Читать книгу Down Home Carolina Christmas - Pamela Browning - Страница 7

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.”

“Naming an animal is the first step toward keeping her, I’ve heard.”

“Hub’s got two pit bulls and I’m owned by a house rabbit. Say, Dixie, take Shasta home today. Trial basis. She’s very sweet.”

“To my little apartment? Ten dollars a month pet rent? No, ma’am.” After a moment, Dixie resumed her previous line of persuasion. “We were talking about the casting call. It could be exciting to rub elbows with Hollywood folks. We might meet interesting guys besides.”

Carrie narrowed her eyes. “Why, Dixie Lee Smith! Is that the real reason you’re going? Desperately seeking men?” Dixie had been known to bemoan the fact that guys were scarce these days.

“Well, let’s face it. I’m pushing thirty. If middle age starts at forty-five, I’m two-thirds of the way there, with no husband in sight. You should be worried about this, too. Especially since you said goodbye to Mert over six months ago.”

“Forty-five is the new thirty-five. It’s hardly middle-aged,” Carrie said, though she remained pensive for a moment. She was thirty-one, which was fine with her. The trouble was that girls tended to marry young in Yewville and have children early. It made late bloomers like her seem backward.

“Back to the casting call,” Dixie said. “Joyanne and I made a pact to try out together.”

“At least Joyanne was Miss Yewville and Soybean Festival Queen, not to mention she’s played parts in community theater since she was yay high. She’ll be a natural.”

“Also they’re paying $104.50 a day.”

“How’d you find that out?”

“Joyanne heard it from somebody at the lake last week. Still not interested?” Dixie aimed a sly smile across the table.

“I’ve already turned down twenty thousand dollars from those movie people for the use of Smitty’s. I guess I can do without their $104.50.”

Dixie’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. “You turned down twenty thousand dollars?”

“Sure did, and from Luke Mason himself,” Carrie replied calmly. She stirred her sweet iced tea and watched the lemon slice bob around amid the crushed ice, taking pleasure in Dixie’s rare speechlessness. She did not add that she’d spotted Luke’s car idling past the garage a couple of times as if he’d been looking for someone. She’d stayed inside where she belonged, though she certainly was intrigued. Maybe she’d made more of an impression on him than she’d thought.

“You’re a fool, Carrie Rose Smith,” Dixie said with great conviction.

“I don’t want those people swarming all over my garage. They’ve already overrun the town.” A change of subject was long overdue. “By the way,” she told Dixie, “Tiffany Zill’s chauffeur brought her limousine into the station for gas this morning. I don’t even care to tell you how much it cost to fill it up.”

“I saw the limo, all right. It occupied the whole business district when it stopped at the traffic light. I bet it has a hot tub in it. Peek inside next time you’re pumping gas.”

“That galloping gas guzzler could hide the whole peachoid inside and I wouldn’t care,” Carrie said, smiling at Dixie’s unabashed curiosity. The peachoid was Yewville’s famous water tower, which the town leaders, mindful of peach farming’s role in area history, had painted to resemble a peach. Unfortunately it much more resembled someone’s very large fanny, which made it the most photographed feature in Yewville. People traveling north and south along I-95 went out of their way to snap pictures of it.

“Have you seen her yet?” Dixie asked.

“Who?”

“Tiffany Zill. I wonder if she looks as good in person as Luke Mason does. I bet she wears Gucci and Pucci and has her hair colored by a stylist named Raoul.”

“Like I care,” Carrie said as she slid out of the booth. “I’ve got to run, Dixie. I’ll call you tonight.” She slapped a couple of quarters down on the counter for the waitress and hurried out into the humid afternoon.

Across the street at the bank, workmen were completing a facade that included a painted-on clock. Carpenters next door at the insurance office were removing a door; the new red one stood nearby. To Carrie, it seemed as if the movie people were fashioning Yewville to resemble a Norman Rockwell painting gone South.

“Painted-on clocks,” Carrie muttered. “New window boxes. Knowing these movie people, they’ll probably plant polyester geraniums in them.” Her suspicions were correct. On the way past the Southern Confectionery Kitchen, where she customarily bought frozen bananas and, for New Year’s celebrations, bottle rockets, she almost stumbled over two large cardboard cartons labeled Geraniums—Faux Silk.

“Faux silk,” Carrie said under her breath. “Fake, fake, fake. Isn’t anything real anymore?” Well, Yewville used to be real before they started gussying it up. Carrie had no patience with such things.

Shaking her head, Carrie walked back to Smitty’s, where nothing was illusion, where what you saw was definitely what you got. Including, presently, a real dog with real fleas.