Together by Christmas
Together by Christmas
C.J. Carmichael
Some old acquaintances are never forgotMiranda James is back in the tiny prairie town of Chatsworth, Saskatchewan, to work on a video biography of reclusive writer Warren Addison. While she's there, she hopes to help her best friend, Chad English, whose wife has kicked him out of the house. But his wife has always been jealous of Chad's relationship with Miranda, so maybe her presence won't really improve the situation. More important, is fixing their marriage what Miranda really wants?Warren Addison went to school with Miranda and Chad. He knows about Miranda's feelings for her best friend. But Warren has his own ideas about what's best for this woman. He hopes he can convince her before Christmas, before a family is torn apart–and before his heart is broken again.
“I care about you, Miranda.
You know that.”
He’d always cared, but she didn’t know that. These past few weeks, that old passion of his had been rejuvenated. He’d dared to dream that she might return some of his feelings. She seemed to enjoy his company. And he didn’t think he’d imagined the sexual energy between them all evening. Not judging by the conspiratorial wink he’d gotten from a friend as he was going out the door.
Perhaps Miranda’s feelings for him just weren’t strong enough yet….
No, that really wasn’t the problem. She was still holding on. To Chad. To the losses of her past. And he had no idea how to make her let go.
“Warren, you’re not upset with me, are you?”
“Absolutely not.” He wasn’t going to push her. That would be the dumbest mistake he could make. “I don’t want you to think I planned for anything to happen between us. Though I won’t deny I hoped it would….”
She hugged him. “You’re a wonderful guy, Warren. I’m going to be very jealous when some lucky woman captures your heart and I’ve lost you forever.”
Dear Reader,
Several years ago, when I wrote A Daughter’s Place, I knew I would one day write more books set in the mostly fictional town of Chatsworth, Saskatchewan. And indeed, when I decided I wanted to tell the story of a woman who just can’t get over the first guy she fell in love with—a guy who married another woman, and is still married to that woman—Chatsworth seemed the perfect setting.
It is the kind of place where it’s hard to keep a secret. Your neighbors always know, and if they don’t, they think they know. You can’t hide your past in a place like Chatsworth. People remember which kid was the brain, the athlete, the loner, which girl was most popular and which high school sweethearts were destined to stay together.
Of course, people grow after high school. They change. And that’s what has happened to the class of 1990. As circumstances conspire to bring five of the original eleven graduating students together, they’ll have an opportunity to examine who they really are…and whom they really love.
Hope you enjoy the story and that you are able to spend your Christmas with the ones you love.
Happy holidays!
C.J. Carmichael
P.S. I’d love to hear from you. Please send mail to the following Canadian address: #1754 - 246 Stewart Green S.W., Calgary, Alberta, T3H 3C8, Canada. Or e-mail me at cj@cjcarmichael.com.
Together by Christmas
C.J. Carmichael
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
A while ago I exchanged some touching correspondence
with Dianne, a reader. She and her husband were mourning
the loss of their son in a tragic car accident.
This book is dedicated to the memory of Davin.
His parents want him to know:
“You always were, and still remain, the light of our lives.
Until we meet again…”
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER ONE
MIRANDA JAMES PUSHED aside the wicker basket of crusty rolls at the center of the table and replaced it with her high school yearbook, open to the page with photos of her graduating class.
“I knew you wouldn’t believe me. But we really did go to school together. Grades one through twelve. See?” She pointed to Warren’s picture first, then her own.
Catherine Cox, producer at the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, peered through dark-framed glasses at the caption beneath the photo. “‘Warren Addison,’” she read, squinting at the small print. “‘Favorite subject: anything to do with books. Nickname: Warty.’”
She shifted her attention to Miranda. “Warty? Warren Addison had warts?”
“No. A pet frog in grade eight.” Miranda tapped her pen against the saltshaker, impatient to move on. But Catherine was scrutinizing the yearbook again, holding it close to the window, where the light was better.
“Trust you to be gorgeous even in high school. Let’s see what they wrote about you….”
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Miranda reached for the book, but Catherine shifted it just beyond her grasp.
“‘Miranda James,’” she began, quoting the couplet beneath the photo, “‘Most beautiful and the boys’ favorite pick. If she wasn’t so nice, she’d make us sick.’”
“Give that here!”
Catherine relinquished the book, laughing. The husky sound caught the attention of two men lunching at a nearby table. Their glances flickered over Catherine and settled on Miranda.
“Okay, you went to school with Warren Addison,” Catherine conceded. “But what makes you think he’ll be onside for a video biography? I’ve spoken to the publicist at his publishing house and he’s notoriously uncooperative when it comes to promoting his own work. Everyone but him is talking about Where It Began. He wouldn’t even return Oprah’s call when she asked him to appear on her show.”
“We grew up together, Catherine. I heard him read the first story he ever wrote to the class.”
Well, she probably had, she just couldn’t remember.
“Don’t worry about me not being able to deliver,” she continued. “The challenge will be editing all the material down to a reasonable length.”
Catherine opened her briefcase. “I suppose if anyone can do this, it’s you. Here. I had Accounting cut you a check.”
Thrilled, Miranda accepted the check before Catherine could change her mind. None of her other projects had ever been accepted this easily.
“I’d love to chat longer, but I have another meeting.” Catherine laid a fifty on the table to cover lunch. “Would you mind saving a copy of the bill for me? I need to run, but there’s no reason you shouldn’t stay and enjoy dessert and coffee.”
“Thanks, Catherine.” For everything, she wanted to add. But the svelte producer was already hustling out of the restaurant. The two men at the next table noticed her departure, too. One of them tried to catch Miranda’s eye, but she gazed deliberately down at the yearbook still in her hands.
“Can I get you anything else?” The server was back, whisking away the used wineglasses and salad plates.
“Mmm…” She glanced up from the yearbook. “An espresso, please?”
“Certainly.”
She hadn’t looked at this book for years…probably not since her mother, in one of her house-cleaning frenzies, had boxed it with a collection of other childhood mementos and shipped it to Toronto. She flipped through the glossy pages, finally returning to the photos of the 1990 graduation class.
A sweet ache lodged behind her ribs. She recognized the feeling as nostalgia, but cynically, she had to wonder. Did she yearn for what had been? Or for what never could be?
She focused on the picture of Chad English. With his smooth blond hair, tanned skin and even features he didn’t need his killer smile to stand out from the crowd. Still, he had it. As well as eyes born to flirt. She felt he was watching her from the yearbook page, about to include her in a fabulous secret.
Ah, Chad.
If she’d been the most popular girl in that small-town class of eleven students, he’d definitely been the most popular guy. Was she the only one who had seen them as the perfect couple? It seemed she’d dated just about all the guys in her grade and the one above it at one time or another. Except Chad. And Warren, of course, but he didn’t count, because as far as she knew, he’d never asked any of the girls out.
Maybe he was gay. Mentally filing the idea for future consideration, she refocused on Chad.
Why had he never asked her out? She’d always wondered. They’d been good friends since grade seven—still were good friends. But while he’d flirted plenty, he’d never taken their relationship that one crucial step further.
Of course, after his marriage to Bernie, Miranda had filed her feelings for him away as inappropriate. They’d continued their friendship, but she’d been cautious not to overstep the bounds of appropriateness.
Despite her circumspection, she knew Bernie didn’t like her. Actually, the other woman never had. Miranda picked out the photo of the petite girl with the light brown hair. Cute, bordering on pretty, but not a woman to turn a man’s head. Yet she’d turned Chad’s, when Miranda never had.
Oh, don’t start feeling sorry for yourself. This is ancient history…. The person she was supposed to be interested in right now had had nothing to do with all of that.
She studied Warren’s photo again. His dark hair was unruly, curling around his ears and down to his collar. In his long, thin face, his nose stood out prominently.
A different emotion stirred inside her now. Uncomfortable, unsettling. Warren had always had that effect, she remembered.
He hadn’t been an attractive kid. Especially compared with… Miranda’s gaze slid to Chad’s photo, then back to Warren’s. His recent success couldn’t help but have an impact on her assessment. Those dark-gray eyes she’d once found disconcerting now gleamed with intelligence and wit. The smile she’d thought of as crooked sported an ironic twist.
She stared a few minutes longer, but the photograph refused to yield anything more. She snapped the book shut and returned it to her briefcase, frustrated that of all her classmates, Warren was the one she’d known the least.
“Your espresso, miss.”
She smiled her thanks to the unobtrusive server before taking a sip.
Yes, Warren had been the most enigmatic of her classmates, and yet, he would be the subject of her next video biography. The check from the CBC, which she now carefully stowed in a zipper compartment of her purse, made it official, even though the idea had come to her only a week ago, during her Sunday phone call to her mother.
Annie James, who still lived in the small town in Saskatchewan where Miranda had grown up, had asked, “You remember Warren Addison?”
“Sure I do, Mom.”
“He’s back in Chatsworth. They say that book he wrote is a real blockbuster. They say there’s a producer who wants to make it into a movie.”
“I know. Where It Began is topping the bestseller lists all over North America.” She’d read the novel and loved it, found it absolutely magical.
“Well, he’s living on his parents’ farm, in that old clapboard the Addisons abandoned when they retired to Victoria.”
According to the dust jacket of his book—which, frustratingly, had included no photo of the author— Warren had a master’s in English from the University of Toronto and now resided and worked in New York City. That he would choose to return to a backwater prairie town remained incomprehensible to Miranda.
“Whatever for?”
“Lucky says he’s working on his second book. The press wouldn’t give him any peace in New York.”
Good old Lucky. The gray-haired proprietor of Chatsworth’s tiny grocery store could always be counted on to hand out more than change and a receipt at the till.
After the call ended, Miranda had thought over her mother’s news. Between projects at the moment, she’d been on the hunt for a challenge. And this struck her as the perfect opportunity. She could do a video biography on Warren Addison and spend some time with her mother.
Annie hadn’t been the same since a heart attack last June. The specialist in Regina had diagnosed only minimal damage, but the scare had raised a specter of worry in the fifty-eight-year-old and had caused her to curtail her lifestyle as well as to revamp her diet.
Miranda was guiltily aware that she hadn’t seen her mother since that week in Regina when Annie had undergone a battery of medical tests. She’d known her mother was waiting for an invitation to Toronto, but she’d been afraid that Annie might end up staying permanently, and so she’d stalled.
Miranda traveling to Chatsworth, rather than Annie visiting Toronto, was definitely safer.
Mind made up to pursue this project, Miranda had begun her research. Typing “Warren Addison Author” into the Internet had yielded no official Web site. Likewise, the library had had little biographical information.
Which was perfect, from Miranda’s point of view. Apparently Warren was as much of an unknown to his fans as he was to her. A situation she fully intended to rectify.
Now, sipping her espresso, Miranda basked in anticipation of her upcoming project.
Of course, Warren could turn out to be a boring man with no layers to explore. Having read his book, however, she doubted that. What a wonderful coup for her career if she could reveal this man’s creative heart and soul to the world.
But what if Warren didn’t cooperate with her?
She pushed that uncertainty aside. They’d grown up together in the same small town. Of course he would.
A separate, larger anxiety gnawed at her. She hadn’t spent much time in Chatsworth since high school graduation. What would it be like? Chad and Bernie still lived in the small town. So did Adrienne Jenson, who’d also been in their class. Counting Warren and herself, that made five of the original eleven graduating students.
It would feel like stepping back in time. Not that such a thing was possible, of course. But if it was…
Miranda set down her empty cup. Cramming the receipt into her purse for Catherine, she once again ignored the smiles and raised eyebrows from the men at the table beside her as she strode through the busy restaurant.
Outside, a gust of wind whipped her skirt against her calves. She glanced up at the little section of sky that peeked out amid Toronto’s skyscrapers and saw rain clouds.
Unbidden, it came back to her—the way it had felt to be eighteen and in love with someone who didn’t love her back. The old longing hit her, a heavy weight in her chest.
The pattern of her life had been set during those years in Chatsworth. And the choices she’d made then had led her to this point: working in Toronto, living alone, pursuing happiness while trying to pretend to everyone around her that she’d already found it.
What if she could change the past?
For a moment she could smell chalk dust and musty old textbooks in the swirling city air. She was in math class and Warren Addison was sitting in the aisle next to hers. A loner, he’d rarely spoken in class. But when he had—here it was, her first distinct memory of him—he hadn’t bothered to raise his hand first.
The teachers had never let the rest of them get away with that. But they had him. Funny thing for her to remember.
The wind died and the rain started. Holding her briefcase over her head, Miranda beckoned to a passing cab. She had to get home. Had to start packing.
FROM THE METROPOLIS of Toronto, Ontario, Miranda had to travel west, more than twelve hundred miles, to reach Chatsworth, Saskatchewan. The sleepy prairie town lay just past the Manitoba border. The drive, through stark November landscape, promised to be long and exhausting, but Miranda couldn’t fly because she would definitely need her car once she arrived.
She set out on Wednesday with a suitcase of clothes, a bag of gifts she’d purchased early for Christmas and her equipment: a Canon XL1, extra lenses, wireless microphones, tripod, her portable Mac for editing.
Hopefully, she hadn’t forgotten anything, because if she had, she’d have to drive an extra two and a half hours southwest to Regina for replacements. Chatsworth’s isolation was one of the main reasons—other than her mother’s prodding for her to become a model or actress—that Miranda had left. Indeed, many of the young people raised there relocated after graduation. Now the prospect of spending two months in the small community brought on a claustrophobic anxiety she tried to ignore.
Her mother was waiting supper when she arrived at her destination on Friday night after several long days behind the wheel.
“You made it! I’ve been so worried. The weather reports say it’s snowing in Winnipeg.” Lovely as ever in a hand-knit sweater and stretch black jeans, Annie James offered her daughter a fragile hug and a peck on the cheek.
“Must have been after I passed through. I saw a few wispy clouds, but that was it.” She lugged her bags down the hall. “Same room?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Of course.”
“Same room” being a shrine to white French-provincial furniture, the best you could order from the Sears catalog. At least her mother had removed the canopy. Cleaning that thing year after year must have been hell.
Miranda settled her bags at the foot of the bed, then put her purse on the dresser, next to the phone her parents had given her for her thirteenth birthday. How many hours had she spent on that thing? Mostly talking to Chad….
She went to the washroom, and when she emerged, Annie was removing her green-bean casserole from the oven.
“You haven’t cooked this big meal for just the two of us?” A lentil casserole sat steaming on the table, next to the beans, a green salad and cauliflower.
“This is a special occasion. I even made brownies for dessert—low fat, unfortunately, thanks to my diet.”
“Sticking to it, are you? That’s great.” They discussed Annie’s health for a while, then moved on to Miranda’s work. Annie wasn’t very interested in the video on the Canadian artist Harry Palmer, which Miranda had just finished collaborating on with his son and the CBC. But Annie did have some input to offer on the upcoming project.
“You realize Warren’s book is going to be made into a movie?”
“You mentioned the possibility on the phone.”
“Well, I’ve been wondering. There might be a role for you.” Her mother’s eyes sparkled. “After we spoke, I took the book out of the library and read it. I could see you in the lead, playing Olena. You’re the right age and the description is you to a tee!”
“Oh, Mom.” Annie had never recovered from her disappointment when Miranda dropped modeling to study film at Concordia University in Montreal. While she’d accepted that Miranda was now too old for modeling, she frequently reminded her daughter it wasn’t too late for acting. In her opinion, her beautiful daughter belonged in front of a camera, not behind it.
“What’s the matter?”
“I talked to Warren’s agent about the film rights. Yes, they’ve been sold, but the screenplay hasn’t even been written yet. Warren insists that he wants to do it himself, and first he has to finish his current book.”
“All the better. You need to get your name in early. Just mention the idea to Warren when you interview him for that video of yours.”
“I have no acting experience.”
“You’ve taken several classes. And you did that commercial.”
“Right.” She ought to command about a million for a picture, based on those qualifications.
Her mother smiled, assuming that one word meant Miranda had agreed with everything she’d just said.
“So when are you planning to meet with Warren?”
“Tomorrow. You’ll have to help me figure out how to get to his farm.” Miranda had only an idea of the general direction.
“I’ll draw you a map. It’s not that hard, but it is far. About twelve miles from town, and at least two miles from the closest neighbors, the Brownings. Frankly, I can’t understand why any sane person with a choice would want to live on his own in such an isolated place.
“In fact,” Annie continued, “I’m not at all sure you should be going out to his farm to conduct your interviews. Couldn’t he drive into town?”
Miranda dug deep for patience. Something she suspected she was going to need a lot of this next little while.
“Mom, this video isn’t something I can accomplish in a couple of short interviews. I need to hang around him, see how he lives, how he works.”
Discovering what made Warren Addison tick would take time. But she had two months, and she’d succeed. The completed video would be her Christmas present to herself.
Vegetables were silently passed back and forth; Miranda topped up her mother’s wine from one of the bottles she’d stashed in the trunk of her Volkswagen.
“The Brownings had a baby boy last year,” Annie said finally. “Did I tell you?”
“Yes.” Miranda was glad for Gibson and Libby. They both had daughters from previous relationships. According to Chad, they wouldn’t necessarily stop at three, either.
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard about poor Chad and Bernie English.”
The piece of cauliflower in her mouth suddenly felt like a cork stuck in her throat. Miranda coughed, reached for her wineglass.
“Are you okay?”
Miranda waved a hand dismissively. “What about Chad and Bernie?”
“Oh, it’s just terrible. His poor mother is so upset. You know Dorothy belongs to my bridge group.”
“Mother. What happened?”
“Why, Bernie booted Chad out of the house.” Annie James looked as if Miranda was a little slow not to have figured this out on her own. “After Dorothy left last Wednesday, one of the ladies said she’d heard Chad had been cheating on Bernie.”
