Christmas On Nutcracker Court

by Duarte, Judy

“I’m sorry.” Carly glanced at the small clock in her station. “I already have plans for lunch.”

  “Okay. Maybe next time.” Lynette smiled.

  As Grant got to his feet, Lynette scrunched her nose and nodded in Carly’s direction. Apparently catching the gist of Lynette’s nonverbal communication, Grant turned to Carly and smiled. “Can I ask you something?”

  She hoped he was going to suggest that she take a little more off the sides or the back, but she had a feeling he was going to ask something else. Surely, he wouldn’t ask her out.

  “Go ahead.” She offered up a smile and hoped her skittish nerves didn’t reveal themselves in her voice or her expression.

  “Would you like to have dinner with me on Saturday night?”

  She should have expected a question like that, since Lynette had clearly been matchmaking, but it still took her a little by surprise.

  Carly hadn’t had a date in years—certainly not since she’d gotten married.

  Grant seemed nice enough, though, and he was certainly attractive. Yet even if she wanted to go out with him, she had no one she could ask to stay with the boys. Besides, she was away from them too often as it was. “I . . . uh, I’d like to, Grant, but I have two kids, and I may not be able to find a sitter.”

  “If you can’t,” Lynette said, “I like kids. And I’m not doing anything on Saturday night. I’ll watch them for you.”

  Was Lynette that intent upon setting up her hairstylist and her friend? Carly wasn’t sure if she should be happy about that or not, but the offer did strike another possibility she hadn’t considered.

  Was there a chance Lynette might want to help out with child care over Christmas vacation?

  For a moment, Carly completely forgot that there was still a question hanging in the air like a wind-damaged kite. That is, until she looked at Grant.

  Expressive eyes, the color of a summer sky, and a playful smile, made it difficult to turn him down, even though that’s what she needed to do.

  Still, before she could offer an excuse—and she had a full list of them she could rattle off—she found herself saying, “All right, if Lynette is serious about babysitting, I’ll go out with you on Saturday night.”

  Yet once the words had rolled off her tongue, she wondered how she was going to take them back.

  Max couldn’t find a place to park in front of the bistro, and by the time he found one a few spaces away from the entrance to Shear Magic, he was more than five minutes late. But that couldn’t be helped.

  As he’d gotten ready to leave the house, he’d glanced out in the backyard and noticed that Hemingway was gone again. If the dog had been looking for the kids, as Maggie had suggested he was doing when he escaped, the laugh was on both of them. School was in session, and there weren’t any potential playmates roaming the neighborhood.

  Still, Max had gone through the motions, calling the dog’s name and checking the gate—which had been closed.

  On a whim, and wondering how Hemingway had gotten out this time, he’d searched the yard carefully, looking for holes under the fence that he could have missed.

  While looking behind a bush that needed pruning in the worst way, he found Hemingway snoozing.

  “Hey,” Max had said, “what are you doing under there?”

  The mutt looked up, but didn’t raise his head very far from the front paws on which he’d been resting his chin.

  “I’m taking off for a while. See if you can stay out of trouble, okay?”

  Hemingway didn’t appear to be going anywhere, so Max had returned to the house and grabbed his car keys. Then he’d driven to the salon.

  He’d no more than approached the front door of the shop, where bright red letters announced WALK-INS WELCOME, when his neighbor, Grant Barrows, walked out.

  Grant’s hair, which was usually a lot longer than Max would have ever worn his, had been cut and styled. When he noticed Max, he gave a quick nod of his chin in greeting. “Hey, how’s it going?”

  “Not bad.”

  “You’re out and about early today,” Grant said.

  Max didn’t see the need to explain what he was up to or why. He just lifted the briefcase he held and said, “Business meeting.”

  They stood like that for a moment, both a little surprised to see each other anywhere other than Nutcracker Court.

  “Nice haircut,” Max said.

  “Thanks.” Grant nodded toward the salon. “The stylist was Carly.”

