Читать книгу Together by Christmas - C.J. Carmichael - Страница 8

WITH TEMPERATURES SETTLED well below zero and a hazy light reflecting off the sprinkling of snow that dusted the harvested fields, Miranda set out for the Addison farm the next morning, following the directions her mother had written out for her over breakfast.

Already the air between the two of them was a little clouded. And they hadn’t been under the same roof for twenty-four hours yet. Maybe staying at home wasn’t such a good idea after all, but she couldn’t see any choice. Annie would be mortified if she moved to a friend’s, or the local hotel.

Miranda turned her car onto the graveled road leading north of Chatsworth. Her cute yellow Volkswagen Beetle jostled on the dried ruts, and the tires crunched over the exposed gravel. So far, not much snow had fallen, and the roads were dry. Miranda dreaded dealing with this route after a heavy snowfall. Especially in her little car. Something with all-wheel drive would definitely be better.

But for now—once she got used to the bouncing—she had to admit that driving here was certainly less stressful than negotiating Toronto’s freeways. She turned on the radio, but paid no attention to the Bach cello concerto playing.

She was thinking of Chad. So far she hadn’t managed to get in touch with him. She’d tried calling the golf course this morning, but no one had answered. She hadn’t left a message, since she couldn’t be sure who would retrieve it and she didn’t want anyone drawing the wrong conclusion from her call. As her mother would say, people would talk. And for once, Miranda saw the benefits of being circumspect.

That didn’t stop her from worrying. Why hadn’t he told her about his problems with Bernie? If others were surmising, like the ladies in her mother’s bridge club, that somehow Chad was responsible for the breakup, then Chad was probably feeling pretty lonesome about now.

Unless there really was another woman…?

No, no, no. That couldn’t be it….

A mailbox caught her eye. She was here. Thoughts of Chad vanished as Miranda contemplated the barely standing box at the side of the road—left over from the days when mail had been delivered rather than picked up at a post office box in town. Stenciled in fading black paint was the name “Addison.” She glanced down the long lane. The road curved gently to the right, then disappeared in a second curve to the left. A stand of poplars, naked without their leaves, huddled on either side of the dirt road. They’d provided enough cover, however, to preserve a thin dusting of snow.

Later in the season this private access would be unpassable unless Warren had it plowed. Oh, well, she could always leave her car on the main road.

Optimistic thoughts for someone who hasn’t even talked Warren into the project yet, she reminded herself. She’d decided early on her chances of success were highest with a face-to-face meeting. Unfortunately, she hadn’t developed her strategy beyond that. Now she felt edgy and nervous. She’d put up such a brave front for others. And she’d deposited Catherine’s check. No way could she fail now that she was here.

She nosed her vehicle along the lane. Her initial glimpse of the Addison farmhouse wasn’t reassuring. The old two-story clapboard desperately needed paint. The utilitarian structure sat unconnected to the surrounding land. No cozy porch or veranda. No flower gardens or shrub borders.

A truck parked by the front door and wisps of smoke drifting from the chimney indicated Warren was home. He must have heard her drive up, but so far he hadn’t made an appearance.

Realizing she was working herself into a genuine case of nerves, Miranda turned off the ignition and jumped out of her car. She couldn’t stand around or she’d lose her courage entirely. Avoiding the front door, which was boarded shut, she went round to the back, where she opened the screen to knock on the wooden door.

Just at the moment her knuckles were about to connect with the wood, the door gave way and she found herself staring at a plaid shirt. Lifting her gaze, she saw a face she never would have recognized—masculine, compelling, mature. No trace of the yearbook boy remained.

Except those eyes. And that funny, twisting smile.

“Warren?”

WARREN ADDISON FELT THE COLD wind blasting in and therefore knew he wasn’t hallucinating. But the improbability of the sight stole his words for several long, awkward seconds. Finally, he regained articulation.

“Miranda James.”

God, but she was still so beautiful. Her blond hair was short, bluntly cut and curly. It framed her exquisite face perfectly. She stood taller than he remembered, slim in her boyish jeans, her upper body bundled into a fleece jacket, with a down vest over top.

“None other,” she agreed cheerfully. “Um, mind if I come in? I may track in a little snow, but other than that my boots are clean. I bought them before I came here—never needed snow boots like this in Toronto—we don’t get much snow there. Slush falls from the sky directly.”

Her words overwhelmed him. He hadn’t heard so many in weeks. At last a basic meaning penetrated. “I’m sorry. Of course, come in.” He took a few backward steps to make room. “And don’t worry about snow—or slush, for that matter. As you’ll soon see, I don’t fuss much about things like that.”

But the place wasn’t dirty, he reassured himself, trying to imagine how the old farm kitchen must look in her eyes. At least he wasn’t one to stack dishes between meals or leave food out on the counters. He couldn’t. The mice would make an all-night diner of the place.

“Is that a wood-burning stove?”

“Yeah. Mom wouldn’t part with it. We do have running water and electricity, however.”

He’d meant it as a joke, but she nodded seriously.

“Oh, and an espresso machine!”

“A city comfort I couldn’t imagine doing without. Would you like a cup?”

