Нора Робертс - Vision in White

go, Carter. “Anyway. What can I do for you?”

“I dropped by to give you this. I was going to leave it at the front office, but they told me you had a free period, and were in here. So I thought I’d give it to you in person.”

She offered him a package wrapped in brown paper. “You can open it,” she said when he only looked flustered. “It’s just a token—appreciation for letting me dump on you the other night, and for the hangover you spared me. I thought you might like it.”

He opened it carefully, peeling up the tape and flapped ends. And took out the photograph matted in a simple black frame. Against the black and white of snow and winter trees, the cardinal sat like a living flame.

“It’s wonderful.”

“It’s nice.” She studied it with him. “One of those lucky breaks. I took it early yesterday morning. It’s no belly-crested whopado, but it’s our bird, after all.”

“Our . . . Oh. Right. And you came in to give it to me.” Pleasure flustered him nearly as much as embarrassment. “I thought you’d be angry with me after I . . .”

“Kissed my brains out,” she finished. “That would be stupid. Besides, if I’d been pissed, I’d have kicked your ass at the time.”

“I suppose that’s true. Still, I shouldn’t have—”

“I liked it,” she interrupted, and rendered him speechless. Turning, she wandered the room. “So, this is your classroom, where it all happens.”

“Yes, this is mine.” Why, dear God, why couldn’t he make his brain and his mouth work together?

“I haven’t been back here in years. It all looks so much the same, feels so much the same. Don’t people usually say the school seems smaller when they go back as an adult? It actually seems bigger to me. Big and open and bright.”

“It’s a strong design, the building I mean. Open areas, and . . . But you meant that more metaphorically.”

“Maybe I did. I think I had some classes in this room.” She walked around the desks to the trio of windows along the south wall. “I think I used to sit here and look out the window instead of paying attention. I loved it here.”

“Really? A lot of people don’t have fond memories of high school. It’s often a war of politics and personalities, set off by the cannon fire of hormones.”

Her grin flashed. “You could put that on a T-shirt. No, I didn’t like high school all that much. I liked it here, because Parker and Emma were here. I only went here a couple of semesters. One in tenth and one in eleventh, but I liked it better than Jefferson High. Even though Laurel was there, it was so big we didn’t get to hang out all that much.”

She turned back. “Politics and warfare aside, high school’s still a social animal. Since you’re back in the classroom, I bet you loved every minute.”

“For me, high school was a matter of survival. Nerds are one of the low levels on the social strata, alternately debased, ignored, or reviled by those on others. I could write a paper.”

She eyed him curiously. “Did I ever do that?”

“Write a paper? No, you meant the other part. Not noticing is different from ignoring.”

“Sometimes it’s worse,” Mac murmured.

“I wonder if we could go back to the other night, and your ‘I liked it’ response. Could you be more specific, in case I’m misinterpreting?”

He just made her smile. “I don’t think you’re misinterpreting. But—”

“Dr. Maguire?”

The girl hesitated in the doorway, radiating freshness and youth in the prim navy uniform of the academy. Mac noted the signs—the rosy flush, the dewy eyes—and thought: serious teacher crush.

“Ah . . . Julie. Yes?”

“You said I could come by this period to talk about my paper.”

“Right. I just need a minute to—”

“I’ll get out of your way,” Mac said. “I’m running behind as it is. Nice to see you again,

Doctor Maguire.”

She strolled out, passing pretty young Julie, and made the turn for the stairs. He caught up with her before she’d made it halfway down.

“Wait.”

As she stopped and turned, Carter laid a hand on her arm. “Would not misinterpreting include it being okay for me to call you?”

“You could call me. Or you could meet me for a drink after school.”

“Do you know where Coffee Talk is?”

“Vaguely. I can find it.”

“Four thirty?”

“I can make five o’clock.”

“Five. Great. I’ll . . . see you there.”

She continued down, glancing back as she reached the base of the staircase. He stood at that halfway point still, hands in the pockets of his khakis, his tweed jacket just a little saggy, and his hair carelessly mussed.

Poor Julie, Mac thought and continued on. Poor little Julie, I know exactly how you feel.

“YOU ASKED HER TO COFFEE TALK? WHAT’S WRONG WITH you?”

Carter scowled as he loaded files and books into his briefcase. “What’s the matter with Coffee Talk?”

“It’s a hangout for staff and students.” Bob Tarkinson, math teacher and self-proclaimed expert on affairs of the heart, shook his head sadly. “You want to make it with a woman, you take her out for a drink. A nice bar, Carter. Something with a little sense of atmosphere and intimacy.”

“Not every contact with a woman’s about making it.”

“Just every other one then.”

“You’re married,” Carter pointed out. “With a baby on the way.”

“Exactly why I know what I know.” Bob rested a hip against Carter’s desk, putting his wise expression on his pleasant face. “Do you think I got a woman like Amy to marry me by taking her out for a cup of coffee? Hell, no. You know what turned the tide for me and Amy?”

“Yes, Bob.” Because you’ve told me a thousand times. “You cooked her dinner on your second date, and she fell for you over your chicken cutlets.”

Still wise, Bob wagged his finger. “Nobody falls for somebody over a latte, Carter. Trust me.”

“She doesn’t even know me, not really. So the falling-for portion is irrelevant. And you’re making me nervous.”

“You were already nervous. Okay, you’re stuck with coffee, so see how it goes. If you’re still interested, do the follow-up call tomorrow. Next day latest. Dinner.”

“I’m not making chicken cutlets.”

