Down Home Carolina Christmas (5 page)

“I'd rather find Shasta,” Mike said, showing a hint of stubbornness, but Carrie convinced him to accompany them inside the Eat Right, anyway. They all sat down in a booth, where the boys ordered rocky-road ice-cream cones and Carrie asked for a dish of chocolate and strawberry. The ice cream distracted them from thinking about their failure to turn up any evidence of the missing dog.

Kathy Lou Watts, the waitress behind the counter, was in a cheerful mood. “I hear Luke Mason stopped by your gas station a couple of Sundays ago,” she said chattily.

“He did,” Carrie answered. She watched helplessly as ice cream dripped onto Jamie's spotless blue T-shirt.

“Is he as handsome as he is on the screen?” Kathy Lou asked.

“Handsomer,” Carrie answered without really thinking about it. “Imagine! Luke Mason himself was right here in the Eat Right this morning. The girls on the early shift said he ate eggs and bacon for breakfast, just like any ordinary person. And link sausage. He must really like sausage 'cause he asked for three orders to take out.” Kathy Lou scrubbed energetically at a stain on the counter with one corner of a damp dish towel.

“I suppose just about everybody around here will get a gander at Luke Mason before they're through filming that blamed movie,” Carrie said.

“I heard that the casting director is going to interview local people for minor speaking parts,” Kathy Lou told her.

“Is that so?” Carrie asked with little interest. Kathy Lou talked nonstop; how she could run on.

Kathy Lou stopped scrubbing and leaned toward Carrie confidentially. “My niece is going to try to get herself a part. Wouldn't that be something? Mikaila Parker from Yewville, South Carolina, in an honest-to-goodness Hollywood movie?”

“Mmm,” Carrie said absently, wondering if she should close the station and haul Hub with her out to the bypass after she dropped the boys off at their grandparents' house. She and Hub could call Shasta; they could whistle. Maybe they'd even find her alive and well, thumping her tail in someone else's dust.

Kathy Lou was still talking. “You get paid by the day. For being in the movie, I mean. If they pick you, that is. Big Jessie is going to take Little Jessie for an interview so she can sing “Tomorrow” from that play.
Annie.
Little Jessie already got her a part in the parade twirling her baton, but Big Jessie says she's got more talent than that.”

“Um, yes, indeed,” Carrie murmured, though the specter of Little Jessie decked out as Little Orphan Annie and twirling her baton while singing an off-key rendition of “Tomorrow” tended to curdle the ice cream in her stomach.

“You should aim for a speaking part, Carrie. You and Dixie. Either one of you girls is pretty enough to be a movie star. And Dixie's already been chosen to be a beauty contestant, I hear.”

“She can get off work at the real-estate office to be in the movie, but I have a garage to run. Jamie, hurry up and finish your cone. Your grandma is going to worry about what happened to us.”

“Like I'm worried what happened to Shasta,” Jamie said disconsolately. He kicked his heels against the bottom of his seat.

“I wonder where that dog's gone. Dog gone. Doggone, Jamie, get it?” Mike said.

This ended the morning on a slightly cheerful note. The boys wiped their hands obediently with the damp napkin that Carrie dipped in her water glass and uncomplainingly left their seats when she said it was time to leave.

“Bye, Carrie,” Kathy Lou called after them.

“Bye,” Carrie called back.

Carrie shepherded the boys out of the restaurant. She certainly didn't want a speaking part in the movie. But she sure would have liked to know where Shasta had disappeared to.

L
ATER THE SAME AFTERNOON
, Carrie was setting her vegetables out on the table in front of the station, when she spotted the Ferrari coming down the street, convertible top down. The car didn't really register at first. She was sick at heart because there was still no sign of Shasta. Out on the bypass, she and Hub had explored every cul-de-sac, but they had seen no sign of the pup. At least they hadn't found her dead on the side of the road.

The Ferrari's turn signal was blinking, and the car slowed in front of the station. Carrie rushed through her task, meaning to go inside. Luke Mason could pump his own gas. She didn't want to be involved in any discussion about what had happened out behind the refreshment stand the other day, nor did she think it would be a good idea to engage in more kissing. The trouble was that she wanted to. But she wasn't going to give in to unwieldy desires. She had her principles.

