Down Home Carolina Christmas

“Oh. My mistake.”

“Someone said they saw your head poke out of that trailer over there. Beats me how they’d recognize you.” She slapped at a yellow jacket; it buzzed off.

“Wasn’t me coming out of the trailer. Could’ve been Rick Phillips, my body double. He isn’t growing a beard and he looks a lot like me. Especially in the nude.”

Carrie gawked at him. “You’re going to play nude scenes in this movie?”

“There’s one. It takes place on Yancey and Mary-Lutie’s wedding night.”

The intimacy of anybody’s wedding night was the last thing she wanted to discuss with Luke Mason. Anyway, who knew what really happened on their wedding night but the couple themselves? She frowned. “Don’t tell me any more. I don’t care to hear about it.”

“Thing is, the movie audience won’t know if it’s really me in the buff or Rick.” Luke laughed ruefully.

“I’ve got to go,” she said.

He seemed cocky and all too sure of himself. “Too bad. I’m enjoying the scenery.”

There was no scenery at the old seed-farm headquarters other than flat dusty fields stretching to the horizon. None but her.

She edged away from Luke Mason, wary of falling under his spell. She’d better get out of here, go back to work, anything.

The awning struts from the refreshment stand barred her escape. Luke stepped closer, moving deliberately. His eyes never left hers, and she felt a definite tug as well as something else—a yearning, a knowledge of something important happening between them. A cricket chirred in the nearby shrubbery, and the voices on the other side of the refreshment stand receded to background noise. Luke’s eyes searched hers for—what?

Without realizing it, she had backed into the hot metal shell of the refreshment stand, which felt unpleasantly warm against her back. She tensed, his self-confidence undermining her own.

“I stopped by the garage a few times,” he said, studying her reaction and apparently heartened by what he saw. “You were never there.”

She clasped her nervous fingers behind her back. “I have things to do,” she said. “Errands. Stuff like that.”

“Mmm,” he said. “That’s what I figured. Am I supposed to make an appointment?”

“If you want something done to your car, yes,” she said.

“And if I want something done to me?” He was laughing at her, amusement bubbling up from the depths of his eyes.

“Depends,” she said. “On what it is.” She could have died once she’d said it, knowing full well that it sounded like a come-on.

“You could check my air filter. Or inflate something.” He grinned at her.

“I, um, “she said, resisting at the same time that she realized it was pointless.

“Or we could,” he murmured as he moved closer still, “do this.” He curved an arm around her waist, and she felt her will dissolve. She had turned completely to a puddle of mush bounded by quivering nerve endings, all of which were yearning toward Luke Mason’s two-day growth of beard. She knew she could tell him to stop and he would. She could panic, even scream, but in her present state, neither occurred to her. All she did was stare, mesmerized as his hand cupped her chin ever so lightly and his lips descended to hers.

She smelled the sweat on his skin, the heat upon the rough cotton of his shirt. He didn’t so much kiss as taste her, inhaling her breath, nibbling for a moment at her bottom lip and finishing up with a long delectable teasing incursion into her mouth. The worst thing was that it wasn’t enough. She wanted more, lots more, but the last thing she would do was admit it to him.

After this swoon-making exercise in provocation, he moved aside. Their surroundings, which seemed to have faded away, sharpened into focus. Her arms and legs came back into being, though her brain was still wandering in the ether somewhere. Luke was smiling, somewhat sadly, she thought.

“Be on your way, Carrie,” he said softly. “If you don’t, you may find out that Yancey Goforth wasn’t the only guy who was dangerous.” He grazed a knuckle against her cheek and stepped backward, abandoning her to her comfort zone, which was much less comfortable than it had been, say, oh, ten minutes ago.

Instead of inventing a bit of repartee as she knew she should, Carrie could not think of one thing to say. Tried unsuccessfully to reconnect with her brain, which was still winding in from outer space. Made an effort to recapture her breath.

Darting one desperate glance back over her shoulder at Luke, she whirled around the corner of the stand, only to run smack into one of those women passing out cards. They bumped heads, and Carrie reeled backward with stars of the uncomfortable kind bouncing off the backs of her eyeballs.

“You’re definitely a possibility,” the woman said chattily. “Here you go, and don’t forget to include your phone number.” She pressed a card into Carrie’s hand.

“Take this back,” Carrie said, fending her off with a flap of her hand. “I don’t want to be in the movie.”

“Nonsense, go talk to Fleur. You’d be perfect for the Miss Liberty 500 scene. Go on,” said the assistant.

“Carrie? Carrie Rose Smith!” Joyanne called over the heads of the milling crowd, and Whip Larson, who happened to be passing by, halted in his tracks. He flicked his gaze over Carrie’s figure.

