CHAPTER NINETEEN
MAC HEARD THE THUMP, THE HISS OF BREATH, AND OPENED one eye. Snuggled in bed, she watched Carter hobble over to get his shoes.
"What time is it?"
"Early. Go back to sleep. I managed to get up, shower, and nearly get dressed before I ran into something and woke you up."
"It's all right. I should get up, get an early start anyway." Her eyes drooped closed again.
Carrying his shoes-and limping only a little-he walked over to kiss the top of her head. She made a murmuring sound of pleasure, and dropped back into sleep.
By the time she surfaced, the sun was beaming in.
Not such an early start after all, she mused as she rolled out of bed. Still, one of the perks of running your own business-and having no morning appointments-was sleeping in a little. She started for the bathroom, then shook her head and went back to make the bed.
It was the new Mac, she reminded herself. The tidy and organized in all areas of her personal and professional lives Mackensie Elliot. The Mac with the new, fabulously designed closet where everything had its place-and was in it.
She fluffed the pillows, smoothed the sheets, spread the duvet neatly. See, she told herself as she did every morning, it only took two minutes. With a nod of satisfaction, she surveyed her room.
No clothes tossed anywhere, no shoes kicked under a chair, no jewelry carelessly scattered on the dresser. This was the room of a grown-up, a woman of taste-and a woman in control.
She showered, then reminded herself to hang up the towel. In the bedroom she gave herself the pleasure of opening her closet and just standing there, looking at it.
"That's what I'm talking about."
Her clothes hung in precise lines, according to function and color. Every pair of her impressive collection of shoes nestled inside its clear protective box, in stacks of type. Evening shoes, daywear, sandals, boots-pumps, peeps, spikes, wedges.
Things of beauty.
Handbags, again by function and color, sat easily accessed in generous cubbies. Inside the glossy white drawers of the built-ins lived scarves-once doomed to tangled knots or jumbled piles, neatly folded, as did her dressier sweaters, her hosiery.
It made getting dressed an absolute stress-free pleasure. No more hunting, no more cursing, no more wondering where the hell she'd put that blue shirt with the French cuffs then having to settle for another blue shirt when she couldn't find it.
Because the blue shirt with the French cuffs was right there, where it belonged.
She pulled on a white tank, a navy V-neck with jeans, suitable wardrobe for the morning's work, and the early afternoon shoot. Satisfied and smug, she strolled out.
Strode back in to stuff her pajamas in the hamper.
She walked downstairs just as Emma came in the front door.
"I'm out of coffee. Help me."
"Sure. I was just about to . . . Oh, Carter must've made some before he left."
"I don't want to hate you for having someone who'll make coffee while you sleep, but I need caffeine for my altruistic side to wake up." Emma poured herself a mug, all but inhaled the first sip. "Life. It's good again."
Mac poured her own and drank in agreement. "Wanna see my closet?"
"I've seen it three times now. Yes, it's the queen of all the closets in all the land."
"Well, Parker's is the queen."
"Parker's is the goddess of closets. You take queen. Saturday's bride called," Emma continued. "She thinks she wants to change the flower girl flowers from rose petals in a basket to a blush pink pomander."
"I thought she changed from the pomander to the basket."
"Yes. And from crescent bouquet to cascade and back again." Emma closed her big brown eyes, circled her neck. "I'll be glad when this one's over."
"She's the kind who makes Carter's sister right."
"Sherry?"
"No, his older sister who says weddings are too stressful, too elaborate, and basically too big a deal. It's just one day."
"It's the day. Plus, you know, our livelihood."
"Agreed. But Saturday's bride is going to be a handful right up to the walk down the aisle. She called me yesterday, and faxed a shot she'd found in a magazine. Which she wants me to duplicate on Saturday. Hey, no problem. Except for the fact her dress is completely different, as is her body type, her headdress, her hair. Oh, and we don't happen to have the stone archway from an ancient Irish castle for her to pose in. At least not right handy."
"It's just nerves. The nerves of a control freak. I need another hit, then I've got to get to work." Emma topped off the mug. "I'll bring it back."