by Nora Roberts
“I knew most of Del’s friends, I think.”
“Oh, we didn’t exactly run in the same circles. But I tutored him once, when we were studying Henry the Fifth.”
That clicked. “Carter,” she said, pointing at him. “Carter Maguire. You’re not marrying your sister, are you?”
“What? No! I’m a stand-in for Nick. She didn’t want to do the consult alone, and he got held up. I’m just . . . I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, actually.”
“Being a good brother.” She patted his knee. “Think you can stand up?”
“Yeah.”
She straightened, held out a hand to help him. His heart did another little dance as their hands met. And by the time he’d gained his feet, his head was beating the drum for the rhythm. “Ouch,” he said.
“I bet. Want some aspirin?”
“Oh, only enough to beg.”
“I’ll get it. While I do you can sit down on something that isn’t the floor.”
When she went back in the kitchen, he started to, but the photographs lining the walls caught his eye. Magazine shots, too, he noted, and had to assume them hers. Beautiful brides, sophisticated brides, sexy brides, laughing brides. Some in color, some in atmospheric black and white—and some with that odd and compelling computer trick of one spot of intense color in a black-and-white shot.
He turned as she came back and had the errant thought that her hair was like that—an intense spot of color.
“Do you take anything else, photographically?”
“Yes.” She handed him three pills and a glass of water. “But brides are the focal point and the selling point of a wedding business.”
“They’re wonderful—creative and individual. But she’s the best.” He stepped over, gestured to a framed photo of three young girls, and the blue butterfly resting on the head of a dandelion.
“Why?”
“Because it’s magic.”
She stared at him for what seemed like forever. “That’s exactly right. Well, Carter Maguire, I’m going to get my coat, then we’ll walk over and take our consult.”
She took the bag of melting ice out of his hand. “We’ll get you fresh at the main house.”
Cute, she thought as she went for a coat and scarf. Very, very cute. Had she noticed he was cute in high school? Maybe he was a late bloomer. But he’d bloomed nicely. Enough that she’d felt a little twinge of regret when she’d thought he was a groom.
But a BOB—Brother of the Bride—that was a different kettle.
If she were interested, that is.
She put on the coat, wound the scarf—then remembered the blast of wind earlier, and pulled a cap over her head. When she went down, Carter was putting his glass of water in the sink like a good boy.
She picked up the enormous cloth bag holding some of the albums, handed it to him. “Here you go. You can carry this. It’s heavy.”
“Yes. It is.”
“I’ve got this one.” She picked up the second, and a smaller one. “I’ve got a bride waiting for her finished albums, and another due for her proofs. Main house, like the consult.”
“I want to apologize for just coming in before. I knocked, but nobody answered. I heard the music, so I just walked in, and then . . .”
“The rest is history.”
“Yes. Ah, don’t you want to turn the music off ?”
“Right. I stopped hearing it.” She grabbed the remote, hit Off, tossed the remote down. Before she could open the door, he moved in, opened it for her. “You still live in Greenwich?” she began as her breath sucked in at the shock of cold.
“Well, more again than still. I lived in New Haven awhile.”
“Yale.”
“Yes, I did some postgraduate work and taught for a couple years.”
“At Yale.”
“Yes.”
She narrowed her eyes at him as they walked the path. “Seriously?”
“Well, yes. People do teach at Yale. It’s highly recommended, given the students.”
“So you’re like a professor.”
“I’m like a professor, only now I teach here. At Winterfield Academy.”
“You came back to teach high school at your alma mater. That’s kind of sweet.”
“I missed home. And teaching teenagers is interesting.”
She thought it was bound to be more volatile, though that might be interesting. “What do you teach?”
“English Literature, Creative Writing.”
“Henry the Fifth.”
“There you go. Mrs. Brown had me out here a couple of times when I was working with Del. I was sorry to hear about the accident. She was an incredibly nice woman.”
“Best ever. We can go in this way. It’s too cold to walk all the way around.”