She started inside, telling herself that it wasn't the man who was the big attraction, only his car. She sneaked a peek at the Ferrari out of the corners of her eyes. She couldn't believe it when there was Shasta, sitting on the front seat big as you please.

“Shasta!” she cried, so glad to see the dog that she wanted to hug her. While Luke Mason gazed at her from behind his sunglasses, she hurried over. It was Shasta, all right, no mistake about that. No mistake about Luke, either. “What are you doing with this dog?” she demanded as he got out of his car in a leisurely manner. He wasn't smiling, so maybe he'd had the same second thoughts as she had about that kiss.

“I'm bringing the dog back. How could you leave her outside after you closed for the day? Something could have happened to her.” He sounded angry.

She glared at him. “She's not my dog. I feed her and give her water, and I'm trying to find her a good home. I don't suppose you'd be interested,” she suggested pointedly.

At that, Luke backed off a bit. “I can't have a dog, but I can certainly provide temporary quarters when an animal is being mistreated,” he said self-righteously.

“Shasta is not mistreated. She's homeless, that's all. Has she been with you all night? I've searched everywhere for her.” She figured she had at least as much right to be angry as Luke Mason.

Luke nodded. “She spent the night in my room on a down-cushioned bench belonging to the previous residents. Oh, and I bathed her and fed her, too.” He seemed right proud of himself, which only ticked her off.

“Do you have any idea how upset I was when the Calphus boys called and said Shasta wasn't here at the station this morning when they came by? You had no need to kidnap her.”

Luke held up his hands as if to deflect the torrent of words. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. Who are the Calphus boys? It's not their dog, is it?”

“I already told you, she's a stray,” Carrie began after drawing a deep breath, but then she realized that as an outsider, Luke wouldn't know Mike and Jamie and their situation.

“Look,” Carrie went on, speaking more kindly this time. “The boys and I were worried sick when we couldn't find her.” She reached in through the Ferrari's open door and tugged at Shasta, but there was no budging her. The dog resisted, panting all the while through a big, openmouthed doggy grin. Then the shameless mutt slid sideways on the seat until she was lying down, rolling over on her back and gazing up at Carrie, daring her to remove her from Luke Mason's car.

“I'm sorry if I caused any trouble,” Luke said. “Your dog wolfed down a great breakfast this morning—three orders of link sausage from the Eat Right Café. Oh, and I gave her all my grits. I've discovered I hate grits. They taste like cooked goose bumps.”

She suppressed a grin. “Do me a favor and make an effort to get Shasta out of your car while I go call Mike and Jamie to tell them she's safe.”

“Okay, you little rascal,” Luke said to the dog. “Get out of there. Come on.”

Carrie left Luke prodding and pulling while she went into her office to use the phone. By the time she had finished explaining to a jubilant Mike and Jamie, Shasta was lying in the doorway.

“Thanks for bringing her back. The boys are probably riding their bikes over here right this minute.”

“Will they take her home? I don't like the idea of her wandering around.”

“Their mom won't let them keep her. I'll leash her to a stake out back under the big tree if that makes you feel any better.” She paused, deciding that if she moved only a foot this way and Luke moved only two feet that way, their heads would be perfectly aligned to pick up where they'd left off at the casting call. Then she was ashamed of herself and sighed. “Okay, so we've sort of solved the dog problem. Now, don't you have a movie to make?”

Luke stared at his feet for a long moment. “I'm glad you mentioned that. Whip Larson, our producer, asked me to give you this.” He yanked a sheaf of folded papers out of his back pocket and handed it to her.

Silently, keeping an eye on Luke, Carrie opened the packet and perused the lines of fine print.

“This seems to be a contract,” she said.

“That's exactly what it is,” Luke told her with an air of smugness that she found most unappealing. “All you have to do is sign on the dotted line, pass go and you collect twenty thousand dollars. Plus an extra five if you'll sell Whip the Marilyn Monroe calendar. He's a collector.”

The fact that someone had gone to the trouble to draw up the contract without consulting her made her furious, and she felt her face flush.

“Just sign on the dotted line and let the movie people run around my station for weeks,” she said, her tone dripping venom. “Oh, and sell Granddaddy's calendar besides.”

“Well, that's a minor point,” Luke said with the hint of a grin.

“And you expect me to put my signature on here.”

