Down Home Carolina Christmas (2 page)

He rallied smartly. “I believe so, for the wedding scene. Yancey Goforth got married in a simple civil ceremony because he had a big race coming up that week.”

“It's not necessary to tell me about Yancey Goforth, who was one of my granddaddy's best friends. And while I'm at it, your costar, Tiffany Zill, does not look anything like his wife. Mary-Lutie Goforth was short and plump and had a sweet face, not all planes and angles like Ms. Zill's, with which I am familiar because her picture is regularly plastered over every tabloid at the Piggly Wiggly.”

Luke Mason seemed stunned at her tirade. “I guess you've wanted to get those things off your chest for a long time,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck and regarding her with a rueful grin.

That whacked the wind out of her sails, all right. “I guess I have,” Carrie admitted unwillingly.

“Maybe I should explain a bit about how we work,” he said, continuing in a reasoning tone. “I don't resemble Yancey Goforth. In fact, he was much handsomer than I am. Still, I like to think that I'll bring my own talent to bear on the role.”

Did he really mean that about not being as good-looking as Yancey? The admission was a bit of humility that was totally unexpected.

Luke fished a few coins out of his pocket. He wore snug-fitting jeans, and his thigh muscles rippled under the denim. He stepped up to the Coca-Cola machine and dropped in a series of quarters. Two Cokes slid to the bottom with a clunk, and Luke handed her one.

“I don't…” she began, staring down at it.

“Of course you do,” he said smoothly as he popped the top off his Coke with the opener attached to the machine. After a moment, Carrie opened her bottle, too. She sipped, studying Luke Mason. Somewhat to her amazement, he wasn't wearing a gold chain necklace like every other male who lived in California, if you were to believe those TV shows where they told you everything you never wanted to know about celebrities.

“This is the best Coca-Cola I've had in ages,” he said consideringly. “It's hard to find the old-time six-ounce glass bottle anymore. Vending-machine Coke usually comes in cans.”

This at least was something Carrie knew about. “Granddaddy put that machine in. It's one of the few left in the state. The price has gone up since the old days, though. I remember when a Coke used to cost a quarter.” She couldn't have explained her chattiness, couldn't have said why she was running on about soda pop as if it was the most important topic in the world.

“I remember those days, too,” he said with a grin.

Carrie reined in her motor mouth and contemplated how to bring up the topic of his leaving. She didn't want to say that she was supposed to be cooking a big dinner for her family right now because it would be rude not to invite him once she'd mentioned it.

“So you've been in Yewville for about a week?” she ventured politely when the silence began to grow awkward.

“Eight days,” he told her. “Getting acclimated and soaking up the atmosphere that produced Yancey Goforth back in the 1950s.”

“And what's your impression of our little town?”

“I like it,” he replied, surprising her. Most strangers found Yewville quaint at best and boring at worst. Yewville didn't have a movie theater. No store in town had an elevator. Cell phones didn't always work here, and the water tasted funny.

“What do you like about it?” Carrie asked with interest, warming to him a tad more.

“People are friendly. I feel welcome.”

Well,
duh.
As her sister, Dixie, might say, who wouldn't welcome a hunky movie star to a small town where the local National Guard unit had shipped out to the Middle East and the other eligible guys were hopeless losers. But, “Southerners are famous for hospitality,” Carrie said primly.

“And rightly so.” He paused as a wistfulness passed over his features. “I grew up in a town not much bigger than this in New Hampshire. My parents still live there, but it's been almost a year since I've seen my folks,” he said, and she detected a hint of sadness in his tone.

“What a shame,” Carrie murmured, truly sorry for him. She couldn't imagine a life that kept her from being with her family.

For a moment, a pensiveness flitted across his face, and she sensed that it hid an underground pain. “I don't have brothers or sisters,” he said, “and my parents don't like California much. Over the years we've lost a good bit of family feeling, even though we talk on the phone a lot. I'd like to fly my folks down here while I'm on location, but I can't get them to commit to a date.” By the time he wound up his last sentence, he'd already masked the emotions that had surfaced so briefly.

Abstractedly, confounded at the way Luke Mason had confided in her, she lifted the wide wooden lid off the glass jar on her desk and removed a package of salted peanuts.

“Want some?” she offered him, figuring that he'd refuse, but he said, “Okay.”

Wordlessly she slid the package over to Luke. He reached for his pocket, but she shook her head. “No need to pay. It's on the house.” It was the least she could do, taking into account that he seemed to lead a deprived life. No family, no sense of home, maybe nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon than fill his car's tires with air.

She dumped the peanuts in her Coke, which fizzed slightly. The top of the package was the perfect size to fit over the mouth of the bottle.

