Vision in White

“I know you’re right. It’s just . . . I want to get everything in place.” She blew out a breath as she scanned the piles. “I want to get my life organized and feel in control. Get some clarity. I want to know what I’m doing with that, the way I do with the work.”

“Do you love him?”

“How do people know that? I keep asking myself, and the answer keeps coming back yes. Yes, I do. But people fall in and out of love all the time. The falling-in part’s scary and exciting, but the falling-out is horrible. It’s all going really well right now, so I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Do you know how much I wish I was in love with a man who loved me?”

“I don’t think you’d be picking out your bridal bouquet.”

“You’re really wrong. If I had what you have right now? I wouldn’t be standing in the middle of chaos trying to organize my life. I’d be looking forward to making a life. If you—”

She broke off as she heard the door downstairs slam.

“Hey, Mac? You here?”

“What’s Jack doing here?” Emma wanted to know.

“Oh, I forgot. Upstairs!” she called out. “He was coming by to talk to Parker, so I told her to ask him to stop over. Confused by closet organizers, I figured why not consult an architect?”

“You want an architect—a man—

Jack—to organize your closet?”

“No, to give me a vision of what to use to organize it.”

Emma gave Mac a dubious look. “You’ve now entered Parker territory.”

“Maybe, but have you seen her closet? It’s like a layout in a magazine. It’s like what the Queen of England probably has. Without all the odd hats. Jack! Just the man I wanted to see.”

He stood in the doorway, tall, clad in jeans, work shirt, and boots—and very male. “I don’t want to come in there. You’re not supposed to touch anything at a crime scene.”

“The only crime here is that.” She pointed at her closet. “An empty closet with one stupid bar and shelf. You have to help me.”

“I told you we needed to design the closet when we altered the space.”

“I was in a hurry back then. Now I’m not. I know I need at least two bars, right—a lower one. And more shelves. Maybe some drawers.”

He glanced around. “You’re going to need a bigger boat.”

“I’m purging. Don’t start with me.”

He walked in, hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “Roomy.”

“Yes, which is part of the problem. All that room, I’ve felt obliged to fill it. You can make it better.”

“Sure I can make it better. A kit from Home Depot would make it better.”

“I’ve looked at them. I want something more . . . More.”

“Ought to line it in cedar while we’re at it. You’ve got enough room for some built-ins here. Run a short rod on the side, maybe some box shelves there. I don’t know. I’ll think about it. I know a guy who could knock it out for you.”

She beamed a smile at him. “See, I knew you’d know what to do with it.”

“Hauling all this stuff back in’s on you.”

“Goes without saying. While you’re here—”

“You’d like me to design your broom closet?”

“No, but thanks. Male point of view.”

“I’ve got that on me.”

“What does it mean when you tell a woman she should leave some of her things at your place?”

“How did I get the concussion?”

“Typical,” Emma muttered.

“Hey, she asked.”

“It’s a woman you’re involved with exclusively. Intimately,” Mac explained.

“And now she wants to leave her strange female products in the bathroom. Then she needs a drawer. Before you know it she’s buying throw pillows for the bed, and your beer has to make room in the refrigerator for her diet drinks and low-fat yogurt. Then, wham, you’re going antiquing instead of watching the game on Sunday afternoon.”

“And that’s all it is?” Emma demanded. “Sure, she can roll around in the bed, tear up the sheets, but hell no, she can’t leave a toothbrush in

your bathroom. Or have a few inches of a drawer. That’s too pushy, that’s too much. Why not just leave the money on the dresser and call it what it is?”

“Whoa. That’s not what I—”

“Why should she be comfortable, why should she expect you to make any room in your life for her needs? God forbid she should infringe on your precious time, your sacred space. Pathetic,” she said. “Both of you.” And stormed out.

Jack stared at the empty doorway. “What was that? Why is she so pissed off at me?”

“It’s me. It started with me.”

“Next time warn me so I can dodge the ricochets. Is she . . . seeing someone who’s giving her trouble?”

“No. She’s not seeing anyone special. I am, and she’s frustrated because she thinks I don’t appreciate it—him—enough. She’s wrong. I do. But she’s right in that my thought process takes the same downward spiral you just outlined. And actually, she’s right. It is pathetic.”

“It’s not a downward spiral, necessarily. Maybe you want the yogurt or the antiquing. It depends.”

“On what?”

“Who’s leaving their stuff in your drawer. Got any beer?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go have a beer. I’ll sketch something out. If you like it, I’ll have the guy I know come over and measure, knock it out.”

“That’s worth a beer.”

“So, you and Carter Maguire.”

“Me and Carter Maguire,” she said as they started down. “Is it weird?”

“Why would it be?”