“You’re Carrie Smith?” he asked. “Of Smitty’s Garage?”

The last thing she expected was for Whip to grab her arm, but that was what he did. “Well, Ms. Smith,” he said heartily, “I’d like to talk to you. Luke Mason tells me that your garage is perfect for some scenes.”

So Luke had been talking up Smitty’s to this guy? Great. That was all she needed.

Carrie wrested her arm away. She’d had about all she could take of this movie business for today, plus she was pitched off balance by Luke Mason’s late but totally great kiss. She fought for composure and eyed Whip warily, pulling around her the shreds of whatever dignity she had left.

“My garage is not for sale. Nor am I,” she said as she lowered her head and began to walk rapidly toward her car, not paying attention to outraged squawks from Dixie and Joyanne, now most vociferously entreating her to stay.

Undeterred, Whip loped after her as she angled a shortcut through a patch of Queen Anne’s lace, which kept catching at the legs of her jeans.

“Baby, listen to me. This is your chance to earn a lot of money.” He was pushing her, as Hollywood types all seemed wont to do. She figured that her only recourse was to come back at him Southern style.

“Fiddle-dee-dee,” she said in a mock Scarlett O’Hara accent, raising one eyebrow for emphasis. “It makes no never mind to me.”

Whip, perspiration dripping down his forehead, tipped his head back and laughed, sending a bunch of sweat droplets flying. “Hey, you’re pretty good,” he said with a new kind of respect. “You sounded just like her.”

“I’m Southern born and bred,” Carrie retorted, not without pride. “But my daddy didn’t raise any fools.”

Whip was quick to barge in front of her and block her way as she clicked the remote to open the door of her SUV. “That’s why I can’t believe you’re throwing away this opportunity,” he said seriously.

“What would convince you—pepper spray?” To be on the safe side, she carried it in her purse.

“Pepper spray?”

“To get you off my case. If you don’t mind, I’d like to access my vehicle.” She dodged around Whip, opened the door of the SUV and climbed in. While she backed out of the parking place, he stared after her in perplexity.

Carrie sped up when she reached the highway. These people were crazy! If she hadn’t been so pure tee aggravated by the whole situation, she’d have laughed all the way back to Smitty’s.

One thing she didn’t want to laugh about, however, was her supercharged response to Luke Mason. What was that about? she wondered. What was really going on, the two of them alone behind that refreshment stand, kissing like a couple of teenagers slipping around behind everyone’s back?

On the other hand, maybe she didn’t really want to know.

AFTER LEAVING the seed farm, Carrie went home, changed into coveralls and reported to the garage. Just before closing time, Dixie and Joyanne showed up.

“We got parts!” Dixie yelled as she ejected from her blue Mustang and she and Joyanne ran inside.

“We’re going to be beauty contestants! Dixie and I get to wear swimsuits like they wore in the fifties—they’re these awful one-piece rubbery rib crushers with zippers up the back—and our job is to ride in convertibles in the parade.” This last line was delivered with considerable glee.

“Congratulations,” Carrie said dryly as they came inside. She opened the spreadsheet program on her laptop computer, planning on trying to figure out why she was low on cash this month.

“Carrie?” Hub said, poking his lean, sharp-chinned face in the door. “Did you order some of them oil filters I was asking you about? Hi, Dixie. Hi, Joyanne. What’s new?”

“We got parts in Dangerous!” Dixie announced gleefully, all but jumping up and down. “Isn’t that exciting?”

“It sure is,” Hub said slowly. “I heard Little Jessie got her a part, too. Teena called and told me about it.” Teena was Hub’s pretty, curly-haired wife, and she taught baton lessons part-time at Big Jessie’s studio.

Carrie checked her invoices. “Those oil filters should be on the delivery truck tomorrow,” she told Hub.

“Great. See you later, Dixie. You, too, Joyanne.” Hub disappeared around the corner.

“Carrie, you can come watch them film the scenes,” Joyanne said to Carrie.

“That would be the scenes at the racetrack?” The local speedway had been built by Yancey Goforth and a bunch of local businessmen after he struck it rich with endorsements for motor oil and tires.

“Sure, they’re going to need lots of people for the crowd shots,” Dixie said. “So you can still be in the movie if you want. Though if I were you, I’d have tried out like Joyanne and I did. You could have been a beauty contestant, too.”

“Fat chance,” Carrie scoffed as a matter of course. Luke Mason’s kiss still weighed heavily on her mind, but she intended to keep that secret to herself. With considerable guilt, of course, because its entertainment value to Dixie and Joyanne was not to be underestimated, and she hated to deprive them of such a fascinating tidbit.

Joyanne was into wild speculation about the possibilities being opened to her. “Wouldn’t it be great if we get asked to go to Hollywood and be in more movies?” she asked. “Get famous? I can see it now—my name, Joyanne Morrissey, on a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame!”