“Cheating?”
“No one knows who the woman is. At least not yet. I’m sure the truth will come out eventually.”
Miranda set down her fork, trying to absorb this news. Something major must have happened for Bernie to have kicked out Chad. But an affair? The very idea made Miranda sick. She could only imagine how much worse Bernie would feel.
And how could any of this be true? She’d e-mailed Chad the night before she’d left Toronto and had had a reply from him the following morning.
He hadn’t mentioned a word about any troubles with Bernie. Her mother had to have gotten this wrong. The bridge ladies must have been doing too much raising and doubling—and not with cards, either.
“That’s very hard to believe, Mom. Bernie and Chad have been married for years.”
“You think that’s any guarantee?” Her mother’s tone was sharp as she glanced at the sideboard, where they’d once kept their only family photograph.
“I suppose not. But—” Bernie and Chad? “Where’s he staying, then?”
“Chad? Not at his mother’s—you can be sure of that. Dorothy is furious with him.”
“But Chad is her son.” And she’d always doted on him over his two older sisters.
“Dorothy’s granddaughter’s well-being is at stake here, too,” Annie reminded her.
“Yes, of course. But if Chad isn’t staying with his mother…”
“He’s shacked up at the clubhouse on his golf course. According to Dorothy, he was spending most of his time there, anyway. Probably that’s where he and this other woman have their rendezvous….”
Miranda held back the temptation to roll her eyes at her mother’s leap in logic.
“He’s a grown man, Mom. Besides, do you have any proof that he’s been unfaithful?”
“Proof? This isn’t a court case, Miranda.”
Just as she’d thought. The rumors were baseless. If anything untoward was going on, Miranda would have picked it up in her regular e-mails with Chad, or heard something different in his voice during their more occasional phone calls.
Her mother raised her wineglass with a flourish. “My dear, you’ve been doing biographies long enough now. You should have a better grasp of human nature. When marriages break up for no apparent reason, you can be sure one of the parties has a replacement waiting in the wings.”
For a moment Miranda felt a flicker of doubt. But this was Chad they were talking about. “Yes, often… But I’m sure there are times when a couple realize their marriage was just not meant to be.”
“Meant to be? Dear, I had no idea you were so romantic. Perhaps that’s why you’re still single. If you’re waiting for Mr. Perfect—”
Miranda began to clear the dishes from the table. “Your idea of my perfect match would be a movie director. He’d cast me in his next film and we’d move to Los Angeles and I’d buy you a big house with a pool and a maid.”
“Please don’t tease, Miranda. It isn’t very funny.”
Annie was right on that score. Miranda let the topic drop. “Why don’t we get the dishes done, then have your brownies in the living room.”
“Would you prefer tea or coffee, dear?”
Knowing how weak Annie made her coffee, Miranda chose tea. What she really wanted, of course, was to find Chad and ask him about the rumors from her mother’s bridge club. That Chad’s own mother had been present should have been validation enough, she supposed.
But she wouldn’t believe a word of it until she’d heard the news directly from Chad.
CHAPTER TWO
WITH TEMPERATURES SETTLED well below zero and a hazy light reflecting off the sprinkling of snow that dusted the harvested fields, Miranda set out for the Addison farm the next morning, following the directions her mother had written out for her over breakfast.
Already the air between the two of them was a little clouded. And they hadn’t been under the same roof for twenty-four hours yet. Maybe staying at home wasn’t such a good idea after all, but she couldn’t see any choice. Annie would be mortified if she moved to a friend’s, or the local hotel.
Miranda turned her car onto the graveled road leading north of Chatsworth. Her cute yellow Volkswagen Beetle jostled on the dried ruts, and the tires crunched over the exposed gravel. So far, not much snow had fallen, and the roads were dry. Miranda dreaded dealing with this route after a heavy snowfall. Especially in her little car. Something with all-wheel drive would definitely be better.
But for now—once she got used to the bouncing—she had to admit that driving here was certainly less stressful than negotiating Toronto’s freeways. She turned on the radio, but paid no attention to the Bach cello concerto playing.
She was thinking of Chad. So far she hadn’t managed to get in touch with him. She’d tried calling the golf course this morning, but no one had answered. She hadn’t left a message, since she couldn’t be sure who would retrieve it and she didn’t want anyone drawing the wrong conclusion from her call. As her mother would say, people would talk. And for once, Miranda saw the benefits of being circumspect.
That didn’t stop her from worrying. Why hadn’t he told her about his problems with Bernie? If others were surmising, like the ladies in her mother’s bridge club, that somehow Chad was responsible for the breakup, then Chad was probably feeling pretty lonesome about now.
Unless there really was another woman…?
No, no, no. That couldn’t be it….
A mailbox caught her eye. She was here. Thoughts of Chad vanished as Miranda contemplated the barely standing box at the side of the road—left over from the days when mail had been delivered rather than picked up at a post office box in town. Stenciled in fading black paint was the name “Addison.” She glanced down the long lane. The road curved gently to the right, then disappeared in a second curve to the left. A stand of poplars, naked without their leaves, huddled on either side of the dirt road. They’d provided enough cover, however, to preserve a thin dusting of snow.
Later in the season this private access would be unpassable unless Warren had it plowed. Oh, well, she could always leave her car on the main road.
Optimistic thoughts for someone who hasn’t even talked Warren into the project yet, she reminded herself. She’d decided early on her chances of success were highest with a face-to-face meeting. Unfortunately, she hadn’t developed her strategy beyond that. Now she felt edgy and nervous. She’d put up such a brave front for others. And she’d deposited Catherine’s check. No way could she fail now that she was here.
She nosed her vehicle along the lane. Her initial glimpse of the Addison farmhouse wasn’t reassuring. The old two-story clapboard desperately needed paint. The utilitarian structure sat unconnected to the surrounding land. No cozy porch or veranda. No flower gardens or shrub borders.
A truck parked by the front door and wisps of smoke drifting from the chimney indicated Warren was home. He must have heard her drive up, but so far he hadn’t made an appearance.
Realizing she was working herself into a genuine case of nerves, Miranda turned off the ignition and jumped out of her car. She couldn’t stand around or she’d lose her courage entirely. Avoiding the front door, which was boarded shut, she went round to the back, where she opened the screen to knock on the wooden door.
Just at the moment her knuckles were about to connect with the wood, the door gave way and she found herself staring at a plaid shirt. Lifting her gaze, she saw a face she never would have recognized—masculine, compelling, mature. No trace of the yearbook boy remained.
Except those eyes. And that funny, twisting smile.
“Warren?”
WARREN ADDISON FELT THE COLD wind blasting in and therefore knew he wasn’t hallucinating. But the improbability of the sight stole his words for several long, awkward seconds. Finally, he regained articulation.
“Miranda James.”
God, but she was still so beautiful. Her blond hair was short, bluntly cut and curly. It framed her exquisite face perfectly. She stood taller than he remembered, slim in her boyish jeans, her upper body bundled into a fleece jacket, with a down vest over top.
“None other,” she agreed cheerfully. “Um, mind if I come in? I may track in a little snow, but other than that my boots are clean. I bought them before I came here—never needed snow boots like this in Toronto—we don’t get much snow there. Slush falls from the sky directly.”
Her words overwhelmed him. He hadn’t heard so many in weeks. At last a basic meaning penetrated. “I’m sorry. Of course, come in.” He took a few backward steps to make room. “And don’t worry about snow—or slush, for that matter. As you’ll soon see, I don’t fuss much about things like that.”
But the place wasn’t dirty, he reassured himself, trying to imagine how the old farm kitchen must look in her eyes. At least he wasn’t one to stack dishes between meals or leave food out on the counters. He couldn’t. The mice would make an all-night diner of the place.
“Is that a wood-burning stove?”
“Yeah. Mom wouldn’t part with it. We do have running water and electricity, however.”
He’d meant it as a joke, but she nodded seriously.
“Oh, and an espresso machine!”
“A city comfort I couldn’t imagine doing without. Would you like a cup?”
“Oh, would I.” She brushed the snow off her boots, then sat in one of the wooden kitchen chairs. “Did you bring any other goodies from New York with you?”
“A bag of bagels, frozen in the fridge. I’d offer you one, but I have no microwave.” He shrugged in apology. “Other than that, I packed a few changes of clothing, my books and my computer, of course.”
He measured beans for grinding, still not able to believe that the gorgeous Miranda James was sitting in his kitchen. If she knew how often he’d fantasized about her when they were teenagers…
But hell. That didn’t make him different from any of the other guys who’d gone to Chatsworth High.
“I’ve seen some of your biographies on TV,” he told her. Actually, all of them. “I especially enjoyed the one on prairie musicians. Jack Semple has always been a favorite of mine.”
“Wow, you’ve seen my stuff? In New York?”
“Well, I do get cable.” He noticed her glancing around. “Not here, though. Mom and Dad took the TV with them to Victoria.”
“What do you do with yourself? Isn’t it awfully lonely?”
“I spend a lot of time walking around the property. And I read, play Age of Empires on the computer….” He placed a small pitcher under the espresso spout, then turned on the motor. “And of course I write.”
“Do you ever. Warren, I read your book. Frankly, I was blown away. You deserve all your success.”
He shrugged. Talking about Where It Began was difficult. He was glad, naturally, that the book had done so well. But success had definitely come at a cost.
“You know, back in Toronto, I checked the Internet and the library. I found very little material about you. Not even a photograph.”
Her eyes ran over him, marking the changes, he supposed. Foolishly, he hoped she liked what she saw. He sure liked what he saw. But then, he always had.
“Sugar?” he asked, passing her the froth-covered cup.
“No, thanks.” She hooked the handle with her finger, and as she raised the mug to her mouth he noticed her fragile wrist, with its jangle of silver bracelets.
“I came here to escape notoriety,” he said, referring to the lack of information about him.
“Well, you’ve done a good job.”
“So far,” he acknowledged. “But what about you? Why are you in Chatsworth?” And more particularly, here with him? Not that he didn’t welcome her company, but face it—twenty years ago she wouldn’t have crossed the school yard to speak to him, let alone driven twelve miles of backcountry roads.
No, that wasn’t altogether fair. Miranda had never been a snob. She always gave the impression that she liked everyone, that she would be your very best friend, if only she had more time.
And it wasn’t an act. After twelve years in the same classroom, he’d have sensed it. Miranda was one of those rare people born without an ounce of meanness, or spite, or cruelty. Not that she’d been a goody-goody. Miranda knew, had always known, how to have fun.
That she wasn’t already married was a miracle. Unless there’d been some late developments in that area…no, she had rings on many of her fingers—and even on one thumb—but nothing adorned that all-important fourth finger of the left hand.
“Actually, Warren, I’m here because of you.”
He felt a crazy, scary rhythm in his heart, absent since adolescence. Then reality set in. She didn’t mean that way. He pulled in a breath of air as he took his own espresso to the table and settled himself, too aware of her quiet observation.
And then it hit him. God, he was such an idiot. She filmed biographies for a living. That comment about the paltry information available about him. Of course. That had to be it.
He couldn’t believe how disappointed he felt. Dreamy Miranda wasn’t here to see Warren Addison, her old schoolmate, but Warren Addison, the famous author.
Crap.
“You don’t look pleased. I’m guessing you don’t want to be the subject of my next video.”
“I think my books should stand on their own. Who I am, and whether I write in the night or in the morning, whether I work from an outline or just create, shouldn’t figure into the equation.”
“But isn’t it human nature to wonder about the author of a book you’ve loved? When Mrs. MacIntire read us Huckleberry Finn, weren’t you curious about Samuel Clemens?”
“Mark Twain was a literary icon. I’ve written one book.”
“Warren, your book will oversell the Harry Potter books. A movie’s in the works….”
“But we’re still talking only one novel. And who knows how the next one will be received. If I ever finish writing it…”
“Trust me, Warren. All artists worry that their next work may not be as good as their last—even us lowly video biographers. So you aren’t alone in that. Even if you never publish another story, the success of Where It Began will make you immortal. Think of Margaret Mitchell. And Harper Lee.”
“I appreciate your faith. But selling lots of copies doesn’t guarantee anyone will remember who I am twenty years from now.”
“Yes, but your reviews…”
“Reviewers can be flawed, too.”
“Oh, Warren!”
She laughed, and the clear, musical sound made his heart feel strange again. Her presence in the large kitchen was clear and bright, like a vase of yellow daffodils on the table. He had to admit it would be wonderful to have her around while she worked on that video. But would the cost to his soul be worth the benefit?
“I need quiet to write. That’s why I’m here. If you did that video, my cover would be shot.”
“Warren, persistent journalists will find you eventually. It’s not like where you grew up is a secret.”
“Miranda, surely you’ve got better prospects.”
“Not a one.” Miranda leaned over the table and grasped his hand. Her cool, silky touch was unlike any woman’s he’d ever known.
“I’ll be as unobtrusive as possible. I’ll work around your schedule. Warren, I can be very flexible.”
Oh, he just bet she could. With that slender, willowy body…
“Hell, Miranda. Has anyone ever been able to say no to you?”
CHAPTER THREE
ACTUALLY, TWO PEOPLE had said no to her, Miranda reflected, on the drive back to Chatsworth. Her mother had honed that talent to an art long ago. The other—well, he hadn’t truly said no. He’d just never said yes.
Chad. She’d promised her mom she’d pick up a few groceries for dinner tonight, but after that she was going to drive to the golf course to see him. She simply couldn’t wait any longer. If anyone asked, she’d say she was inquiring about cross-country ski lessons.
Too bad there wasn’t much snow.
There would be soon, though. On her car radio, after Beethoven’s “Hammerklavier” piano sonata had concluded, had come storm warnings for the southeastern corner of Saskatchewan. Heavy snowfalls and driving winds were expected within hours. Already a few flakes were falling from the gray, depthless sky.
It had taken only the hour she’d spent at Warren’s for the weather to change. Now she wondered what the roads would be like tomorrow when she drove out again to begin work on the video. She dismissed the faint worry. One thing Saskatchewan had lots of was snowplows.
She picked up her cell and dialed Catherine with the good news that Warren had agreed to work with her on the video. After leaving a message, she thought about Warren. He hadn’t exactly brimmed over with enthusiasm for the project. She couldn’t take his cooperation for granted. She’d have to tread cautiously.
But at least she’d received a chance. Something she was very relieved about, because after meeting Warren again, her enthusiasm for doing his biography had increased exponentially.
Physically, he’d changed so much from his youth. He could have matured into a skinny, prematurely balding man who wore cardigans and smoked American cigarettes—didn’t most novelists smoke?
But she’d smelled no trace of tobacco in his house and observed no ashtrays or matches. His dark, unruly hair was still thick and he’d grown into his strong facial features. As for his physique, while he remained lanky, his height had been balanced by a broadening of his shoulders. He still wasn’t handsome, but maturity had definitely given him an edge. She’d bet money the camera would love his face. And sex appeal was never something to ignore in the TV business.
She liked the way he moved, too, and was eager to capture that masculine grace with her camera. She’d enjoyed watching him operate the espresso machine. His long, slender fingers were so fluid she’d immediately imagined filming him at the keyboard. Smiling, she tapped her fingers against the steering wheel. Working on Warren was going to be such divine fun.
As for the possibility he was gay… No. Definitely not. She couldn’t pinpoint the reason for her certainty. She just knew. Not that he’d flirted or acted attracted to her at all. In fact, it might have been nice if he’d done either, just a little. Still, there’d been something in his eyes when he’d looked at her. And he’d done a lot of that.
Had Warren dated anyone during their school years? She couldn’t remember that he had, but she’d have to make sure. She’d compile a list of people in Chatsworth she should talk to. Not just about his social life, of course, but all sorts of things. How he’d done at school, if he’d participated in any extracurricular activities, and whether anything in his childhood might have affected his destiny to write.
She was already at the road turning into Chatsworth. A quick stop at Lucky’s grocery store extended fifteen minutes when she ran into some familiar faces. Back in the car, her bag of groceries on the passenger seat next to her, she headed for Willow Road. The graveled lane provided the only access to the Chatsworth Golf Club. Built when she was a kid, the eighteen-hole course had proved extremely popular. Many of the members traveled from surrounding towns such as Bredenbury and Church-bridge…even Yorkton, twenty-six miles away on the Yellowhead highway.
Years ago, Chad’s father had purchased a good chunk of lakefront footage, transformed the surrounding acres of wood and cleared land into a top-quality resort. Besides golf, his club offered clay tennis courts and an outdoor pool in the summer, supplementing the public beach just down the road.
In the winter, they groomed the course for cross-country skiing. This had been Chad’s innovation, as well as the idea of adding a minigym so people would have something to do during what was, after all, Saskatchewan’s longest season. Since his father’s death several years ago, Chad had run the entire operation on his own.
Miranda switched on the wipers. The snowflakes fell faster now, and grew thicker and heavier. She passed through the main gates to the clubhouse. A lone truck sat parked at the front door. She had no idea if it belonged to Chad, but likely it did.
She pulled down the visor, then used the mirror as she reapplied her lipstick. The lip-liner went on crooked and she had to start over. God, she was nervous! How long had it been since she and Chad had actually seen each other? Sure, they e-mailed once or twice a week and spoke to each other on the phone every now and then. But neither was the same as a face-to-face meeting.
If he was here. Please let him be here.
Her new boots etched treaded prints all the way from her car to the double front doors of the clubhouse. She looked back at them. Already fresh snow had begun to fill them in. It was really dumping now, although she was protected under the overhang from the roof.
She tried the door. It wasn’t locked. Knowing Chad slept here, though, she didn’t feel right entering without warning. So she knocked, then pushed the door inward a few inches.
“Anybody home?”
