“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.
Chapter Four
Luke shifted uncomfortably on the lumpy couch in the office of the old seed farm, doing his best to convince Whip of the unsuitability of the Mullins garage for filming.
“It’s too far away,” Luke argued. “I don’t want to be running back and forth from here to there.”
“Neither do I, but what’s the big attraction of Smitty’s? The owner is dead set against renting to us.” Whip eyed him impatiently.
Luke had wanted to smile at Carrie’s feistiness in threatening poor Whip with pepper spray, but he’d managed to subdue his mirth when Whip told him about it. “Well,” he said, determined to choose his words carefully, “the set designers wouldn’t have to work too hard to make Smitty’s look authentic. There’s an old Coke machine from the fifties. A two-bay garage. A Marilyn Monroe calendar hanging over the desk.”
“Marilyn Monroe?” Luke had finally captured Whip’s attention.
Unsure why Whip had picked up on this particular, Luke took his time answering. “Right. The real Norma Jean, circa 1955.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Whip heaved himself out of the swivel chair. “What do you say we ride over to Smitty’s right now to follow up with Carrie Smith? The two of us together can wear her down.”
Luke’s spirits brightened. “Why this change of heart?”
Whip jangled his car keys. “Did you know I collect Marilyn Monroe memorabilia?”
“Actually I didn’t,” Luke said, wondering at this turn of good luck.
“Not that I think dealing with Ms. Smith will be easy,” Whip said.
“Of course not,” Luke agreed as he followed Whip to the parking lot.
With Whip at the wheel of the company van, they headed into the center of town, where renovations were continuing apace. As Whip turned sharply in to Smitty’s, they both spotted a dog drinking out of a blue plastic dishpan on the side of the building near the restroom doors. A bell sounded faintly from inside the garage as the van ran over the rubber signal beside the pumps, but as usual when Luke stopped by, there was no sign of Carrie Smith. This time, however, the doors to the garage bays were closed, as was the one leading to Carrie’s office, and there was no sign of Hub.
“Well, that’s a hell of a note,” Whip said after a cursory glance around. “The place is deserted.” He drove slowly past the building before backing up so they could see inside. “Could I get a view of the calendar if I peeked in the window?”
“Probably not. It’s hung over Carrie Smith’s desk, which is around a corner.”
“All right, we’ve ridden all the way over here for nothing. I say we go to Dolly’s and drown my curiosity,” Whip proposed.
“Wait a minute,” Luke said, his attention distracted by the dog meandering alongside the number two gas pump. “That dog over there looks as if it might be gagging on something.” The animal in question, hardly more than a pup, flopped down in the dust between the gas pumps and lowered its head to its paws. It gazed at them with eyes that were enormously dark and soulful.
“It looks fine to me,” Whip said with considerable lack of sympathy.
Luke jumped out of the van. “Maybe it’s just hungry or scared.”
“Oh, sure. That dog’s terrified. Observe how it’s lying there wagging its tail in sheer fright.”
Luke knelt and held his hand out so the dog could sniff it. “Come on,” he coaxed. “You’re going to let me pet you, aren’t you?” This produced a tentative lick of his fingers.
Whip was getting antsy. He called out the window, “Luke, stay away from that dog. She might have rabies or something.”
Luke paid no attention. The animal wasn’t exactly what you’d term peppy, but then, neither was anything else in Yewville.
“Luke! Hey, man, come on.” Whip revved the engine a couple of times to emphasize the urgency of his request.
Luke ignored him. The dog was drooling, probably just water she hadn’t swallowed. She flopped over on her back, squirming in ecstasy when Luke scratched her stomach. If this was Carrie Smith’s dog, shame on her for leaving such a winsome animal here to get run over or worse.
The dog licked Luke’s hand when he stopped petting her, and he couldn’t resist those big liquid-brown eyes. Beguiled by her friendliness, Luke made a quick decision.
“C’mon, girl,” he said.