  “Oh, yeah?” How was that for a coincidence? “Have you been going to her long?”

  “No, this was my first visit.”

  “She did a good job.”

  Grant chuckled. “I think so, too, but even if she’d whacked it all off, I’d probably make another appointment. She’s a real sweetheart and nice to look at, too.”

  Max, who kept things close to the vest, wasn’t about to admit that he had a lunch date with that same sweetheart of a stylist. Okay, so their meeting wasn’t actually a date.

  Before either man could continue, Lynette, the young blonde who played poker with the Diamond Lils at Helen’s house, came out of the shop.

  She winked at Grant and said hello to Max.

  Another coincidence? Before Max could come to a conclusion, she said, “I’ve gotta run. I’ll see you guys later.” Then she struck off down the street, swaying her denim-clad hips.

  Grant must have noticed the question in Max’s eyes because he said, “Lynette’s been trying to set me up with Carly, her hairdresser.”

  “Oh, yeah?” The news had an unsettling effect, although Max had no idea why. Maybe because he felt a little protective of Carly and her kids, and he didn’t think Grant was the kind of guy she needed.

  “Actually,” Grant said, as he looked down the street, “when Lynette first approached me about making an appointment with her hairstylist, I thought she was hitting on me. But she threw me a curve when she said I’d really like Carly.”

  Max could see how that might come out of the blue. In his mind, Grant and Lynette made a better match.

  “To be honest,” Grant added, “I was a little disappointed at first, but then I met Carly, and she’s a knockout.”

  Max had noticed. And he couldn’t fault Grant for thinking so, too.

  “I hear she’s got a couple of kids,” he found himself throwing out there, although he wasn’t entirely sure why he had. To inject a dose of reality, he supposed, and maybe put a damper on a possible romance that might crash and burn eventually.

  “Yeah, well, it’s only dinner on Saturday night. It’s not like I’m expecting anything to develop between us. But who knows?”

  Well, Max knew—or at least, he had plenty of doubts about things working out between those two. One time, when he and Grant had been shooting the breeze, Grant had mentioned loving the bachelor life. And Carly, with her ready-made family, was sure to end those beach-boy days and hot-tub nights.

  “Good luck,” Max said, being a little more sarcastic than sincere.

  “Thanks, but I’m not sure I even want to be lucky. Either way, Carly’s the kind of woman a man wouldn’t mind looking at from across the table or spending the evening with, so no matter what happens, a dinner date isn’t going to be a waste of time.”

  Max would be looking across the table at her in a few short minutes. And he didn’t think it would be a waste of his time, either.

  After Grant left, Max had been tempted to enter the salon, find Carly, and ask if he should wait until they could leave together, but he’d told her he would meet her at the restaurant and decided to stick with the game plan.

  When he entered the California Bistro, a trendy little eatery just down the street, he approached the matronly hostess.

  “Just one for lunch?” she asked.

  “No, I’m waiting for a lady. There’s going to be two of us.”

  The hostess reached for a couple of menus. “Would you like me to seat you now? Or would you rather wait for your friend?”

 
; He was just about to say that he wasn’t in any rush to be seated when Carly entered the diner wearing a breezy smile.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  “No problem. I just walked in.”

  Even though the hostess was prepared to lead them to their table, Max couldn’t help sketching an appreciative gaze over Carly, making note of sable brown hair that cloaked her shoulders, a pair of blue-green eyes highlighted by long dark lashes, a pretty mouth with a fresh application of pink lipstick.

  She smiled again, and his pulse spiked.

  You’d think that this was a real date and not just a neighborly favor of one lost soul helping out another.

  The hostess took them to a quiet table for two, which bore a white linen covering and a black ceramic bud vase holding a single red rose.

  As the hostess pulled out a chair for Carly, Max took the seat across from her.

  “I’ll leave these with you,” the hostess said, handing them menus before she returned to the front of the restaurant.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” Max said. “How long do you have?”