At the faraway sound of a male talking, she opened the door farther and stepped inside. She couldn’t see Chad. He wasn’t at the reception desk, or by the racks of sporting equipment lined up to take advantage of the ill-prepared sportsman. She passed through a doorway to the cafeteria. During the summer, staff prepared casual meals on-site and served from a long buffet that ran along the kitchen wall. Now the only sustenance offered sat in vending machines.
She passed through the room into a short hall. On the right were change rooms; to the left, an office. Chad was just hanging up the telephone. Seeing her, he smiled, revealing a mixture of surprise and pleasure.
“I don’t believe it. Miranda James, in person. I wasn’t sure whether to take your e-mail seriously.”
Chad was always teasing her about being a city girl, too important to waste her time visiting old friends. But Miranda hadn’t consciously avoided Chatsworth. Her mother honestly preferred to fly to Toronto for their visits and avail herself of the city’s theater, shopping, fine restaurants.
“I can’t quite believe I’m here, either,” she admitted.
She found it hard to take her gaze off Chad. Even unshaven, he looked gorgeous. His blond hair had probably only been finger-combed, but it shone clean and bright. His green polo shirt brought out the color of his eyes, and his jeans showed off powerful quads.
“Ah, honey, it’s so good to see you.” He captured her in a hug that swamped her senses like the snowstorm outside. God, his smell, she remembered his smell. The strength of his arms, the firmness of his chest, though—they were new.
“You’ve been working out?” She pressed on one bicep.
“I’ve got the time, don’t I?” He let her go to check her out. She tilted her head and dared him to find a flaw. He just grinned. “Gorgeous as ever, hon. Toronto must agree with you.”
You agree with me. Just to see him again, hear his voice without the aid of human technology, felt so good.
“How are you, Chad?”
“Oh, fine.”
She regarded him steadily, until finally he dropped his gaze.
“You’ve heard.”
“Yes.”
He sank onto the sofa across from his desk and she followed, leaving one square cushion between the two of them.
“Shit,” he said.
Miranda let him sit quietly for a while, stewing in his obvious unhappiness. Finally she had to ask. “Tell me what happened.”
“What’s to tell? She kicked me out.”
“You’re talking about Bernie.”
“Yeah, I’m talking about Bernie. My goddamn wife of twelve years. Not that she seems to care how long we’ve been together or even that we have a daughter and a house and a life invested in each other.”
“Would you mind backtracking a minute here? I had no idea you and Bernie were having problems. What’s been going on?”
“Nothing’s been going on,” Chad said, his words heartfelt. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She never used to be so emotional. She says I’m not giving her enough attention—well, how is kicking me out of the house going to solve that?”
“Oh, Chad…”
“She says I’m spending all my time at work or with my buddies. But she never complained before. It’s not as if she doesn’t have friends…not to mention the nicest house in town and a luxury car. I’ve provided well for that woman. Last birthday I bought her one of those bracelets with the diamonds all around—”
“A tennis bracelet?”
“Yeah, that’s what the salesperson called it. But I might as well have bought her a bloody blender for all the points it earned me.”
She’d had no idea Chad and Bernie’s marriage was so precarious. From occasional comments of Chad’s, Miranda had surmised they weren’t the closest of couples. But they’d muddled through the years.
On reflection, she wasn’t that surprised they’d hit a snag. They’d married out of high school and Bernie had been pregnant at the time. Not the ideal prescription for wedded bliss.
Not that she was one to judge. After all, at thirty-two she still had no experience with marriage.
Glancing around, she noticed an open suitcase by the window. Some dirty dishes on the coffee table. On the floor, beside the sofa, lay a pillow and some blankets.
“So you’ve been staying here.”
“Hey, I have a pullout sofa bed, and a big-screen TV and a vending machine in the main room—all the comforts of home.” He managed a smile. A weak one.
She supposed he could camp out here as long as necessary. The convenient sofa bed reminded her of the bridge club talk.
“You haven’t done anything stupid, have you?”
He took a moment to digest her question, then protested. “Like sleep with someone else? Come on, Randy. You should know me better than that. ’Course I haven’t.”
But he’d probably had opportunities. Women were always interested in Chad. He hadn’t lost any of the looks or charm that had made him so popular in high school.
“There has to be something. Wives don’t kick their husbands out for no reason.” Another wild thought. “Bernie hasn’t found someone else?”
“God, no. I’m telling you, it isn’t anything like that—her falling in love with another guy or me crawling into bed with some woman. And don’t tell me it could be happening without me knowing, because in a town of five hundred people these things get around.”
Miranda believed him. Since about grade seven, when the girls had first starting taking note of the boys, Bernie had been devoted to Chad.
“This is awful, Chad. I wish I could help….”
“Having someone to talk to helps. You’ve always been that person for me, hey, Randy? Such a good pal. Too bad you and me weren’t the ones who fell in love back in grade twelve.”
Who says I didn’t fall in love with you, Chad? “Yeah, well, that’s probably why we’re still such good friends.”
“Right.”
She reached over to lay a hand on his shoulder, then noticed a framed collage on the wall next to him. The photographs, taken from years ago, included a snapshot of her and Chad on the night of their high school graduation. Not that they’d been dates. No, they’d each gone with someone else. She couldn’t remember either of the names at the moment.
On his desk stood more recent photos. One of Bernie, Chad and a cute little girl with a gap-toothed smile. Vicky was almost a teenager now.
“How’s your daughter taking this?”
“Oh, she’s a real trouper.” Chad straightened his back. “Bernie explained the situation to her. Married couples needing a little downtime, stuff like that.”
“Is that what this is, Chad? A little downtime?”
“I don’t know, Randy. Christ, I don’t know.” He sniffed, closer to tears than she’d ever seen him. “I don’t want my daughter to become another statistic. The victim of a broken home….”
“Surely it won’t come to that.”
He took a deep breath. Plucked at a loose thread in the cushion that separated them. “Bernie’s got me on a schedule. I see Vicky every other weekend, and Wednesdays I pick her up from piano lessons, then take her out for dinner. To the café.”
“She’s twelve now, right?”
“Yeah, she’s grown up fast. Just wait till you see her.”
“I have seen her. Ten minutes ago at Lucky’s. She’s lovely, Chad. But what about Bernie? Have you been talking to her?”
“Hardly. Just a minute here and there in passing.” He dropped his head into his hands, and Miranda patted his back sympathetically.
“Have you thought of marriage counseling?”
Incredulous, Chad stiffened and turned to her. “You’re kidding, right? Do you know what the guys would say when they found out? Hell, all Vicky’s friends would tease her at school….”
“Everyone knows you and Bernie aren’t living together, Chad. If you went to counseling, at least they could see that you’re trying to work things out. More important, Bernie would know you were serious about fixing things.”
“But that’s just the point. Nothing’s broken, so what is there to fix?”
Miranda struggled for patience. “Chad, don’t be a fool. You know damn well your marriage is in trouble.”
“Okay,” he admitted. “But counseling won’t help. Bernie’s made up her mind.”
Miranda felt as if her heart had stopped beating. “She wants a divorce?”
“No…” Chad waved a hand impatiently. “She’s got a list of three things she wants changed. She won’t let me move back in until I agree to all of them.”
“Three things. That doesn’t sound too bad. Why don’t you just concede the points and go home?”
Chad gave her a half smile, then shrugged. “Randy, one of them is that I have to stop being friends with you.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“OUR FRIENDSHIP’S ALWAYS been completely aboveboard.” Miranda jumped up from the sofa. She hadn’t realized Bernie was aware she and Chad kept in touch. Not that it had been a secret or anything. She merely found it more convenient to send e-mails and make phone calls to Chad at his office.
“My wife knows that, Randy,” Chad assured her. “She’s just being unreasonable, trying to keep me on a short leash. But she’s always been jealous of you.”
The one-sided competition hadn’t been fostered by Miranda. Still, she’d been conscious—how could she not be—that Bernie had constantly compared the two of them. Miranda’s better marks at school had annoyed her. In sports, Bernie had always aimed to beat Miranda.
The rivalry had been strongest when it came to boys. Miranda hadn’t needed to do much to attract their interest. Her mother didn’t allow her to date until she was sixteen. Once she’d reached that milestone age, she rarely had a free weekend.
From Bernie’s mean-spirited teasing, Miranda had known she was jealous. But Miranda could never understand why. After all, the best guy of the lot, the only one Miranda was truly interested in, belonged to Bernie.
And Bernie had the nerve to be jealous of her?
“What do we do, Chad?”
“Nothing. Sit down. Relax.” He pulled her to the cushion right next to him. With their thighs touching, he kept hold of one hand. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t expect you to be so upset.”
She could feel the heat of his leg next to her leg, his fingers cupping hers. The intense sensitivity of her nerves was not, she realized, an appropriate reaction to a man who was married to another woman. The good thing about their long-distance friendship was that she rarely had to worry about how to behave when she was with Chad. Now she eased over—creating space between them. She slipped her hand out of his on the pretext of smoothing out a wrinkle in her jeans.
“I’m not that upset,” she said. “Just—surprised.”
“We don’t have anything to feel guilty about. And I refuse to act like a kid when I’m a grown man. I guess I can pick my own friends. Give in on this, and next thing Bernie will start expecting me to cut out my annual fly-in fishing trip to Pelican Narrows.”
“She wouldn’t!”
“Oh, sure, you can laugh. Imagine if someone tried to keep you from going to that artsy-fartsy Toronto Film Festival next fall.”
“As if.”
“So you get my point.”
“Yeah, but maybe I’m the wrong one to be talking to about this. I’ve never been married. I suppose you have to make compromises….” On some things. But surely someone who loved you wouldn’t want you to give up those pastimes that meant the most to you…or friends you’d had almost your entire life.
“Chad, what were the other items on Bernie’s list?” He’d said there were three.
This time Chad was the one to separate himself from her. He got up from the sofa, went to the window to glance at the snow, then shuffled a few papers around on his desk.
“She wanted me to give up one of my curling nights with the guys and rejoin the mixed league with her.”
“How many nights do you curl with the guys?”
“Three right now.” He gave a bashful grin. “Not counting bonspiels.”
“Well, giving up one of those nights to play with your wife sounds reasonable. What’s the last thing?”
Chad turned back to the window, but not before she saw his neck and ears redden. She waited, but he didn’t say anything.
“Aren’t you going to tell me?”
“Her third request is kind of…personal.”
No kidding. Wasn’t this entire conversation? But obviously some problems between a husband and wife you didn’t feel comfortable discussing even with your best friend.
“Not another woman?”
His back went rigid. “I already told you no.”
Yes, he had. But what else could be making him so embarrassed? Something about their sex life? Did Bernie want more? Or less?
Or better?
Hmm… Tempted to tease Chad a little, Miranda just kept her mouth shut. Chad had never liked being made fun of. And over the years Miranda had figured out if there was one subject men were especially sensitive about it was their technique in bed. Politics and religion were safer topics by far.
“I should be heading home. I’ve got the groceries for supper.” And her mother liked to have the meal on the table for six o’clock sharp. As did most of the families in Chatsworth. “Say, do they still ring the town bell at noon and six?”
Chad laughed. “Honey, you have been away for a long time, haven’t you?”
He walked back over to the sofa, slung an arm around her shoulders and led her to the front door. Miranda was pleased that his mood had lightened. Still, she hesitated to leave him.
“Are you okay out here on your own?”
“Thank you for being concerned. You may be the only person in town who doesn’t hate me right now. Even my mother wouldn’t let me move back in with her.”
“Yeah, I heard. What’s going on there?”
“She has this crazy idea that the split is all my fault. Anyway, it’s not that bad out here. Especially when I get pretty visitors. How did a hick town like Chatsworth ever produce a glamorous creature like you?” He stepped back and stared at her. Smiled and shook his head.
Her thoughts were still spinning with all he’d told her. “Chad, why didn’t you let me know sooner about all this?”
“I kept thinking Bernie would change her mind. I had no idea she could be this stubborn. Randy, I never pictured my life this way. I don’t want a divorce.”
“Bernie loves you, Chad. I’m sure that’s not what she wants, either.”
“Well, that’s not the way she’s acting.”
“Maybe not right now. But she’ll come round. You’ll see.” Miranda sought for something to say to cheer him up. “I’ll bet the two of you are together again by Christmas.”
“Christmas, huh? That’s less than two months away.”
“Bernie has always loved you. And people who love each other belong together at Christmas.”
“Can I hold you to that, Randy?”
“Money-back guarantee.”
BERNIE ENGLISH SAT IN the bow-window nook of her beautiful new kitchen, writing in her journal. She’d started it the day she kicked Chad out, and already had about a quarter of the pages filled. She’d hoped it would only take a few nights sleeping on the couch in his office for Chad to come to his senses and realize he couldn’t live without her.
But two weeks had passed and she was beginning to fear she’d totally miscalculated. Maybe even played into his hands.
Perhaps Chad had wanted out for a long time now but had been too afraid to tell her. He’d always hated unpleasant scenes. Telling your wife you no longer loved her would certainly count as unpleasant.
Especially if he never had loved her. She’d always wondered about that. If she hadn’t been pregnant, would he still have asked her to marry him? Probably not, at least not so young. But as naive as they’d been, they’d been terribly happy, too. At least, she had.
Vicky had been an angel of a baby, and Chad had adored her from the start, even before she had. The birth had been hard and long and she’d been so tired. When the nurse tried to put that wrinkled, red child on her chest, she’d said no, thanks. But Chad had held out his hands and cradled the wee thing. As she’d watched him, tenderness had bloomed in her, too.
Bernie grabbed another tissue as her eyes began to water again. Was she going crazy? Sometimes it felt like it. Two weeks ago she’d had everything. A beautiful daughter, a good job, this house, friends…and Chad. Maybe he wasn’t perfect, but he slept in her bed every night and that was something, wasn’t it? Even after twelve years, it was still something.
The front door slammed and Bernie jumped. Quickly she slipped her journal under the tea towels in a kitchen drawer, swept the pile of sodden tissues into the trash, then went to the sink to splash water over her face.
She needn’t have worried about her appearance. Vicky ignored her as she beelined for the fridge. “What’s to eat?”
“An apple? A cheese stick? I hope you remembered to put your boots away.”
“Great.” Vicky ignored the comment about her boots as she dug food from the clear plastic bin. “What else can I eat?”
Wasn’t that enough? Apparently not, when you were twelve and growing. “How about some crackers?” Bernie dug out a box of Wheat Thins, dumped them into a small bowl and put them on the table.
“Did you enjoy your sleepover?”
“Sure.”
“What time did the two of you fall asleep?”
Vicky shrugged. She was wearing a top Bernie recognized as belonging to Karen. Trading clothes again. The two girls had done makeovers on each other, as well. Vicky’s hair, almost white, the way Chad’s had been at that age, was pulled off her face with about a dozen pastel clips, and her nails were painted in matching shades of polish. Probably they’d done their faces, too, but Vicky had been smart enough to wash everything off before coming home.
“Say, Mom, guess who we saw at Lucky’s this afternoon.”
A blizzard had started late this morning, so not likely one of Vicky’s out-of-town classmates. Maybe Chad… Bernie picked up the dishcloth and cleaned the sink. “Who?”
“Her name’s Miranda James. She says she used to go to school with you and Dad.”
Bernie’s skin flamed as if it was being scrubbed instead of the stainless-steel faucet. “You were talking to Randy?”
“Yeah, she figured I was your daughter. Said I looked a lot like you.”
Here Vicky scowled, undoubtedly annoyed at the resemblance. After a moment she got over it, too impressed with Miranda James to stop talking about her.
“I’ve never seen anyone that pretty in real life. And she’s totally awesome to talk to. Was she that cool when you guys were in school?”
“At least,” Bernie said, trying not to sound as if she were choking on a mouthful of sour grapes.
“I love her hair. Should I cut mine short like that?”
She had no idea what Randy’s hair looked like, but still resented the idea that Vicky would want to imitate her. “You just finished growing out your bangs,” she reminded her.
Vicky pulled at a strand of hair that had escaped the row of clips. “How about if I just got some streaks put in? Miranda does that, even though her hair is naturally blond. It’s so funky, Mom, and you should see her clothes. Can I get a black vest? Miranda says they’re so versatile everyone should have one.”
Miranda says. Bernie bit back on the desire to ask if Randy had mentioned anything about Chad. Putting ideas in Vicky’s head wouldn’t do, although the kid wasn’t blind. If she ever saw Randy and her father together, she’d soon get enough ideas of her own.
“She lives in Toronto, Mom, and makes video biographies for a living. Right now she’s doing one on Warren Addison. Isn’t that awesome?”
“Totally.” Bernie rinsed the soap from the dishcloth. She stared out the window into the bleak winter day. Snow continued to fall relentlessly. At least four inches sat on top of the railing that spanned the back deck.
Chad had built that deck three summers ago. When he’d finished, they’d had a barbecue to celebrate. They’d been happy then, hadn’t they? When had everything started falling apart?
“And you should see her car, Mom. It’s a yellow punch-buggy.”
“What?”
“You know, those cars like the old-fashioned Volkswagen bugs that Dad likes so much.”
Great. So the perfect girl with the perfect clothes and the perfect hair also had the perfect car. Judging from the expression on Vicky’s face and the excitement in her voice, Randy had won over Bernie’s daughter, as well as her husband.
In a moment of cold fear, Bernie realized that if Chad and Randy ended up together, Vicky would probably be thrilled. She might even choose to live with them rather than her. Just contemplating the possibility made Bernie’s stomach squeeze in on itself.
Oh, God, she was going to start crying again. But she couldn’t. Vicky still sat at the table, chowing down on the crackers. She’d already finished the apple and cheese. Vicky was so skinny in her jeans and tight top. Bernie had been that thin once, too. Was that why Chad’s interest in her had diminished over the years? Because she’d put on too many pounds?
