by Nora Roberts
“We’ve come a long way. The first year was touch and go, and pretty scary because we’d all put our savings and whatever we could beg, borrow, or steal into it. The start-up costs, licenses, stock, equipment. The expense of turning the pool house into my place, the guest house into Emma’s. Jack did the designs for free. Jack Cooke? Do you know him? He and Del met in college.”
“Yeah, a little. I remember they were tight.”
“The small town that is Yale,” Mac commented. “He’s an architect. He put a lot of time into the transformation. And saved us God knows how much in fees and false starts. The second year we were barely treading water, with all of us still having to take side jobs to get by. But, by the third, we eased around the first corner. I understand working through the panic sweat to get what you want.”
“Why wedding photography? Specifically, I mean, for you. It doesn’t feel as if it’s only because it fit the bigger picture of the partnership.”
“No, not just that. Not even that first, I guess. I like taking photographs of people. The faces, the bodies, the expressions, the dynamics. Before we opened Vows I worked in a photography studio. You know the sort where people come for pictures of their kids, or a publicity shot. It paid the bills, but . . .”
“Didn’t satisfy.”
“It really didn’t. I like taking photographs of people in what I think of as moments. The defining moment? That’s the killer, that’s the top of the mountain. But there are lots of other moments. Weddings, the ritual of them and how those inside them tilt and angle the ritual to suit them personally—that’s a big moment.”
Smiling, she lifted her cup with both hands. “Drama, pathos, theater, grief, joy, romance, passion, humor. It’s got it all. And I can give them all that through photographs. Show them the journey of the day—and if I’m lucky, that one defining moment that lifts it out of the ordinary into the unique. Which is the really long way of saying I just like my work.”
“I get that, and what you mean by the moment. The satisfaction of it. It’s like when I can see even one student’s mind open up and suck in what I’ve been trying to feed them. It makes the hours when it feels like routine all worth it.”
“I probably didn’t give my teachers many of those moments. I just wanted to get through it and out where I could do what I wanted. I never saw them as creative entities. More like wardens. I was a crappy student.”
“You were smart. Which cycles back to teenage obsession. But I’ll just say I noticed you were smart.”
“We didn’t have any classes together. You were a couple years ahead of me, right? Oh, wait! You were student teacher in one of my English classes, weren’t you?”
“Mr. Lowen’s fifth period American Literature. Now please forget I said that.”
“Not a chance. Now, I’m not running away, but I have to go. I have another shoot. Your sister’s engagement portrait, in fact.”
“I didn’t realize you were getting to that so quickly.”
“The doctor has the evening free, so we worked it out. But I need to go, get a sense of their place and the two of them together.”
“I’ll walk you to your car.” He took out bills, tucked the ends under the saucer of his cup.
Before she could shrug into her jacket, he’d taken it to help her into it. He opened the door for her, stepped out with her into the breathless cold.
“I’m a block and a half down,” she told him. “You don’t have to walk me to my car. It’s freezing out here.”
“It’s fine. I walked from my place anyway.”
“You walked?”
“I don’t live that far, so I walked.”
“Right. You like to walk. Since we are,” she said as they walked by cafes, restaurants, “I’ll mention something that got bypassed due to the path our conversation took. Dr. Maguire? You got your PhD?”
“Last year, finally.”
“Finally?”
“Since it was the major focus of my life for about ten years, ‘finally’ works for me. I started thinking thesis when I was an undergraduate.” Which probably made him Mayor Nerd of Nerdville, he supposed. “Are you going to see me again? I know that was a non sequitur but it’s buzzing around in my brain. So if the answer’s no, I’d rather find out.”
She said nothing until they’d reached the car, then studied him as she pulled out her keys. “I bet you have a pen and something to write on. I bet it’s pretty handy.”
He reached under his coat to the inside of his tweed jacket for a small notebook and pen.
With a nod, Mac took them, flipped to a blank page in the book. “This is my personal line, rather than my business line. Why don’t you call me?”