“You can’t cook for shit, Maguire. Besides, this coffee thing isn’t officially a first date. Take her out. When you’re ready to close the deal, I can give you a recipe. Something simple.”

“God.” Carter rubbed the space between his eyebrows where tension built. “This is why I avoid dating. It’s hell.”

“You’ve avoided dating because Corrine screwed up your self-confidence. It’s good you’re getting back on the horse, and with somebody outside our sphere.” In support, he clapped Carter on the shoulder. “What did you say she does again?”

“She’s a photographer. She has a wedding business with three of her friends. They’re doing Sherry’s wedding. We—Mackensie and I—went to high school together for about five minutes.”

“Wait. Wait. Mackensie? The redhead you had a crush on in high school?”

Defeated, Carter rubbed the spot between his eyebrows again. “I should never have told you about that. This is why I rarely drink.”

“But, Cart, this is like kismet.” Excitement rushed through the words. “It’s like return of the nerd. It’s the big chance to follow up on a lost opportunity.”

“It’s coffee,” Carter muttered.

Flushed with enthusiasm, Bob jumped up, grabbed a piece of chalk. On the board he drew a circle. “Obvious, the circle. You’re completing one, and completing it just means taking point A and point B—” Within the circle he made two dots, connected them horizontally. “Up to point C.” He drew another dot at the apex, then joined it with the other points with two diagonal lines. “See?”

“Yes, I see a triangle inside a circle. I’ve got to go.”

“It’s the triangle of fate inside the circle of life!”

Carter hefted his briefcase. “Go home, Bob.”

“You can’t argue with math, Carter. You’ll always lose.”

Carter escaped, moving quickly through the largely empty school with his footsteps echoing behind him.

SHE WAS LATE. MAYBE SHE WASN’T COMING AT ALL. ANYTHING could’ve come up, Carter thought. If he’d had any brain cells working he’d have given her his cell number so she could call and cancel.

Now he just had to sit here, alone.

For how long? he wondered. The fifteen minutes he’d already waited wasn’t long enough. A half an hour? An hour? Did waiting alone for an hour make him a pathetic loser?

He thought it probably did.

Stupid, he told himself and pretended to drink more green tea. He’d dated before—plenty. He’d been in a serious, intimate relationship with a woman for nearly a year. For God’s sake, he’d lived with her.

Until she’d dumped him and moved in with someone else.

But that was beside the point.

It was

just coffee. Or, well, tea in his case. And he was working himself up over a casual . . .

encounter, he decided for lack of a better term, like some silly girl over a prom date.

He went back to pretending to read his book while he pretended to drink his tea. And ordered himself not to watch the door of the coffee shop like a starving cat watches a mouse hole.

He’d forgotten—or had stopped noticing long ago—how noisy the place was. Forgotten how many of his students frequented the cafe. Bob had been right about the bad locale.

Colorful booths and stools were crowded with upperclassmen from the academy and the local high school, along with twentysomethings, with a scatter of teachers.

The lights were too bright, the voices too loud.

“Sorry I’m late. The shoot ran over.”

He blinked as Mac slid into the chair across from him. “What?”

“You must’ve really been into your book.” She angled her head to read the title. “Lawrence Block? Shouldn’t you be reading Hemingway or Trollope?”

“Popular fiction’s a strong and viable force in literature.

That’s why it’s popular. Reading for nothing more than pleasure is . . . another lecture coming on. Sorry.”

“Teacher mode suits you.”

“I suppose that’s a good thing, in the classroom. I didn’t realize you were working when you stopped by. We could’ve made it later.”

“Just a couple of client meetings, and a shoot. I have a bride who for some reason wants every moment of her plans photo-documented professionally. Okay with me, as it’s money in the bank. I documented her fitting—wedding dress—with her mother in weeping attendance. The weeping added a little more time than I’d scheduled.”

She pulled off her cap, finger fluffed her hair as she gazed around the shop. “I haven’t stopped in here before. Nice energy.” She notched up the smile for the girl who came over to take her order.

“I’m Dee. What can I get you?”

“I think we’ll have some fun. How about a tall latte macchiato, double shot, squirt of vanilla.”

“Coming up. Another green tea for you, Dr. Maguire?”

“No, I’m good, Dee. Thanks.”

“Not a fancy coffee fan?” Mac asked as Dee went to put in the order.

“Just not this late in the day. But it’s good here—the coffee. I usually stop in for a cappuccino in the morning before work. They sell the beans, too, so if you like the coffee . . . I have to get this out of the way. I can’t think. And not being able to think, my inane conversation’s going to put you to sleep despite the double shot.”

“Okay.” Mac propped her chin on her fist. “Get whatever out of the way.”

“I had a crush on you in high school.”

Her eyebrows shot up as she straightened. “On me? Seriously?”

“Yes, well, yes, for me. And it’s mortifying to bring this up, a dozen years or so after the fact, but it’s coloring the current situation. From my side, that is.”

“But . . . I barely remember you ever actually speaking to me.”

“I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was painfully shy back then, especially in any kind of social situation. Anything, particularly that involved girls. Girls I was attracted to, that is. And you were so . . .”

“Tall latte mach, double with vanilla.” Dee set the oversized cup on the table, added a couple of mini crescents of biscotti on a saucer. “Enjoy!”

“Don’t stop now,” Mac insisted. “I was so what?”

“Ah, you. The hair, the dimples, the everything.”

Mac picked up the biscotti, leaning back to nibble on the end as she studied him. “Carter, I looked like a beanpole with carrots growing out of my head in high school. I have pictures to prove it.”