“Oh, would I.” She brushed the snow off her boots, then sat in one of the wooden kitchen chairs. “Did you bring any other goodies from New York with you?”

“A bag of bagels, frozen in the fridge. I’d offer you one, but I have no microwave.” He shrugged in apology. “Other than that, I packed a few changes of clothing, my books and my computer, of course.”

He measured beans for grinding, still not able to believe that the gorgeous Miranda James was sitting in his kitchen. If she knew how often he’d fantasized about her when they were teenagers…

But hell. That didn’t make him different from any of the other guys who’d gone to Chatsworth High.

“I’ve seen some of your biographies on TV,” he told her. Actually, all of them. “I especially enjoyed the one on prairie musicians. Jack Semple has always been a favorite of mine.”

“Wow, you’ve seen my stuff? In New York?”

“Well, I do get cable.” He noticed her glancing around. “Not here, though. Mom and Dad took the TV with them to Victoria.”

“What do you do with yourself? Isn’t it awfully lonely?”

“I spend a lot of time walking around the property. And I read, play Age of Empires on the computer….” He placed a small pitcher under the espresso spout, then turned on the motor. “And of course I write.”

“Do you ever. Warren, I read your book. Frankly, I was blown away. You deserve all your success.”

He shrugged. Talking about Where It Began was difficult. He was glad, naturally, that the book had done so well. But success had definitely come at a cost.

“You know, back in Toronto, I checked the Internet and the library. I found very little material about you. Not even a photograph.”

Her eyes ran over him, marking the changes, he supposed. Foolishly, he hoped she liked what she saw. He sure liked what he saw. But then, he always had.

“Sugar?” he asked, passing her the froth-covered cup.

“No, thanks.” She hooked the handle with her finger, and as she raised the mug to her mouth he noticed her fragile wrist, with its jangle of silver bracelets.

“I came here to escape notoriety,” he said, referring to the lack of information about him.

“Well, you’ve done a good job.”

“So far,” he acknowledged. “But what about you? Why are you in Chatsworth?” And more particularly, here with him? Not that he didn’t welcome her company, but face it—twenty years ago she wouldn’t have crossed the school yard to speak to him, let alone driven twelve miles of backcountry roads.

No, that wasn’t altogether fair. Miranda had never been a snob. She always gave the impression that she liked everyone, that she would be your very best friend, if only she had more time.

And it wasn’t an act. After twelve years in the same classroom, he’d have sensed it. Miranda was one of those rare people born without an ounce of meanness, or spite, or cruelty. Not that she’d been a goody-goody. Miranda knew, had always known, how to have fun.

That she wasn’t already married was a miracle. Unless there’d been some late developments in that area…no, she had rings on many of her fingers—and even on one thumb—but nothing adorned that all-important fourth finger of the left hand.

“Actually, Warren, I’m here because of you.”

He felt a crazy, scary rhythm in his heart, absent since adolescence. Then reality set in. She didn’t mean that way. He pulled in a breath of air as he took his own espresso to the table and settled himself, too aware of her quiet observation.

And then it hit him. God, he was such an idiot. She filmed biographies for a living. That comment about the paltry information available about him. Of course. That had to be it.

He couldn’t believe how disappointed he felt. Dreamy Miranda wasn’t here to see Warren Addison, her old schoolmate, but Warren Addison, the famous author.

Crap.

“You don’t look pleased. I’m guessing you don’t want to be the subject of my next video.”

“I think my books should stand on their own. Who I am, and whether I write in the night or in the morning, whether I work from an outline or just create, shouldn’t figure into the equation.”

“But isn’t it human nature to wonder about the author of a book you’ve loved? When Mrs. MacIntire read us Huckleberry Finn, weren’t you curious about Samuel Clemens?”

“Mark Twain was a literary icon. I’ve written one book.”

“Warren, your book will oversell the Harry Potter books. A movie’s in the works….”

“But we’re still talking only one novel. And who knows how the next one will be received. If I ever finish writing it…”

“Trust me, Warren. All artists worry that their next work may not be as good as their last—even us lowly video biographers. So you aren’t alone in that. Even if you never publish another story, the success of Where It Began will make you immortal. Think of Margaret Mitchell. And Harper Lee.”

“I appreciate your faith. But selling lots of copies doesn’t guarantee anyone will remember who I am twenty years from now.”

“Yes, but your reviews…”

“Reviewers can be flawed, too.”

“Oh, Warren!”

She laughed, and the clear, musical sound made his heart feel strange again. Her presence in the large kitchen was clear and bright, like a vase of yellow daffodils on the table. He had to admit it would be wonderful to have her around while she worked on that video. But would the cost to his soul be worth the benefit?

“I need quiet to write. That’s why I’m here. If you did that video, my cover would be shot.”

“Warren, persistent journalists will find you eventually. It’s not like where you grew up is a secret.”

“Miranda, surely you’ve got better prospects.”

“Not a one.” Miranda leaned over the table and grasped his hand. Her cool, silky touch was unlike any woman’s he’d ever known.

“I’ll be as unobtrusive as possible. I’ll work around your schedule. Warren, I can be very flexible.”

Oh, he just bet she could. With that slender, willowy body…

“Hell, Miranda. Has anyone ever been able to say no to you?”