Down Home Carolina Christmas (14 page)

At least hanging with Tiffany for the evening would be more fun than sitting around and contemplating a full pot of chicken and dumplings all by herself. Maybe she'd invite Dixie and Joyanne, too.

So that was what she did. Carrie went to pick up Tiffany, Dixie and Joyanne arrived soon after, and they ate dinner. They mostly talked about their work, and Tiffany was just like one of the girls. In fact, she
was
one of the girls, and the three of them made plans to go outlet shopping at the beach on the Saturday before the hiatus began. When it was time to leave, Joyanne, more than eager to make points with Tiffany, offered to give her a ride home, and the two of them left before Dixie did.

When they were alone, Dixie plunked herself down on the parlor sofa as if digging in for a long stay.

“So Luke is friends with this Paola person?” she asked brightly as Carrie went around gathering up glasses and dessert dishes to put in the dishwasher.

“He met her at some party in Hollywood,” Carrie said, moving on to the kitchen.

Dixie picked up Killer and cuddled him on her shoulder. He moved to nibble her dangling earring, though she kept it from becoming just another munchie by yanking him away. “And they're friends?”

“I guess. All I know is that Luke was planning to eat dinner here and canceled.”

“I don't blame you for being ticked off.”

Carrie regarded her, exasperated. “I am not ticked off.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

Deciding a change of subject was overdue, Carrie held out her arms and appropriated her rabbit. She stroked him for a moment. “Did Tiffany enjoy herself?”

“It seemed like it.”

“All this informal counseling of Tiffany has made me understand one thing,” Carrie told her sister. “It doesn't matter if we're rich or poor, famous or unknown, all women have the same problems.”

“She's waiting for Peyton to call—you're waiting for Luke. Is that what you mean?”

“I'm not waiting for Luke to call,” Carrie said indignantly. “Oh, okay, maybe I am.” This didn't change the subject as she'd intended, so she tried again.

“Tiffany's upset that her wardrobe doesn't fit,” she said.

Dixie dismissed this concern immediately. “Oh, they'll get her something to wear. From what you've told me about those adorable little frocks they've flown in from Hollywood, her character isn't dressing much like our own Mary-Lutie, who was never seen without a bib apron except at church.”

“Hey, Dixie, you've given me an idea.”

Dixie followed her into the kitchen, where Carrie dug in the refrigerator and liberated a lone carrot from its plastic bag. She tossed the carrot onto the newspaper beside Killer's dish and set him down beside it.

“What kind of idea?” Dixie asked.

“About Tiffany's wardrobe problems.”

“You're planning to shop at the outlets for clothes she can wear in the movie, are you? Mary-Lutie wasn't into fashionable knockoffs. Though she might have gone for Hanes underwear, come to think of it.”

“No, it's nothing like that. I'll tell you about it after I find out how it goes over.”

“You're not exactly a wealth of information, Carrie. You play your cards too close to the vest.”

“Vest? Mary-Lutie certainly didn't wear vests,” Carrie replied innocently, upon which Dixie declared that she'd better go home, since she had to get up early in the morning.

After she waved goodbye to Dixie from the porch, Carrie went back inside. The house seemed too big and lonely without Luke. She lay awake past midnight, hoping that Luke might phone after he was through with dinner, and as usual, the back door was unlocked in case he wanted to sneak in to sleep with her, but he didn't call. When she woke up around three o'clock, Killer was burrowed under the pillow beside her head and Luke was nowhere around.

It was the first night in weeks that they hadn't been together, and the sense of loss was crushing. She rolled over into the middle of the bed where the sheets smelled of Luke, thinking that would make her feel less lonely, but it didn't work. Only Luke himself could do that, but he wasn't there.

C
ARRIE ARRIVED
at Smitty's early the next morning while the crew was still setting up. She walked Shasta, shut her up in her office and retrieved a big box out of the back of her SUV. Luke drove up as she was maneuvering it through the door.

“Carrie!” he said, his face lighting up at the sight of her. He was out of his car in an instant to help her. “What do you have in here?”

She set the box on the counter. “Wardrobe,” she said. “Slightly used clothes from my church clothes bank.”

Luke threw back his head and laughed. Then he hugged her and kissed her on the cheek. “Only you would come up with something like that.”

“Well, you all want the movie to be authentic, which is hard to accomplish with clothes from Hollywood,” she pointed out.

“I'll be sure to tell Whip you said that. As if he doesn't have enough problems as it is.” He blew out a deep breath. “Paola,” he said. “She's driving us all nuts.”

“You didn't manage to calm her down?” Carrie said, striving to keep her tone even. “Last night?”

He stared at her for a moment. “Carrie, what are you thinking?”

She dug into the box and tossed a bib apron on the counter. It might do well for Tiffany except for the raveling of the Sunbonnet Sue appliqué on the pocket. “Nothing. I'm thinking nothing.”

“It's about last night, right? You're angry because I didn't show for dinner.”

“Oh, no. I had a fine time listening to Tiffany complain, to Joyanne getting on her good side and to Dixie asking me all kinds of questions about our relationship. If we have one, that is.”

Luke stood back. “Whoa,” he said. “You're peeved.”

“Only a little,” Carrie allowed, sending him a look that probably contradicted the statement.

“I ate dinner with Whip and Paola. We listened to her gripes.”

“The band shell in the park is all wrong?”

“How'd you figure that out?”

“I was there when she pitched a full-barreled totally ballistic conniption fit.”

“Pardon me?”

She'd forgotten he wasn't familiar with Southernisms. “Flipped out maximumly,” she translated for his benefit.

