She was good with faces. Why didn’t she place his?

“I knew most of Del’s friends, I think.”

“Oh, we didn’t exactly run in the same circles. But I tutored him once, when we were studying Henry the Fifth.”

That clicked. “Carter,” she said, pointing at him. “Carter Maguire. You’re not marrying your sister, are you?”

“What? No! I’m a stand-in for Nick. She didn’t want to do the consult alone, and he got held up. I’m just . . . I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, actually.”

“Being a good brother.” She patted his knee. “Think you can stand up?”

“Yeah.”

She straightened, held out a hand to help him. His heart did another little dance as their hands met. And by the time he’d gained his feet, his head was beating the drum for the rhythm. “Ouch,” he said.

“I bet. Want some aspirin?”

“Oh, only enough to beg.”

“I’ll get it. While I do you can sit down on something that isn’t the floor.”

When she went back in the kitchen, he started to, but the photographs lining the walls caught his eye. Magazine shots, too, he noted, and had to assume them hers. Beautiful brides, sophisticated brides, sexy brides, laughing brides. Some in color, some in atmospheric black and white—and some with that odd and compelling computer trick of one spot of intense color in a black-and-white shot.

He turned as she came back and had the errant thought that her hair was like that—an intense spot of color.

“Do you take anything else, photographically?”

“Yes.” She handed him three pills and a glass of water. “But brides are the focal point and the selling point of a wedding business.”

“They’re wonderful—creative and individual. But she’s the best.” He stepped over, gestured to a framed photo of three young girls, and the blue butterfly resting on the head of a dandelion.

“Why?”

“Because it’s magic.”

She stared at him for what seemed like forever. “That’s exactly right. Well, Carter Maguire, I’m going to get my coat, then we’ll walk over and take our consult.”

She took the bag of melting ice out of his hand. “We’ll get you fresh at the main house.”

Cute, she thought as she went for a coat and scarf. Very, very cute. Had she noticed he was cute in high school? Maybe he was a late bloomer. But he’d bloomed nicely. Enough that she’d felt a little twinge of regret when she’d thought he was a groom.

But a BOB—Brother of the Bride—that was a different kettle.

If she were interested, that is.

She put on the coat, wound the scarf—then remembered the blast of wind earlier, and pulled a cap over her head. When she went down, Carter was putting his glass of water in the sink like a good boy.

She picked up the enormous cloth bag holding some of the albums, handed it to him. “Here you go. You can carry this. It’s heavy.”

“Yes. It is.”

“I’ve got this one.” She picked up the second, and a smaller one. “I’ve got a bride waiting for her finished albums, and another due for her proofs. Main house, like the consult.”

“I want to apologize for just coming in before. I knocked, but nobody answered. I heard the music, so I just walked in, and then . . .”

“The rest is history.”

“Yes. Ah, don’t you want to turn the music off ?”

“Right. I stopped hearing it.” She grabbed the remote, hit Off, tossed the remote down. Before she could open the door, he moved in, opened it for her. “You still live in Greenwich?” she began as her breath sucked in at the shock of cold.

“Well, more again than still. I lived in New Haven awhile.”

“Yale.”

“Yes, I did some postgraduate work and taught for a couple years.”

“At Yale.”

“Yes.”

She narrowed her eyes at him as they walked the path. “Seriously?”

“Well, yes. People do teach at Yale. It’s highly recommended, given the students.”

“So you’re like a professor.”

“I’m like a professor, only now I teach here. At Winterfield Academy.”

“You came back to teach high school at your alma mater. That’s kind of sweet.”

“I missed home. And teaching teenagers is interesting.”

She thought it was bound to be more volatile, though that might be interesting. “What do you teach?”

“English Literature, Creative Writing.”

“Henry the Fifth.”

“There you go. Mrs. Brown had me out here a couple of times when I was working with Del. I was sorry to hear about the accident. She was an incredibly nice woman.”

“Best ever. We can go in this way. It’s too cold to walk all the way around.”

She led him in through the mudroom, into the warmth. “You can stow your gear in here. You’re still on the early side. We’ll get you some coffee in the meantime.” She shed coat, scarf, hat while she spoke, moving quickly. “No event today, so the main kitchen’s clear.”

She picked up her bags again while he carefully hung his coat, as opposed to the way she’d tossed hers in the direction of the hook. She seemed to vibrate with movement while standing still as he hauled up the large bag again.

“We’ll find you a place to—” Mac broke off as Emma walked toward the main kitchen.

“There you are. Parker was about to . . . Carter?”

“Hi, Emmaline, how are you?”

“I’m fine. Good. How did you . . . Sherry. I didn’t realize you were coming with Sherry.”

“He is and he isn’t. He’ll explain. Get him some coffee, will you, and some ice for his head? I’ve got to get these to the bride.”

She grabbed the heavy bag from Carter, and was off.

Emma pursed her lips as she studied the scrape, and said, “Ouch. What did you do?”

“I walked into a wall. You can skip the ice, it’s doing okay.”

“Well, come in, have a seat and some coffee. I was just coming back to do a setup for the consult.”

She led the way, gestured to a stool and a long, honey-toned counter. “Are you here to give moral support to the bride and groom?”