Down Home Carolina Christmas (13 page)

“I'd like to see my parents, Carrie,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “It's been a long time, and being with your family has made me realize how precious our time together is. Mom and Dad are getting older, and I'm worried about both of them.”

Carrie swallowed. She understood. Of course she did. But she would miss Luke unbearably if she couldn't be with him every day.

A tear trickled from beneath her eyelid and fell on Luke's arm. “Carrie,” he said in a tone of complete surprise.

“It's only that I'll miss you,” she said brokenly, feeling like a fool and hating herself for showing him this weakness. He'd think she was a basket case, no more stable than Tiffany. He might get the idea that she was trying to work her tenterhooks into him, tying him down. He'd hate her for it.

However, hating her was the last thing he seemed to be doing at the moment. His hand worked its way lower until it curved over her abdomen, and his leg slid farther between hers.

“I don't have to leave quite yet,” he whispered.

For an answer, because she couldn't speak with tears welling up behind her eyes, tears that she could not stop, she guided him to the place where she wanted him to be. Their union should have been commonplace now that they'd made love so many times, but every instance was infused with a different meaning. Every time completed her in a way that she didn't understand and perhaps never would.

In those moments, a new sensibility crept into her consciousness, but she did not dare to dream that it was really true. She had fallen in love with Luke Mason. And she had no idea what she should do about it other than what she was doing that very moment.

Maybe in the end, that was enough. Maybe it would have to be.

Carrie customarily exercised Shasta in Memorial Park a couple of times a week, striking up conversations with anyone who might be a possible prospect for adopting a cute little black-and-white dog. Sometimes Dixie accompanied them when she was due a break at the real estate office.

One day Carrie, Dixie and Shasta stood near the park's statue of a Confederate soldier and observed the movie people as they set up a scene involving Yancey Goforth and his friends. All Carrie knew from discussing the script with Luke and Tiffany was that it was an important one, in which Yancey debated whether to accept a sponsorship offer from a company that made flour or one that manufactured motor oil. Later there was to be an intense scene, one between Mary-Lutie and Yancey, but Carrie had not been present during rehearsals for that one.

Whip's people had attempted to replicate a band shell that had stood on the banks of the pond but had been torn down a good ten years ago. It wasn't much like the band shell that Carrie remembered, being painted white instead of green inside, and apparently she wasn't the only one who was disappointed in it. A hot-tempered woman named Paola, all decked out in a paisley turban worn with what resembled silk pajamas in a depressing eggplant hue, was loudly bossing everyone around in accented English and complaining volubly that someone had ruined her plans.

“Is not what I expected,” she said huffily to everyone in general, complete with flowery hand gestures. “Is a damn shame. Have to tear down and start over.” She puffed on an enormously long cigarette and exhaled explosively through her nostrils. It was not a pretty sight.

“This woman is too much,” Dixie said flatly. “She's acting like a horse's behind.”

Carrie waved away a curtain of acrid smoke, nearly choking on it. “Let's walk over to the gazebo,” she suggested in the interest of self-preservation.

Near the gazebo they were sheltered from the breeze, which was whipping out of the north at a brisk pace. After a few moments, Dixie assessed Carrie speculatively out of the corner of her eye. “Memaw Frances said she carried a sweet-potato pie over to Luke Mason's house the other day, and since she was making apple pies yesterday, she took him another one. And guess what—the sweet-potato pie was still on the back steps. Some animal had gotten to it—a possum or some such—so there wasn't much pie left, and the plastic wrap was all torn into pieces.”

“That's too bad,” Carrie replied without much expression. Luke hadn't been home all week because he'd been living at her house. He'd even moved some clothes into her closet, causing her to open the closet door every now and then and peek just to make sure she hadn't dreamed them.

“Memaw said she didn't even bother to leave that apple pie. She packed it back up in the basket she'd brought it in and took it right home.”

“Hmm,” Carrie said. She knew Memaw liked Luke a lot, but she hadn't anticipated her taking him food. This was a circumstance to be reckoned with, and the reckoning was barreling straight at her.

Dixie regarded her with outright curiosity. “You wouldn't happen to know where Luke's been all that time, would you, Carrie? His plane's still parked on the airport tarmac.”