  She glanced at her watch. “I had an hour, but we’re down to fifty-three minutes now. I had a phone call I needed to return.”

  “Then I’ll talk fast.” He shot her a casual smile, and when she returned it, he couldn’t help feeling a little like a nerdy tenth-grader who’d just gotten introduced to a varsity cheerleader.

  Had Grant felt the same way earlier?

  “I’m not sure how much I can help you,” Carly said, “especially since I don’t know what your problem is.”

  “Actually, it’s a fictional problem.”

  She stiffened and furrowed her brow. “You mean you only made up an excuse to meet me for lunch?”

  “No, I didn’t do that.” Apparently she didn’t know that he was an author—or at least, a wannabe at this point. “It’s a real fictional problem. I’m writing a novel, and it seems that I’ve written myself into a corner. So I was hoping to get a woman’s perspective on a scene that’s not working.”

  “I had no idea that you were an author. Do you have a pen name?”

  He couldn’t count how many times that happened. Whenever he mentioned writing a book, people just assumed he was already published with hardbound novels on the shelves.

  “I haven’t sold the manuscript yet,” he admitted, “but I’ve gotten some positive feedback from an agent and would like to get the full manuscript back to him before his office closes for Christmas and New Year’s, but I’m at a crossroads. I need to either cut a character completely out of the story, which is what I probably ought to do. Or . . . Well, this might sound weird to someone who doesn’t write, but the characters seem to have taken this story and run away with it.”

  “That’s interesting.” She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. “A runaway plot?”

  “Not exactly. The action works well, and I like what’s happening so far, but my protagonist’s wife just dropped a bomb on him, and . . . Well, that’s where I was hoping you’d come in and tell me what I’m missing.”

  She merely looked at him, as if not knowing what to say, what to do.

  “I . . . uh . . .” He reached for the briefcase he’d left on the floor next to his seat. “I brought a scene for you to read—that is, if you don’t mind.”

  She didn’t say no, so he flipped open the briefcase, pulled out his pages, and handed them to her.

  “I’m not sure how helpful I’ll be,” she said, taking them from him. “What kind of a book is it?”

  “A men’s action-adventure novel, I guess. It’s got some suspense . . .”

  “Blood, guns, guts?”

  “A little bad language, too. Would you be opposed to reading it?”

  “No, but all I can do is give you a reader’s perspective.”

  And that’s just what he wanted—a female reader—although he wasn’t sure that his book would appeal to most women.

  She glanced at the pages he’d given her—about ten, double-spaced—then started reading.

  In the meantime, the busboy brought them water with lemon slices, as well as a basket of bread. Max thanked him, but Carly seemed oblivious to those around her. That was, he decided, a good sign. She was pulled right into the story.

  It took all he had not to get up, circle the table, and read over her shoulder. But he bided his time, taking a sip of water, reaching for a slice of bread, and trying to pretend as though he could actually look at the menu and make a choice.

  When the waiter came by to take their orders, Max waved him off. “Just a minute,” he mouthed to the guy.

  Finally, when Max didn’t think he could take the suspense any longer, Carly looked up from the pages.

  “Logan’s a jerk,” she said. “Is he the bad guy?”

  Was she kidding?

  Of course, she only had ten pages that were taken from the last third of the book, so he cut her some slack. “No, he’s not the villain. He’s the protagonist. He’s sharp, and he doesn’t take any crap from anyone.”

  Carly sat back in her seat. “Yeah, well now his wife isn’t taking any crap from him.”

  She had a point, he supposed. And it looked as though she’d hit the same wall he had. Of course, she didn’t have a synopsis to go by and had no idea how he’d planned to wrap things up.

  “So now what?” he asked. “Logan can’t chase after her.”

  “Why can’t he?”

  “Because he’s tough. And he’s not the kind of man who would beg a woman to stay.”

  At that moment, the waiter eased closer again, and Max nodded.

