, there were several suggestions for greetings or initial conversation points such as You look beautiful, Great dress, I saw these (flowers) and thought of you.
Carter stuffed the list back in his pocket before any of them imprinted on his brain. But not before he’d noted Bob’s decree to tune the car radio to classic lite or smooth jazz, on low volume.
He might end up killing Bob, Carter mused.
He drove the next few miles while obsessing about background music before snapping off the radio. The hell with it. He turned into the long, winding drive of the estate.
“What if she’s not wearing a dress,” he muttered, as despite all efforts Bob’s list popped back into his mind. And unfortunately, his own question had the image of Mac in black pants and white bra crowding Bob out.
“I don’t mean that. For God’s sake. I mean, she might be wearing something other than a dress. What do I say then: Nice pants? Outfit, outfit, great outfit. You know it’s called an outfit. Dear God, shut up.”
He rounded the main house and followed the narrowing drive to Mac’s.
The lights were on, up and down, so the entire place glowed. Through the generous windows of the first floor he could see her studio, the light stands, a dark blue curtain held up with big, silver clips. In front of the curtain stood a small table and two chairs. Wineglasses glinted on the table.
Did that mean she wanted to have drinks first? He hadn’t allowed time for drinks. Should he move the reservation? He got out of the car, started down her walk. Went back to the car to get the flowers he’d left on the passenger seat.
He wished the evening was over. He really did. With a sick feeling in his gut he had to force his hand up to knock. He wanted it to be tomorrow morning, a quiet Sunday morning. He’d grade papers, read, take a walk. Get back to his comfortable routine.
Then she opened the door.
He didn’t know what she was wearing. All he saw was her face. It had always been her face—that smooth milk skin framed by bright, bold hair. Those witch green eyes and the unexpected charm of dimples.
He didn’t want the evening to be over, he realized. He just wanted it to begin.
“Hello, Carter.”
“Hello, Mackensie.” None of Bob’s listed suggestions occurred to him. He offered the flowers. “For you.”
“I was hoping they were. Come on in.” She closed the door behind him. “They’re so pretty. I love gerbera daisies. They’re happy. I want to put these in water. Do you want a drink?”
“Ah . . .” He glanced over at the table. “If you’d planned to.”
“That? No, that’s a setup from a shoot I had this afternoon.” She walked toward the kitchen, giving him a little come-ahead gesture. “Engagement shoot. They’re wine buffs. Actually, she writes for a wine-buff mag, and he’s a restaurant critic. So I got the idea of doing it as a bistro deal.” She got out a vase as she talked, and began to unwrap the flowers.
“It’s great the way you’re able to tailor a photograph like that to the people in it. Sherry loved what you did with hers.”
“That was easy. A couple of people madly in love snuggling on the couch.”
“It’s only easy if you’ve got the instincts to know Sherry and Nick wouldn’t sit in a sophisticated bistro drinking wine, or sit on the floor surrounded by books—and a very big cat.
“The Mason-Collari engagement. That ran today, didn’t it? Do you always check on the wedding and engagement section of the paper?”
“Only since I met you again.”
