Vision in White

“Nothing. Water over the bridge.”

“Under, generally. Well, barring flood.”

“Right. I enjoyed seeing you in your natural habitat.”

“Would you like to go for coffee? That was the last class of the day. We could—”

“Hey, Carter, I was going to grab a . . .” A short man with horn-rims and a fat shoulder-bag briefcase wandered in. He stopped, gave Mac a baffled look. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Um, Mackensie Elliot, one of my colleagues, Bob Tarkinson.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mac said as Bob’s eyes went wide behind the lenses. “Do you teach English?”

“English? No, no, I’m in the Math Department.”

“I liked math. Geometry especially. I like figuring the angles.”

“Mackensie’s a photographer,” Carter explained, then remembered Bob already knew that. And maybe just a little too much more.

“Right. Photography, angles. Good. Soooo, you and Carter are—”

“Talking about having coffee,” Carter said quickly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Bob.”

“Well, I could . . . Oh, right, right.” With only the first half ton of bricks landing on him, Bob clued in. “Tomorrow. Nice meeting you, Mackensie.”

“Bye, Bob.” Mac turned back to Carter.

Bob took the opportunity to shoot Carter a wide grin and two enthusiastic thumbs-up on his way out.

“So, ah, coffee.”

“I’d like that, but I’m on my way to a client. When I’m done I have to go home and do my homework. I’m cramming for a test.”

“Oh. What?”

“Big job, major client. Super-duper presentation required. We’ve got a week to put something together that clinches it. But if you’re done for the day, maybe you could walk me out to my car.”

“Of course.”

She waited while he got his coat. “I almost wish I had some books for you to carry. It would circle around to the nostalgia I get when I come in here. Although I don’t recall ever having a guy carry my books.”

“You never asked me.”

“Oh, if we knew then what we know now. You looked good in there, Dr. Maguire. And I don’t mean in your professor suit. Teaching looks good on you.”

“Oh. Well. Really I was just leading a discussion. Letting them do the work. That was more along the lines of conducting.”

“Carter, say thank you.”

“Thank you.”

They stepped outside, down the entrance steps to turn for the walk to visitors’ parking. “Never too cold to hang out when you’re a teenager,” Mac observed.

Kids milled the lawn, sat on the stone steps, loitered in the parking lot.

“I had my first serious kiss right over there.” She gestured toward the side of the building. “John C. Prowder laid one on me right after a pep rally. I had to round up Parker and Emma between fifth and sixth periods and recount the entire event in the girls’ room.”

“I saw you kiss him one afternoon, standing on the steps. My heart shattered.”

“If we knew then. I’ll just have to make it up to you.” She turned into him, wound her arms around his neck, pressed her lips to his. She kissed him in the shadow of the academy, with all the ghosts stirring in its corridors, all the old dreams shifting.

“Way to go, Dr. Maguire,” someone called out, with a few hoots of approval following.

Her face full of fun, she gave his tie another tug. “Now I’ve ruined your reputation.”

“Or seriously improved it.” He cleared his throat when they reached her car. “I suppose you’ll be busy all week with the proposal.”

“Busy, yes,” she agreed when he opened the door for her. “But I’ll come up for air.”

“I could make you dinner, maybe Thursday, if you could come up for air then.”

“You cook?”

“I’m not entirely sure. It’s a gamble.”

“I’m not opposed to gambling, especially when food’s involved. Seven? Your place?”

“That would be perfect. I’ll give you my address.”

“I can find you.” She got in the car. “I’ll bring dessert,” she said, then went breathless with laughter at his expression. “That wasn’t a metaphor for sex, Carter. I meant actual dessert. I’ll hit Laurel up for something.”

“Understood. But I do love a good metaphor.”

She drove away shaking her head. Points for the professor. Now she had until Thursday to decide if she’d settle for a piece of Laurel’s Italian cream cake, or add on the metaphor.

CHAPTER TEN

CARTER CHECKED THE TABLE IN WHAT PASSED FOR HIS DINING room for a third time. He rarely used it as he tended to eat at the kitchen counter or at his desk. In fact, this was the first time he’d put a tablecloth on it.

He thought it hit the right tone between fussy and casual. White plates on a dark blue cloth, and the yellow stripes in the napkins brightened it up. He thought. He hoped.

He took the trio of votive candles off the table, they were too studied. Then put them back. It looked unfinished without them.

After dragging his hand through his hair, ordering himself to stop obsessing, he turned his back on the table to go into the kitchen.

That was the real worry, after all.

The menu passed muster. He’d run it by the Domestic Science instructor, adjusted for her suggestions, and added her recipe for the honey vinaigrette for the field greens salad.