Vision in White (Bride Quartet #1)(19)

And the grand and gorgeous house rose out of the sea, an elegant and graceful island.

She worked her way to it, experimenting with angles, using the light, honing in on the sparkling cotton balls of azaleas that would burst into bloom come spring. A movement caught her eye, and as she turned to follow it she saw the cardinal take its perch on the snow-covered branch of a maple. It sat, a single spot of vivid red, and sang.

Mac crouched, zoomed in rather than risk going closer and losing the shot. Was it the same bird who'd smacked into her kitchen window? she wondered. If so, he certainly seemed undamaged and unruffled as he sat like a single flame on the white-laced branch.

She caught the moment then, taking three shots in rapid succession, slight changes in angles that coated her jeans with snow as she inched left.

Then the bird took wing, swooped over the frozen sea, through the bright light, and was gone.

Emmaline, beautiful Emmaline in her old navy coat, white cap and scarf trudged toward her through the snow. "I wondered how long I'd have to stand there until you finished or the damn bird took off. It's cold out here."

"I love winter." Mac swung the camera up again, and with Emma in the crosshairs, depressed the shutter.

"Don't! God, I look awful."

"You look cute. Gotta love the pink Uggs."

"Why did I buy them in pink? What was I thinking?" She shook her head as she joined Mac, and both continued to the house. "I thought you'd already be inside, nagging Laurel to make breakfast. Wasn't it you who called me and said pancakes nearly an hour ago?"

"It was, and now we can both nag her into it. I got caught up. It's amazing out here. The light, the tones, the texture. And that damn bird? Bonus round."

"It's twenty degrees, and after pancakes, we're going to be shoveling this snow and freezing our asses off. Why can't it always be summer?"

"We hardly ever get pancakes in the summer. Crepes maybe, but it's not the same."



       
         
       
        

As she stomped snow off her pink Uggs, Emma slid her baleful gaze toward Mac, then opened the door.

Mac scented coffee instantly. She dumped her gear, set her camera carefully on top of the dryer, then strode in to give Laurel a rib-crushing squeeze. "I knew I could count on you."

"I saw you playing nature girl out the window, and figured you were coming over to whine for pancakes." Hair clipped back, sleeves rolled up, Laurel measured out flour.

"I love you, and not only for your snowy-day pancakes."

"Good, then set the table. Parker's already up, answering e-mail."

"Is she calling for snow removal?" Emma asked. "I've got three consults today."

"For parking. The consensus is there's not enough to call in the troops for the rest. We can handle it."

Emma's face clouded into a pout. "I hate shoveling snow."

"Poor Em," Mac and Laurel said together.

"Bitches."

"I've got a breakfast story." Riding on the impromptu photo session and the near occasion of pancakes, Mac dumped sugar in the coffee she'd poured. "A sexy breakfast story."

Emma paused in the act of opening a cabinet for plates. "Spill."

"We're not eating. Anyway, Parker's not down yet."

"I'm going up to drag her down. I want a sexy breakfast story to keep me warm while I'm shoveling this stupid snow." Emma scurried out of the kitchen.

"Sexy breakfast story." Considering Mac, Laurel picked up her wooden spoon to stir the batter. "Must involve Carter Maguire, unless you got an obscene phone call and consider that sexy."

"Depends who's calling."

"He's fairly adorable. Not your usual type, though."

Mac looked back as she opened the drawer for flatware. "I have a type?"

"You know you do. Athletic, fun-loving, may have creative bent but not a strict requirement, not too intense or serious-minded. Nothing in past history to include cerebral, scholarly, or quietly charming."

It was Mac's turn to pout. "I like smart guys. Maybe I just haven't run into one who hit my hot-o-meter."

"He's also sweet. Not your usual."

"I like sweet," Mac objected. "Taste my coffee!"

With a laugh, Laurel set the batter down to get mixed berries out of the fridge. "Set the table, Elliot."

"I'm doing it." As she did, she evaluated Laurel's list. Maybe it was accurate-to a point. "Everybody's got a type. Parker's got a type. Successful, well-groomed, well-read." 

"Bilingual a plus," Laurel added as she washed berries. "Should be able to distinguish between Armani and Hugo Boss at twenty paces."