Down Home Carolina Christmas

by Pamela Browning

  “The name of the town is Yewville, Tiff,” Whip said with all due patience.

  “Yewville, Dullsville, what’s the difference?” Tiffany pouted. She was famous for pouting and was regularly pictured in fan magazines pursing her lips for the camera.

  “You do recall that Dangerous is about a race-car driver, a legend in his own time? And that you play his wife?” Luke reminded her gently.

  Tiffany focused bewildered eyes on him. “Well, sure. We could have filmed at the studio, though.”

  “We’re aiming for authenticity,” Whip said. “And sweetheart, I didn’t tell you to get engaged before you came here.”

  That was all Tiffany needed to take umbrage. “If Peyton Kirk, owner of the largest hotel chain in the world, asked you to marry him, you’d have said yes, too,” she retorted.

  Whip got a good laugh out of that, and Luke grinned.

  “I doubt it,” Whip said. “In fact, you can count on my continued interest in the female of the species. Which reminds me, Luke, what have you heard from the lovely Miss Carolina Rose Smith?”

  For an answer, Luke yanked the scorned contract from his pocket, smoothed the paper back into its folds and sailed it past Tiffany’s surprised face toward Whip, who caught it neatly.

  “I’d like another beer,” Tiffany said, but everyone ignored her, including the bodyguard, who was admiring his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He’d been a wannabe actor before he’d given up and snagged a job with a security company, which paid better than going to auditions.

  Whip raised his eyebrows at the blank signature line before balling the contract up and aiming it at a nearby trash can.

  “I wonder if Peyton has called,” Tiffany said. She yanked her cell phone out of her purse, a sheaf of red-gold hair falling across her face. This reminded Luke of Carrie’s hair and how it had wisped around her ears as she bent over the vegetables she was arranging for display. He quickly banished the memory to the far regions of his consciousness. No good would be served by wishing for something he was never going to have. He made himself stare resolutely at the neon beer advertisement hung precariously over the bar.

  Tiffany slapped her cell phone closed. “He hasn’t phoned since this morning,” she said petulantly.

  “All she thinks about is Peyton,” Whip said to Luke.

  “Let’s play a game of pool,” Luke suggested, figuring all of them were sorely in need of something to do. “You, too, Tiffany.” To Luke, keeping his costar busy seemed like a good idea. If she had too much time to think, assuming that Tiffany was actually capable of cogent thought, she’d go flopbottom on all of them.

  “I’d rather eat something than play a silly game,” Tiffany said. “They make butter burgers here. Have you ever had one?”

  Luke shook his head, and Tiffany continued talking. “It’s a regular hamburger made out of ground sirloin, and they butter the bun, I mean really slather it on, and then they layer whatever you want on top of the meat, like slaw or chili. I ate two yesterday. It made me stop obsessing about how good fried chicken tastes.”

  Luke and Whip exchanged worried glances. “Come on, Tiff, you’re playing pool with us,” Whip said as he appropriated one arm, and Luke took the other to propel her toward the pool table in the back room.

  “Wait a minute,” Tiffany said. “I’m hungry. Ham, ask if I could have fries with the burger, will you?” Ham headed back to the bar and engaged the bartender in conversation.

  “We ate lunch only a couple of hours ago,” Whip said. He handed Tiffany a pool cue. “Plus, why would you go and put on weight that you sloughed off at that pricey health spa only a couple of weeks ago?”

  “A sliver of water chestnut on an arugula leaf,” Tiffany said. “That’s what they call lunch there. Next time I have to check in, I’m importing my own chef.”

  “Uh-huh. I’m sure they’d allow that,” Whip said.

  Luke made a mental note to suggest to Whip that Tiffany’s personal trainer arrive as soon as possible. The woman was supposedly attending a funeral in Canada, but since when did a funeral take three weeks?

  Luke racked the balls while Tiffany chalked her cue. The game commenced with Tiffany fouling balls all over the place and both of them letting her get away with it. This went on for two games until Tiffany tossed her pool cue down. “I’m going home, and I’m taking a couple of butter burgers with me.”