Luke blinked, then continued his explanation. “Well, anyway, we convinced her to repaint the band shell, to forget that it's turned forty-five degrees too far to the west, and keep our shooting schedule intact. After dinner, Whip drove Paola back to her motel, which happens to be in Florence, and I went to my place and crashed. It was a difficult day and I was exhausted.”

“Luke, it's all right. You don't have to explain.” She turned away from him, but he pulled her into his arms.

“It's not just dinner, is it?” He rubbed her back, and she melted into him. It wasn't easy to stay mad at Luke.

“I missed you,” she said moodily. “When I reached for you in bed, you weren't there. Killer chewed lace off the pillowcase overnight, and it's some that my great-grandmother crocheted. I'm in a bad mood, that's all.”

He kissed her, and as usual, it made everything else go away. She'd never enjoyed kissing a man so much in her life, and that was saying something, because she and her first boyfriend had necked for hours in the back rows of the Skyline Drive-in years ago, and those kisses had always been the mark for each successive suitor to match.

“We'll make up for it tonight,” Luke said. “Pothier's, then bed. Okay?”

She smiled up at him as a car drove over the rubber bell signal out front. “I have a better idea. Bed, then Pothier's?”

He laughed and hugged her tighter. “That's what I love about you, Carrie. You think the way I do. But I'm warning you, it could be a late dinner.”

They heard whining and pawing on the other side of Carrie's office door. Shasta nudged the door open and bounded toward Luke, her hind end wagging enthusiastically and her front end sniffing his hand for the dog biscuits he'd taken to carrying with him.

“She's learned to push the office door open if it doesn't click tightly shut,” Carrie said with a sigh. “She's tired of being homeless.”

Luke knelt to scrub Shasta behind her ears. “She's going to find someone eventually, aren't you, girl?” He slipped her the dog biscuit as Carrie went outside to greet her customer.

A perplexed Odella Hatcher was studying the gas pumps, over which Carrie had tied croker sacks printed in black Magic Marker:
CLOSED UNTIL FILMING ENDS.

“I declare, when are these movie people going to be through with the garage?” Mrs. Hatcher wanted to know. “I need a tune-up real bad.”

“I'm not sure, Mrs. Hatcher,” Carrie said politely, leaning over the window so Odella wouldn't spot Luke right inside the door.

“Well, you call me, Carrie, when you can serve customers again. I don't want to go to the Quik-Stop if I don't have to. I started trading here when your granddaddy owned the place, and I'm not about to stop now.”

“I really appreciate that,” Carrie said sincerely, stepping back.

“By the way, the school district has a contract to let. They're planning to buy six new portable classrooms. Would you mind asking that boyfriend of yours to contact my husband at the school-district office?”

The word
boyfriend
brought Luke to mind, though only momentarily. Mrs. Hatcher was surely referring to Mert, the mobile-home installer.

“Mert and I broke up, Mrs. Hatcher. Six months ago, at least.”

“Oh, well. I'm a little behind.”

It was all Carrie could do not to snicker, seeing as Odella Hatcher's behind was a lot bigger than most.

“I'll call you when we open again,” Carrie promised.

Mrs. Hatcher smiled and drove off in a whirlwind of dust. Before the Lincoln was out of sight, Luke came up and circled his arms around her right out there beside the gas pumps.

“Luke,” she objected. “Stop it.”

“I don't care who knows we're a couple, Carrie Rose Smith. Not your sister, not Memaw Frances and most particularly not Mrs. Hatcher.”

Carrie let him kiss the side of her neck before twisting away. “How about bringing Shasta's water dish out here so I can fill it from the spigot?”

He went, but Carrie was pensive as she hurried back inside the building. So far Luke had said that he loved certain things about her. He'd said that he missed her and that he didn't care who knew they were a couple. But he still hadn't said the magic words.

He hadn't said that he loved her. Nor had she said that she loved him, but in such a situation, it was Carrie's firm belief that ladies first was a really bad idea. He'd have to say it and he'd have to mean it before she could let on how she really felt.

“I'
M SO SICK
and tired of this—this love you have for racing,” Tiffany said for the umpteenth time, and Carrie couldn't figure out how in the world actors could repeat the same line over and over yet keep it sounding fresh and new.

Her attention wandered, and she didn't hear the click of Shasta's toenails on the concrete floor, nor did she see the dog until it was too late. When Shasta pranced onto the set, Carrie made an involuntary squeak, causing Jules to holler, “Cut!” and glare at her. Meanwhile Shasta was shaking Luke down for a biscuit.

“The dog,” Carrie said. “When I last checked, she was shut up in my office. Sorry about that.”

“Get. Her. Off. The. Set,” Jules commanded, pointing a finger at poor Shasta, who was by now trying to reach Luke's fingers for a lick.

“I have an idea, Jules,” Luke said in a reasoning tone. “Let Shasta stay. She can sit next to that pile of tires and be cute.”

“This scene doesn't need any cute,” Jules said disgustedly. “It needs passion, excitement. It needs—” and he paused dramatically
“—acting.”
The edges of his mustache turned down—never an optimistic sign.

“Can we have a conference?” Luke said, slinging his arm around Jules's shoulders and walking him to a corner. The wardrobe lady appeared and fussily adjusted the waistband of the skirt from the church charity barrel, which was made of softly faded gingham and hung on Tiffany like a flour sack. At least to Carrie's eye, it looked authentic.

Jules and Luke returned from their conversation, and Jules ordered Shasta to lie next to the tires, where she lay chastened, head on paws. Jules consulted with the lighting tech and the camerapeople before stalking to his chair in the far bay of the garage.

“Okay, we're ready.”

Luke and Tiffany assumed their places, and Becky materialized out of nowhere to wipe the thin sheen of perspiration from Tiffany's upper lip.