Vision in White

“I don’t know. Maybe since we sort of knew each other in high school when I was going through my artistic free spirit phase and he was a nerd. And he was tutoring Del when I had my obligatory crush on Del.”

“You had a crush on Del?”

“Obligatory five-minute one,” she repeated as she got out the beer. “In fact, I think it only lasted three. Emma made the five.”

“Emma had . . . hmm.”

“And my attention sort of skimmed over him. Carter, I mean. The oh, there’s that guy, the smart one. Then fast-forward to now, and it’s like

oh, there’s that guy! Funny.”

“It looks good on you.”

“Feels good, most of the time.” She handed him the beer, tapped hers to it. “When it’s not scary. I’ve never been in love before. In lust, in serious like, but love’s a whole new level of good and scary. He’s got a school thing tonight, which is another strange and funny thing. Me, falling for a teacher. The PhD. I’m the only one of us who didn’t go to college. Photography courses, business courses, but not the dorms and campus and the whole shot. And I’m wrapped up in a guy who grades term papers, gives homework, leads discussions on Shakespeare.

“You’d make more sense, come to think of it.”

“Me?” Jack blinked at her. “I would?”

“No need to wear the panic face. I’m just saying you’d be a more logical choice. We both think in images, in concepts. We need to visualize to create. We both run our own businesses, work with clients. We have divorced parents and half sibs, though your parents are really nice. We have a close circle of mutual friends, are commitment phobic. And we like the occasional beer.

“Plus,” she realized, “our names rhyme.”

“You’re right. Let’s go have sex.”

She laughed. “Missed that boat.”

“I guess we did.”

Amused at both of them, she tipped up her beer. “You never made the move.”

“If I’d made the move, Del would’ve beaten me to death with a shovel. Nobody messes with his girls.”

“He does know we’ve all had sex.”

“He prefers to pretend otherwise, but none of you have had sex with me. To my misfortune. That’s key.”

“I guess you’re right about that. Besides, while logically we may seem suited, we’d end up fighting over drawer space and hating each other. Carter makes room. He’s got the innate ability to open up and accept.”

“Got the starry eyes on you,” Jack commented. “So how does it work? Who takes the wedding photographer’s pictures when she walks down the aisle?”

“Aisle?” She choked on her beer. “I never said anything about aisle. I’m not—we’re not. What makes you think we’re thinking about getting married? Where’d that come from?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He swiveled on his stool, gestured at the walls lined with wedding photos. “Being surrounded maybe, added to the starry eyes.”

“That’s business. Those are business. Just because I think about weddings doesn’t mean I’m thinking about a wedding.”

“Okay, no need to go to Crazytown.”

“I’m not. I’m just—” She sucked in a breath. Marching to her desk, she came back with a large pad and a pencil. “Sketch. Earn the beer.”

SHE SPENT THE REST OF THE EVENING STICKING WITH THE PLAN. AS the hills and piles became more manageable, her stress level decreased, and a sense of accomplishment rose. She’d have her living space back, and better than ever in no time, she thought. She’d feel more in control then.

It was nice to have the evening alone, to deal with her own business, to have her own space. She could do that and miss Carter at the same time. In fact, doing that meant she was handling the relationship.

Love him, love being with him, but be perfectly content to spend time on her own. Unlike—

When the phone rang, she checked the readout.

Linda.

Mac closed her eyes, reminded herself she couldn’t avoid speaking to her mother forever. Avoiding calls was childish. Confront and stand your ground, she told herself.

“Yes, Mom.”

“Mackensie, you have to come! Please, please, come right away.”

Alarm ripped straight through annoyance, and had Mac’s heartbeat jagged with fear. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Hurry. Oh, you have to come. I don’t know what to do.”

“Are you hurt? Have you—”

“Yes. Yes, I’m hurt. Please help me. I need you. Please help me.”

“Call nine-one-one. I’m on my way.”

She flew out of the house, grabbing a coat on the fly. Dozens of images, each worse than the last rushed through her mind. A suicide attempt, an accident, a break-in.

Icy, treacherous roads, she thought as she risked life and limb and punched the speed through the nasty fall of freezing rain. A careless driver in the best of circumstances, Linda could’ve wrecked that toy car of hers, and—

No, no, she’d called from home, not the cell. She was home.

Mac fought to keep control of the wheel, gripped it with hands that wanted to shake, as she rounded a curve too fast for safety.

She fishtailed to the curb in front of her mother’s dollhouse Cape Cod, ran up the slippery walk to the door. She found it unlocked. The thought of break-in shoved through the door with her.

Had she been raped? Beaten?