  Whip, with a back-me-up glance at Luke, slung his arm around her shoulders and adopted a wheedling tone. “Tiffany, sweetie, stick to your diet, okay?”

  “That’s right, Tiff,” Luke said seriously. “Do what Whip says.”

  “What is this ‘be a good girl’ stuff? Leave me alone,” Tiffany said, flouncing toward the door.

  “Tiff,” Luke began, ready to suggest that he keep her company for the evening. Never mind, no sacrifice was too great, no difficulty was insurmountable, if it meant keeping Tiffany Zill on point as far as this movie was concerned.

  He wasn’t sure if she heard him. She kept walking, Ham shadowing her. At the door she almost bumped into a couple of women wearing sequined tube tops, who spared her a curious glance, then proceeded to sidle up to Luke and Whip as if they were long-lost buddies.

  “We’ve got a problem with your costar,” Whip muttered, his gaze following Tiffany to the bar, where she stopped under a sign that said Order Takeout Here.

  “We’ve got a worse problem than that,” Luke muttered back meaningfully as he removed one of the women’s hands from his shoulder. She was all over him, and she’d only just arrived.

  “My name’s Rita,” she said to him, “and this is Modean. I’m not wearing underpants. Are you guys out for a little fun?” She winked at Luke.

  “Not tonight,” Luke said, the status of Rita’s underpants of no particular interest at the moment. He eyed Tiffany as she reached across the counter for a large brown bag holding, possibly, four or five butter burgers. Oh, and don’t forget the fries. “Should we do something about Tiff, Whip? Before she gets out the door?”

  “Modean’s not wearing underpants, either,” Rita said helpfully.

  Whip ran a hand across the top of his head, whiffling the hair into spikes. “What am I supposed to do, grab that bag and run for it? Ole Ham won’t put up with any sabotage on our part. The man’s half Rottweiler. No, let Tiffany get away with something so she’ll stay in a good mood. Jules won’t put up with her pouting at rehearsal tomorrow.”

  Jules Trout was the director of Dangerous, and Whip was right. Jules brooked no slackers, and the last thing they needed was for him to refuse to work with Tiffany, thus precipitating a costly search for a new Mary-Lutie Goforth.

  Rita had now transferred her attentions to Whip and was caressing his shoulder. “How about a little back rub? Might make you relax,” she said invitingly, batting long clumpy eyelashes.

  “Nah, honey, we’re on our way out of here,” Whip said, easing toward the door.

  “How about you?” Modean asked, rubbing sequins against Luke’s upper arm and losing a few in the process.

  “No, thanks,” Luke said, hurrying after Whip. He’d never much liked sequins, anyway.

  “Y’all come back, you hear?” called Modean as Luke and Whip made their escape.

  The night air was freshening, the wind picking up so that the temperature seemed almost cool. Luke wondered if a storm was in the offing.

  “Wow, this Southern hospitality is unbelievable,” Whip said, grinning at Luke as he jerked his head back toward the door, where they’d left Modean and Rita to seek other company.

  “Not so I’ve noticed,” Luke said, reminded of Carrie’s antagonism toward him earlier. He surveyed the parking lot for Tiffany’s limo, previously parked under the biggest oak; it was gone. He considered phoning her, then rejected the idea as soon as it surfaced. The prospect of yet another evening in Tiffany’s presence while she sang the praises of Peyton Kirk held no appeal, and he might be subjected to her hangers-on, as well. She’d brought along
a wearisome business professional and an agonizingly shy personal assistant, two females who bored Luke to the max.

  As Luke drove out of the parking lot, he glanced at his watch. With the difference in time zones, it was still too early to chat up any of his friends in California. There was nothing to do but head back to the mansion, which was a house, not a home. His life had been a succession of such abodes since he’d left Garrett Falls, New Hampshire, and embarked on a career that had led him from bit parts on TV to supporting movie roles and then starring in major motion pictures. He should be accustomed to this way of life by now.

  Unfortunately he wasn’t.

  THUNDER RUMBLED in the distant night sky, and Carrie, who was watching television in her parlor with Killer sleeping in her lap, paid little attention until rain started pouring down. Torrents swept in from the west, filling the gullies alongside her driveway, splashing through the downspouts, drenching her garden.