“Strange local custom?” Luke asked.

“Don't they do this in California? Try it. Go on.”

He shrugged and smiled. “If you insist,” he said. “Are you supposed to fish the peanuts out or what?”

Carrie was amused. “Drink the Coke, and the peanuts roll into your mouth when you upend the bottle.” She wondered how some people could be so ignorant, no matter where they were from.

“Stop grinning like that. I'm here to learn.” He upended the bottle, munched the peanuts and nodded slowly. “Pretty good,” he conceded.

When she didn't say anything, he said, “Ms. Smith—”

“You can call me Carrie,” she interrupted. “Everyone else does.”

“Carrie, maybe you don't realize how much money Whip Productions will pay you to use your garage for filming. We're talking, say, twenty thousand dollars or so.”

So he was back to that again. Twenty thousand dollars was all well and good, but if her regular customers couldn't buy gas from her, couldn't count on her for a fast lube, they might transfer their business to the new Quik-Stop out on the bypass, where they could stock up on milk and bread delivered fresh twice a week from Columbia. And why would she want to go temporarily out of business, leaving her loyal customers to scramble for decent auto care? They deserved better than that.

“It's a lot of money, but I still say no,” Carrie said, displaying considerable stubbornness.

“Here,” Luke said, pulling a business card out of his shirt pocket. “I'm usually not active on the production side of the business, but you can call this number if you change your mind.”

Carrie glanced curiously at the address.

“That's Whip Larson's headquarters in the old office building at the seed farm,” he said. “He's the producer of
Dangerous,
and I'm sure he'd like to hear from you.”

“I don't believe I'll be phoning him, Mr. Mason.”

Luke shrugged. “If you're Carrie, then I'm Luke. And I guess it's up to you whether you take us up on the offer.” He smiled, which made his dimple flash, and drained the rest of his Coke.

Luke Mason didn't say he ought to be going now, like any of the people she knew would have done. He didn't thank her for teaching him the joys of peanuts in Coke, and most important, he didn't say to have a nice day. He merely favored her with an appreciative up-and-down glance, walked over to the Ferrari and slid gracefully behind the steering wheel. He switched the engine on and revved it a few times to show off, after which he did his best to accelerate from zero to sixty in nine seconds, which in his car was doable.

As the Ferrari disappeared in a cloud of dust, Carrie shrugged and smiled ruefully to herself.
Yankees,
she thought. They really don't understand how to be polite. But Luke Mason, for all his shortcomings, sure had a great car.

And an unexpectedly captivating personality. Not that this meant anything to Carrie Smith. Not that it ever could.

After leaving Smitty's, Luke Mason drove straight to the house he was renting, a sprawling white-columned mansion that was too big for him by far. Whip Larson was sauntering moodily around the side yard, hands in the pockets of his slacks and a bored expression on his face as he contemplated the zinnias in the flower bed, which were shriveling from the heat.

Luke got out of the Ferrari. “Whip,” he said. “What's going on?”

“Nothing much. As usual in this town. Want to head out to Dolly's Truck Stop?”

Dolly's was a dive on one of the back roads to Florence, the nearest city. The boisterous patrons there generally offered a dose of comic relief, but it wasn't something he'd enjoy right now. “Not in the mood,” Luke said. He was still caught up in the pleasure of meeting Carrie Smith, a woman more beautiful than he'd ever expected to find here.

“I'm buying the beer, and I'll throw in a pizza,” Whip said. He was short and stout, and he dyed his hair orange. The producer of
Dangerous,
he was also Luke's best friend. Fortunately they'd never let their business relationship interfere with their personal one.

“I'd rather stay here,” Luke said. “Relax and chill out for a while.”

Whip shrugged affably. “That'll work. I was tired of sitting around watching TV, and I figured you might be, too.”

“I went out for a ride,” Luke said. “Kind of bored, you know?”

Whip nodded morosely. Luke unlocked the door and led the way through the cavernous and murky interior of the house, which was furnished in fragile antiques and dusty velvet draperies. Needless to say, the decor wasn't much to Luke's taste. Back in California, he lived in Malibu, where he enjoyed a wide-angle view of the ocean. He felt closed in here, confined.

They stopped at the bar off the living room, cadged a couple of beers from the refrigerator and made themselves as comfortable as they could on the wrought-iron benches that occupied the walled brick terrace. Fish in the koi pond swam to the edge, eyeing them curiously and no doubt anticipating a handout. Luke had been feeding them bread crusts every evening.

“So, Whip, are we still going to start filming after Labor Day and finish before Christmas?” Luke asked.