“Why not? Your friends and neighbors have all been most cooperative.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “Luke, will you please listen for once? I don't want to rent Smitty's to you or anyone else. And besides,” she added, “I don't like being pushed around.” She quickly folded the contract into a paper airplane and sailed it past Luke Mason's shoulder. He grabbed at the missile, but it landed under the rack of empty Coke bottles.

“Yet you didn't seem to worry about losing customers when you closed up before five o'clock yesterday afternoon,” Luke pointed out.

“Yesterday was Wednesday,” she said.

“Today is Thursday. So what does that mean?”

“Most of the businesses in town take Wednesday afternoons off during the summer. I usually leave Smitty's around one o'clock. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do,” Carrie said.

She went back outside and began to arrange her produce on the table, glad that he couldn't know how hard her heart was beating. Luke picked up the airplane she'd made out of the contract, and she felt his gaze upon her as she lined up the baskets just so. When she ignored him, he took his time getting back in the Ferrari, and she didn't spare him so much as a flick of an eyelid as he drove away.

The physical attraction had been there, but at least neither of them had followed through on it. Maybe someday when she was an old lady, she'd remember the occasion on which she'd kissed a movie star. She'd tell her great-grandchildren about it, and it would become part of their family history.

Blamed movie people. She wouldn't care if they took their money and their glitz and their contracts and disappeared, all of them. Except she supposed there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that this could happen any time soon.

Luke had been a bankable box office star long enough to recognize when someone was intimidated by his star status, and that was no doubt Carrie Smith's problem. He'd encountered this situation before with people outside the business, which created an ongoing dilemma because he wasn't interested in women who were aspiring actresses or even in those who were already successful.

He was ready to settle down with one woman if he ever found her, and common sense and experience had taught him that relationships between two people in show business almost never worked out. On the other hand, women who weren't involved in the business often didn't understand. When he was around them, he tried too hard to act like a normal, everyday person. That was what he'd been doing with Carrie. Some actor he was, he reflected ruefully. These days, playing himself was the hardest role of all. The achievements toward which he'd strived in order to validate his own self-worth—namely fame and stardom—were sometimes the very things that worked against him to make him feel insignificant in the real world. It was a melancholy thought, one that he'd have liked to share with someone. Except he didn't know anyone who would understand it.

After he left Carrie, he headed down Palmetto Street, at loose ends until he remembered that Whip and Tiffany were presently at Dolly's Truck Stop and decided he might as well give Whip the bad news about Smitty's. The unsigned contract in his pocket was proof that Carrie Rose Smith wanted nothing to do with the movie; she'd made that quite clear.

At Dolly's, Whip and Tiffany Zill were perched on adjacent stools at the bar. He nodded to Tiffany's bodyguard, a big block of a guy named Ham Fancher.

As soon as Luke sat down beside Whip, he realized he had interrupted the producer's conversation with his costar, for whom he felt a solid affection mitigated by a certain amount of worry. Tiffany required a great deal of TLC when on location.

“Why here?” Tiffany said disconsolately. “Why film this movie in Dullsville?”

Oh, jeez, she was complaining already.
Luke concentrated on the beige ovoid shapes of the pickled eggs in the big jar in front of him and treated himself to a long grateful pull on his beer, affording Whip a chance to handle this on his own.

“The name of the town is Yewville, Tiff,” Whip said with all due patience.

“Yewville, Dullsville, what's the difference?” Tiffany pouted. She was famous for pouting and was regularly pictured in fan magazines pursing her lips for the camera.

“You do recall that
Dangerous
is about a race-car driver, a legend in his own time? And that you play his wife?” Luke reminded her gently.

Tiffany focused bewildered eyes on him. “Well, sure. We could have filmed at the studio, though.”

“We're aiming for authenticity,” Whip said. “And sweetheart, I didn't tell you to get engaged before you came here.”

That was all Tiffany needed to take umbrage. “If Peyton Kirk, owner of the largest hotel chain in the world, asked you to marry him, you'd have said yes, too,” she retorted.

Whip got a good laugh out of that, and Luke grinned.

“I doubt it,” Whip said. “In fact, you can count on my continued interest in the female of the species. Which reminds me, Luke, what have you heard from the lovely Miss Carolina Rose Smith?”

For an answer, Luke yanked the scorned contract from his pocket, smoothed the paper back into its folds and sailed it past Tiffany's surprised face toward Whip, who caught it neatly.

