Vision in White
Page 81
“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.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
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.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, only slightly exaggerating.” She sat to pull off her thick, walk-around-the-house socks, then, cradling the phone on her shoulder, wiggled out of her flannel pants. “We’ll do a conference call rehearsal if necessary, or a virtual one if the client has the computer capability. We’ll shovel, plow, and clear. We’ve done it before. Barring genuine blizzard conditions, we’ll have a wedding tomorrow. Maybe you could be my date. And bring the cat. That way the two of you could stay through the weekend.”
“We’ll be there. I’d rather be with you tonight than here grading papers.”
She yanked up her cords. “I’d rather be with you than dealing with an hysterical, anal-retentive bride.”
“I think you win. Try to stay warm. Maybe you could call me later, after you’re done with everything. You can tell me how it went.”
“I will. Oh, wait. Are any of those papers you’ll be grading Garrett’s?”
“As a matter of fact.”
“Hope he gets an A. See you tomorrow.”
She hung up the phone, then pulled off her sweatshirt, pulled on the sweater. She grabbed her makeup bag and a pair of dress boots should the bride insist on braving the elements.
Five minutes later, she hunched against the frigid blast of wind to trudge through the snow. It would take a miracle, she thought, if the storm didn’t abate in the next few hours. Even with a miracle, the guest attrition rate would soar. It would take all her skill to pull any glowing bride shots of the client.
Or possibly liquor.
She dumped everything in the mudroom, stomped and shook away snow. She checked Laurel’s kitchen.
Her friend stood, coating the second of three tiers with pale pink fondant.
“Wait. I have down the marquetry cake, white icing, pink and lavender flowers, traditional B and G topper.”
“Changed to pleated, pale pink with nosegay of English violets topper. I guess you didn’t get the memo—or honestly by the time we got to this, I probably didn’t send one.”
“No problem. I’ll put it in my notes.” Mac dragged them out to do just that. “How many guys do you figure she changed her mind about before she stuck with the one she’s marrying tomorrow?”
“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.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
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.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, only slightly exaggerating.” She sat to pull off her thick, walk-around-the-house socks, then, cradling the phone on her shoulder, wiggled out of her flannel pants. “We’ll do a conference call rehearsal if necessary, or a virtual one if the client has the computer capability. We’ll shovel, plow, and clear. We’ve done it before. Barring genuine blizzard conditions, we’ll have a wedding tomorrow. Maybe you could be my date. And bring the cat. That way the two of you could stay through the weekend.”
“We’ll be there. I’d rather be with you tonight than here grading papers.”
She yanked up her cords. “I’d rather be with you than dealing with an hysterical, anal-retentive bride.”
“I think you win. Try to stay warm. Maybe you could call me later, after you’re done with everything. You can tell me how it went.”
“I will. Oh, wait. Are any of those papers you’ll be grading Garrett’s?”
“As a matter of fact.”
“Hope he gets an A. See you tomorrow.”
She hung up the phone, then pulled off her sweatshirt, pulled on the sweater. She grabbed her makeup bag and a pair of dress boots should the bride insist on braving the elements.
Five minutes later, she hunched against the frigid blast of wind to trudge through the snow. It would take a miracle, she thought, if the storm didn’t abate in the next few hours. Even with a miracle, the guest attrition rate would soar. It would take all her skill to pull any glowing bride shots of the client.
Or possibly liquor.
She dumped everything in the mudroom, stomped and shook away snow. She checked Laurel’s kitchen.
Her friend stood, coating the second of three tiers with pale pink fondant.
“Wait. I have down the marquetry cake, white icing, pink and lavender flowers, traditional B and G topper.”
“Changed to pleated, pale pink with nosegay of English violets topper. I guess you didn’t get the memo—or honestly by the time we got to this, I probably didn’t send one.”
“No problem. I’ll put it in my notes.” Mac dragged them out to do just that. “How many guys do you figure she changed her mind about before she stuck with the one she’s marrying tomorrow?”