She led him in through the mudroom, into the warmth. “You can stow your gear in here. You’re still on the early side. We’ll get you some coffee in the meantime.” She shed coat, scarf, hat while she spoke, moving quickly. “No event today, so the main kitchen’s clear.”
She picked up her bags again while he carefully hung his coat, as opposed to the way she’d tossed hers in the direction of the hook. She seemed to vibrate with movement while standing still as he hauled up the large bag again.
“We’ll find you a place to—” Mac broke off as Emma walked toward the main kitchen.
“There you are. Parker was about to . . . Carter?”
“Hi, Emmaline, how are you?”
“I’m fine. Good. How did you . . . Sherry. I didn’t realize you were coming with Sherry.”
“He is and he isn’t. He’ll explain. Get him some coffee, will you, and some ice for his head? I’ve got to get these to the bride.”
She grabbed the heavy bag from Carter, and was off.
Emma pursed her lips as she studied the scrape, and said, “Ouch. What did you do?”
“I walked into a wall. You can skip the ice, it’s doing okay.”
“Well, come in, have a seat and some coffee. I was just coming back to do a setup for the consult.”
She led the way, gestured to a stool and a long, honey-toned counter. “Are you here to give moral support to the bride and groom?”
“I’m standing in for the groom. He had an emergency.”
Emma nodded as she got out a cup and saucer. “You’ll have that with doctors. And aren’t you the brave brother?”
“I said no, in several different ways. None of them worked. Thanks,” he added when she poured the coffee.
“Take comfort. You’ll just have to sit there and eat cookies.”
He dumped some cream into his coffee. “Can I get that in writing?”
She laughed and began to arrange cookies on a plate. “Trust me. Added to it, you’ll score major good brother points. How’re your parents?”
“Good. I saw your mother last week, at the bookstore.”
“She loves that job.” Emma handed him a cookie. “Mac should be about done with her client. I’m going to take these in and I’ll come back for you.”
“I guess if I just hid in here, I’d lose the brave brother title.”
“You would. I’ll be back.”
He’d known Emma through Sherry, and their respective parents’ friendship, since they’d been children. It was odd, just odd to think of Emma making his sister’s bridal bouquet. It was just odd that his little sister would need a bridal bouquet.
It was as disorienting somehow as walking into a stupid wall.
He gave his forehead a little poke, winced. It wasn’t so much that it hurt, which it did, but that everyone would ask him what happened. He’d be explaining his own clumsiness repeatedly—and every time he did, he’d get a mental flashback to Mackensie Elliot in a really tiny bra and low-slung black pants.
He ate the cookie and tried to decide if that was a perk or a burden.
Emma came back for him, and for another tray. “You might as well come on out. I’m sure Sherry will be here any minute.”
<
br /> “Because she’s already ten minutes late.” He took the tray from her. “She’s on Sherry Time.”
The house was much as he remembered it. The walls were a soft, muted gold now where his memory said they’d been an elegant, understated green. But the wide, ornate trim was as glossy, the space as generous, the furnishings as gleaming.
Art and antiques, flowers in old, exquisite crystal illuminated wealth and class. Yet, as he remembered, it felt not like a mansion, but a home.
It smelled female, sort of floral and citrusy at the same time.
The women sat, forming a cozy conversation area in the large, coffered-ceilinged drawing room where a fire snapped and sizzled in the big hearth, and winter sunlight splashed through the trio of arched windows. He was used to being outnumbered by females, as he was the middle child, with two sisters bookending him.
So he supposed he’d survive the next hour.
Parker popped out of her chair, all smiles and polish, crossing the room, hands extending. “Carter! It’s been a while.”
She kissed his cheek, kept his hand in hers as she drew him toward the fire. “Do you remember Laurel?”
“Ah . . .”
“We were all kids.” Smooth and easy, Parker nudged him into a chair. “Emma mentioned you’d come back to teach at Winterfield. Was it strange, going back as a teacher?”