“I'd like another beer,” Tiffany said, but everyone ignored her, including the bodyguard, who was admiring his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He'd been a wannabe actor before he'd given up and snagged a job with a security company, which paid better than going to auditions.

Whip raised his eyebrows at the blank signature line before balling the contract up and aiming it at a nearby trash can.

“I wonder if Peyton has called,” Tiffany said. She yanked her cell phone out of her purse, a sheaf of red-gold hair falling across her face. This reminded Luke of Carrie's hair and how it had wisped around her ears as she bent over the vegetables she was arranging for display. He quickly banished the memory to the far regions of his consciousness. No good would be served by wishing for something he was never going to have. He made himself stare resolutely at the neon beer advertisement hung precariously over the bar.

Tiffany slapped her cell phone closed. “He hasn't phoned since this morning,” she said petulantly.

“All she thinks about is Peyton,” Whip said to Luke.

“Let's play a game of pool,” Luke suggested, figuring all of them were sorely in need of something to do. “You, too, Tiffany.” To Luke, keeping his costar busy seemed like a good idea. If she had too much time to think, assuming that Tiffany was actually capable of cogent thought, she'd go flopbottom on all of them.

“I'd rather eat something than play a silly game,” Tiffany said. “They make butter burgers here. Have you ever had one?”

Luke shook his head, and Tiffany continued talking. “It's a regular hamburger made out of ground sirloin, and they butter the bun, I mean really slather it on, and then they layer whatever you want on top of the meat, like slaw or chili. I ate two yesterday. It made me stop obsessing about how good fried chicken tastes.”

Luke and Whip exchanged worried glances. “Come on, Tiff, you're playing pool with us,” Whip said as he appropriated one arm, and Luke took the other to propel her toward the pool table in the back room.

“Wait a minute,” Tiffany said. “I'm hungry. Ham, ask if I could have fries with the burger, will you?” Ham headed back to the bar and engaged the bartender in conversation.

“We ate lunch only a couple of hours ago,” Whip said. He handed Tiffany a pool cue. “Plus, why would you go and put on weight that you sloughed off at that pricey health spa only a couple of weeks ago?”

“A sliver of water chestnut on an arugula leaf,” Tiffany said. “That's what they call lunch there. Next time I have to check in, I'm importing my own chef.”

“Uh-huh. I'm sure they'd allow that,” Whip said.

Luke made a mental note to suggest to Whip that Tiffany's personal trainer arrive as soon as possible. The woman was supposedly attending a funeral in Canada, but since when did a funeral take three weeks?

Luke racked the balls while Tiffany chalked her cue. The game commenced with Tiffany fouling balls all over the place and both of them letting her get away with it. This went on for two games until Tiffany tossed her pool cue down. “I'm going home, and I'm taking a couple of butter burgers with me.”

Whip, with a back-me-up glance at Luke, slung his arm around her shoulders and adopted a wheedling tone. “Tiffany, sweetie, stick to your diet, okay?”

“That's right, Tiff,” Luke said seriously. “Do what Whip says.”

“What is this ‘be a good girl' stuff? Leave me alone,” Tiffany said, flouncing toward the door.

“Tiff,” Luke began, ready to suggest that he keep her company for the evening. Never mind, no sacrifice was too great, no difficulty was insurmountable, if it meant keeping Tiffany Zill on point as far as this movie was concerned.

He wasn't sure if she heard him. She kept walking, Ham shadowing her. At the door she almost bumped into a couple of women wearing sequined tube tops, who spared her a curious glance, then proceeded to sidle up to Luke and Whip as if they were long-lost buddies.

“We've got a problem with your costar,” Whip muttered, his gaze following Tiffany to the bar, where she stopped under a sign that said Order Takeout Here.

“We've got a worse problem than that,” Luke muttered back meaningfully as he removed one of the women's hands from his shoulder. She was all over him, and she'd only just arrived.

“My name's Rita,” she said to him, “and this is Modean. I'm not wearing underpants. Are you guys out for a little fun?” She winked at Luke.

“Not tonight,” Luke said, the status of Rita's underpants of no particular interest at the moment. He eyed Tiffany as she reached across the counter for a large brown bag holding, possibly, four or five butter burgers. Oh, and don't forget the fries. “Should we do something about Tiff, Whip? Before she gets out the door?”

“Modean's not wearing underpants, either,” Rita said helpfully.