“Is something wrong, Mom?”
Bernie stiffened. Had Vicky noticed the wetness in her eyes? She had to pull herself together. “I’m fine.” She dried her damp hands on a towel. “Why?”
Vicky shrugged. “Just wondering why you hadn’t started supper. Can we have pizza?”
“Sure. I have one in the freezer. I’ll just warm up the oven—”
Without another word, Vicky slipped out of the room.
Bernie set the dial on the stove, then retrieved her journal and sank back into her cushioned chair.
Talk in the staff room at school yesterday was that Miranda James is in town to do a video biography on Warren Addison.
Bull.
In her outrage, Bernie’s pen flew across the clean page she’d just turned to.
Miranda never paid a moment’s attention to Warren when we were kids. It was always Chad for her. They were best friends, but I knew she wanted more. It made me proud, knowing that the sexiest guy in the school preferred me to her. Blond, beautiful, perfect Miranda could have had any guy she wanted.
But not Chad.
Bernie paused to pull a pizza from her freezer. She removed the wrappings, then set it on the counter, waiting for the oven to reach four hundred degrees.
Back at her journal, the words continued to flow.
I’ve never dared think this before—writing down the words is even scarier. But is it possible Chad has secretly loved Miranda all along? Why else would he have stayed such close friends with her for so many years?
She knew they communicated regularly by e-mail. On the occasions when she dropped in at the golf course, she usually found an excuse to slip into Chad’s office and check his electronic in-box. Almost always she found something from Miranda in there. She’d never actually read the messages. Maybe she should have.
What is happening to me? I’m turning into one of those desperate women who would do anything to keep her man. What about my dignity? My self-respect?
Perhaps those qualities were overrated. They’d landed her in this mess in the first place. Spurred by comments from her friend Adrienne, when Chad had marched into the house, late as usual, demanding his supper.
“You shouldn’t let him treat you that way,” Adrienne had said. It was the first time she’d ever spoken the least bit negatively about Chad. Pressed, however, she’d spewed out more.
“Does he ever take you out, just the two of you? Between work and golf in the summer and work and curling in the winter, you never see him!”
True, and the trend had worsened over the years. Just this fall he’d opted out of the mixed curling league with her so he could play in Yorkton with another group of men.
Bernie loved her sports. Curling and cross-country skiing in the winter, golf in the summer. And she liked playing them with her husband. Having Chad withdraw from the mixed curling league had hurt.
“That man needs a wake-up call,” Adrienne had said.
Problem was, Bernie had called, but Chad hadn’t woken up.
And now Randy was in town. Bernie went on writing.
What can I do to protect my marriage? I know she’ll be full of sympathy for Chad—and I can guess where that will lead. Meanwhile, what about me? Am I supposed to sit back and let her move in on my husband?
No! Of course not. But what were her options? She was the one who’d kicked Chad out of the house. She’d listed three requirements before he could move back in. If she went back on her demands, she’d look like a fool.
She also had no illusions about how she would look next to Randy James. No ordinary woman could compete with her.
Of course, I haven’t seen Randy in years. Maybe she’s gained a pile of weight or aged prematurely.
Not likely when her mother, Annie James, in her late fifties, was still the most attractive woman in town.
I won’t allow myself to be dragged into a competition. It’s ridiculous. I’ll hold my head high and act like I couldn’t care less about Randy James. No one will guess my true feelings.
Bernie stared at the words on the page. At first reading they sounded good, but now… Well, holding her head high just seemed so awfully passive. She wasn’t the type to sit back and wait. Her marriage was in trouble and she had to do something.
Chad was her husband. That made Miranda James the enemy. This was a war.
And she needed a battle plan.
CHAPTER FIVE
MIRANDA SHOULDN’T have felt nervous driving out to the Addison farm this second time. She’d convinced him, hadn’t she? The elusive, reclusive Warren Addison would be the subject of the next Miranda James video biography. And she hadn’t even needed to promise her firstborn for the privilege.
So why did she feel like a kid facing university finals—unable to recall a single fact she’d memorized the night before, stomach queasy, palms perspiring.
Everyone thought success came so easily to her. No one in her life had ever guessed just how untrue this was. The things she didn’t care about—yes, those came easily. Like those two men at the restaurant when she’d had lunch with Catherine. They’d practically drooled over their plates watching her. But they were strangers. She had no interest in them.
The men she’d really wanted in her life she’d never been able to keep.
And the work she truly loved—filming video biographies—scared her to death half the time. At the beginning of each project she was so afraid of failure. And this time the stakes were even higher than usual.
Everyone in Chatsworth knew what she’d come here to do. What if she did such a lousy job the CBC refused to air the finished project? She’d look like a fool. Everyone would consider her a fraud.
A pretty face and nothing more.
She’d feel more assured if she had more memories from her past to guide her. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t picture Warren playing with any of the other kids in their class when they were younger. In the high school years, he hadn’t attended any of the parties with her and her friends. As far as she knew, he hadn’t dated any of the girls.
Yet he’d never been teased or treated like an outcast. Warren had too much natural dignity about him. She cast her mind back and realized that while she’d never really known him, she’d always kind of admired him. He didn’t care what others thought. He spoke his mind without obsessing how people might react to what he said. He had a confidence most adults never attained.
Reflecting on their meeting the other day, she acknowledged that he hadn’t lost an ounce of that self-assurance.
The long red barn of a prosperous dairy farm appeared to the right, signaling an upcoming turn. Miranda eased off the gas, glad that the roads had been plowed this morning. Still, a thin layer of packed snow made them treacherously icy.
Three miles after the dairy farm, two more houses came into view, one on either side of the road. A large, shaggy mutt raced out from one spruce-lined driveway. He barked at her frantically as she passed by.
“My car is probably the most exciting thing you’ve seen all day…hey, boy?”
Saskatchewan was well known for being flat and treeless. In truth, this small corner of the province was neither. Admittedly, the hills were gentle contours at best, and the trees were mostly scrub poplars and willows, but Miranda found the land beautiful nonetheless. It didn’t hurt that the sky was clear and blue this morning and that sparkling frost coated every surface from tree branch to fence post. The forecast was for more snow and soon, though right now that seemed highly unlikely.
Before she knew it, Miranda was driving past the turnoff to the Browning and Bateson farms. Since Libby’s and Gibson’s marriage, the two properties had been run as one operation, with the help of Libby’s father.
Miranda didn’t know Libby all that well, but she remembered Gibson, all right. He and his best friend, Libby’s brother Chris, had dominated the dreams of every girl in school. She had been thrilled when Chris, two years her senior, had asked her out when she was in grade ten. Of course, her mother had nixed those plans. Probably wisely, Miranda had to admit with hindsight. At the time she’d been furious. Chris had been such a hunk. How tragic that he’d died so young in a car crash with his mother….
Half an hour after leaving Chatsworth, Miranda pulled into the Addison lane. Deep snow covered the small stretch of private road. Worried about her car getting stuck, Miranda parked off to the side of the main road and walked in, carrying her camera case in one hand and her duffel bag in the other.
Her new boots squeaked in the fresh snow; the cool breeze bit at her cheeks and the tip of her nose. On foot, she noticed the poplar trees lining the driveway appeared much larger. She could hear a flock of sparrows chattering on the branches of one of them.
She stopped twenty yards from the house and took out her camera. “A typical Saskatchewan farmhouse,” she said, recording her voice along with the images. “Two stories, built from wood. Small, double-hung windows.”
Swinging the camera to the right, she centered first the barns in her viewfinder, then an equipment shed. The paint on all these buildings was in even worse shape than the paint on the house.
She turned off the power to the camera and slipped it back in its case. Smoke filtered out the plain metal chimney of the house. Peeking in one of the double-hung windows, she saw only frost. But Warren had to be in there, working, since no fresh tracks led from out his back door.
Wouldn’t it be lovely to sneak inside and get a candid shot of him at his computer?
She didn’t dare.
After again bypassing the boarded front entry, she knocked at the back. Warren had the door open in a flash. He wore jeans and bare feet. He had long toes, she noted, before lifting her head to smile.
“Right on time.” He closed out the frosty air with a firm shove on the slightly warped door.
Her professional eye approved the dark turtleneck he was wearing—the style suited his long, narrow face, and the color coordinated perfectly with his hair and thick eyelashes.
“It’s nice and warm in here. Smells yummy, too.”
“I had oatmeal and cinnamon for breakfast.”
No sign of the meal remained in the tidy kitchen. “Were you working?”
“I was.”
“Can I see?”
He shrugged. “This way.”
She dropped the duffel bag on the worn Arborite table and shrugged her jacket onto a kitchen chair. Warren led her through an arched entry into the next room. Papers covered the polished dining room table. A laptop computer hummed gently in one corner, while a violin concerto played softly from a radio on the matching buffet table against the far wall.
As Warren hung back, Miranda moved in for a closer inspection. The seemingly chaotic piles of papers were actually organized into specific areas of research, chapter outlines, character profiles. On the computer screen were lines of typing, ending with an unfinished sentence. Her arrival had definitely interrupted him.
“Just think.” She placed a hand gently on the computer. “This will be a book. Millions of people will read it.”
“If it gets published.”
“How can you doubt that? Your first novel was a phenomenon. Surely your publisher is desperate for the follow-up.”
“If by ‘follow-up’ you mean the next in the series, then you’re right. But I never intended Where It Began to be part of a trilogy or anything like that.”
“Still, you had several unanswered questions at the end.”
“The main theme was resolved. As for the dangling threads, I thought they were best left to the reader’s conjecture.”
“So we’ll never find out whether Olena leaves her husband?”
“Whether she leaves or stays isn’t really that interesting.”
“Only a man could say something like that.” Miranda let her fingers trace the keyboard. Warren had crossed his hands over his chest. Defensive about his work? Or just a usual distancing maneuver? “I think it would very much matter to your readers what Olena decides. It matters to me.”
“Why? Olena and her lover face an all-too-familiar dilemma. End their affair or end their marriages. We’ve seen both scenarios acted out so many times in real life we know what will happen in either case.”
“If you find the situation so commonplace, why write about it in the first place?”
“What interested me was how a moral, intelligent woman like Olena could end up in such a predicament.”
“I see. And what about the new book? Does it take place in your fictional town of Runnymeade, too?”
“Yes, but in a later period.”
“So there will be no connection to the characters in the first book.”
Warren smiled. “I didn’t say that.”
“Ah, you’re trying to torment me, aren’t you?” She moved away from the computer, but not before noticing he was on page 467 of his document. “Would you sit down for a moment? Let me get some footage of you at work?” She pulled out her camera.
“I’m sorry, Miranda. I can’t pose. I won’t.”
“But—”
“If you catch me at the computer sometime, I give you permission to film me while I’m writing. But I won’t fake it. Not even for you.”
Miranda wasn’t sure she understood, but she was hardly in a position to argue. She was here on his grace, after all. Eating up time that he’d undoubtedly prefer to spend on his book. Besides, he’d just granted a greater gift than he’d denied. To get a shot of him when he didn’t realize she was there would be a marvelous coup.
“Want to go for a walk? It’s snowing.”
“Already?” She put a hand to the cold window-sill. The morning’s blue sky had vanished. The forecast storm had arrived.
“We can stay inside if you’d rather.”
“Oh, no. I’m game. Can I bring my camera?”
“I guess I’d better say yes, since it seems permanently affixed to your arm.”
Miranda bundled herself back into her outerwear. Warren offered her an extra scarf, then slipped into a thick sheepskin coat and heavy-duty Gore-Tex boots.
“Since I work at a desk, I try to make sure I get my exercise. Don’t want to turn into a blob.”
Now, that was something she couldn’t imagine. Warren had always been thin. She’d noticed, though, he now had a definite muscularity. “You go to the gym, too?”
“When I’m in New York.”
He held open the back door and Miranda stepped out into swirling ice crystals.
“What about you, Miranda? What do you do to stay in shape?”
“I like walking, too.” Although she preferred graveled trails to plowing through eighteen-inch snowdrifts. She squinted against the driving snow and clutched her camera protectively.
“Here.” Warren took her free arm and tucked it next to his body.
He led the way to a path that he’d obviously walked before. A wooden gate stood open, and they passed through into an open field.
“My parents rent this land to the Hodges now. I believe they grew canola last summer.”
Miranda was adjusting to the cold. And to the wind. She didn’t mind walking close to Warren, either. It made it easier to hear when he spoke to her.
“Why did you decide to be a writer, Warren?”
“Because that’s what I am. I’ve had other jobs, though. I worked on this farm every summer when I was a boy. If my parents had had their way, I’d still be working here.”
“Aren’t they proud of what you’ve accomplished? A bestselling novel and critical acclaim….”
“It doesn’t mean that much to them, I’m afraid. Last visit I overheard Mom say to one of her neighbors, ‘His marks were always so good he could have been anything. Even a lawyer.’”
Miranda laughed. “You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. It’s too bad I was an only child. They might have had more success with other offspring.”
“Gosh, don’t I know that feeling. My mother has dreams of me on stage or in movies. In her mind I’m the perfect person to play Olena in the film version of your book. By the way, I’m supposed to be angling for an audition.”
“Would you like the part?” he surprised her by asking.
“You’re speaking hypothetically, of course. The answer is no. I’ve never cared for acting—I feel too silly trying to pretend I’m someone other than myself. My mother’s sure I failed at being an actress on purpose, to spite her.”
“You need to care about what she wants less. I think what you do is fascinating. Present project excluded.”
Compliments rarely flustered Miranda. For some reason, this one did. “Speaking of my present project, did you try any other jobs besides helping out on the farm?”
“I also worked at the potash mine in Esterhazy for a few months. God, that was an experience—clearing out debris from thousands of feet underground.”
Miranda shuddered sympathetically.
“And I’ve taught. I still do, from time to time.”
He was a frequent guest lecturer. Yes, she’d read that somewhere.
“But I’m most content when I’m writing. Growing up here probably had something to do with it.” He waved a hand to indicate the white, barren landscape. “With no brothers or sisters or nearby neighbors, I had to rely on my imagination and books for entertainment.”
“No TV?”
“A little.” He grinned. “Star Trek.”
“‘Aye, aye, Captain.’” She pulled off a mitten—cold be damned—and turned on her camera. Good, she managed to catch the dancing amusement in his eyes before he looked away.
“Any other early influences? Besides Star Trek?” She held her focus on him, relying on his arm to prevent her from stumbling as they continued to walk.
“Tolkien, of course. And the Russians. I especially loved Tolstoy and later, Solzhenitsyn.”
“You always had your nose in a book at school.”
“I’m surprised you noticed.”
Was that a dig? She could see no rancor in his expression and assumed he felt none. “Well, we did share the same classroom from grades one through twelve. I do wish now, though, that I’d been more observant.”
“Ah. More fodder for your biography?”
Partly, yes. But also she wondered… “I think we might have been friends. You’re so easy to talk to. I didn’t expect that at the outset of this project.”
He sighed, and she wondered if she’d said the wrong thing. Eager to get the conversation flowing again, she asked another question. “Would you say your childhood was happy?”
He glanced into the camera as if it were an annoying insect. “This is beginning to feel like a therapy session. Were you happy as a kid?”
“Yeah. Generally speaking. But the video isn’t about me.”
“I don’t care. I can’t handle all these one-sided confessions. Let’s make a deal.” He stopped and took the camera out of her hand. After a moment, he figured out how to switch it off. Then he passed it back to her.
“What deal?”
“Any question you ask me, I get to turn around on you. If I want.”
“That’s very sneaky, Warren Addison.”
“Did you know all the boys in our class had a crush on you?”
Not true. Chad hadn’t. And probably not Warren, either.
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Maybe a little,” he admitted. “But pretty damn close.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You’re embarrassed.” He seemed amused by the discovery.
“We aren’t meant to be discussing my love life,” she pointed out. “Why don’t you tell me something about yours?”
“What did you want to ask?”
“Is there a woman in your life right now?”
“Right now?” He stared into the distance, then glanced back at her. “No.”
“Well, what about the women in your past, then?”
“What about them?”
He wasn’t making this easy. “Warren, this is a subject we’ll have to cover. Eventually. I’d like to meet some of them, if I could. I’d like to meet with all the people who’ve been important to you. Have you ever been married?”
“No. Haven’t even lived with anyone. I’m a private guy, Miranda.”
But there had been women. And some of them had mattered. She knew these things with total certainty, although she couldn’t say how.
“Was there ever anyone special? Someone you never managed to forget…?”
Knowing Warren had been a loner, knowing how private he was, she didn’t really expect him to answer.
He surprised her, though, when he said slowly, “There was this girl….”
After giving him a few seconds to finish his sentence, she was forced to prod. “What was her name, Warren? Was she in our class?”
With the force of a magnetic attraction, her gaze was drawn to the gray of his eyes.
“Just a girl,” he said. “I don’t think you ever really knew her.”
WARREN REALIZED his answer was evasive. It was also true. At thirty-two Miranda was as oblivious to her extraordinary qualities as she’d been at eighteen. She allowed her obvious natural beauty to define her, even as she tried to discount its value—to herself and to others.
Miranda’s kindness, her sense of fun, her intelligence. Those were the qualities that drew her friends. That drew him.
But they didn’t totally explain her appeal to the opposite sex. Since their meeting the other day, he’d given this subject some thought. And he realized that what made Miranda so utterly irresistible was that she just didn’t care about the impression she was making. That kind of laid-back attitude was bound to trigger any man’s competitive instincts. It had triggered his.
Way back when.
And now.
“What about you, Miranda? Are you seeing anyone right now? Have you ever been married?”
“No and no.” She slipped her camera back inside its case. “Why do you refuse to do promotion for your book?”
