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.”
“That’s what you always say.”
“I’ll bring the entire collection back,” Emma promised and scooted out.
Alone, Mac turned to open a cupboard. Some sugar and preservatives, she thought, along with her coffee. When she opened the cupboard, she found a shiny red apple in front of the box of Pop-Tarts. The note propped on it read: Eat me, too!
She snorted out a laugh as she took the apple, and laid the note on the counter. Sweet boy, she thought, taking a bite. Funny boy. What could she do for him short of marrying him at this stage?
She destroyed him with La Perla, she’d cooked an actual meal. She—“The photograph!”
She dashed to her workstation to boot up her computer. She hadn’t forgotten about phase three of the gift. She just hadn’t been able to decide which shot, and how to present it.
“Should be working, should be working,” she mumbled. “But it’ll only take a minute.”
It took her more than forty, but she selected the shot—one of the post-kiss, cheek-to-cheek images. He looked so relaxed and happy, and she . . . right there with him, she mused as she studied the final