“I can do that. An hour from now’s probably too soon, isn’t it?”
She laughed, put the notebook and pen back in his hand. “You certainly boost my ego, Carter.”
She turned to open her door, but he beat her to it. Touched and amused, she got in, let him close the door behind her. She lowered her window. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Get out of the cold, Carter.”
When she pulled away from the curb, he watched her car until the taillights disappeared. Then he doubled back toward the coffee shop and walked the frigid three blocks beyond it, to home.
THE BRIEF JANUARY BUSINESS LULL GAVE MAC TOO MUCH TIME on her hands. She knew she could use it to organize her files, to update her various web pages. To clean out the embarrassing mess that was her closet, or to catch up on neglected correspondence. She could use it to read a good book, or fat-ass in front of the TV and gorge on DVDs and popcorn.
But she couldn’t settle, and so ended up plopping down on the loveseat in Parker’s office.
“Working,” Parker said without looking up.
“Contact the media! Parker’s working.”
Parker continued to tap her keyboard. “After this quick break, we’re booked solid for months. Months, Mac. This is going to be our best year. Still, we’ve got two weeks wide open in August. I’m thinking about a summer’s-end package, something that appeals to the smaller wedding. The put-it-together quickly style. We could really push that when we have our open house in March if it doesn’t book before.”
“Let’s all go out.”
“Hmm?”
“Let’s go out. All four of us. Emma probably has a date, but we’ll make her break it and destroy some poor guy none of us know. It’ll be fun.”
Parker stopped typing, swiveled her chair a few inches. “Go out where?”
“I don’t care. The movies, a club. Drinking, dancing, whoring. Hell, let’s rent a limo and go to New York and do it right.”
“You want to rent a limo, go to New York for drinking, dancing, and whoring.”
“Okay, we’ll skip the whoring. Let’s just get out of here, Park. Spend a night doing fun stuff.”
“We have two full consults tomorrow, plus our individual sessions.”
“So what?” Mac threw up her hands. “We’re young, we’re resilient. Let’s go to New York and break the hearts and balls of men we’ve never met before and will never see again.”
“I find that idea oddly intriguing. But why? What’s up with you?”
Mac pushed off the love seat, stalked around the room. It was such a pretty office. So Perfectly Parker, she thought. Soft, subtle color. Elegance and class polished over almost brutal efficiency.
“I’m thinking about a guy who’s thinking about me. And thinking about him thinking about me has me all worked up. I don’t actually know if I’m thinking about him because he’s thinking about me, or if I’m thinking about him because he’s cute and funny and sweet and sexy. He wears tweed, Parker.”
She stopped, threw her hands up again. “Grandfathers wear tweed. Old guys in old British movies wear tweed. Why do I find it sexy that he wears tweed? This is a question that haunts me.”
“Carter Maguire.”
“Yes, yes, Carter Maguire. Doctor Cart
er Maguire—that’s the PhD type. He drinks tea and talks about Rosalind.”
“Rosalind who?”
“That’s what I said!” Vindicated, Mac spun around. “Shakespeare’s Rosalind.”
“Oh, As You Like It.”
“Bitch, I should’ve known you’d know that. You should go out with him.”
“Why would I go out with Carter? Besides the fact he’s shown no interest in me.”
“Because you went to Yale. And I know damn well that doesn’t apply, but the fact that I’d say it speaks volumes. I want to go out and get crazy. I refuse to sit around waiting for him to call. Do you know the last time I lowered myself to waiting for some guy to call me?”
“Let me see, that would be about never.”
“Exactly. I’m not doing this.”
“How long have you waited in this case?”
Mac glanced at her watch. “About eighteen hours. He had a crush on me in high school. What kind of man tells you that? Puts the power in your hands that way? Now I have the power and it’s scaring me. Let’s go to New York.”
Parker swiveled back and forth in her chair. “Going to New York to drink and break the hearts of strange men will solve your current dilemma?”
“Yes.”