“I, um,” Carrie began, instinctively prepared to make a mess of this. She bent over to pet Shasta, playing for time.

“Oh, so you
do
know where he's staying?”

Carrie heaved a giant sigh. “All right, Dixie, I'll level. Luke's been at my house a good bit lately. Over and above Sunday dinner, I mean.”

Dixie's jaw dropped and her eyes bugged nearly clear out of their sockets. “Luke Mason is spending a lot of time with you,” her sister corroborated. “At your house.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Carrie cringed as she waited for the next salvo.

“You and Luke are seeing each other?” This came out all strangulated and yelpy, as if Dixie could hardly bear to spit the words out nice and proper.

“Um, well, yes. We are.”

Dixie sank onto the top gazebo step and appeared as if she might faint.

“You and Luke.”

This time, Carrie merely nodded. She couldn't say it any plainer.

“I suspected something was up when you didn't call me after he drove you to Florence for dinner with Tiffany and them.”

“A lot was up,” Carrie couldn't resist saying, earning her an elaborate roll of the eyes from her sister.

Dixie didn't speak for a long time, but then she grinned. “You little sneak. Why didn't you tell me?”

Carrie sat beside her and brushed at an imaginary piece of lint on her navy slacks. “I guess I wanted to keep it to myself. Anyway, why twist everyone's knickers in a knot over it? Why not just let things be?”

“How long, Carrie?”

Shasta nosed into Carrie's hand, and Carrie focused on the high white steeple of the First Baptist Church rising majestically above a bank of trees. “Since we went to Pothier's the night of the Chicken Bog Slog,” she said.

“You slept together afterward?” Dixie was smiling with glee, and Carrie had to remind herself that her sister meant well.

“I'm not telling,” Carrie said with dignity.

“You
did!
Oh, wait till Joyanne hears this.”

“You're not going to announce anything to anybody,” Carrie said firmly. “It's private.”

“Nothing about Luke Mason is private,” Dixie informed her. “Have you read the
Enquirer
this week? They've printed pictures of him on the way into a convalescent home for cosmetic surgery patients. The implication is that he's had a few nips and tucks.”

Carrie laughed at this. “That's very doubtful.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“That he misses his parents.”

“No kidding. That's what you talk about?”

“And other things.” Carrie stood and tugged on Shasta's leash. “Let's leave, Dixie. They won't be filming this scene until this Paola person gives the go-ahead, and that isn't happening any time soon.”

“Obviously you're not going to tell me much. That's kind of sweet.”

Carrie smiled. “It's self-protection.”

“Well, be like that if you must. I love you anyway. Say, I'll walk you as far as the office. How about stopping to get a chocolate banana at the Confectionery?”

“I've got a whole freezerful at home, so I'll pass.”

As they left the park, Dixie resumed her line of questioning. “Does Luke snore? Sleep with his mouth open? Does he favor boxers or briefs?”

Carrie, though amused, refused to answer any questions, and soon they arrived at the door of Yewville Real Estate, where, right beside the window, Mayzelle and her poodle were holding forth to a couple of associates standing around her desk.

“Would you like to come in for a minute?” Dixie asked.

Carrie shook her head. “Not right now.”

“Okay. Catch you later.”

Carrie continued toward Smitty's. As Dixie opened the door to the office, Carrie turned around.

“Oh, one thing I can tell you,” she said with a twinkle.

“What's that?” Dixie was all ears.

“Luke Mason takes his pants off like any other man. One leg at a time.”

They were both still laughing as Carrie hurried on her way.

“I'
M SO SICK AND TIRED
of this—this love you have for racing,” Tiffany said, staring into Luke's eyes.

“Honey, I don't love racing nearly as much as I love you,” Luke told her earnestly. He removed his hands from her shoulders and leaned on a dilapidated old car. He gazed upward, as if he saw a vision that only he could see. “It's—it's my destiny.” He whirled, faced Tiffany, whose bottom lip was tremulous. “Don't you understand, Mary-Lutie? I'm doing this for us. For our children. I'm going to make something of myself, but not for me. It's for you, all of you.”

“Cut!” called the director, beside himself with delight. “That was wonderful, Tiffany. You, too, Luke. We'll do a couple more takes when we resume here day after tomorrow.”