Dixie, fortunately, was more realistic. “After the movie, I’ll go back to answering phones at Yewville Real Estate until I start listing and selling on my own. I’d say that’s a sight more dependable than an acting career.”

Joyanne shrugged. “Who cares? Life is an adventure, and if I were offered a part, no matter how insignificant, I’d take it. It would be a whole lot better than counting other people’s money at the Bank of Yewville for the rest of my life.”

Carrie couldn’t concentrate on her spreadsheet with Dixie and Joyanne nattering on, so she gave up attempting to work. Idly she typed the URL for Luke Mason’s online fan club into her search engine and loaded the pictures that titillated Dixie and Joyanne. In them Luke wore a red G-string and smiled provocatively into the camera. She experienced that smile up close now, and the pictures didn’t half do him justice.

“Carrie? Did you hear what I said?” Dixie asked.

Guiltily she exited the Web site and glanced up. “Say again?”

“I asked you if Joyanne and I should pick up a barrel of hot wings,” Dixie repeated patiently. “I made potato salad last night.”

Carrie sighed. “Sure, why not. You can come out to the home place for supper.”

“Dixie and I will get the chicken while you close up.” Joyanne would have been extremely interested if she’d known that Carrie had just been checking out those pictures of Luke. Chattering excitedly about their parts in the movie, Dixie and Joyanne left as Carrie’s cousin Voncille pulled up to the gas pumps.

“Hey, Voncille,” Carrie called. She shut down her computer and hurried outside.

“Hey, Carrie.” Voncille wore baggy bib overalls. Her thick red braids were so long that they dragged in the dishwater, of which there was much since her dishwasher had broken five years ago. Her husband, Skeeter, insisted that he’d get around to fixing it any day now, but somehow he never did, and with four children, there were plenty of dishes to wash.

“Don’t bother, Carrie. I’ll fill the tank myself.” Voncille unscrewed the gas cap on her battered minivan.

“When are the movie people going to start filming here at your station?” Voncille asked, her gaze never wavering from the rapidly escalating numbers on the pump.

“They’re not.” Carrie began to wash the minivan’s windshield.

Her cousin raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Aren’t they going to pay you over twenty thousand dollars?” she asked.

“Now, where on earth did you hear that?” Carrie asked, though she knew well enough how easily such information—true or not—spread in a small town like Yewville.

“Maybe Skeeter picked up the news somewhere.”

“Well, it’s not true.”

“Carrie, hon, I’d take the money from the movie company if I were you. If your daddy were alive, that’s what he’d tell you to do. Maybe find you a rich husband while you’re at it. Go on that Caribbean cruise with Glenda. That’s what she’s going to do with her money.”

“My father always advised us kids to learn skills that would enable us to take care of ourselves,” Carrie said mildly. That was why she’d completed the auto mechanic’s course at Florence Tech and why Dixie had enrolled in the administrative assistant program.

“It wouldn’t hurt to marry well,” Voncille said with a wink. “Lord knows I didn’t.” Skeeter had learned to hang drywall not long after losing his job at the mill, but he tended to get laid off a lot.

“Thanks for the advice,” Carrie told her, forcing a smile.

After Voncille peeled away from the pump, Carrie went back inside the station. As Hub scooted himself out from under the car where he was working, the dog trotted over, and Carrie absently scratched her behind one ear. Shasta grinned, pink tongue lolling in a sweet comical expression. She was white with black spots, one of which was arranged fetchingly over one eye.

“You’re a cutie, you know it?” Carrie murmured to the dog, who immediately rolled over on her back and waved all four paws in the air. “You’re a real comedian.”

“You’re getting attached to that animal,” Hub said, standing and wiping his hands on a rag. He bestowed a snaggletoothed smile on the dog. “Why, if there was any way on God’s green earth that those two ornery pit bulls of mine would accept her, I’d carry this dog home so fast lightning wouldn’t catch me. And by the way,” he continued as Carrie turned toward the door, “I heard that conversation with your cousin Voncille. Don’t pay her no mind.” His homely face was earnest.

“I get right annoyed when people tell me to find a rich husband. It’s not like there are scads of them hanging around on every corner,” Carrie replied with considerable ruefulness. Except for Luke Mason, maybe. But a kiss wasn’t exactly a proposal of marriage. Nor should it be, since she was determined to pretend it never happened.

“Maybe you’ll get lucky,” Hub said, treating her to a comical waggle of his eyebrows as she gathered her things. “You might land yourself a Hollywood tycoon while the movie people are in town.”

“Stick to fixing cars, Hub,” Carrie told him. “You’re a lot better at that than fortune-telling.”

They were both laughing as she drove away.

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