“Well, let’s go to New York.” Parker plucked up the phone. “Go get Laurel and Emma on board. I’ll handle the details.”
“Woot!” Mac did a quick dance, rushed over to grab Parker long enough to plant a loud kiss, then raced out of the room.
“Yeah, yeah,” Parker muttered as she speed-dialed the limo company. “We’ll see if you and your hangover dance and sing in the morning.”
IN THE BACK OF THE LONG BLACK LIMO, MAC STRETCHED OUT her legs, highlighted by the short black skirt. She’d kicked off her heels at the start of the two-hour drive to Manhattan. She sipped from her second glass of the champagne Parker had stocked.
“This is so great. I have the best friends ever.”
“Yeah, this is a hardship.” Laurel lifted her own glass. “Riding in a limo, drinking the bubbly, heading to one of the hottest clubs in New York—thanks to Parker’s connections. The sacrifices we make for you, Mackensie.”
“Em broke a date.”
“I didn’t have a date,” Emma corrected. “I had a Maybe We’ll Do Something Tonight.”
“You broke that.”
“I did. You so owe me.”
“And to Parker, for making it all happen. As always.” Mac toasted her friend who sat at the far side of the limo, talking to a client on her cell.
Parker sent her friends a wave of acknowledgment as she continued to pour oil on troubled waters.
“I think we’re almost there. Come on, Park, hang it up,” Mac said in a stage whisper. “We’re almost there.”
“Breath, makeup, hair,” Emma announced as she flipped out a pocket mirror.
Mini Altoids were passed, lipstick freshened. Four pairs of shoes were slipped onto four pairs of feet.
And Parker finally hung up the phone. “God! Naomi Right’s maid of honor just found out that her boyfriend—the brother and best man of the groom—has been having an affair with his business partner. MOH is on a rampage, as one might expect, and is refusing to serve unless the cheating bastard is banned from the wedding. Bride is frantic and sides with MOH. Groom is pissed, wants to strangle cheating bastard brother, but feels unable to bar his own brother from his wedding, or replace him as best man. Bride and groom are barely speaking.”
“The Right wedding.” Laurel narrowed her eyes. “That’s soon, isn’t it?”
“A week from Saturday. Final guest count is one-ninety-eight. This one’s going to be a headache. I’ve calmed the bride down. Yes, she’s right to be upset, yes, she’s right to support her friend. But to remember the wedding’s about her and her fiance, and what a terrible spot the man she loves is in, through no fault of his own. I’m meeting with them both tomorrow to try to smooth it out.”
“Cheating bastard and cheated-on MOH both attend—much less remain in the wedding party—it’s going to get ugly.”
“Yes.” Parker acknowledged Mac’s observation with a sigh. “But we’ll handle it. It’s just a little bit worse, as the business partner’s on the invite list—and the cheating bastard’s insisting if she’s removed, he won’t attend.”
“Well, he’s an asshole.” Laurel shrugged. “The groom needs to have a serious come-to-Jesus talk with his brother.”
“Which is also on my list of suggestions for tomorrow’s meeting. But in more diplomatic terms.”
“That’s tomorrow’s business. No business calls during therapeutic drinking, dancing, and heartbreaking.”
Parker didn’t give her word on Mac’s decree, but she did tuck her phone back in her purse. “All right, girls.” She flipped her hair back. “Let’s go flaunt it.”
They slid out of the limo, then streamed past the line of hopefuls outside the club. Parker gave her name at the door. In seconds they were inside the wall of music.
Mac scoped it out. Two levels of booths, tables, and banquettes left room for a central dance floor. On either side, under the rainfall of colored lights, stood stainless steel bars.
Music churned; bodies gyrated. And her mood clicked up a couple of notches.
“I love when a plan comes together.”
They hunted up a table first, and Mac considered it an omen of good when they scored a small banquette where they could squeeze in together.
“Observe the species,” Mac said. “This is my first rule. Observe the plumage, the rituals before making any attempt to acclimate.”
