Vision in White
Page 29

Mac watched Delaney Brown jog toward the parking lot. “Who was that guy?” she asked, and made Carter laugh.
As she slid in, Mac wondered if Carter had requested a corner booth, or if they’d just gotten lucky. It added just a hint of intimacy to play against the upscale casual tone of the restaurant. She turned down the offer of a cocktail in favor of wine with dinner, then ignoring her menu, turned to Carter.
“So, the salad-eating squeaky violin. No follow-up?”
“I don’t think either party was interested in one.”
“Do you go on many blind dates?”
“That was my first and last. You?”
“Never. Too scary. Plus, the four of us made a pact, years ago, never to try to fix each other up. It’s worked out for the best. So, are you interested in sharing a bottle of wine, Dr. Maguire?”
He slid the wine list toward her. “You pick.”
“That’s brave of you.” She opened it, scanned. “I’m not a wine buff, I just take pictures of them, but they do have this Shiraz I like.”
Even as she spoke, their server stepped to the table with a bottle of Shiraz.
“That’s excellent service,” Mac commented.
“Mr. Maguire? Mr. Brown phoned and would like you to have this with his compliments. Or, if it doesn’t suit, whatever bottle you’d like.”
“Those Brown kids.” Mac shook her head. “They never miss. I’d love a glass, thanks. Okay?” she said to Carter.
“Sure. That was awfully nice of him.”
It was, Mac thought, as well as a subtle little wink. First chance he got, she knew, Del would be teasing her brainless.
SHE DIDN’T EAT LIKE A HORSE IN CARTER’S ESTIMATION, BUT she didn’t pick her way through a lonely salad for ninety minutes either. He liked the way she gestured with her wineglass or with her fork as she talked. And the way she stabbed a bite of his sea bass from his plate to try it without asking if he minded.
He wouldn’t have, but not asking was . . . friendlier.
“Here, take a hunk of this steak.” She cut off a portion.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Do you eat red meat?”
“Yes.”
“Just try it. It’s like we’ve got the surf and turf thing going.”
“All right. Do you want some of this rice?”
“No. I can never figure out why anyone would. Anyway, back to the topic at hand. You actually had your English Lit class watch Clueless to evaluate the updating of Austen’s Emma.”
“It demonstrates that literature—and storytelling—isn’t stagnant, that the themes, dynamics, even social mores of Emma translate to the contemporary.”
“I wished I’d had teachers like you. Did you like it? Clueless ?”
“Yes. It’s clever.”
“I love movies. We had a double-feature last night, but I OD’d on the pot pie and fell asleep during Music and Lyrics. Hugh Grant.” She gestured with her wineglass again. “Sense and Sensibility. Did you see it?”
“I did. I thought it was a lovely and respectful adaptation. Did you read it?”
“No. I know, terrible. I did read Pride and Prejudice. Loved it. I keep meaning to read it again now that I’d have Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy in my brain, so even better. What’s your favorite book-to-movie deal?”
“Personal favorite? Mockingbird.”
“Oh, Gregory Peck. I read the book,” she added. “It’s great, but oh, Gregory Peck. Atticus Finch. The perfect father. That scene at the very end, where she’s—what’s her name?”
“Scout.”
“Yeah, where she’s narrating and you see him through the window, sitting beside his son’s bed. It kills me. It’s so beautiful. When I watched it as a kid, I used to imagine Atticus was my father. Or Gregory Peck—either one would do. He’d be there, when you woke up in the morning. I guess I’ve never gotten over that. Pitiful.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know what it’s like, growing up without a father. You don’t see yours often?”
“No, hardly ever. When I do—every few years—he’s enormously charming, very affectionate. I end up getting sucked in, then bruised when he goes off and ignores me immediately after. He’s an in-the-moment sort of person. If you’re not in that moment with him, you don’t exist.”
“It hurts you.”
“Yes, it does. Over and over. And that’s too depressing a topic for this really nice dinner. Give me one more. Another adaptation you like.”
He wanted to stroke her hair, to put an arm around her. But that wasn’t the comfort she wanted. He circled through his brain. “Stand by Me.”
She frowned, obviously trying to place it. “I don’t know that one. Who wrote it? Steinbeck? Fitzgerald? Yeats?”
“Stephen King. It’s based on his novella The Body.”
“Seriously? You read King? He scares the crap out of me, but I can’t resist it. Wait! That’s the one with the kids, the boys hiking to look for somebody, some dead guy, who maybe got hit by a train? I’m remembering this. Kiefer Sutherland plays a complete ass**le hood. He was great.”
“It’s about friendship and loyalty. Coming of age, standing together.”
“You’re right,” she said, studying his face. “It is. I bet you’re a really amazing teacher.”
“Some days.”
She nudged her plate aside, then leaned back with her wine. “What do you do when you’re not teaching, reading, or watching movies based on novels or novellas?”
“That’s a lot right there.”
“Golf, rock climbing, stamp collecting?”
He smiled, shook his head. “No.”
“International intrigue, watercolors, duck hunting?”
“I had to give up the international intrigue due to travel fatigue. I’m pretty boring.”
“No, you’re not. And believe me I keep expecting you to be.”
“Ah . . . thank you?”
She leaned forward to poke a finger in his arm, leaned back again. “All right, Carter, now that you’ve indulged in—good God—nearly three-quarters of a single glass of wine—”
“I’m driving.”