He sighed. He’d have to add tenacious to the list of qualities this woman possessed. Summoning patience, he tried to be brief. “Book signings are difficult. People meet you…they think they know you because they’ve read your book. But the fact remains that they’re strangers.”
“Well, what about interviews?”
“I dislike the narcissism. Why should anyone be that interested in me? Also, most journalists are pretty predictable. Interviews get dull after a while.”
“Oh. So today has been—”
“No. Today was different.” He stopped in front of the gate. They’d circled back to where they’d begun.
“The tip of your nose is turning white. How about we go back to the house and I’ll make you an espresso?”
CHAPTER SIX
SIPPING ESPRESSO in a warm farm kitchen was just the thing on a cold winter afternoon, Miranda decided. Warren had made her cup first, then frothed his own cappuccino. Now he sat in one of the vinyl-covered chairs and stretched out his legs until his feet almost touched the heat-spewing woodstove.
He wore thick wool socks, the kind you’d team with a sturdy pair of leather work boots. Miranda found herself remembering how his feet had looked bare, those long, slender toes with squarely cut nails. Her imagination traveled upward, picturing long, toned legs, narrow hips, a tight butt—
Better stop there.
“Warren, why did the teachers never get mad at you for not raising your hand?”
“What are you talking about?”
“At school. When you had something to say.”
“Miranda, did I make your coffee too strong?”
“Come on. It’s a valid question. We all had to raise our hands and wait for the teacher to call on us before daring to talk. Why didn’t the same rules apply to you?”
His expression remained puzzled, and finally she waved a hand dismissively.
“Oh, never mind. I already know the answer.”
“And what would that be?”
“The teachers forgot about the rules because they were so eager to hear what you had to say. We all were,” she added, remembering how the air had seemed to clear a little when Warren started to speak.
“You didn’t talk in class much, but when you did, you said such interesting things.”
“Interesting?”
“Even bizarre sometimes.” And yet, his ideas had made people think.
“Suddenly I’m very nervous about how you’re going to portray me in this video of yours.”
“Just keep making me these lovely espressos and I’ll be very kind,” she promised.
“Are you happy with how things went today?”
“Yes, I think so. A slow start in some ways, but that’s better than beginning too intensely.”
“Yes.”
He gave her one of those odd looks, his old unsettling gaze that penetrated barriers like skin and bones. She supposed she’d have to get used to this strange, off-balance feeling. They would be spending a lot of time together these next few months.
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C.J. Carmichael
Some old acquaintances are never forgotMiranda James is back in the tiny prairie town of Chatsworth, Saskatchewan, to work on a video biography of reclusive writer Warren Addison. While she's there, she hopes to help her best friend, Chad English, whose wife has kicked him out of the house. But his wife has always been jealous of Chad's relationship with Miranda, so maybe her presence won't really improve the situation. More important, is fixing their marriage what Miranda really wants?Warren Addison went to school with Miranda and Chad. He knows about Miranda's feelings for her best friend. But Warren has his own ideas about what's best for this woman. He hopes he can convince her before Christmas, before a family is torn apart–and before his heart is broken again.
“I care about you, Miranda.
You know that.”
He’d always cared, but she didn’t know that. These past few weeks, that old passion of his had been rejuvenated. He’d dared to dream that she might return some of his feelings. She seemed to enjoy his company. And he didn’t think he’d imagined the sexual energy between them all evening. Not judging by the conspiratorial wink he’d gotten from a friend as he was going out the door.
Perhaps Miranda’s feelings for him just weren’t strong enough yet….
No, that really wasn’t the problem. She was still holding on. To Chad. To the losses of her past. And he had no idea how to make her let go.
“Warren, you’re not upset with me, are you?”
“Absolutely not.” He wasn’t going to push her. That would be the dumbest mistake he could make. “I don’t want you to think I planned for anything to happen between us. Though I won’t deny I hoped it would….”
She hugged him. “You’re a wonderful guy, Warren. I’m going to be very jealous when some lucky woman captures your heart and I’ve lost you forever.”
Dear Reader,
Several years ago, when I wrote A Daughter’s Place, I knew I would one day write more books set in the mostly fictional town of Chatsworth, Saskatchewan. And indeed, when I decided I wanted to tell the story of a woman who just can’t get over the first guy she fell in love with—a guy who married another woman, and is still married to that woman—Chatsworth seemed the perfect setting.
It is the kind of place where it’s hard to keep a secret. Your neighbors always know, and if they don’t, they think they know. You can’t hide your past in a place like Chatsworth. People remember which kid was the brain, the athlete, the loner, which girl was most popular and which high school sweethearts were destined to stay together.
Of course, people grow after high school. They change. And that’s what has happened to the class of 1990. As circumstances conspire to bring five of the original eleven graduating students together, they’ll have an opportunity to examine who they really are…and whom they really love.
Hope you enjoy the story and that you are able to spend your Christmas with the ones you love.
Happy holidays!
C.J. Carmichael
P.S. I’d love to hear from you. Please send mail to the following Canadian address: #1754 - 246 Stewart Green S.W., Calgary, Alberta, T3H 3C8, Canada. Or e-mail me at cj@cjcarmichael.com.
Together by Christmas
C.J. Carmichael
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
A while ago I exchanged some touching correspondence
with Dianne, a reader. She and her husband were mourning
the loss of their son in a tragic car accident.
This book is dedicated to the memory of Davin.
His parents want him to know:
“You always were, and still remain, the light of our lives.
Until we meet again…”
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER ONE
MIRANDA JAMES PUSHED aside the wicker basket of crusty rolls at the center of the table and replaced it with her high school yearbook, open to the page with photos of her graduating class.
“I knew you wouldn’t believe me. But we really did go to school together. Grades one through twelve. See?” She pointed to Warren’s picture first, then her own.
Catherine Cox, producer at the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, peered through dark-framed glasses at the caption beneath the photo. “‘Warren Addison,’” she read, squinting at the small print. “‘Favorite subject: anything to do with books. Nickname: Warty.’”
She shifted her attention to Miranda. “Warty? Warren Addison had warts?”
“No. A pet frog in grade eight.” Miranda tapped her pen against the saltshaker, impatient to move on. But Catherine was scrutinizing the yearbook again, holding it close to the window, where the light was better.
“Trust you to be gorgeous even in high school. Let’s see what they wrote about you….”
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Miranda reached for the book, but Catherine shifted it just beyond her grasp.
“‘Miranda James,’” she began, quoting the couplet beneath the photo, “‘Most beautiful and the boys’ favorite pick. If she wasn’t so nice, she’d make us sick.’”
“Give that here!”
Catherine relinquished the book, laughing. The husky sound caught the attention of two men lunching at a nearby table. Their glances flickered over Catherine and settled on Miranda.
“Okay, you went to school with Warren Addison,” Catherine conceded. “But what makes you think he’ll be onside for a video biography? I’ve spoken to the publicist at his publishing house and he’s notoriously uncooperative when it comes to promoting his own work. Everyone but him is talking about Where It Began. He wouldn’t even return Oprah’s call when she asked him to appear on her show.”
“We grew up together, Catherine. I heard him read the first story he ever wrote to the class.”
Well, she probably had, she just couldn’t remember.
“Don’t worry about me not being able to deliver,” she continued. “The challenge will be editing all the material down to a reasonable length.”
Catherine opened her briefcase. “I suppose if anyone can do this, it’s you. Here. I had Accounting cut you a check.”
Thrilled, Miranda accepted the check before Catherine could change her mind. None of her other projects had ever been accepted this easily.
“I’d love to chat longer, but I have another meeting.” Catherine laid a fifty on the table to cover lunch. “Would you mind saving a copy of the bill for me? I need to run, but there’s no reason you shouldn’t stay and enjoy dessert and coffee.”
“Thanks, Catherine.” For everything, she wanted to add. But the svelte producer was already hustling out of the restaurant. The two men at the next table noticed her departure, too. One of them tried to catch Miranda’s eye, but she gazed deliberately down at the yearbook still in her hands.
“Can I get you anything else?” The server was back, whisking away the used wineglasses and salad plates.
“Mmm…” She glanced up from the yearbook. “An espresso, please?”
“Certainly.”
She hadn’t looked at this book for years…probably not since her mother, in one of her house-cleaning frenzies, had boxed it with a collection of other childhood mementos and shipped it to Toronto. She flipped through the glossy pages, finally returning to the photos of the 1990 graduation class.
A sweet ache lodged behind her ribs. She recognized the feeling as nostalgia, but cynically, she had to wonder. Did she yearn for what had been? Or for what never could be?
She focused on the picture of Chad English. With his smooth blond hair, tanned skin and even features he didn’t need his killer smile to stand out from the crowd. Still, he had it. As well as eyes born to flirt. She felt he was watching her from the yearbook page, about to include her in a fabulous secret.
Ah, Chad.
If she’d been the most popular girl in that small-town class of eleven students, he’d definitely been the most popular guy. Was she the only one who had seen them as the perfect couple? It seemed she’d dated just about all the guys in her grade and the one above it at one time or another. Except Chad. And Warren, of course, but he didn’t count, because as far as she knew, he’d never asked any of the girls out.
Maybe he was gay. Mentally filing the idea for future consideration, she refocused on Chad.
Why had he never asked her out? She’d always wondered. They’d been good friends since grade seven—still were good friends. But while he’d flirted plenty, he’d never taken their relationship that one crucial step further.
Of course, after his marriage to Bernie, Miranda had filed her feelings for him away as inappropriate. They’d continued their friendship, but she’d been cautious not to overstep the bounds of appropriateness.
Despite her circumspection, she knew Bernie didn’t like her. Actually, the other woman never had. Miranda picked out the photo of the petite girl with the light brown hair. Cute, bordering on pretty, but not a woman to turn a man’s head. Yet she’d turned Chad’s, when Miranda never had.
Oh, don’t start feeling sorry for yourself. This is ancient history…. The person she was supposed to be interested in right now had had nothing to do with all of that.
She studied Warren’s photo again. His dark hair was unruly, curling around his ears and down to his collar. In his long, thin face, his nose stood out prominently.
A different emotion stirred inside her now. Uncomfortable, unsettling. Warren had always had that effect, she remembered.
He hadn’t been an attractive kid. Especially compared with… Miranda’s gaze slid to Chad’s photo, then back to Warren’s. His recent success couldn’t help but have an impact on her assessment. Those dark-gray eyes she’d once found disconcerting now gleamed with intelligence and wit. The smile she’d thought of as crooked sported an ironic twist.
She stared a few minutes longer, but the photograph refused to yield anything more. She snapped the book shut and returned it to her briefcase, frustrated that of all her classmates, Warren was the one she’d known the least.
“Your espresso, miss.”
She smiled her thanks to the unobtrusive server before taking a sip.
Yes, Warren had been the most enigmatic of her classmates, and yet, he would be the subject of her next video biography. The check from the CBC, which she now carefully stowed in a zipper compartment of her purse, made it official, even though the idea had come to her only a week ago, during her Sunday phone call to her mother.
Annie James, who still lived in the small town in Saskatchewan where Miranda had grown up, had asked, “You remember Warren Addison?”
“Sure I do, Mom.”
“He’s back in Chatsworth. They say that book he wrote is a real blockbuster. They say there’s a producer who wants to make it into a movie.”
“I know. Where It Began is topping the bestseller lists all over North America.” She’d read the novel and loved it, found it absolutely magical.
“Well, he’s living on his parents’ farm, in that old clapboard the Addisons abandoned when they retired to Victoria.”
According to the dust jacket of his book—which, frustratingly, had included no photo of the author— Warren had a master’s in English from the University of Toronto and now resided and worked in New York City. That he would choose to return to a backwater prairie town remained incomprehensible to Miranda.
“Whatever for?”
“Lucky says he’s working on his second book. The press wouldn’t give him any peace in New York.”
Good old Lucky. The gray-haired proprietor of Chatsworth’s tiny grocery store could always be counted on to hand out more than change and a receipt at the till.
After the call ended, Miranda had thought over her mother’s news. Between projects at the moment, she’d been on the hunt for a challenge. And this struck her as the perfect opportunity. She could do a video biography on Warren Addison and spend some time with her mother.
Annie hadn’t been the same since a heart attack last June. The specialist in Regina had diagnosed only minimal damage, but the scare had raised a specter of worry in the fifty-eight-year-old and had caused her to curtail her lifestyle as well as to revamp her diet.
Miranda was guiltily aware that she hadn’t seen her mother since that week in Regina when Annie had undergone a battery of medical tests. She’d known her mother was waiting for an invitation to Toronto, but she’d been afraid that Annie might end up staying permanently, and so she’d stalled.
Miranda traveling to Chatsworth, rather than Annie visiting Toronto, was definitely safer.
Mind made up to pursue this project, Miranda had begun her research. Typing “Warren Addison Author” into the Internet had yielded no official Web site. Likewise, the library had had little biographical information.
Which was perfect, from Miranda’s point of view. Apparently Warren was as much of an unknown to his fans as he was to her. A situation she fully intended to rectify.
Now, sipping her espresso, Miranda basked in anticipation of her upcoming project.
Of course, Warren could turn out to be a boring man with no layers to explore. Having read his book, however, she doubted that. What a wonderful coup for her career if she could reveal this man’s creative heart and soul to the world.
But what if Warren didn’t cooperate with her?
She pushed that uncertainty aside. They’d grown up together in the same small town. Of course he would.
A separate, larger anxiety gnawed at her. She hadn’t spent much time in Chatsworth since high school graduation. What would it be like? Chad and Bernie still lived in the small town. So did Adrienne Jenson, who’d also been in their class. Counting Warren and herself, that made five of the original eleven graduating students.
It would feel like stepping back in time. Not that such a thing was possible, of course. But if it was…
Miranda set down her empty cup. Cramming the receipt into her purse for Catherine, she once again ignored the smiles and raised eyebrows from the men at the table beside her as she strode through the busy restaurant.
Outside, a gust of wind whipped her skirt against her calves. She glanced up at the little section of sky that peeked out amid Toronto’s skyscrapers and saw rain clouds.
Unbidden, it came back to her—the way it had felt to be eighteen and in love with someone who didn’t love her back. The old longing hit her, a heavy weight in her chest.
The pattern of her life had been set during those years in Chatsworth. And the choices she’d made then had led her to this point: working in Toronto, living alone, pursuing happiness while trying to pretend to everyone around her that she’d already found it.
What if she could change the past?
For a moment she could smell chalk dust and musty old textbooks in the swirling city air. She was in math class and Warren Addison was sitting in the aisle next to hers. A loner, he’d rarely spoken in class. But when he had—here it was, her first distinct memory of him—he hadn’t bothered to raise his hand first.
The teachers had never let the rest of them get away with that. But they had him. Funny thing for her to remember.
The wind died and the rain started. Holding her briefcase over her head, Miranda beckoned to a passing cab. She had to get home. Had to start packing.
FROM THE METROPOLIS of Toronto, Ontario, Miranda had to travel west, more than twelve hundred miles, to reach Chatsworth, Saskatchewan. The sleepy prairie town lay just past the Manitoba border. The drive, through stark November landscape, promised to be long and exhausting, but Miranda couldn’t fly because she would definitely need her car once she arrived.
She set out on Wednesday with a suitcase of clothes, a bag of gifts she’d purchased early for Christmas and her equipment: a Canon XL1, extra lenses, wireless microphones, tripod, her portable Mac for editing.
Hopefully, she hadn’t forgotten anything, because if she had, she’d have to drive an extra two and a half hours southwest to Regina for replacements. Chatsworth’s isolation was one of the main reasons—other than her mother’s prodding for her to become a model or actress—that Miranda had left. Indeed, many of the young people raised there relocated after graduation. Now the prospect of spending two months in the small community brought on a claustrophobic anxiety she tried to ignore.
Her mother was waiting supper when she arrived at her destination on Friday night after several long days behind the wheel.
“You made it! I’ve been so worried. The weather reports say it’s snowing in Winnipeg.” Lovely as ever in a hand-knit sweater and stretch black jeans, Annie James offered her daughter a fragile hug and a peck on the cheek.
“Must have been after I passed through. I saw a few wispy clouds, but that was it.” She lugged her bags down the hall. “Same room?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Of course.”
“Same room” being a shrine to white French-provincial furniture, the best you could order from the Sears catalog. At least her mother had removed the canopy. Cleaning that thing year after year must have been hell.
Miranda settled her bags at the foot of the bed, then put her purse on the dresser, next to the phone her parents had given her for her thirteenth birthday. How many hours had she spent on that thing? Mostly talking to Chad….
She went to the washroom, and when she emerged, Annie was removing her green-bean casserole from the oven.
“You haven’t cooked this big meal for just the two of us?” A lentil casserole sat steaming on the table, next to the beans, a green salad and cauliflower.
“This is a special occasion. I even made brownies for dessert—low fat, unfortunately, thanks to my diet.”
“Sticking to it, are you? That’s great.” They discussed Annie’s health for a while, then moved on to Miranda’s work. Annie wasn’t very interested in the video on the Canadian artist Harry Palmer, which Miranda had just finished collaborating on with his son and the CBC. But Annie did have some input to offer on the upcoming project.
“You realize Warren’s book is going to be made into a movie?”
“You mentioned the possibility on the phone.”
“Well, I’ve been wondering. There might be a role for you.” Her mother’s eyes sparkled. “After we spoke, I took the book out of the library and read it. I could see you in the lead, playing Olena. You’re the right age and the description is you to a tee!”
“Oh, Mom.” Annie had never recovered from her disappointment when Miranda dropped modeling to study film at Concordia University in Montreal. While she’d accepted that Miranda was now too old for modeling, she frequently reminded her daughter it wasn’t too late for acting. In her opinion, her beautiful daughter belonged in front of a camera, not behind it.
