Vision in White

CHAPTER TWO

SHE WORKED AT NIGHT BECAUSE SHE HAD A FULL DAY OF APPOINTMENTS. And because she liked working at night—alone, in her own space, at her own pace. Mornings were for coffee, that first intense, blood-surging hit of it, and days were often for clients, for shoots, for meetings.

Nights, alone in her studio, she could focus entirely on images, how to select, to improve, to enhance. Though she worked almost exclusively digital, she retained the darkroom mind-set when it came to creating the print. She layered, highlighting, shadowing; she removed blemishes or hot spots to create her base for her master print. To this she could refine specific areas, alter density, add contrast. Step-by-step she would shape the print, sharpening or softening to suit the mood, to create an image that expressed that moment in time, until

she felt what she hoped the client would feel.

Then, as she did most mornings, Mac sat down at her computer to check her thumbnails and to see if her morning self agreed with her night self.

She huddled over them in her flannels and thick socks, her bright red hair a forest of spikes and tufts. And in the utter quiet. At a wedding she was most often surrounded. By people, by chatter, by emotion. She blocked it or used it as she searched for the right angle, the right tone, the right moment.

But here, she was alone with the images, ones she could perfect. She drank her coffee, ate an apple as a concession to the previous morning’s Pop-Tart, and studied the hundreds of images she’d captured the day before, the dozens she’d finessed during the night session.

Her morning self congratulated her night self on a job well done. More to do yet, she mused, and when she had the best of the best for the clients to consider, she’d give them one more going-over before scheduling an appointment with the newlyweds to view the images in slide-show format and make their choices.

But that was for another day. In case her memory proved faulty, she checked her calendar before going up to shower and dress for her first appointment.

For a studio shoot, jeans and a sweater would do, but then she’d have to change for the consultation scheduled that afternoon at the main house. Vows policy demanded business attire for client consultations.

Mac pushed through her closet for black pants, a black shirt. She could toss on a jacket after the shoot and meet the dress code. She played with jewelry until she found what suited her mood, slapped on some makeup, and considered the job done.

The studio required more attention than the photographer, in her opinion.

Elizabeth and Charles, she thought as she began the setup. Engagement shot. They’d been firm, she recalled, at the consult. Formal, simple, straightforward.

She wondered why they didn’t just get a friend with a point-and-shoot to take it then. And she recalled now with a quick smirk, that those words had nearly come out of her mouth—before Parker had read her mind and shot her a warning glare.

“Client’s king,” she reminded herself as she set her backdrop. “They want boring, boring it is.”

She hauled in lights, positioned a diffuser—boring could at least be pretty. She brought out her tripod, mostly because she felt the clients would expect equipment. By the time she’d chosen her lenses, checked her lighting, draped a stool, the clients knocked at her door.

“Right on time.” She shut the door behind them and blocked a blast of frigid wind. “Brutal out there today. Let me take your coats.”

They looked perfect, she thought. Barbie and Ken for the upper-class set. The cool, every hair in place blonde, the handsome, polished, and pressed hero.

Part of her longed to muss them up, just a little, and make them human.

“Can I get you some coffee?” she asked.

“Oh, no, but thank you.” Elizabeth granted her a smile. “We’d really like to just get to it. We have a full schedule today.” As Mac dealt with their outdoor gear, Elizabeth glanced around the studio. “This used to be the pool house?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s . . . interesting. I suppose I expected something more elaborate. Still.” She wandered over to study some of the framed photos on the wall. “Charles’s cousin’s wedding here in November was wonderful. And she just raves about you and your partners. Isn’t that right, Charles?”

“Yes. It’s what decided us on your company.”

“The wedding planner and I will be working closely together over the next months. Is there anywhere I can freshen up before we start?” Elizabeth asked.

“Absolutely.” Mac led the way to the powder room off her studio, and wondered just what there was to freshen.

“So, Charles.” Mentally, Mac was loosening the perfectly executed Windsor knot of his tie. “Where are you two off to today?”

“We have a meeting with the wedding planner, and we’re taking care of registering. Elizabeth is going on to meet with two of the designers your partner recommended for her gown.”

“That’s exciting.” You look just thrilled, she thought, the way you might for your semiannual dental visit.

“It’s a lot of details. I suppose you’re used to them.”

“Every wedding’s the first. Would you mind standing behind the stool here? I can check the lighting and focus while Elizabeth’s getting ready.”

He moved obediently, stood stiff as a poker.

“Relax,” she told him. “This will be easier and quicker than you think, and possibly fun. What kind of music do you like?”

“Music?”

“Yeah, let’s have some music.” She crossed to her CD player, chose a disk. “Natalie Cole on ballads. Romantic, classic. How’s that?”

“Fine. That’s fine.”

Mac caught him sneaking a peek at his watch as she went back to pretend to adjust her camera. “Have you decided on the honeymoon spot yet?”