“Screw that, I’m going for drinks. Are we sticking with champagne?” Emma wanted to know.
“Get a bottle,” Parker decided.
Laurel rolled her eyes as Emma wiggled out and started toward the nearest bar. “You know she’ll get hit on a dozen times before she orders anything, and feel obliged to have actual conversations with the guys who drool on her. We’ll all die of thirst before she gets back. Parker, you should go, and put on your invisible cloak of Back Off until we’re set up here.”
“Give her a few minutes first. How’s the fear factor, Mac?”
“Diminishing. I can’t even imagine the undeniably cute Dr. Maguire in a place like this, can you? At a poetry reading, sure, but not here.”
“Now, see, that’s assumption and conclusion based on profession. Like saying because I’m a baker, I must resemble the Pillsbury Doughboy.”
“Yes, yes, it is, but it helps my cause. I don’t want to get involved with him.”
“Because he has a PhD?”
“Yes, and great eyes, a really soft blue that go all sexy when he’s wearing his glasses. And there’s the unexpected superior kisser factor, which could blind me to the basic fact that we’re not suited. Plus any relationship with him outside the most casual of friendships would be a serious relationship. What would I do about that? And he helped me on with my coat, twice.”
“Dear God!” Parker widened her eyes in shock. “You have to nip this in the bud, quickly, finally. I understand it all now. Any man who would do that is . . . Words fail.”
“Oh, shut up. I want to dance. Laurel’s going to dance with me while Parker swirls on her Back-Off cloak and rescues our champagne—and rescues Emma from her own magnetism.”
“Apparently it’s time to acclimate,” Laurel said when Mac pulled her up and toward the dance floor.
SHE DANCED, WITH HER FRIENDS, WITH MEN WHO ASKED, OR whom she asked. She drank more champagne. In the silver and red ladies room, she rubbed her sore feet while Emma joined the army of women at the mirrors.
“How many numbers have you collected so far?”
Emma carefully applied fresh lip gloss. “I haven’t counted.”
“Approximate?”
“About ten, I guess.”
“And how will you tell them apart later?”
“It’s a gift.” She glanced over. “You’ve got one on the line, I notic
ed. The guy in the gray shirt. He’s got some moves on the floor.”
“Mitch. Smooth on the floor, great smile. Doesn’t strike me as an asshole.”
“There you go.”
“I should get the tingles for Mitch,” Mac considered. “But I’m not getting them. Maybe I’ve been detingled. That would be seriously unfair.”
“Maybe you’re not getting them for him because you’ve got them for Carter.”
“You get the tingles for more than one guy at a time.”
“Yes, yes, I do. But I’m me and you’re you. I figure men are there to make me tingle, and if I can do the same for them, everybody’s happy. You’re much more serious about such matters.”
“I’m not serious. That’s a mean thing to say. I’m going out there and dancing with Mitch again, open to tingles. You’ll eat those words, Emmaline. With chocolate sauce.”
It didn’t work. It should have worked, Mac thought as she settled at the bar with Mitch after another dance. The man was great-looking, funny, built, had an interesting job as a travel journalist but didn’t bore her senseless with countless stories about his adventures.
He didn’t get pissy or pushy when she turned down his suggestion they go somewhere more quiet. In the end they exchanged business numbers, and parted ways.
“Forget men.” At two A.M. Mac crawled back into the limo, and sprawled. “I came to have fun with my best pals in the land, and said mission was accomplished. God, do we have any water in here?”
Laurel passed her a bottle, then groaned. “My feet. My feet are screaming like voices of the damned.”
“I had the best time.” Emma slid onto the limo’s side bench and pillowed her head on her hands. “We should do this once a month.”
Parker yawned, but tapped her purse. “I have two new contacts for vendors, and a potential client.”
And so, Mac thought as the limo streamed north, we each define ourselves. She toed off her now very painful shoes, shut her eyes, and slept the rest of the way home.
CHAPTER SIX