“I hope so, as long as your costar behaves herself.”

“Tiffany will be okay,” Luke said, though he was far from sure of that. He'd worked with Tiffany Zill before and knew her to be emotionally frail, though she was a decent actress when she had a good director. At the moment, he wasn't interested in discussing his female lead. He'd rather think about Carrie Smith's wide blue eyes, the slim line of her throat, the high curve of her breasts shifting beneath that thin summery cotton bodice.

“We've still got a few problems to iron out on this job,” Whip said, propping his feet up on a nearby chair. “I worry about it.”

“Fill me in,” Luke said. With a good bit of his own money tied up in the movie, he was interested in all aspects of production.

“I'm still bummed out that we can't build sets in the old roller-bearing factory,” Whip said. “I'm planning to ride over first thing in the morning to check on an old garage in Mullins. It has the requisite battered gas pumps and tires with no tread stacked out back.” He pulled a photo out of his shirt pocket and passed it to Luke. “Check this out.”

Luke studied the picture, which showed a garage a lot like Smitty's, though he was willing to bet it wouldn't have a proprietor as comely as Carrie. “Where the hell is Mullins?” he asked, passing the picture back.

“Halfway to the coast,” Whip said. “About an hour away from Yewville.”

“There's a local garage that might do,” Luke said carefully. “I met the owner today.”

“You mean that place downtown? Smitty's?”

“That's the one.”

“It's still a working garage. This place in Mullins is old. Abandoned. We could get it for practically nothing.”

“Since when did money matter?”

“Since Fleur Padgett decided to hire a whole bunch of locals for the racetrack scenes. She says it will make the movie more authentic.” Fleur was the casting director for
Dangerous
and known for her excesses.

“Yancey Goforth used to hang out at Smitty's. I met the owner today, and she—”

“She?” Whip said, narrowing his eyes. “Smitty is a
she?
”

“Her name is Carolina Rose Smith.” Speaking her name called to mind those shapely legs, the soothing cadence of her softly accented voice. She was a charmer, that Carrie Smith.

“I've already committed to vetting the Mullins place,” Whip said.

Luke shifted uncomfortably and decided on another tack. “I could really get into those garage scenes if we film in a place Yancey Goforth probably visited many times. You know what I mean, dig down deeper into his character.” Luke wasn't sure if this was true or not, but it was a decent argument, and besides, he suddenly realized, he wanted to see Carrie again. He thought about the deft movement of her long narrow hands as she'd poured peanuts into her Coke and the lilt in her voice when she'd asked him what he thought of her hometown. She'd pronounced Coca-Cola
Co-Cola.
A lot of people did that around here, but from her, the colloquial abbreviation seemed perfect.

“Would you like to go with me to Mullins?” Whip asked hopefully. “I'd appreciate your input.”

“No, Whip. I'm going to do some hanging out with the locals this week, try to absorb Yancey's background, get a handle on how he thought, lived, loved.”

“I can respect that. I understand as well as you do that
Dangerous
is your big break. You're ideal for the role of Yancey Goforth, and everyone else is just fluff.”

“Fluff?”

“What I'm saying is that a lot depends on you.”

“We're working with a great script, a fine cast, a fantastic director.” Luke had found the script himself, pitched it to Whip and lobbied for Tiffany as his costar. He heartily approved of the director, whose successes at the box office were legend in the business. “And don't forget that Southern is in,” he added.

Whip nodded in agreement. “‘Southern' is stupendous, packs in the audiences. And it doesn't hurt that Tiff has the best unfake boobs in Hollywood.”

“Let's not get hung up on sex appeal,” Luke said sharply. “Tiffany can act.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm just saying—well, you know what I'm saying.”

Luke certainly did. He had been listening to Whip's overblown views for months, and a little of that went a long way. At the moment, Luke found it much more enjoyable to think about Carrie Smith and how glad he was that he'd kept the conversation perking along today until she dropped her prickly facade.

Whip appeared ready to launch into another oration, which Luke didn't want to hear. “Ready for another beer?” he asked as he stood up to head for the house, which seemed like the perfect place to marshal his thoughts into a more orderly procession.

“And some chips if you have them,” Whip called after him.

Rummaging for snacks in the ample pantry, Luke wondered what Carolina Rose Smith did on Sunday afternoons. And with whom. And if there was the slightest chance that he might be able to insert himself, if ever so briefly, into her life.

A
FEW DAYS AFTER
Luke showed up at Smitty's, Carrie and her younger sister, Dixie Lee, were digging into banana splits at the Eat Right Café as they discussed the most important events in their lives, which they did several times a month. From outside came the racket of hammers and saws as the movie people went about their work of transforming simple Yewville into a Hollywood movie set.