“What’s the matter?”
“I talked to Warren’s agent about the film rights. Yes, they’ve been sold, but the screenplay hasn’t even been written yet. Warren insists that he wants to do it himself, and first he has to finish his current book.”
“All the better. You need to get your name in early. Just mention the idea to Warren when you interview him for that video of yours.”
“I have no acting experience.”
“You’ve taken several classes. And you did that commercial.”
“Right.” She ought to command about a million for a picture, based on those qualifications.
Her mother smiled, assuming that one word meant Miranda had agreed with everything she’d just said.
“So when are you planning to meet with Warren?”
“Tomorrow. You’ll have to help me figure out how to get to his farm.” Miranda had only an idea of the general direction.
“I’ll draw you a map. It’s not that hard, but it is far. About twelve miles from town, and at least two miles from the closest neighbors, the Brownings. Frankly, I can’t understand why any sane person with a choice would want to live on his own in such an isolated place.
“In fact,” Annie continued, “I’m not at all sure you should be going out to his farm to conduct your interviews. Couldn’t he drive into town?”
Miranda dug deep for patience. Something she suspected she was going to need a lot of this next little while.
“Mom, this video isn’t something I can accomplish in a couple of short interviews. I need to hang around him, see how he lives, how he works.”
Discovering what made Warren Addison tick would take time. But she had two months, and she’d succeed. The completed video would be her Christmas present to herself.
Vegetables were silently passed back and forth; Miranda topped up her mother’s wine from one of the bottles she’d stashed in the trunk of her Volkswagen.
“The Brownings had a baby boy last year,” Annie said finally. “Did I tell you?”
“Yes.” Miranda was glad for Gibson and Libby. They both had daughters from previous relationships. According to Chad, they wouldn’t necessarily stop at three, either.
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard about poor Chad and Bernie English.”
The piece of cauliflower in her mouth suddenly felt like a cork stuck in her throat. Miranda coughed, reached for her wineglass.
“Are you okay?”
Miranda waved a hand dismissively. “What about Chad and Bernie?”
“Oh, it’s just terrible. His poor mother is so upset. You know Dorothy belongs to my bridge group.”
“Mother. What happened?”
“Why, Bernie booted Chad out of the house.” Annie James looked as if Miranda was a little slow not to have figured this out on her own. “After Dorothy left last Wednesday, one of the ladies said she’d heard Chad had been cheating on Bernie.”
“Cheating?”
“No one knows who the woman is. At least not yet. I’m sure the truth will come out eventually.”
Miranda set down her fork, trying to absorb this news. Something major must have happened for Bernie to have kicked out Chad. But an affair? The very idea made Miranda sick. She could only imagine how much worse Bernie would feel.
And how could any of this be true? She’d e-mailed Chad the night before she’d left Toronto and had had a reply from him the following morning.
He hadn’t mentioned a word about any troubles with Bernie. Her mother had to have gotten this wrong. The bridge ladies must have been doing too much raising and doubling—and not with cards, either.
“That’s very hard to believe, Mom. Bernie and Chad have been married for years.”
“You think that’s any guarantee?” Her mother’s tone was sharp as she glanced at the sideboard, where they’d once kept their only family photograph.
“I suppose not. But—” Bernie and Chad? “Where’s he staying, then?”
“Chad? Not at his mother’s—you can be sure of that. Dorothy is furious with him.”
“But Chad is her son.” And she’d always doted on him over his two older sisters.
“Dorothy’s granddaughter’s well-being is at stake here, too,” Annie reminded her.
“Yes, of course. But if Chad isn’t staying with his mother…”
“He’s shacked up at the clubhouse on his golf course. According to Dorothy, he was spending most of his time there, anyway. Probably that’s where he and this other woman have their rendezvous….”
Miranda held back the temptation to roll her eyes at her mother’s leap in logic.
“He’s a grown man, Mom. Besides, do you have any proof that he’s been unfaithful?”
“Proof? This isn’t a court case, Miranda.”
Just as she’d thought. The rumors were baseless. If anything untoward was going on, Miranda would have picked it up in her regular e-mails with Chad, or heard something different in his voice during their more occasional phone calls.
Her mother raised her wineglass with a flourish. “My dear, you’ve been doing biographies long enough now. You should have a better grasp of human nature. When marriages break up for no apparent reason, you can be sure one of the parties has a replacement waiting in the wings.”
For a moment Miranda felt a flicker of doubt. But this was Chad they were talking about. “Yes, often… But I’m sure there are times when a couple realize their marriage was just not meant to be.”
“Meant to be? Dear, I had no idea you were so romantic. Perhaps that’s why you’re still single. If you’re waiting for Mr. Perfect—”
Miranda began to clear the dishes from the table. “Your idea of my perfect match would be a movie director. He’d cast me in his next film and we’d move to Los Angeles and I’d buy you a big house with a pool and a maid.”
“Please don’t tease, Miranda. It isn’t very funny.”
Annie was right on that score. Miranda let the topic drop. “Why don’t we get the dishes done, then have your brownies in the living room.”
“Would you prefer tea or coffee, dear?”
Knowing how weak Annie made her coffee, Miranda chose tea. What she really wanted, of course, was to find Chad and ask him about the rumors from her mother’s bridge club. That Chad’s own mother had been present should have been validation enough, she supposed.
But she wouldn’t believe a word of it until she’d heard the news directly from Chad.
CHAPTER TWO
WITH TEMPERATURES SETTLED well below zero and a hazy light reflecting off the sprinkling of snow that dusted the harvested fields, Miranda set out for the Addison farm the next morning, following the directions her mother had written out for her over breakfast.
Already the air between the two of them was a little clouded. And they hadn’t been under the same roof for twenty-four hours yet. Maybe staying at home wasn’t such a good idea after all, but she couldn’t see any choice. Annie would be mortified if she moved to a friend’s, or the local hotel.
Miranda turned her car onto the graveled road leading north of Chatsworth. Her cute yellow Volkswagen Beetle jostled on the dried ruts, and the tires crunched over the exposed gravel. So far, not much snow had fallen, and the roads were dry. Miranda dreaded dealing with this route after a heavy snowfall. Especially in her little car. Something with all-wheel drive would definitely be better.
But for now—once she got used to the bouncing—she had to admit that driving here was certainly less stressful than negotiating Toronto’s freeways. She turned on the radio, but paid no attention to the Bach cello concerto playing.
She was thinking of Chad. So far she hadn’t managed to get in touch with him. She’d tried calling the golf course this morning, but no one had answered. She hadn’t left a message, since she couldn’t be sure who would retrieve it and she didn’t want anyone drawing the wrong conclusion from her call. As her mother would say, people would talk. And for once, Miranda saw the benefits of being circumspect.
That didn’t stop her from worrying. Why hadn’t he told her about his problems with Bernie? If others were surmising, like the ladies in her mother’s bridge club, that somehow Chad was responsible for the breakup, then Chad was probably feeling pretty lonesome about now.
Unless there really was another woman…?
No, no, no. That couldn’t be it….
A mailbox caught her eye. She was here. Thoughts of Chad vanished as Miranda contemplated the barely standing box at the side of the road—left over from the days when mail had been delivered rather than picked up at a post office box in town. Stenciled in fading black paint was the name “Addison.” She glanced down the long lane. The road curved gently to the right, then disappeared in a second curve to the left. A stand of poplars, naked without their leaves, huddled on either side of the dirt road. They’d provided enough cover, however, to preserve a thin dusting of snow.
Later in the season this private access would be unpassable unless Warren had it plowed. Oh, well, she could always leave her car on the main road.
Optimistic thoughts for someone who hasn’t even talked Warren into the project yet, she reminded herself. She’d decided early on her chances of success were highest with a face-to-face meeting. Unfortunately, she hadn’t developed her strategy beyond that. Now she felt edgy and nervous. She’d put up such a brave front for others. And she’d deposited Catherine’s check. No way could she fail now that she was here.
She nosed her vehicle along the lane. Her initial glimpse of the Addison farmhouse wasn’t reassuring. The old two-story clapboard desperately needed paint. The utilitarian structure sat unconnected to the surrounding land. No cozy porch or veranda. No flower gardens or shrub borders.
A truck parked by the front door and wisps of smoke drifting from the chimney indicated Warren was home. He must have heard her drive up, but so far he hadn’t made an appearance.
Realizing she was working herself into a genuine case of nerves, Miranda turned off the ignition and jumped out of her car. She couldn’t stand around or she’d lose her courage entirely. Avoiding the front door, which was boarded shut, she went round to the back, where she opened the screen to knock on the wooden door.
Just at the moment her knuckles were about to connect with the wood, the door gave way and she found herself staring at a plaid shirt. Lifting her gaze, she saw a face she never would have recognized—masculine, compelling, mature. No trace of the yearbook boy remained.
Except those eyes. And that funny, twisting smile.
“Warren?”
WARREN ADDISON FELT THE COLD wind blasting in and therefore knew he wasn’t hallucinating. But the improbability of the sight stole his words for several long, awkward seconds. Finally, he regained articulation.
“Miranda James.”
God, but she was still so beautiful. Her blond hair was short, bluntly cut and curly. It framed her exquisite face perfectly. She stood taller than he remembered, slim in her boyish jeans, her upper body bundled into a fleece jacket, with a down vest over top.
“None other,” she agreed cheerfully. “Um, mind if I come in? I may track in a little snow, but other than that my boots are clean. I bought them before I came here—never needed snow boots like this in Toronto—we don’t get much snow there. Slush falls from the sky directly.”
Her words overwhelmed him. He hadn’t heard so many in weeks. At last a basic meaning penetrated. “I’m sorry. Of course, come in.” He took a few backward steps to make room. “And don’t worry about snow—or slush, for that matter. As you’ll soon see, I don’t fuss much about things like that.”
But the place wasn’t dirty, he reassured himself, trying to imagine how the old farm kitchen must look in her eyes. At least he wasn’t one to stack dishes between meals or leave food out on the counters. He couldn’t. The mice would make an all-night diner of the place.
“Is that a wood-burning stove?”
“Yeah. Mom wouldn’t part with it. We do have running water and electricity, however.”
He’d meant it as a joke, but she nodded seriously.
“Oh, and an espresso machine!”
“A city comfort I couldn’t imagine doing without. Would you like a cup?”
“Oh, would I.” She brushed the snow off her boots, then sat in one of the wooden kitchen chairs. “Did you bring any other goodies from New York with you?”
“A bag of bagels, frozen in the fridge. I’d offer you one, but I have no microwave.” He shrugged in apology. “Other than that, I packed a few changes of clothing, my books and my computer, of course.”
He measured beans for grinding, still not able to believe that the gorgeous Miranda James was sitting in his kitchen. If she knew how often he’d fantasized about her when they were teenagers…
But hell. That didn’t make him different from any of the other guys who’d gone to Chatsworth High.
“I’ve seen some of your biographies on TV,” he told her. Actually, all of them. “I especially enjoyed the one on prairie musicians. Jack Semple has always been a favorite of mine.”
“Wow, you’ve seen my stuff? In New York?”
“Well, I do get cable.” He noticed her glancing around. “Not here, though. Mom and Dad took the TV with them to Victoria.”
“What do you do with yourself? Isn’t it awfully lonely?”
“I spend a lot of time walking around the property. And I read, play Age of Empires on the computer….” He placed a small pitcher under the espresso spout, then turned on the motor. “And of course I write.”
“Do you ever. Warren, I read your book. Frankly, I was blown away. You deserve all your success.”
He shrugged. Talking about Where It Began was difficult. He was glad, naturally, that the book had done so well. But success had definitely come at a cost.
“You know, back in Toronto, I checked the Internet and the library. I found very little material about you. Not even a photograph.”
Her eyes ran over him, marking the changes, he supposed. Foolishly, he hoped she liked what she saw. He sure liked what he saw. But then, he always had.
“Sugar?” he asked, passing her the froth-covered cup.
“No, thanks.” She hooked the handle with her finger, and as she raised the mug to her mouth he noticed her fragile wrist, with its jangle of silver bracelets.
“I came here to escape notoriety,” he said, referring to the lack of information about him.
“Well, you’ve done a good job.”
“So far,” he acknowledged. “But what about you? Why are you in Chatsworth?” And more particularly, here with him? Not that he didn’t welcome her company, but face it—twenty years ago she wouldn’t have crossed the school yard to speak to him, let alone driven twelve miles of backcountry roads.
No, that wasn’t altogether fair. Miranda had never been a snob. She always gave the impression that she liked everyone, that she would be your very best friend, if only she had more time.
And it wasn’t an act. After twelve years in the same classroom, he’d have sensed it. Miranda was one of those rare people born without an ounce of meanness, or spite, or cruelty. Not that she’d been a goody-goody. Miranda knew, had always known, how to have fun.
That she wasn’t already married was a miracle. Unless there’d been some late developments in that area…no, she had rings on many of her fingers—and even on one thumb—but nothing adorned that all-important fourth finger of the left hand.
“Actually, Warren, I’m here because of you.”
He felt a crazy, scary rhythm in his heart, absent since adolescence. Then reality set in. She didn’t mean that way. He pulled in a breath of air as he took his own espresso to the table and settled himself, too aware of her quiet observation.
And then it hit him. God, he was such an idiot. She filmed biographies for a living. That comment about the paltry information available about him. Of course. That had to be it.
He couldn’t believe how disappointed he felt. Dreamy Miranda wasn’t here to see Warren Addison, her old schoolmate, but Warren Addison, the famous author.
Crap.
“You don’t look pleased. I’m guessing you don’t want to be the subject of my next video.”
“I think my books should stand on their own. Who I am, and whether I write in the night or in the morning, whether I work from an outline or just create, shouldn’t figure into the equation.”
“But isn’t it human nature to wonder about the author of a book you’ve loved? When Mrs. MacIntire read us Huckleberry Finn, weren’t you curious about Samuel Clemens?”
“Mark Twain was a literary icon. I’ve written one book.”
“Warren, your book will oversell the Harry Potter books. A movie’s in the works….”
“But we’re still talking only one novel. And who knows how the next one will be received. If I ever finish writing it…”
“Trust me, Warren. All artists worry that their next work may not be as good as their last—even us lowly video biographers. So you aren’t alone in that. Even if you never publish another story, the success of Where It Began will make you immortal. Think of Margaret Mitchell. And Harper Lee.”
“I appreciate your faith. But selling lots of copies doesn’t guarantee anyone will remember who I am twenty years from now.”
“Yes, but your reviews…”
“Reviewers can be flawed, too.”
“Oh, Warren!”
She laughed, and the clear, musical sound made his heart feel strange again. Her presence in the large kitchen was clear and bright, like a vase of yellow daffodils on the table. He had to admit it would be wonderful to have her around while she worked on that video. But would the cost to his soul be worth the benefit?
“I need quiet to write. That’s why I’m here. If you did that video, my cover would be shot.”
“Warren, persistent journalists will find you eventually. It’s not like where you grew up is a secret.”
“Miranda, surely you’ve got better prospects.”
“Not a one.” Miranda leaned over the table and grasped his hand. Her cool, silky touch was unlike any woman’s he’d ever known.
“I’ll be as unobtrusive as possible. I’ll work around your schedule. Warren, I can be very flexible.”
Oh, he just bet she could. With that slender, willowy body…
“Hell, Miranda. Has anyone ever been able to say no to you?”
CHAPTER THREE
ACTUALLY, TWO PEOPLE had said no to her, Miranda reflected, on the drive back to Chatsworth. Her mother had honed that talent to an art long ago. The other—well, he hadn’t truly said no. He’d just never said yes.
Chad. She’d promised her mom she’d pick up a few groceries for dinner tonight, but after that she was going to drive to the golf course to see him. She simply couldn’t wait any longer. If anyone asked, she’d say she was inquiring about cross-country ski lessons.
Too bad there wasn’t much snow.
There would be soon, though. On her car radio, after Beethoven’s “Hammerklavier” piano sonata had concluded, had come storm warnings for the southeastern corner of Saskatchewan. Heavy snowfalls and driving winds were expected within hours. Already a few flakes were falling from the gray, depthless sky.
It had taken only the hour she’d spent at Warren’s for the weather to change. Now she wondered what the roads would be like tomorrow when she drove out again to begin work on the video. She dismissed the faint worry. One thing Saskatchewan had lots of was snowplows.
She picked up her cell and dialed Catherine with the good news that Warren had agreed to work with her on the video. After leaving a message, she thought about Warren. He hadn’t exactly brimmed over with enthusiasm for the project. She couldn’t take his cooperation for granted. She’d have to tread cautiously.
But at least she’d received a chance. Something she was very relieved about, because after meeting Warren again, her enthusiasm for doing his biography had increased exponentially.
Physically, he’d changed so much from his youth. He could have matured into a skinny, prematurely balding man who wore cardigans and smoked American cigarettes—didn’t most novelists smoke?
But she’d smelled no trace of tobacco in his house and observed no ashtrays or matches. His dark, unruly hair was still thick and he’d grown into his strong facial features. As for his physique, while he remained lanky, his height had been balanced by a broadening of his shoulders. He still wasn’t handsome, but maturity had definitely given him an edge. She’d bet money the camera would love his face. And sex appeal was never something to ignore in the TV business.
She liked the way he moved, too, and was eager to capture that masculine grace with her camera. She’d enjoyed watching him operate the espresso machine. His long, slender fingers were so fluid she’d immediately imagined filming him at the keyboard. Smiling, she tapped her fingers against the steering wheel. Working on Warren was going to be such divine fun.
As for the possibility he was gay… No. Definitely not. She couldn’t pinpoint the reason for her certainty. She just knew. Not that he’d flirted or acted attracted to her at all. In fact, it might have been nice if he’d done either, just a little. Still, there’d been something in his eyes when he’d looked at her. And he’d done a lot of that.