“At first it was. I kept waiting for somebody to assign homework, then remembered, oh yeah, that’s me. Sorry about Sherry. She’s on her own clock, and it usually runs behind. I could call—”
The doorbell cut him off, and brought him desperate relief.
“I’ll get it.” Emma rose, headed out.
“How’s the head?” Mac asked, lolling back in her chair with her coffee cup tucked in both hands.
“It’s fine. It’s nothing.”
“What happened?” Parker asked.
“Oh, I just rapped it. I’m always doing things like that.”
“Really?” Mac smirked into her coffee.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Sherry came in like a whirlwind—color, energy, motion, and giggles. “I’m never on time. I hate that. Carter, you’re the best—” Her happy, flushed face shifted into concern. “What happened to your head?”
“I was mugged. There were three of them, but I fought them off.”
“What! Oh my God, you—”
“I hit my head, Sherry. That’s all.”
“Oh.” She dropped down, easy and relaxed, on the arm of his chair. “He’s always doing that.”
Carter got up, and sort of tugged his sister into the chair, then tried to figure out how to hover discreetly. Emma simply shifted closer to Laurel on the couch, then patted the cushion.
“Have a seat, Carter. Well, Sherry, how excited are you?”
“Off the charts! Nick would’ve come, but he had an emergency surgery. It’s part of the package, marrying a doctor. But I figured Carter could give the male perspective, right? Plus he knows me, and he knows Nick.”
She reached over, grabbed Parker’s hand, did a little butt wiggle of joy in her chair. “Can you believe this? Remember how we’d play wedding when we were kids? I remember playing that a couple of times out back with you guys. I think I married Laurel.”
“And they said it wouldn’t last,” Laurel responded, teasing the quick, infectious giggle out of Sherry again.
“And here we are. Right here. And I’m getting married.”
“Slut threw me over for a doctor.” Laurel shook her head, sipped from a glass of ice water with a slice of lemon floating in it.
“He’s amazing. Wait till you meet him. Oh God! I’m getting married!” She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “And I barely know where to start. I’m so disorganized, and everyone’s telling me I should be thinking about this or booking that. I feel like I’m running in circles, and I’ve only been engaged a couple months.”
“That’s what we’re for,” Parker assured her, and picked up a thick notebook. “Why don’t we start with you telling us what kind of wedding you want?” Just use three or four words to describe how you see it.”
“Um . . .” Sherry sent her brother a pleading look.
“No, jeez, don’t look at me. What do I know?”
“You know me. Just say what you think I want.”
Damn it. “Just eat cookies,” he muttered. “Have fun.”
“Yes!” She shot out her finger at him. “I don’t want it to sound like it’s not important and solemn and all that, but I want the fun. I want a big, crazy, happy party. I also want Nick to lose the power of speech for five full minutes when he gets the first look at me coming down the aisle. I want to kill him—and I want everybody who comes to remember it as the best time. I’ve been to weddings that were really beautiful, but God, I was bored. You know?”
“Exactly. You want to dazzle Nick, then you want a celebration. One that reflects who you are, who he is, and how happy you are together.”
Sherry beamed at Parker. “I really do.”
“We’ve got the date down for next October. Have you got a ballpark number on the guest list?”
“We’re going to try to top it off at about two hundred.”
“Okay.” Parker made notes. “Outdoors, you said. The garden wedding.”
As Parker discussed some of the potential details with Sherry, Mac observed. Animated would be the first word that came to her mind to describe the bride. Bubbly, cheerful, pretty. Streaky blond hair, summer blue eyes, curvy, casual. Some of the photos, the strategy, would depend on the dress, on the colors, but much centered on who was in the wedding gown.
She keyed in to some of the details. Six attendants. Bride’s colors pink—pale and candy. And when Sherry pulled out a photograph of the dress, Mac gestured for it. Studied it. Smiled.