“We’re leaning toward Paris.”

“Do you speak French?”

For the first time he smiled easily. “Not a word.”

“Well, there’s the adventure,” she said as Elizabeth came back looking as precisely perfect as she had when she’d gone in.

The suit was probably Armani, and beautifully tailored. The indigo blue color flattered, and Mac imagined Elizabeth had selected Charles’s slate gray to set it off.

“I think we’ll start with you sitting, Elizabeth, with Charles behind you. Just a little to the left, Charles. And Elizabeth, if you’d angle toward the windows, just a bit. Lean back toward Charles—relax your body. Charles, put your hand on her left shoulder. Put your hand over his, it’ll show off that spectacular engagement ring.”

She took a couple of shots just to get them over the initial frozen smiles.

Angle your head.

Weight on the back foot.

Shift your shoulders.

Shy, Mac realized. He was shy, camera shy and just a little people shy. And she was monumentally self-conscious. Terrified of not looking exactly right.

She tried to put them at ease, asking how they met, how they got engaged—though she’d asked the same questions when they’d set up the appointment. And received the same answers now.

She barely cracked the surface.

She could stop now, Mac thought, and give them exactly what they thought they wanted. But it wouldn’t be what they needed.

She stepped back from the camera. As she did, their bodies relaxed, and Elizabeth turned her head to smile up and over at Charles. He winked at her.

Okay, okay, Mac thought. Humans in there after all.

“I’ve got several very nice formal shots. I know that’s what you wanted, but I wonder if you’d do something for me?”

“We’re really on a schedule,” Charles began.

“It’ll take less than five minutes. Stand up, Elizabeth. Let me just move the stool.” She dragged it away, then took her camera from the tripod. “How about a hug? Not me. Each other.”

“I don’t—”

“Hugging’s legal in Connecticut, even when you’re not engaged. Just a little experiment, and I’ll have you out of here in two minutes.” She grabbed her light meter, checked, adjusted.

“Put your right cheek on his chest, but cheat it toward me. Turn your face a little toward me,” Mac explained. “And look this way. Charles, angle your head down to hers, but tip your chin my way. Take a deep breath, then let it go, just let it go. You’re holding on to the person you love, right? Enjoy it. And eyes on me, right on me, and think about what you felt like the first time you kissed.”

There!

The smiles were quick, spontaneous. Soft on her part, even a little sly, and delighted on his.

“One more, just one more like that.” She got three before they stiffened up again. “Done. I’ll have several proofs for your approval by—”

“Can’t we see some now? It’s digital, isn’t it?” Elizabeth pressed. “I’d just like a quick idea.”

“Sure.”

Mac walked to the computer with the camera, set it up to display. “These are raw, but you’ll get the gist.”

“Yes.” Elizabeth frowned at the screen as Mac started the slow slide show. “Yes, they’re nice. That’s—that one.”

Mac stopped on one of the formals. “This?”

“That’s what I had in mind. It’s very good. We both look good, and I like the angle. This one, I think.”

“I’ll mark it. Might as well see the rest, to be sure.” Mac started the slide show again.

“Yes, they’re really very good. Very good. I do think the one I picked is . . .” She trailed off as the shot of them hugging came on screen. “Oh. Well, that’s lovely. Really lovely, isn’t it?”

“My mother will like the first one you picked.” Behind her, Charles rubbed Elizabeth’s shoulders.

“She will. Exactly. We’ll get it for her, have it framed for her. But . . .” She looked at Mac. “You were right; I was wrong. This is the one I want, the way I want to be portrayed in our engagement photo. Remind me I said the first part in September, when I try to tell you how to do your job.”

“I will. I was wrong, too. I think it’s going to be a pleasure to work with you after all.”

It took Elizabeth a moment, but she laughed.

She sent them off to Parker, figured Parker now owed her. She was sending off clients who—for the moment, at least—were more open to ideas and direction than they had been.

She settled down to complete packages for clients. One set of proofs, and the other the complete choices, all displayed in albums. For Bride and Groom, for MOB, MOG, the extra photos requested by various members of the families and wedding party.

When they were boxed, she decided she had just enough time for a quick dish of leftover pasta salad before she carted them and herself over to the main house.

She managed a couple of bites, eating over the sink. Frozen fairyland, she thought, staring out the window. Everything still and perfect. She grabbed her glass of Diet Coke, started to drink.

The cardinal smacked right into the window, a bang and blur of red. Diet Coke spewed up at the jerk of her hand to splash all over her shirt.

She watched the idiot bird wing away while her heart vibrated in her throat. Then she looked down at her shirt. “Damn it.”

She stripped it off, tossed it on top of her stacked washer/ dryer in the kitchen pantry. In bra and black pants, she wiped up the spill on the counter. Irritated, she grabbed the ringing phone. Since the readout indicated Parker’s cell, she answered with an aggrieved, “What?”