  She transferred Killer to his basket in the kitchen. Then she went out on the screened porch and switched on the outside lights, pleased that her vegetables were getting a good watering. Lightning forked across the sky, precipitating a crash of thunder. The porch light flickered and went out momentarily, and when it came back on, she spotted water dripping from the ceiling.

  She regarded it with dismay. Sure, the roof was old, but she’d thought it would be a couple of years before she had to replace it. Killer, revived by the noise and the hope of a snack more appealing than rabbit kibble, joined her, twitching his whiskers with interest.

  “Guess I’d better grab a bucket,” Carrie said in resignation as she nudged Killer back into the hall with her foot. “You stay away from there, you. That’s all I need, damp little bunny prints tracked over my clean floor.”

  The rabbit hopped toward his food dish as Carrie dug around in the lower kitchen cabinets trying to find her great-grandmother’s old canning kettle. She finally dragged it out and positioned it under the leak, then went back inside and headed upstairs to make sure there were no leaks there.

  To her horror, several more streams of water poured from the rafters in the attic. Water had trickled over a trunk that had belonged to Great-Grandmother Smith, and another, older leak had stained the heart pine floor.

  Springing into action, Carrie pushed the trunk to the dry area in the dormer and tugged at a velvet Victorian settee until it was positioned away from the leak. She stuck a wastebasket under one stream of water. Then, after upending several boxes, she located an old set of pots and positioned them wherever she found a drip. This was her fault; she should have checked the attic once in a while for damage, but she’d expected the roof to hold up after its last patching.

  Over a year ago, when she’d noticed a few shingles missing after a big storm, Norm O’Malley, Joyanne’s cousin and a qualified roofer, had replaced some shingles and pronounced the roof sound. Well, this most recent storm had been a doozy, so she probably shouldn’t be surprised that the roof hadn’t held up.

  After she called Norm and left the message on his answering machine, she reluctantly opened her checkbook and tallied the balance. She was almost down to zero, and she still hadn’t paid for the latest shipment of automotive supplies. Sighing, she slipped the checkbook back in her purse, a feeling of dread burgeoning at the back of her mind.

  If Norm couldn’t patch the roof again, she’d have to figure out something. And she had a feeling that she wouldn’t like it much.

  “CARRIE, I’M SORRY,” were Norm’s first words to her the next morning as he stepped off the ladder. Carrie had paced back and forth on the path below, watching as Norm scrambled over the roof, and she’d known what he was going to say before the words were out of his mouth.

  “It’s no use trying to repair it again,” he said, his brown eyes earnest and sympathetic. “What you require is a new roof.”

  “So how much will that cost?” Carrie asked, her heart sinking.

  Norm named an astronomical figure. Even in her wildest dreams, Carrie hadn’t expected a roof to cost so much.

  “Surely you can do it less expensively? A cheaper shingle or something?”

  “Even if I use the least expensive ones I can find, it’s going to cost at least that much.”

  “Maybe I could wait till next spring,” Carrie said desperately.

  “I wouldn’t take the chance.”

  “When could you do it?” Carrie asked, glancing up at the clouds advancing from the west.

  “Next week?” Norm suggested.

  “I’ll have to talk to the people at the bank.”

  “Let me know, Carrie, and I’m sorry,” Norm said as he climbed into his pickup.

  Downhearted, Carrie was preparing to leave for Smitty’s, when her sister’s car wheeled into the parking area beside her own SUV.

  “Hey, Carrie,” Dixie said, getting out and slamming the door. “I brought you these double-chocolate-pecan brownies I baked yesterday.”

  “Thanks,” Carrie said dejectedly as she accepted the cookie tin and opened the lid to peek. “Mmm, these look good.”

  “Try to look happier about them,” Dixie suggested. “What’s wrong—don’t you like brownies anymore?”

  “As a person whose baking skills don’t extend much beyond cake-mix-and-pudding Bundt cake, of course I do. It’s the roof, Dixie. Norm left here a few minutes ago after delivering the worst news I’ve heard in ages. The home place needs a new roof.”