Carrie, who was standing nearby, beside a pile of ropes and cables, unclasped her hands and let herself breathe again. Tiffany had finally captured the accent, and Luke was doing an incredible job of portraying Yancey Goforth with a depth and understanding that he'd never displayed in his earlier films. In fact, there was a synergy between him and Tiffany, an interaction that really clicked. It was all Carrie could do not to applaud.

The technicians switched off the bright lights, and Luke, a towel draped around his shoulders, approached Carrie. His eyes held a triumphant gleam. “Tiff's getting it, finally. Thanks, Carrie. You've been a lot of help.”

She would have hugged him, but he held her off with one hand. “Not until I've showered. I'll stop by my place and pick up clean clothes. Meet you at the home place in an hour?”

“Sure, and I'm making chicken and dumplings.”

“Great,” Luke said. He claimed to love rolled dumplings made the way her mother taught her.

He pecked Carrie on the cheek.

“Is that all I get?” she teased.

“More later, okay?”

She grinned back. “Okay.”

She always stayed at Smitty's for a while after the movie people left, making sure that electrical lines were unplugged after the day's work and walking the dog. So far, Whip Productions had been model citizens, though Shasta didn't seem to think so. When Carrie released her from the prison of the office, she galloped around the garage a few times and came back to nuzzle Carrie's knee, gazing up at her with adoring eyes. Carrie knelt and hugged her.

“Tomorrow I'll spend quality time with you,” she promised. “Maybe we'll walk down and visit Mike and Jamie after they get home from school. Don't worry, I'm still trying to find you a permanent home.” She'd had two turndowns this week alone, the first from one of the sound techs and another from Glenda's mom, who had decided to get a cat, instead.

Carrie played with Shasta briefly before heaping food in her dish. Then she hurried home to start dinner.

The chicken and dumplings had been bubbling on the back of the stove for a long time when Luke called. He was already late, but Carrie wasn't worried. It had happened before. Sometimes he had calls to return or a phone conference with his manager or other businesspeople. She'd been surprised to learn how much time Luke spent on work matters other than actual hours in front of the camera.

“Luke?” she said, flipping open her cell phone.

“Hi, Carrie,” he said. “How are you doing?”

“Missing you,” she said. “The chicken and dumplings are ready, and I can throw together a salad when you get here.”

A long silence. “Listen, I hate to do this,” he said as her whole system went on alert. “I have to cancel.”

“Cancel? Why?”

“I told you about Paola Nicoletti,” Luke said. “She's freaking out because her assistants goofed up the set in the park. Whip wants me to go out to dinner with them and try to calm her down.”

Paola's theatrics in the park were fresh in Carrie's mind. “I see,” she said slowly. If she had to, she could stash dinner in the fridge and accompany Luke to dinner. If he asked, that is.

But he didn't. “Carrie, they're waiting for me and I've got to run. How about if you and I go out tomorrow? I'm so sorry I can't have dinner with you tonight.”

“Me, too,” she said.

“Bye, Carrie.”

She clicked her phone off and stared at it for a moment before it rang again. It was Luke, and she perked up immediately. Maybe he had changed his mind and wanted her to accompany him tonight.

“Carrie, sweetheart, I just had an inspiration. Maybe you could invite Tiffany over. Would you mind? She's all alone in that big house.”

“She has Ali and Becky and Ham,” Carrie pointed out.

Luke brushed off this statement. “They're employees,” he said. “You're a friend.”

Carrie wanted to remind him that she was getting paid to be Tiffany's vocal coach and would put herself in the same category as the other employees, but in the interest of maintaining her equilibrium she decided against it. She liked Tiffany. She really did.

“If you'd give her a call and go pick her up, I'd appreciate it,” he said. “Tiffany's really high on you at present. Without you, she would still be talking like someone from Mississippi by way of Long Island.”

“What about Liz?” Tiffany's personal trainer still didn't allow so much as a peeled grape to cross her charge's lips without approval, and Carrie doubted that she'd approve of chicken and dumplings, whose goodness derived from who knew how many grams of forbidden animal fat.

“Liz left this morning for Saskatchewan, something about her father's will. Anyway, Jules believes the extra weight makes Tiffany look the part of Mary-Lutie better than she did.”