Had Warren dated anyone during their school years? She couldn’t remember that he had, but she’d have to make sure. She’d compile a list of people in Chatsworth she should talk to. Not just about his social life, of course, but all sorts of things. How he’d done at school, if he’d participated in any extracurricular activities, and whether anything in his childhood might have affected his destiny to write.
She was already at the road turning into Chatsworth. A quick stop at Lucky’s grocery store extended fifteen minutes when she ran into some familiar faces. Back in the car, her bag of groceries on the passenger seat next to her, she headed for Willow Road. The graveled lane provided the only access to the Chatsworth Golf Club. Built when she was a kid, the eighteen-hole course had proved extremely popular. Many of the members traveled from surrounding towns such as Bredenbury and Church-bridge…even Yorkton, twenty-six miles away on the Yellowhead highway.
Years ago, Chad’s father had purchased a good chunk of lakefront footage, transformed the surrounding acres of wood and cleared land into a top-quality resort. Besides golf, his club offered clay tennis courts and an outdoor pool in the summer, supplementing the public beach just down the road.
In the winter, they groomed the course for cross-country skiing. This had been Chad’s innovation, as well as the idea of adding a minigym so people would have something to do during what was, after all, Saskatchewan’s longest season. Since his father’s death several years ago, Chad had run the entire operation on his own.
Miranda switched on the wipers. The snowflakes fell faster now, and grew thicker and heavier. She passed through the main gates to the clubhouse. A lone truck sat parked at the front door. She had no idea if it belonged to Chad, but likely it did.
She pulled down the visor, then used the mirror as she reapplied her lipstick. The lip-liner went on crooked and she had to start over. God, she was nervous! How long had it been since she and Chad had actually seen each other? Sure, they e-mailed once or twice a week and spoke to each other on the phone every now and then. But neither was the same as a face-to-face meeting.
If he was here. Please let him be here.
Her new boots etched treaded prints all the way from her car to the double front doors of the clubhouse. She looked back at them. Already fresh snow had begun to fill them in. It was really dumping now, although she was protected under the overhang from the roof.
She tried the door. It wasn’t locked. Knowing Chad slept here, though, she didn’t feel right entering without warning. So she knocked, then pushed the door inward a few inches.
“Anybody home?”
At the faraway sound of a male talking, she opened the door farther and stepped inside. She couldn’t see Chad. He wasn’t at the reception desk, or by the racks of sporting equipment lined up to take advantage of the ill-prepared sportsman. She passed through a doorway to the cafeteria. During the summer, staff prepared casual meals on-site and served from a long buffet that ran along the kitchen wall. Now the only sustenance offered sat in vending machines.
She passed through the room into a short hall. On the right were change rooms; to the left, an office. Chad was just hanging up the telephone. Seeing her, he smiled, revealing a mixture of surprise and pleasure.
“I don’t believe it. Miranda James, in person. I wasn’t sure whether to take your e-mail seriously.”
Chad was always teasing her about being a city girl, too important to waste her time visiting old friends. But Miranda hadn’t consciously avoided Chatsworth. Her mother honestly preferred to fly to Toronto for their visits and avail herself of the city’s theater, shopping, fine restaurants.
“I can’t quite believe I’m here, either,” she admitted.
She found it hard to take her gaze off Chad. Even unshaven, he looked gorgeous. His blond hair had probably only been finger-combed, but it shone clean and bright. His green polo shirt brought out the color of his eyes, and his jeans showed off powerful quads.
“Ah, honey, it’s so good to see you.” He captured her in a hug that swamped her senses like the snowstorm outside. God, his smell, she remembered his smell. The strength of his arms, the firmness of his chest, though—they were new.
“You’ve been working out?” She pressed on one bicep.
“I’ve got the time, don’t I?” He let her go to check her out. She tilted her head and dared him to find a flaw. He just grinned. “Gorgeous as ever, hon. Toronto must agree with you.”
You agree with me. Just to see him again, hear his voice without the aid of human technology, felt so good.
“How are you, Chad?”
“Oh, fine.”
She regarded him steadily, until finally he dropped his gaze.
“You’ve heard.”
“Yes.”
He sank onto the sofa across from his desk and she followed, leaving one square cushion between the two of them.
“Shit,” he said.
Miranda let him sit quietly for a while, stewing in his obvious unhappiness. Finally she had to ask. “Tell me what happened.”
“What’s to tell? She kicked me out.”
“You’re talking about Bernie.”
“Yeah, I’m talking about Bernie. My goddamn wife of twelve years. Not that she seems to care how long we’ve been together or even that we have a daughter and a house and a life invested in each other.”
“Would you mind backtracking a minute here? I had no idea you and Bernie were having problems. What’s been going on?”
“Nothing’s been going on,” Chad said, his words heartfelt. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She never used to be so emotional. She says I’m not giving her enough attention—well, how is kicking me out of the house going to solve that?”
“Oh, Chad…”
“She says I’m spending all my time at work or with my buddies. But she never complained before. It’s not as if she doesn’t have friends…not to mention the nicest house in town and a luxury car. I’ve provided well for that woman. Last birthday I bought her one of those bracelets with the diamonds all around—”
“A tennis bracelet?”
“Yeah, that’s what the salesperson called it. But I might as well have bought her a bloody blender for all the points it earned me.”
She’d had no idea Chad and Bernie’s marriage was so precarious. From occasional comments of Chad’s, Miranda had surmised they weren’t the closest of couples. But they’d muddled through the years.
On reflection, she wasn’t that surprised they’d hit a snag. They’d married out of high school and Bernie had been pregnant at the time. Not the ideal prescription for wedded bliss.
Not that she was one to judge. After all, at thirty-two she still had no experience with marriage.
Glancing around, she noticed an open suitcase by the window. Some dirty dishes on the coffee table. On the floor, beside the sofa, lay a pillow and some blankets.
“So you’ve been staying here.”
“Hey, I have a pullout sofa bed, and a big-screen TV and a vending machine in the main room—all the comforts of home.” He managed a smile. A weak one.
She supposed he could camp out here as long as necessary. The convenient sofa bed reminded her of the bridge club talk.
“You haven’t done anything stupid, have you?”
He took a moment to digest her question, then protested. “Like sleep with someone else? Come on, Randy. You should know me better than that. ’Course I haven’t.”
But he’d probably had opportunities. Women were always interested in Chad. He hadn’t lost any of the looks or charm that had made him so popular in high school.
“There has to be something. Wives don’t kick their husbands out for no reason.” Another wild thought. “Bernie hasn’t found someone else?”
“God, no. I’m telling you, it isn’t anything like that—her falling in love with another guy or me crawling into bed with some woman. And don’t tell me it could be happening without me knowing, because in a town of five hundred people these things get around.”
Miranda believed him. Since about grade seven, when the girls had first starting taking note of the boys, Bernie had been devoted to Chad.
“This is awful, Chad. I wish I could help….”
“Having someone to talk to helps. You’ve always been that person for me, hey, Randy? Such a good pal. Too bad you and me weren’t the ones who fell in love back in grade twelve.”
Who says I didn’t fall in love with you, Chad? “Yeah, well, that’s probably why we’re still such good friends.”
“Right.”
She reached over to lay a hand on his shoulder, then noticed a framed collage on the wall next to him. The photographs, taken from years ago, included a snapshot of her and Chad on the night of their high school graduation. Not that they’d been dates. No, they’d each gone with someone else. She couldn’t remember either of the names at the moment.
On his desk stood more recent photos. One of Bernie, Chad and a cute little girl with a gap-toothed smile. Vicky was almost a teenager now.
“How’s your daughter taking this?”
“Oh, she’s a real trouper.” Chad straightened his back. “Bernie explained the situation to her. Married couples needing a little downtime, stuff like that.”
“Is that what this is, Chad? A little downtime?”
“I don’t know, Randy. Christ, I don’t know.” He sniffed, closer to tears than she’d ever seen him. “I don’t want my daughter to become another statistic. The victim of a broken home….”
“Surely it won’t come to that.”
He took a deep breath. Plucked at a loose thread in the cushion that separated them. “Bernie’s got me on a schedule. I see Vicky every other weekend, and Wednesdays I pick her up from piano lessons, then take her out for dinner. To the café.”
“She’s twelve now, right?”
“Yeah, she’s grown up fast. Just wait till you see her.”
“I have seen her. Ten minutes ago at Lucky’s. She’s lovely, Chad. But what about Bernie? Have you been talking to her?”
“Hardly. Just a minute here and there in passing.” He dropped his head into his hands, and Miranda patted his back sympathetically.
“Have you thought of marriage counseling?”
Incredulous, Chad stiffened and turned to her. “You’re kidding, right? Do you know what the guys would say when they found out? Hell, all Vicky’s friends would tease her at school….”
“Everyone knows you and Bernie aren’t living together, Chad. If you went to counseling, at least they could see that you’re trying to work things out. More important, Bernie would know you were serious about fixing things.”
“But that’s just the point. Nothing’s broken, so what is there to fix?”
Miranda struggled for patience. “Chad, don’t be a fool. You know damn well your marriage is in trouble.”
“Okay,” he admitted. “But counseling won’t help. Bernie’s made up her mind.”
Miranda felt as if her heart had stopped beating. “She wants a divorce?”
“No…” Chad waved a hand impatiently. “She’s got a list of three things she wants changed. She won’t let me move back in until I agree to all of them.”
“Three things. That doesn’t sound too bad. Why don’t you just concede the points and go home?”
Chad gave her a half smile, then shrugged. “Randy, one of them is that I have to stop being friends with you.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“OUR FRIENDSHIP’S ALWAYS been completely aboveboard.” Miranda jumped up from the sofa. She hadn’t realized Bernie was aware she and Chad kept in touch. Not that it had been a secret or anything. She merely found it more convenient to send e-mails and make phone calls to Chad at his office.
“My wife knows that, Randy,” Chad assured her. “She’s just being unreasonable, trying to keep me on a short leash. But she’s always been jealous of you.”
The one-sided competition hadn’t been fostered by Miranda. Still, she’d been conscious—how could she not be—that Bernie had constantly compared the two of them. Miranda’s better marks at school had annoyed her. In sports, Bernie had always aimed to beat Miranda.
The rivalry had been strongest when it came to boys. Miranda hadn’t needed to do much to attract their interest. Her mother didn’t allow her to date until she was sixteen. Once she’d reached that milestone age, she rarely had a free weekend.
From Bernie’s mean-spirited teasing, Miranda had known she was jealous. But Miranda could never understand why. After all, the best guy of the lot, the only one Miranda was truly interested in, belonged to Bernie.
And Bernie had the nerve to be jealous of her?
“What do we do, Chad?”
“Nothing. Sit down. Relax.” He pulled her to the cushion right next to him. With their thighs touching, he kept hold of one hand. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t expect you to be so upset.”
She could feel the heat of his leg next to her leg, his fingers cupping hers. The intense sensitivity of her nerves was not, she realized, an appropriate reaction to a man who was married to another woman. The good thing about their long-distance friendship was that she rarely had to worry about how to behave when she was with Chad. Now she eased over—creating space between them. She slipped her hand out of his on the pretext of smoothing out a wrinkle in her jeans.
“I’m not that upset,” she said. “Just—surprised.”
“We don’t have anything to feel guilty about. And I refuse to act like a kid when I’m a grown man. I guess I can pick my own friends. Give in on this, and next thing Bernie will start expecting me to cut out my annual fly-in fishing trip to Pelican Narrows.”
“She wouldn’t!”
“Oh, sure, you can laugh. Imagine if someone tried to keep you from going to that artsy-fartsy Toronto Film Festival next fall.”
“As if.”
“So you get my point.”
“Yeah, but maybe I’m the wrong one to be talking to about this. I’ve never been married. I suppose you have to make compromises….” On some things. But surely someone who loved you wouldn’t want you to give up those pastimes that meant the most to you…or friends you’d had almost your entire life.
“Chad, what were the other items on Bernie’s list?” He’d said there were three.
This time Chad was the one to separate himself from her. He got up from the sofa, went to the window to glance at the snow, then shuffled a few papers around on his desk.
“She wanted me to give up one of my curling nights with the guys and rejoin the mixed league with her.”
“How many nights do you curl with the guys?”
“Three right now.” He gave a bashful grin. “Not counting bonspiels.”
“Well, giving up one of those nights to play with your wife sounds reasonable. What’s the last thing?”
Chad turned back to the window, but not before she saw his neck and ears redden. She waited, but he didn’t say anything.
“Aren’t you going to tell me?”
“Her third request is kind of…personal.”
No kidding. Wasn’t this entire conversation? But obviously some problems between a husband and wife you didn’t feel comfortable discussing even with your best friend.
“Not another woman?”
His back went rigid. “I already told you no.”
Yes, he had. But what else could be making him so embarrassed? Something about their sex life? Did Bernie want more? Or less?
Or better?
Hmm… Tempted to tease Chad a little, Miranda just kept her mouth shut. Chad had never liked being made fun of. And over the years Miranda had figured out if there was one subject men were especially sensitive about it was their technique in bed. Politics and religion were safer topics by far.
“I should be heading home. I’ve got the groceries for supper.” And her mother liked to have the meal on the table for six o’clock sharp. As did most of the families in Chatsworth. “Say, do they still ring the town bell at noon and six?”
Chad laughed. “Honey, you have been away for a long time, haven’t you?”
He walked back over to the sofa, slung an arm around her shoulders and led her to the front door. Miranda was pleased that his mood had lightened. Still, she hesitated to leave him.
“Are you okay out here on your own?”
“Thank you for being concerned. You may be the only person in town who doesn’t hate me right now. Even my mother wouldn’t let me move back in with her.”
“Yeah, I heard. What’s going on there?”
“She has this crazy idea that the split is all my fault. Anyway, it’s not that bad out here. Especially when I get pretty visitors. How did a hick town like Chatsworth ever produce a glamorous creature like you?” He stepped back and stared at her. Smiled and shook his head.
Her thoughts were still spinning with all he’d told her. “Chad, why didn’t you let me know sooner about all this?”
“I kept thinking Bernie would change her mind. I had no idea she could be this stubborn. Randy, I never pictured my life this way. I don’t want a divorce.”
“Bernie loves you, Chad. I’m sure that’s not what she wants, either.”
“Well, that’s not the way she’s acting.”
“Maybe not right now. But she’ll come round. You’ll see.” Miranda sought for something to say to cheer him up. “I’ll bet the two of you are together again by Christmas.”
“Christmas, huh? That’s less than two months away.”
“Bernie has always loved you. And people who love each other belong together at Christmas.”
“Can I hold you to that, Randy?”
“Money-back guarantee.”
BERNIE ENGLISH SAT IN the bow-window nook of her beautiful new kitchen, writing in her journal. She’d started it the day she kicked Chad out, and already had about a quarter of the pages filled. She’d hoped it would only take a few nights sleeping on the couch in his office for Chad to come to his senses and realize he couldn’t live without her.
But two weeks had passed and she was beginning to fear she’d totally miscalculated. Maybe even played into his hands.
Perhaps Chad had wanted out for a long time now but had been too afraid to tell her. He’d always hated unpleasant scenes. Telling your wife you no longer loved her would certainly count as unpleasant.
Especially if he never had loved her. She’d always wondered about that. If she hadn’t been pregnant, would he still have asked her to marry him? Probably not, at least not so young. But as naive as they’d been, they’d been terribly happy, too. At least, she had.
Vicky had been an angel of a baby, and Chad had adored her from the start, even before she had. The birth had been hard and long and she’d been so tired. When the nurse tried to put that wrinkled, red child on her chest, she’d said no, thanks. But Chad had held out his hands and cradled the wee thing. As she’d watched him, tenderness had bloomed in her, too.
Bernie grabbed another tissue as her eyes began to water again. Was she going crazy? Sometimes it felt like it. Two weeks ago she’d had everything. A beautiful daughter, a good job, this house, friends…and Chad. Maybe he wasn’t perfect, but he slept in her bed every night and that was something, wasn’t it? Even after twelve years, it was still something.
The front door slammed and Bernie jumped. Quickly she slipped her journal under the tea towels in a kitchen drawer, swept the pile of sodden tissues into the trash, then went to the sink to splash water over her face.
She needn’t have worried about her appearance. Vicky ignored her as she beelined for the fridge. “What’s to eat?”
“An apple? A cheese stick? I hope you remembered to put your boots away.”
“Great.” Vicky ignored the comment about her boots as she dug food from the clear plastic bin. “What else can I eat?”
Wasn’t that enough? Apparently not, when you were twelve and growing. “How about some crackers?” Bernie dug out a box of Wheat Thins, dumped them into a small bowl and put them on the table.
“Did you enjoy your sleepover?”
“Sure.”
“What time did the two of you fall asleep?”
Vicky shrugged. She was wearing a top Bernie recognized as belonging to Karen. Trading clothes again. The two girls had done makeovers on each other, as well. Vicky’s hair, almost white, the way Chad’s had been at that age, was pulled off her face with about a dozen pastel clips, and her nails were painted in matching shades of polish. Probably they’d done their faces, too, but Vicky had been smart enough to wash everything off before coming home.
“Say, Mom, guess who we saw at Lucky’s this afternoon.”
A blizzard had started late this morning, so not likely one of Vicky’s out-of-town classmates. Maybe Chad… Bernie picked up the dishcloth and cleaned the sink. “Who?”
“Her name’s Miranda James. She says she used to go to school with you and Dad.”
Bernie’s skin flamed as if it was being scrubbed instead of the stainless-steel faucet. “You were talking to Randy?”
“Yeah, she figured I was your daughter. Said I looked a lot like you.”