“What are you doing?” Whip yelled.
“I’m taking the dog with us,” Luke answered. At his call, the dog stood up and obediently trotted after him.
“You don’t even know that dog. And you sure can’t keep him at that rental house where you’re staying.”
“This is a her, not a him, and I’ll bring her back here after she’s had a square meal.” There wasn’t any food around, just the dishpan filled with water. Personally, he’d put the dog’s owner in jail for neglecting the animal, even though said owner was blond and had a beautiful set of legs, not to mention considerable other assets. But no matter how gorgeous she was, Carrie shouldn’t go off and leave a dog to fend for itself.
“The people who own your house specified no pets,” Whip reminded him with the defeated attitude of someone who understood that he was slinging weak shots in a losing battle.
“No one has to find out I’ve had an overnight guest,” Luke said, opening the sliding door of the van and placing his hands on both sides of the dog’s rump to shove her in.
“She’s probably got fleas,” Whip retorted. “If I have to pay to fumigate that house, I’m going to be mad as hell.”
“I don’t see a single flea,” Luke said.
“You don’t necessarily see fleas. You feel their bites eventually,” Whip explained with great patience. The dog hopped up on the backseat of the van and faced front, as Luke got in and buckled his seat belt.
“That’s it, girl, settle down,” Luke said unnecessarily, refusing to comment on the flea situation, if there was one.
“She smells,” Whip complained.
“She’s a dog, Whip. That’s the way dogs are supposed to smell.”
Whip threw the van into gear and wheeled onto Palmetto Street. “We were going to stop for a beer. Now, don’t walk up to the bartender at Dolly’s with that dog. ‘Have you ever heard the story about the talking dog?’ you’ll say. And he’ll say—”
“Oh, can it, Whip,” Luke said in disgust. “This is a fine animal we’ve got here. She’s much too smart to talk, aren’t you, girl? Talking only gets people in trouble. Anyway, we can
swing by my house and you can drop both of us off.”
“Yeah, Luke, whatever,” was Whip’s gruff reply.
Luke patted the dog on the head. “Hey, Whip,” he said, an idea forming in his head. “How about if we draw up a contract and I hand it to Carrie Smith personally when I bring the dog back tomorrow? With her name on it and everything?”
“Not a bad idea,” Whip allowed. “Once she sees the offer in writing, that could change her mind, due partly, of course, to your movie-star charm, Luke.” He shot Luke a calculating grin.
“My so-called charm and a couple of dollars won’t even buy me a latte at the Eat Right Café,” Luke scoffed good-naturedly.
“They have latte?” Whip asked on a note of hope.
“Doubtful,” Luke said. And even though he was angry with Carrie about leaving the dog wandering around alone, he was sure he wouldn’t be able to stay that way for long.
A FEW DAYS after the casting call, Carrie had barely started to pick tomatoes and peppers in her garden, when the phone rang inside the house. She let it ring. Family and friends knew to call back or stop by Smitty’s if they were phoning about anything important.
She lifted the basket of vegetables and hurried to the back gate of the white picket fence, heavy with Carolina jasmine. On the other side of the fence was the house, a big rambling white Victorian with a deep porch hugging the front and sides. In the back, a screened porch jutted past a yew hedge, ending just short of a sundial on one side of the path, a birdbath on the other.
Carrie was grateful to whoever designed the home place back in the early 1900s; the porch overhang kept out the hot summer sun, and tall windows admitted a fresh breeze. Seventeen-foot-high ceilings coaxed hot air up above the inhabitants, who at present totaled only two—Carrie and her resident rabbit.
After setting the baskets on the big table where her great-grandmother had served meals to farmworkers long ago, she wiped her sweaty forehead with one arm. She’d have to hurry if she wanted to get to the garage at her usual time and set these vegetables out to sell. They brought in a few extra dollars from customers, and every cent counted these days.
Down Home Carolina Christmas Page 4