“I'm telling you, Carrie, you should sell the home place and move into the Livingston Apartments. We have a swimming pool and everything.” Dixie took a huge bite of banana and chocolate sauce, rolling it around on her tongue appreciatively.

“‘Everything' includes people slamming doors at all hours and stumbling over garbage cans in the hall. I'll stay put, thanks.”

“I can't understand why you're so attached to that big house,” Dixie said. “When Mert left, you had a chance to get out. I don't know why you didn't.” Mert was Carrie's former boyfriend. He was a mobile-home installer.

“The home place is precisely why I downgraded Mert to a long-distance relationship. You can't seriously believe I'd have been better off in a double-wide with him, not to mention that it was located way upstate in Spartanburg,” Carrie said.

“Mert misses you. Everyone says so.”

“Well, I don't miss him. Plus, I love the home place.”

Dixie shrugged at the preposterousness of this assertion. “It's not like we grew up in that house, and it's a hundred years old. You'll have to do something about that sagging porch one of these days, and you said yourself the roof is on borrowed time. The place is a maintenance nightmare.”

“Our father was reared on that farm,” Carrie reminded her, annoyance creeping into her tone.

“Daddy rented out his tobacco allotment after Miss Alma died and brought up us kids in town.” Miss Alma had been their father's first wife, who had died young, and their mother, Jo Ellyn, hadn't much cared for country living, preferring the brick ranch house in town where they'd grown up.

“I wouldn't be able to plant a garden at the Livingston Apartments,” Carrie mentioned for about the nineteenth time.

“What good is a garden?” Dixie sniffed. “All those nasty mealy worms and slugs chomping on the fruits of your labor, and besides, it's a lot of work. Why don't you take the real-estate course like I did? We could turn Smitty's Garage into a real-estate office. There's plenty of room for two firms in Yewville now that they're going to develop all that property out by the lake.” Dixie rarely missed an opportunity to goad Carrie with a reminder that she'd recently passed the real-estate exam.

“I enjoy gardening,” Carrie said stubbornly, hoping Dixie would let the conversation drop. Carrie found solace in the quiet peaceful vistas of cotton and soybean fields stretching toward the horizon, and mockingbirds tuning up outside her bedroom window in the morning, and the long walk up the alley of pecan trees to the mailbox on the highway.

Dixie pushed the last bit of pineapple around in the syrup in the bottom of her dish. “So what is your opinion of Luke Mason?” she asked in a welcome change of subject.

Carrie shrugged. “Nothing special. I figure he puts on his pants one leg at a time, like any other man.”

Dixie favored her with a wicked grin. “I'd like to see how he takes his pants off,” she said.

“Dixie!”

“It's what every woman in town is thinking.”

“Not me,” Carrie said, not quite truthfully.

“You're an aberration,” Dixie pointed out. She paused, with an air of relishing what she was about to say next. “I read in the
Yewville Messenger
that Whip Productions is having a casting call Monday afternoon, and I'm going,” she said.

The
Yewville Messenger
was the local newspaper, usually abbreviated to the
Mess.
Most articles in the
Mess
touted nothing more earthshaking than the largest cucumber grown that summer or four-year-old winners of the Tiny Miss Yewville Pageant.

“You have a job, Dixie, and you've started a new profession. It's ridiculous to go to that casting call, if you ask me. How will you get off work if they choose you?”

“Mayzelle will cover for me at the office. All I do is answer phones, anyway.” Mayzelle was the broker's wife and had excess time on her hands now that both their sons were off at Clemson University. “Besides,” Dixie said, “I've always fancied becoming a movie star.” She struck a pose. “How's this? Am I competition for Hilary Swank? Or maybe Jennifer Lopez? On the red carpet at the Academy Awards?”

“Stop it, Dixie. People are staring.”

“They're looking at you, not me. You have a big grease smear on your right cheek.”

Carrie located a reflective surface on the side of the stainless-steel napkin holder and swiped at the grease with a balled-up napkin.

“Listen, Carrie, why don't you go to the casting call with me. Joyanne and I are going to keep each other company, and there's no reason you can't ride along.”

“No, thanks,” Carrie said. “I'm supposed to do a tune-up that morning. Plus, I'm trying to find a home for a stray dog that's been hanging around the station.”

“It seems like you just placed the last one. Honestly, dogs must have put the word out—head for Smitty's if you need a home.”

“This pup is majorly adorable, and I was hoping the Calphus boys could keep her, but their mom said no. Hub's named her Shasta. She likes to sleep right near where he's working during the daytime.”