“Patty Baker’s here to pick up her albums.”

“Well, she’s twenty minutes early. I’ll be there, and so will they—on time. Keep her occupied,” she added as she moved toward the studio. “And don’t bug me.” She clicked off, turned.

Then she stared at the man who stood inside her studio.

His eyes popped, he blushed, then with a choked, “Oh God,” he spun around. And with a gunshot crack, smacked straight into the doorjamb.

“Jesus! Are you okay?” Mac tossed the phone on a table as she rushed over to where he was currently staggering.

“Yes. Fine. Sorry.”

“You’re bleeding. Wow, you really hit your head. Maybe you should sit down.”

“Maybe.” And with that, eyes dazed and slightly unfocused, he sort of slid down the wall to the floor.

Mac crouched, brushed at the dark brown hair that flopped over his forehead and the bleeding scrape that was already growing into an impressive knot. “Okay, it’s not cut. You’ve escaped stitches. It’s just really bashed. Boy, it sounded like you hit the door with a hammer. Ice maybe, and then—”

“Excuse me? Um, I’m not sure if you realize . . . I just wonder if you shouldn’t . . .”

She saw his gaze aim down, followed it with her own. And noted while she considered triage, that her barely bra-covered breasts were very close to pressing into his face.

“Oops. Forgot. Sit there. Don’t move.” She leaped up, dashed away.

He wasn’t sure he could’ve moved. Disoriented, bewildered, he sat where he was, back braced against the wall. Even with the cartoon birds circling over his head, he had to admit they’d been very pretty breasts. He couldn’t help but notice.

But he wasn’t at all sure what to say or do in his current situation. So sitting there, as she’d told him, seemed best all around.

When she came back with a bag of ice, she had a shirt on. It was probably wrong to feel the quick tug of disappointment. She crouched down again on what he noticed—now that her breasts weren’t in view—were very long legs.

“Here, try this.” She put the ice in his hand, put his hand on his throbbing forehead. And sat back on her haunches like a catcher behind the plate. Her eyes were the green of a magic sea.

“Who are you?” she asked him.

“What?”

“Hmm. How many fingers do you see?” She held up two.

“Twelve.”

And smiled. Dimples creased into her cheeks with the curve of her lips and his heart did a little dance in his chest.

“No, you don’t. Let’s try this. What are you doing in my studio—or what were you doing here before you concussed yourself over my boobs?”

“Ah. I have an appointment? Or Sherry does. Sherry Maguire?” He thought her smile dimmed a little, and the dimples disappeared.

“Okay, wrong place. You want the main house. I’m Mackensie Elliot, photography end of the business.”

“I know. I mean I know who you are. Sherry wasn’t very clear, which is usually the case, on where.”

“Or when, since your appointment’s not until two.”

“She said she thought one thirty, which I know means she’ll get here at two. I should’ve gone by Sherry Time, or called to confirm myself. Sorry again.”

“It’s no problem.” She angled her head. His eyes—very nice eyes—were clear again. “How do you know me?”

“Oh. I went to school with Delaney, Delaney Brown, and with Parker. Well, Parker was a couple years behind us. And, you, sort of. For a little while.”

She shifted for a closer look at him. Dense, disordered brown hair that needed a style and trim by most standards. Clear, quiet blue eyes surrounded by a forest of lashes. Straight nose, strong mouth in a thinnish face.

She was

good with faces. Why didn’t she place his?

“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.”

“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 doesn’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.”

“Number Three.” He laid the binder on the kitchen counter, adjusted his glasses, then read the description. “Why, particularly?”

“Because while it’s very inclusive—and I get the sense she wants somebody else to deal with the fine details—it leaves room for upgrading, and gives her a number of options inside the package. You should also tell her to pick the buffet over the plated meal in that package. Because,” she said before he could ask, “it’s more informal, gives more opportunity for mixing. It suits her. Then, down the road—when you’re out of it, she’ll meet with Laurel about the cake—flavors, design, size, and all that, and Emma about the flowers. Parker handles the rest, and believe me when I tell you she handles. Right now it’s all so big. Once she nails the package, seeing as she’s already got the dress, the venue, me, and so on, she’ll be able to think about the rest of it.”

“Okay.” He nodded. “Okay, so I tell her go with Number Three. It covers a lot of the details, has room for upgrading. It has a lot of options included. And she should take the buffet because it’s friendlier, and encourages mixing.”

“You’re good.”

“Absorbing facts and text is easy. If she asks me to help her decide on bouquets, I’m bolting.”

“I respect that.” She handed him the coffeepot. “They don’t need me at this point. Take this back, say your piece. And remind her to let me know what dates work for the engagement portrait.”

“You’re not coming back with me?”

He looked a little panicked. She gave him a quick pat on the cheek. “Bright side. One less woman in the mix. I’ll see you around, Carter.”

He stood where he was a moment as she walked out, and left him with the coffee and the binder.