Vision in White
Page 33
When the timer he’d set signaled, he went back down to put the wet clothes in the dryer, load a second batch in the washer.
Back at his desk, he evaluated outlines. He made comments, suggestions, corrections. Using his red pencil he added words of praise and advice. He loved this kind of work—seeing how his students used their minds, organized thoughts, created their worlds.
He finished the work, and the laundry, and still had more than an hour to kill before he needed to leave for dinner.
Casually, he began to search for recipes on the Internet.
It didn’t mean he’d ask her over for dinner. It was just an in case sort of thing. If he lost his mind and actually followed Bob’s advice, it would be good to have a plan.
An outline, so to speak.
Nothing too fancy or complicated, he thought, as that would be a disaster. But not too basic or ordinary. If you were going to cook for a woman, shouldn’t you make more of an effort than tossing something in the microwave?
He printed out a few possibilities, and made notes on potential menus. And wines. She liked wine. He didn’t know anything about wine, but he could learn. He put everything in a file.
He’d probably ask her to the movies anyway. The standard movie date, followed by pizza. Casual, no pressure or expectations. That was what he’d most likely do, he thought as he walked out of the office into his bedroom to change into a fresh shirt.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to pick up some candles, maybe some flowers. He glanced around the room, and imagined her there. In candlelight. Imagined lowering her to the bed, feeling her move under him. Watching her face, the light shimmering over it, as he touched her. Tasted her.
“Oh boy.”
After a calming breath, Carter stared down at the cat who stared up at him. “She’s right. Sex is a whopper.”
THE HOUSE ON CHESTNUT LANE WITH ITS BIG YARD AND OLD trees had been one of the reasons Carter had given up his position at Yale. He’d missed it—the blue shutters and white clapboard, the sturdy porch and tall dormers—and the people who lived inside it.
He couldn’t say he came to the house any more often now than when he’d lived and worked in New Haven. But he found contentment knowing he could drop by if the mood struck. He stepped in, turned out of the foyer to glance into the big parlor where Chauncy, the family cocker spaniel, curled on the sofa.
He wasn’t allowed on the furniture, and knew it, so his sheepish expression and hopefully thumping tail were pleas for silence.
“I didn’t see a thing,” Carter whispered, and continued on toward the great room, and the noise. He smelled his mother’s Yankee pot roast, heard his younger sister’s laugh, followed by multiple male shouts and curses.
The game, he concluded, was on.
He stopped at the entryway to study the tableau. His mother, raw-boned, sturdy as New England bedrock, stirred something on the stove while Sherry leaned on the counter beside her talking a mile a minute and gesturing with a glass of wine. His older sister, Diane, stood with her hands fisted on her hips, watching through the wall of windows. He could see her two kids bundled to the eyeballs, riding a couple of colorful sled disks down the slope of the backyard.
His father, his brother-in-law, and Nick continued to shout at the action on the TV on the other side of the breakfast counter. Since football either gave him a headache or put him to sleep, Carter chose the girls’ side of the room and came up on his mother from behind to lean down and kiss the top of her head.
“Thought you’d forgotten about us.” Pam Maguire offered her son a tasting spoon of the split-pea soup simmering on the range.
“I had a couple of things to finish up. It’s good,” he said when he’d obediently tasted the soup.
“The kids asked about you. They assumed you’d be here in time to sled with them.”
There was the faintest hint of censure in Diane’s tone. Knowing she was happiest if she had something or someone to complain about, he walked over to kiss her cheek. “Nice to see you.”
“Have some wine, Carter.” Behind Diane’s back, Sherry gave him a quick eye-roll. “We can’t eat until the game’s over anyway. Plenty of time.”
“We don’t put off family dinner for sports at our house,” Diane said.
Which, Carter thought, probably explained why his brother-in-law took advantage of the more lax Maguire rules.
His mother just hummed over her soup as, to a man, the football enthusiasts leaped from chair and sofa to cheer.
Touchdown.
“Why don’t you have a nice glass of wine, too, Di?” Pam tapped her spoon, adjusted the flame under the pot. “Those kids are fine out there. We haven’t had an avalanche in more than ten years now. Michael! Your son’s here.”
Mike Maguire held up a finger, pumping his other hand as the kicker set for the extra point. “And it’s good!” He sent Carter a grin over his shoulder, his pale Irish skin flushed with joy and framed by his neat silver beard. “Giants are up by five!”
Sherry handed Carter a glass. “Since everything’s under control in here, and in there,” she added, nodding toward the stands, “why don’t you sit down and tell us all about you and Mackensie Elliot.”
“Mackensie Elliot? The photographer? Really?” Pam said, drawing out the word.
“I think I’ll catch the end of the game.”
“Not a chance.” Sherry maneuvered him back against the counter. “I heard from someone who heard from someone who saw the two of you getting cozy at Coffee Talk.”
“We had coffee. And talked. It’s the Coffee Talk way.”
“Then I heard from someone who heard from someone that you were even cozier at the Willows last night. What gives?”
Sherry was always hearing from someone who’d heard from someone, Carter thought wearily. His sister was like a human radio receiver. “We went out a couple of times.”
“You’re dating Mackensie Elliot?” Pam asked.
“Apparently.”
“The same Mackensie Elliot you mooned over for months back in high school.”
“How do you know I . . .” Stupid, Carter thought. His mother knew everything. “We just had dinner. It’s not national news.”