  Dixie stood back to study the curling shingles. “I guess last night’s storm took its toll, right?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “Memaw Frances lost one of those chinaberry trees up by the road. A tornado uprooted it, she thinks.”

  “I’m going to have to apply for a loan. That’s the only way I can manage a new roof right now.”

  “Take it from me, our family real-estate expert. Reroofing will add to the value of the property.”

  “Not until I sell it,” Carrie said. “And I never will.” She was as sure of that as she was of her own name.

  Dixie grinned. “Fortunately the Winders down the road don’t feel the same way. They’ve given me a listing on their farm. They’re moving to Georgia to be closer to their daughter and signed on the dotted line today.”

  Carrie was scandalized. “Why, the Winders have owned that place since shortly after the Civil War. It’s a grand old house, too.”

  “It certainly is, but not any better than our home place. I’ve got to hand it to you. You’ve done a good job of keeping the house up, Carrie, even though it’s a cause as lost as the late great Confederacy.”

  “This house will be as good as new after the roof is replaced. Say, do you have time to sit a spell and eat a couple of brownies?”

  “I have to get back to the office and answer the phones so Mayzelle can run Fluffy over to the groomer. And, Carrie, one more thing. You wouldn’t have to consider a loan if you accepted the movie company’s offer.”

  “Dixie—”

  “Why be such a stick-in-the-mud?”

  “Hub, for one thing. He’d lose his salary unless I paid him for the time off, and what about my customers decamping to the Quik-Stop and never coming back?”

  “One thing I’ve learned from working in a real-estate office is that almost everything can be negotiated. Ask Whip Productions to pick up Hub’s salary, and for what they’re offering, you could afford to pay him yourself and install a new roof, as well. Think about it, Carrie. Promise me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Carrie. Wise up.”

  “I’ll consider their offer. Satisfied?” Now maybe she’ll stop harping on it.

  “Not until you sign that contract,” Dixie said with a grin as she angled herself into the front seat of her car. She waved out the window as she drove off.

  “Thanks for the brownies,” Carrie called after her. Then she went into the kitchen and ate several. Chocolate was supposed to be a cure for depression, and it worked.

  For a while.


  CARRIE’S CONVERSATION with her banker the next day left her feeling deeply upset. She’d have no problem getting a loan, but interest rates were high, and the less money she borrowed the better. After dinner, she decided to go back to the garage, where she’d left her laptop earlier. Maybe she could juggle some figures on the spreadsheet and find a more workable plan.

  Everything in Yewville was closed up tight for the night, though a couple of cars filled with teenagers in search of something to do roared up and down Palmetto Street. Carrie was in the process of bundling the laptop into its case, when Luke Mason’s car pulled up outside. She masked her expression of surprise as he slammed the Ferrari’s door and stepped inside.

  “I saw you through the window and decided to stop in,” he said.

  “I was just leaving,” she said truthfully, refusing to meet his eyes. She wanted to keep this impersonal, businesslike.

  “I’d like to schedule an oil change,” Luke said, surprising her, and why did she think he’d come up with this off the top of his head?

  “I’m not a certified Ferrari mechanic,” she hedged, though she’d love an up close look at the engine.

  “There isn’t one within hundreds of miles of Yewville.” He smiled at her, flashing that dimple.

  “You don’t want to void your warranty.” She kept her voice prim, her manner aloof.

  “I don’t care about the warranty.” His eyes held a stubborn glint, and she soberly considered the fact that she’d always dreamed of getting her hands on that Ferrari. An oil change wasn’t as complicated as a tune-up, after all. It was a fairly simple procedure. And for once, she wasn’t responding to him in a sexual way. This gave her courage.

  “All right,” she said, reaching for a slip of paper. “How about tomorrow?”

  He beamed. “Great. Anytime is okay.”

  She’d already scheduled a full day, but she could do an oil change after hours.

  “Six o’clock in the evening?”

  “Six it is,” he said. “Thanks, Carrie.”

  “No problem.”

  Luke showed up promptly at six o’clock the next evening and sat drinking a Coke—with peanuts in it—in her office while she changed the oil in his car. When she finished, she went inside and presented the bill.