  “We’d better order,” Max said. “Or you won’t have a chance to eat.”

  “Can I answer any questions for you?” the waiter asked. “Or do you already know what you’d like to eat?”

  Carly said, “I’ll take the tortilla soup.”

  Max wanted something heartier than that. “What’s your special?”

  “Fish tacos,” the waiter said.

  “Great. I’ll have that.”

  The guy nodded, then took off, leaving them alone again.

  “Okay,” Max said. “Here’s what I’m thinking. Maybe I need to kill off Priscilla. Or do you think it would be best to eliminate her character completely?”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Why can’t I?”

  “Because I like her. And I felt myself cheering for her when she left him.”

  Oh, brother. Maybe asking Carly to read the scene had been a bad idea.

  “You’re just saying that because you’re a woman,” Max said. “And if I do what you’re suggesting, I’d turn a men’s action/adventure novel into a romance.”

  “I’m not telling you to do anything. It’s your book, but I think there needs to be some emotion here on Logan’s part. How was he feeling when she walked out? Did he feel crushed, betrayed, guilty, what?”

  “That’s the problem,” Max said. “I don’t know what he’s feeling. And I don’t have a clue why I even let him be married in the first place. He’d make a much better bachelor.”

  “Well, there you go.” Carly set his pages on an empty part of the table, leaned back in her seat, and crossed her arms. “Why did they get married? What did Priscilla see in him? Why did they fall in love?”

  “I don’t know.” The comment came out a little snarkier than it should have, but he couldn’t help it. “And who said anything about love? Maybe they were just sexually attracted to each other and found marriage convenient.”

  “That’s your problem,” she said, as if she had some kind of literary degree. “You’re afraid of having any emotion in your book.”

  “I’ve got emotion—fear, anxiety, anger.”

  “But not love.”

  “This is not a romance.”

  “I’m not saying that you need to have a happily-ever-after ending. They can actually divorce, if you want them to. But he’s got to feel something about the loss of hi
s wife, about the failure of his marriage. And until you get a handle on that, I don’t think you’re going to sell it to anyone—an agent, an editor, or a reader.”

  Max chuffed. “Maybe I should just eliminate her character completely. Maybe Logan is a dyed-in-the-wool bachelor. Or maybe his first love cheated on him, so he’s sworn off women for good.”

  “It’s your book, but as a reader, I think cutting Priscilla is a big mistake.”

  She might be a reader, but she was also a female. What would a man say?

  Still, Max could hardly complain about an opinion he’d asked to hear. And he’d wanted a female perspective.

  Carly leaned forward and placed her elbows on the table. “Listen, Max. You’re a good writer. But just because Logan has trouble dealing with his feelings doesn’t mean you have to cut out the one person in the world who will make him look deep within himself.”

  “What are you? A closet novelist?”

  “No, I just love to read. And English was my favorite subject in school. If I’d gone to college, instead of getting married, I might have ended up teaching literature at Fairbrook High.”

  Before he could respond, the waiter brought their food.

  Carly thanked the guy.

  Max did, too, but as he reached for a fish taco and took a bite, he noticed that Carly bowed her head and said a silent prayer.

  He hadn’t realized she was one of those religious types. Of course, she hadn’t preached at him or anything.

  Still, what she’d said about Priscilla making Logan reach deep inside of himself made Max wonder if Carly might be a little more helpful than he’d thought.

  What if she read the entire manuscript—or at least, everything leading up until this scene? Would she feel differently about Priscilla?

  He took a second bite of his taco, then while he was chewing and swallowing, decided to go for it. “I don’t suppose you’d want to take a look at all of it, would you?”

  “Your book?”

  “I could e-mail it to you. Or if you’d rather have a hard copy, I could print it out and deliver it to you.”

  She merely looked at him from across the table, her spoon lifted and full of soup.

  “Of course, I’d pay you,” he added. “I wouldn’t ask you to spend your time reading and critiquing for free.”