“It is around here,” Pam corrected. “You could’ve invited her here tonight. You know there’s always plenty.”
Back at his desk, he evaluated outlines. He made comments, suggestions, corrections. Using his red pencil he added words of praise and advice. He loved this kind of work—seeing how his students used their minds, organized thoughts, created their worlds.
He finished the work, and the laundry, and still had more than an hour to kill before he needed to leave for dinner.
Casually, he began to search for recipes on the Internet.
It didn’t mean he’d ask her over for dinner. It was just an in case sort of thing. If he lost his mind and actually followed Bob’s advice, it would be good to have a plan.
An outline, so to speak.
Nothing too fancy or complicated, he thought, as that would be a disaster. But not too basic or ordinary. If you were going to cook for a woman, shouldn’t you make more of an effort than tossing something in the microwave?
He printed out a few possibilities, and made notes on potential menus. And wines. She liked wine. He didn’t know anything about wine, but he could learn. He put everything in a file.
He’d probably ask her to the movies anyway. The standard movie date, followed by pizza. Casual, no pressure or expectations. That was what he’d most likely do, he thought as he walked out of the office into his bedroom to change into a fresh shirt.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to pick up some candles, maybe some flowers. He glanced around the room, and imagined her there. In candlelight. Imagined lowering her to the bed, feeling her move under him. Watching her face, the light shimmering over it, as he touched her. Tasted her.
“Oh boy.”
After a calming breath, Carter stared down at the cat who stared up at him. “She’s right. Sex is a whopper.”
THE HOUSE ON CHESTNUT LANE WITH ITS BIG YARD AND OLD trees had been one of the reasons Carter had given up his position at Yale. He’d missed it—the blue shutters and white clapboard, the sturdy porch and tall dormers—and the people who lived inside it.
He couldn’t say he came to the house any more often now than when he’d lived and worked in New Haven. But he found contentment knowing he could drop by if the mood struck. He stepped in, turned out of the foyer to glance into the big parlor where Chauncy, the family cocker spaniel, curled on the sofa.
He wasn’t allowed on the furniture, and knew it, so his sheepish expression and hopefully thumping tail were pleas for silence.
“I didn’t see a thing,” Carter whispered, and continued on toward the great room, and the noise. He smelled his mother’s Yankee pot roast, heard his younger sister’s laugh, followed by multiple male shouts and curses.
The game, he concluded, was on.
He stopped at the entryway to study the tableau. His mother, raw-boned, sturdy as New England bedrock, stirred something on the stove while Sherry leaned on the counter beside her talking a mile a minute and gesturing with a glass of wine. His older sister, Diane, stood with her hands fisted on her hips, watching through the wall of windows. He could see her two kids bundled to the eyeballs, riding a couple of colorful sled disks down the slope of the backyard.
His father, his brother-in-law, and Nick continued to shout at the action on the TV on the other side of the breakfast counter. Since football either gave him a headache or put him to sleep, Carter chose the girls’ side of the room and came up on his mother from behind to lean down and kiss the top of her head.
“Thought you’d forgotten about us.” Pam Maguire offered her son a tasting spoon of the split-pea soup simmering on the range.
“I had a couple of things to finish up. It’s good,” he said when he’d obediently tasted the soup.
“The kids asked about you. They assumed you’d be here in time to sled with them.”
There was the faintest hint of censure in Diane’s tone. Knowing she was happiest if she had something or someone to complain about, he walked over to kiss her cheek. “Nice to see you.”
“Have some wine, Carter.” Behind Diane’s back, Sherry gave him a quick eye-roll. “We can’t eat until the game’s over anyway. Plenty of time.”
“We don’t put off family dinner for sports at our house,” Diane said.
Which, Carter thought, probably explained why his brother-in-law took advantage of the more lax Maguire rules.
His mother just hummed over her soup as, to a man, the football enthusiasts leaped from chair and sofa to cheer.
Touchdown.
“Why don’t you have a nice glass of wine, too, Di?” Pam tapped her spoon, adjusted the flame under the pot. “Those kids are fine out there. We haven’t had an avalanche in more than ten years now. Michael! Your son’s here.”
Mike Maguire held up a finger, pumping his other hand as the kicker set for the extra point. “And it’s good!” He sent Carter a grin over his shoulder, his pale Irish skin flushed with joy and framed by his neat silver beard. “Giants are up by five!”
Sherry handed Carter a glass. “Since everything’s under control in here, and in there,” she added, nodding toward the stands, “why don’t you sit down and tell us all about you and Mackensie Elliot.”
“Mackensie Elliot? The photographer? Really?” Pam said, drawing out the word.
“I think I’ll catch the end of the game.”
“Not a chance.” Sherry maneuvered him back against the counter. “I heard from someone who heard from someone who saw the two of you getting cozy at Coffee Talk.”
“We had coffee. And talked. It’s the Coffee Talk way.”
“Then I heard from someone who heard from someone that you were even cozier at the Willows last night. What gives?”
Sherry was always hearing from someone who’d heard from someone, Carter thought wearily. His sister was like a human radio receiver. “We went out a couple of times.”
“You’re dating Mackensie Elliot?” Pam asked.
“Apparently.”
“The same Mackensie Elliot you mooned over for months back in high school.”
“How do you know I . . .” Stupid, Carter thought. His mother knew everything. “We just had dinner. It’s not national news.”
“It is around here,” Pam corrected. “You could’ve invited her here tonight. You know there’s always plenty.”