“I bet it looks amazing on you. It’s perfect for you.”
“You think? It felt perfect, and I bought it in like two minutes, then—”
“No, sometimes that impulse is right. This is one of those.” The dress boasted a belling acre of sparkly white skirt, an off-the-shoulder bodice and a glittery river of train. “Sexy princess.” Since she had Sherry’s attention for the moment, she pushed her own agenda. “Will you want an engagement portrait?”
“Ah . . . well, I would, but I just don’t like those formal pictures you see so much. You know, he’s standing behind her, and they’re just smiling at the camera. I don’t mean to tell you about your job or anything.”
“That’s okay. My job’s to make you happy. Why don’t you tell me what you and Nick like to do.” When Sherry gave her a slow, sly grin, Mac laughed and watched Carter flush again.
Pretty cute.
“Besides that.”
“We like to eat popcorn and watch really bad movies on DVD. He’s trying to teach me to ski, but the Maguires have a major klutz gene. Carter got the lion’s share, but I’m right behind him. We like to hang out with friends, that kind of thing. He’s a surgical resident, so free time for him’s pretty precious. We don’t plan a lot of stuff. I guess we’re more spontaneous?”
“Got it. If you want, I could come to you. We’d go for casual, relaxed, and at home instead of formal studio.”
“Really? I like the idea. Can it be soon?”
Mac dug out her PDA, keyed in her calendar. “I’ve got a couple of openings this week, a clearer road next. Why don’t you check with Nick, give me some dates and times that work for you. We’ll juggle it in.”
“This is just awesome.”
“You’ll want to look at sample wedding photos,” Mac began.
“I looked at them on the website, like Parker said I should.
And the pictures of the flowers, the cakes and stuff. I want it all.”
“Why don’t we take a look at the different packages,” Parker suggested. “To see what might suit you. We can always tailor one of them for you.”
“This is where I need Carter. Nick said I should go with whatever I want, but that do
esn’t help.”
Damn it again, Carter thought. “Sherry, I don’t know anything about this sort of thing. I just—”
“It’s scary to decide by myself.” She gave him the big-eyed, helpless look that had worked on him since she’d been two. “I don’t want to make a mistake.”
“You don’t have to decide now.” Parker kept her tone light and easy. “And even if you do, then change your mind later, it’s no problem. You’ll have specific consults, with each of us individually. That’ll help. And we can just hold the date for now, and you can sign the contract later.”
“I’d really like to sign today, just to get that checked off the list. There’s so much. Just an opinion, Carter, that’s all.”
“Why don’t you take a look at the options?” Smiling, Parker handed him a binder, opened to the section on packages. “Meanwhile, Sherry, have you decided between a band or a DJ?”
“DJ. We thought it’d be looser, and we could work with him or her, I guess, on the playlist. Do you know anybody good?”
“I do.” Out of another folder, Parker pulled a business card.
“He’s done a lot of events here, and I think he’ll suit you. Give him a call. Videographer?”
On the sofa, Carter pulled out his reading glasses, frowned down at the packages.
So serious, Mac thought. And the nerd sex quotient telescoped up with the wire-rim glasses. He actually looked like a guy studying for an exam. Since Parker and Sherry had their heads together, she decided to give him a break.
“Hey, Carter, maybe you can help me get some more coffee.” He blinked up at her, blue eyes framed in dull silver wire. “Bring the binder, okay?”
She picked up the pretty coffeepot, strolled to the doorway to wait for him. He had to skirt around the coffee table and, she noted, barely missed rapping his shin on it.
“Rest of the team can handle it from here,” she told him. “Your sister figures since you’re big brother, and standing in for the groom, she needs your input. Which, I also figure, she’ll kick to the curb if it doesn’t jibe with what she wants.”
“Okay,” he said as they walked back to the kitchen. “Can I just close my eyes and put my finger on the menu here, be done with it?”
“You could. But what you should do is tell her you think Number Three works best.”