Whip ran a hand across the top of his head, whiffling the hair into spikes. “What am I supposed to do, grab that bag and run for it? Ole Ham won't put up with any sabotage on our part. The man's half Rottweiler. No, let Tiffany get away with something so she'll stay in a good mood. Jules won't put up with her pouting at rehearsal tomorrow.”

Jules Trout was the director of
Dangerous,
and Whip was right. Jules brooked no slackers, and the last thing they needed was for him to refuse to work with Tiffany, thus precipitating a costly search for a new Mary-Lutie Goforth.

Rita had now transferred her attentions to Whip and was caressing his shoulder. “How about a little back rub? Might make you relax,” she said invitingly, batting long clumpy eyelashes.

“Nah, honey, we're on our way out of here,” Whip said, easing toward the door.

“How about you?” Modean asked, rubbing sequins against Luke's upper arm and losing a few in the process.

“No, thanks,” Luke said, hurrying after Whip. He'd never much liked sequins, anyway.

“Y'all come back, you hear?” called Modean as Luke and Whip made their escape.

The night air was freshening, the wind picking up so that the temperature seemed almost cool. Luke wondered if a storm was in the offing.

“Wow, this Southern hospitality is unbelievable,” Whip said, grinning at Luke as he jerked his head back toward the door, where they'd left Modean and Rita to seek other company.

“Not so I've noticed,” Luke said, reminded of Carrie's antagonism toward him earlier. He surveyed the parking lot for Tiffany's limo, previously parked under the biggest oak; it was gone. He considered phoning her, then rejected the idea as soon as it surfaced. The prospect of yet another evening in Tiffany's presence while she sang the praises of Peyton Kirk held no appeal, and he might be subjected to her hangers-on, as well. She'd brought along a wearisome business professional and an agonizingly shy personal assistant, two females who bored Luke to the max.

As Luke drove out of the parking lot, he glanced at his watch. With the difference in time zones, it was still too early to chat up any of his friends in California. There was nothing to do but head back to the mansion, which was a house, not a home. His life had been a succession of such abodes since he'd left Garrett Falls, New Hampshire, and embarked on a career that had led him from bit parts on TV to supporting movie roles and then starring in major motion pictures. He should be accustomed to this way of life by now.

Unfortunately he wasn't.

T
HUNDER RUMBLED
in the distant night sky, and Carrie, who was watching television in her parlor with Killer sleeping in her lap, paid little attention until rain started pouring down. Torrents swept in from the west, filling the gullies alongside her driveway, splashing through the downspouts, drenching her garden.

She transferred Killer to his basket in the kitchen. Then she went out on the screened porch and switched on the outside lights, pleased that her vegetables were getting a good watering. Lightning forked across the sky, precipitating a crash of thunder. The porch light flickered and went out momentarily, and when it came back on, she spotted water dripping from the ceiling.

She regarded it with dismay. Sure, the roof was old, but she'd thought it would be a couple of years before she had to replace it. Killer, revived by the noise and the hope of a snack more appealing than rabbit kibble, joined her, twitching his whiskers with interest.

“Guess I'd better grab a bucket,” Carrie said in resignation as she nudged Killer back into the hall with her foot. “You stay away from there, you. That's all I need, damp little bunny prints tracked over my clean floor.”

The rabbit hopped toward his food dish as Carrie dug around in the lower kitchen cabinets trying to find her great-grandmother's old canning kettle. She finally dragged it out and positioned it under the leak, then went back inside and headed upstairs to make sure there were no leaks there.

To her horror, several more streams of water poured from the rafters in the attic. Water had trickled over a trunk that had belonged to Great-Grandmother Smith, and another, older leak had stained the heart pine floor.

Springing into action, Carrie pushed the trunk to the dry area in the dormer and tugged at a velvet Victorian settee until it was positioned away from the leak. She stuck a wastebasket under one stream of water. Then, after upending several boxes, she located an old set of pots and positioned them wherever she found a drip. This was her fault; she should have checked the attic once in a while for damage, but she'd expected the roof to hold up after its last patching.

Over a year ago, when she'd noticed a few shingles missing after a big storm, Norm O'Malley, Joyanne's cousin and a qualified roofer, had replaced some shingles and pronounced the roof sound. Well, this most recent storm had been a doozy, so she probably shouldn't be surprised that the roof hadn't held up.