Here Vicky scowled, undoubtedly annoyed at the resemblance. After a moment she got over it, too impressed with Miranda James to stop talking about her.
“I’ve never seen anyone that pretty in real life. And she’s totally awesome to talk to. Was she that cool when you guys were in school?”
“At least,” Bernie said, trying not to sound as if she were choking on a mouthful of sour grapes.
“I love her hair. Should I cut mine short like that?”
She had no idea what Randy’s hair looked like, but still resented the idea that Vicky would want to imitate her. “You just finished growing out your bangs,” she reminded her.
Vicky pulled at a strand of hair that had escaped the row of clips. “How about if I just got some streaks put in? Miranda does that, even though her hair is naturally blond. It’s so funky, Mom, and you should see her clothes. Can I get a black vest? Miranda says they’re so versatile everyone should have one.”
Miranda says. Bernie bit back on the desire to ask if Randy had mentioned anything about Chad. Putting ideas in Vicky’s head wouldn’t do, although the kid wasn’t blind. If she ever saw Randy and her father together, she’d soon get enough ideas of her own.
“She lives in Toronto, Mom, and makes video biographies for a living. Right now she’s doing one on Warren Addison. Isn’t that awesome?”
“Totally.” Bernie rinsed the soap from the dishcloth. She stared out the window into the bleak winter day. Snow continued to fall relentlessly. At least four inches sat on top of the railing that spanned the back deck.
Chad had built that deck three summers ago. When he’d finished, they’d had a barbecue to celebrate. They’d been happy then, hadn’t they? When had everything started falling apart?
“And you should see her car, Mom. It’s a yellow punch-buggy.”
“What?”
“You know, those cars like the old-fashioned Volkswagen bugs that Dad likes so much.”
Great. So the perfect girl with the perfect clothes and the perfect hair also had the perfect car. Judging from the expression on Vicky’s face and the excitement in her voice, Randy had won over Bernie’s daughter, as well as her husband.
In a moment of cold fear, Bernie realized that if Chad and Randy ended up together, Vicky would probably be thrilled. She might even choose to live with them rather than her. Just contemplating the possibility made Bernie’s stomach squeeze in on itself.
Oh, God, she was going to start crying again. But she couldn’t. Vicky still sat at the table, chowing down on the crackers. She’d already finished the apple and cheese. Vicky was so skinny in her jeans and tight top. Bernie had been that thin once, too. Was that why Chad’s interest in her had diminished over the years? Because she’d put on too many pounds?
“Is something wrong, Mom?”
Bernie stiffened. Had Vicky noticed the wetness in her eyes? She had to pull herself together. “I’m fine.” She dried her damp hands on a towel. “Why?”
Vicky shrugged. “Just wondering why you hadn’t started supper. Can we have pizza?”
“Sure. I have one in the freezer. I’ll just warm up the oven—”
Without another word, Vicky slipped out of the room.
Bernie set the dial on the stove, then retrieved her journal and sank back into her cushioned chair.
Talk in the staff room at school yesterday was that Miranda James is in town to do a video biography on Warren Addison.
Bull.
In her outrage, Bernie’s pen flew across the clean page she’d just turned to.
Miranda never paid a moment’s attention to Warren when we were kids. It was always Chad for her. They were best friends, but I knew she wanted more. It made me proud, knowing that the sexiest guy in the school preferred me to her. Blond, beautiful, perfect Miranda could have had any guy she wanted.
But not Chad.
Bernie paused to pull a pizza from her freezer. She removed the wrappings, then set it on the counter, waiting for the oven to reach four hundred degrees.
Back at her journal, the words continued to flow.
I’ve never dared think this before—writing down the words is even scarier. But is it possible Chad has secretly loved Miranda all along? Why else would he have stayed such close friends with her for so many years?
She knew they communicated regularly by e-mail. On the occasions when she dropped in at the golf course, she usually found an excuse to slip into Chad’s office and check his electronic in-box. Almost always she found something from Miranda in there. She’d never actually read the messages. Maybe she should have.
What is happening to me? I’m turning into one of those desperate women who would do anything to keep her man. What about my dignity? My self-respect?
Perhaps those qualities were overrated. They’d landed her in this mess in the first place. Spurred by comments from her friend Adrienne, when Chad had marched into the house, late as usual, demanding his supper.
“You shouldn’t let him treat you that way,” Adrienne had said. It was the first time she’d ever spoken the least bit negatively about Chad. Pressed, however, she’d spewed out more.
“Does he ever take you out, just the two of you? Between work and golf in the summer and work and curling in the winter, you never see him!”
True, and the trend had worsened over the years. Just this fall he’d opted out of the mixed curling league with her so he could play in Yorkton with another group of men.
Bernie loved her sports. Curling and cross-country skiing in the winter, golf in the summer. And she liked playing them with her husband. Having Chad withdraw from the mixed curling league had hurt.
“That man needs a wake-up call,” Adrienne had said.
Problem was, Bernie had called, but Chad hadn’t woken up.
And now Randy was in town. Bernie went on writing.
What can I do to protect my marriage? I know she’ll be full of sympathy for Chad—and I can guess where that will lead. Meanwhile, what about me? Am I supposed to sit back and let her move in on my husband?
No! Of course not. But what were her options? She was the one who’d kicked Chad out of the house. She’d listed three requirements before he could move back in. If she went back on her demands, she’d look like a fool.
She also had no illusions about how she would look next to Randy James. No ordinary woman could compete with her.
Of course, I haven’t seen Randy in years. Maybe she’s gained a pile of weight or aged prematurely.
Not likely when her mother, Annie James, in her late fifties, was still the most attractive woman in town.
I won’t allow myself to be dragged into a competition. It’s ridiculous. I’ll hold my head high and act like I couldn’t care less about Randy James. No one will guess my true feelings.
Bernie stared at the words on the page. At first reading they sounded good, but now… Well, holding her head high just seemed so awfully passive. She wasn’t the type to sit back and wait. Her marriage was in trouble and she had to do something.
Chad was her husband. That made Miranda James the enemy. This was a war.
And she needed a battle plan.
CHAPTER FIVE
MIRANDA SHOULDN’T have felt nervous driving out to the Addison farm this second time. She’d convinced him, hadn’t she? The elusive, reclusive Warren Addison would be the subject of the next Miranda James video biography. And she hadn’t even needed to promise her firstborn for the privilege.
So why did she feel like a kid facing university finals—unable to recall a single fact she’d memorized the night before, stomach queasy, palms perspiring.
Everyone thought success came so easily to her. No one in her life had ever guessed just how untrue this was. The things she didn’t care about—yes, those came easily. Like those two men at the restaurant when she’d had lunch with Catherine. They’d practically drooled over their plates watching her. But they were strangers. She had no interest in them.
The men she’d really wanted in her life she’d never been able to keep.
And the work she truly loved—filming video biographies—scared her to death half the time. At the beginning of each project she was so afraid of failure. And this time the stakes were even higher than usual.
Everyone in Chatsworth knew what she’d come here to do. What if she did such a lousy job the CBC refused to air the finished project? She’d look like a fool. Everyone would consider her a fraud.
A pretty face and nothing more.
She’d feel more assured if she had more memories from her past to guide her. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t picture Warren playing with any of the other kids in their class when they were younger. In the high school years, he hadn’t attended any of the parties with her and her friends. As far as she knew, he hadn’t dated any of the girls.
Yet he’d never been teased or treated like an outcast. Warren had too much natural dignity about him. She cast her mind back and realized that while she’d never really known him, she’d always kind of admired him. He didn’t care what others thought. He spoke his mind without obsessing how people might react to what he said. He had a confidence most adults never attained.
Reflecting on their meeting the other day, she acknowledged that he hadn’t lost an ounce of that self-assurance.
The long red barn of a prosperous dairy farm appeared to the right, signaling an upcoming turn. Miranda eased off the gas, glad that the roads had been plowed this morning. Still, a thin layer of packed snow made them treacherously icy.
Three miles after the dairy farm, two more houses came into view, one on either side of the road. A large, shaggy mutt raced out from one spruce-lined driveway. He barked at her frantically as she passed by.
“My car is probably the most exciting thing you’ve seen all day…hey, boy?”
Saskatchewan was well known for being flat and treeless. In truth, this small corner of the province was neither. Admittedly, the hills were gentle contours at best, and the trees were mostly scrub poplars and willows, but Miranda found the land beautiful nonetheless. It didn’t hurt that the sky was clear and blue this morning and that sparkling frost coated every surface from tree branch to fence post. The forecast was for more snow and soon, though right now that seemed highly unlikely.
Before she knew it, Miranda was driving past the turnoff to the Browning and Bateson farms. Since Libby’s and Gibson’s marriage, the two properties had been run as one operation, with the help of Libby’s father.
Miranda didn’t know Libby all that well, but she remembered Gibson, all right. He and his best friend, Libby’s brother Chris, had dominated the dreams of every girl in school. She had been thrilled when Chris, two years her senior, had asked her out when she was in grade ten. Of course, her mother had nixed those plans. Probably wisely, Miranda had to admit with hindsight. At the time she’d been furious. Chris had been such a hunk. How tragic that he’d died so young in a car crash with his mother….
Half an hour after leaving Chatsworth, Miranda pulled into the Addison lane. Deep snow covered the small stretch of private road. Worried about her car getting stuck, Miranda parked off to the side of the main road and walked in, carrying her camera case in one hand and her duffel bag in the other.
Her new boots squeaked in the fresh snow; the cool breeze bit at her cheeks and the tip of her nose. On foot, she noticed the poplar trees lining the driveway appeared much larger. She could hear a flock of sparrows chattering on the branches of one of them.
She stopped twenty yards from the house and took out her camera. “A typical Saskatchewan farmhouse,” she said, recording her voice along with the images. “Two stories, built from wood. Small, double-hung windows.”
Swinging the camera to the right, she centered first the barns in her viewfinder, then an equipment shed. The paint on all these buildings was in even worse shape than the paint on the house.
She turned off the power to the camera and slipped it back in its case. Smoke filtered out the plain metal chimney of the house. Peeking in one of the double-hung windows, she saw only frost. But Warren had to be in there, working, since no fresh tracks led from out his back door.
Wouldn’t it be lovely to sneak inside and get a candid shot of him at his computer?
She didn’t dare.
After again bypassing the boarded front entry, she knocked at the back. Warren had the door open in a flash. He wore jeans and bare feet. He had long toes, she noted, before lifting her head to smile.
“Right on time.” He closed out the frosty air with a firm shove on the slightly warped door.
Her professional eye approved the dark turtleneck he was wearing—the style suited his long, narrow face, and the color coordinated perfectly with his hair and thick eyelashes.
“It’s nice and warm in here. Smells yummy, too.”
“I had oatmeal and cinnamon for breakfast.”
No sign of the meal remained in the tidy kitchen. “Were you working?”
“I was.”
“Can I see?”
He shrugged. “This way.”
She dropped the duffel bag on the worn Arborite table and shrugged her jacket onto a kitchen chair. Warren led her through an arched entry into the next room. Papers covered the polished dining room table. A laptop computer hummed gently in one corner, while a violin concerto played softly from a radio on the matching buffet table against the far wall.
As Warren hung back, Miranda moved in for a closer inspection. The seemingly chaotic piles of papers were actually organized into specific areas of research, chapter outlines, character profiles. On the computer screen were lines of typing, ending with an unfinished sentence. Her arrival had definitely interrupted him.
“Just think.” She placed a hand gently on the computer. “This will be a book. Millions of people will read it.”
“If it gets published.”
“How can you doubt that? Your first novel was a phenomenon. Surely your publisher is desperate for the follow-up.”
“If by ‘follow-up’ you mean the next in the series, then you’re right. But I never intended Where It Began to be part of a trilogy or anything like that.”
“Still, you had several unanswered questions at the end.”
“The main theme was resolved. As for the dangling threads, I thought they were best left to the reader’s conjecture.”
“So we’ll never find out whether Olena leaves her husband?”
“Whether she leaves or stays isn’t really that interesting.”
“Only a man could say something like that.” Miranda let her fingers trace the keyboard. Warren had crossed his hands over his chest. Defensive about his work? Or just a usual distancing maneuver? “I think it would very much matter to your readers what Olena decides. It matters to me.”
“Why? Olena and her lover face an all-too-familiar dilemma. End their affair or end their marriages. We’ve seen both scenarios acted out so many times in real life we know what will happen in either case.”
“If you find the situation so commonplace, why write about it in the first place?”
“What interested me was how a moral, intelligent woman like Olena could end up in such a predicament.”
“I see. And what about the new book? Does it take place in your fictional town of Runnymeade, too?”
“Yes, but in a later period.”
“So there will be no connection to the characters in the first book.”
Warren smiled. “I didn’t say that.”
“Ah, you’re trying to torment me, aren’t you?” She moved away from the computer, but not before noticing he was on page 467 of his document. “Would you sit down for a moment? Let me get some footage of you at work?” She pulled out her camera.
“I’m sorry, Miranda. I can’t pose. I won’t.”
“But—”
“If you catch me at the computer sometime, I give you permission to film me while I’m writing. But I won’t fake it. Not even for you.”
Miranda wasn’t sure she understood, but she was hardly in a position to argue. She was here on his grace, after all. Eating up time that he’d undoubtedly prefer to spend on his book. Besides, he’d just granted a greater gift than he’d denied. To get a shot of him when he didn’t realize she was there would be a marvelous coup.
“Want to go for a walk? It’s snowing.”
“Already?” She put a hand to the cold window-sill. The morning’s blue sky had vanished. The forecast storm had arrived.
“We can stay inside if you’d rather.”
“Oh, no. I’m game. Can I bring my camera?”
“I guess I’d better say yes, since it seems permanently affixed to your arm.”
Miranda bundled herself back into her outerwear. Warren offered her an extra scarf, then slipped into a thick sheepskin coat and heavy-duty Gore-Tex boots.
“Since I work at a desk, I try to make sure I get my exercise. Don’t want to turn into a blob.”
Now, that was something she couldn’t imagine. Warren had always been thin. She’d noticed, though, he now had a definite muscularity. “You go to the gym, too?”
“When I’m in New York.”
He held open the back door and Miranda stepped out into swirling ice crystals.
“What about you, Miranda? What do you do to stay in shape?”
“I like walking, too.” Although she preferred graveled trails to plowing through eighteen-inch snowdrifts. She squinted against the driving snow and clutched her camera protectively.
“Here.” Warren took her free arm and tucked it next to his body.
He led the way to a path that he’d obviously walked before. A wooden gate stood open, and they passed through into an open field.
“My parents rent this land to the Hodges now. I believe they grew canola last summer.”
Miranda was adjusting to the cold. And to the wind. She didn’t mind walking close to Warren, either. It made it easier to hear when he spoke to her.
“Why did you decide to be a writer, Warren?”
“Because that’s what I am. I’ve had other jobs, though. I worked on this farm every summer when I was a boy. If my parents had had their way, I’d still be working here.”
“Aren’t they proud of what you’ve accomplished? A bestselling novel and critical acclaim….”
“It doesn’t mean that much to them, I’m afraid. Last visit I overheard Mom say to one of her neighbors, ‘His marks were always so good he could have been anything. Even a lawyer.’”
Miranda laughed. “You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. It’s too bad I was an only child. They might have had more success with other offspring.”
“Gosh, don’t I know that feeling. My mother has dreams of me on stage or in movies. In her mind I’m the perfect person to play Olena in the film version of your book. By the way, I’m supposed to be angling for an audition.”
“Would you like the part?” he surprised her by asking.
“You’re speaking hypothetically, of course. The answer is no. I’ve never cared for acting—I feel too silly trying to pretend I’m someone other than myself. My mother’s sure I failed at being an actress on purpose, to spite her.”
“You need to care about what she wants less. I think what you do is fascinating. Present project excluded.”
Compliments rarely flustered Miranda. For some reason, this one did. “Speaking of my present project, did you try any other jobs besides helping out on the farm?”
“I also worked at the potash mine in Esterhazy for a few months. God, that was an experience—clearing out debris from thousands of feet underground.”
Miranda shuddered sympathetically.
“And I’ve taught. I still do, from time to time.”
He was a frequent guest lecturer. Yes, she’d read that somewhere.
“But I’m most content when I’m writing. Growing up here probably had something to do with it.” He waved a hand to indicate the white, barren landscape. “With no brothers or sisters or nearby neighbors, I had to rely on my imagination and books for entertainment.”
“No TV?”
“A little.” He grinned. “Star Trek.”
“‘Aye, aye, Captain.’” She pulled off a mitten—cold be damned—and turned on her camera. Good, she managed to catch the dancing amusement in his eyes before he looked away.
“Any other early influences? Besides Star Trek?” She held her focus on him, relying on his arm to prevent her from stumbling as they continued to walk.
“Tolkien, of course. And the Russians. I especially loved Tolstoy and later, Solzhenitsyn.”
“You always had your nose in a book at school.”
“I’m surprised you noticed.”
Was that a dig? She could see no rancor in his expression and assumed he felt none. “Well, we did share the same classroom from grades one through twelve. I do wish now, though, that I’d been more observant.”
“Ah. More fodder for your biography?”
Partly, yes. But also she wondered… “I think we might have been friends. You’re so easy to talk to. I didn’t expect that at the outset of this project.”
He sighed, and she wondered if she’d said the wrong thing. Eager to get the conversation flowing again, she asked another question. “Would you say your childhood was happy?”
He glanced into the camera as if it were an annoying insect. “This is beginning to feel like a therapy session. Were you happy as a kid?”
“Yeah. Generally speaking. But the video isn’t about me.”
“I don’t care. I can’t handle all these one-sided confessions. Let’s make a deal.” He stopped and took the camera out of her hand. After a moment, he figured out how to switch it off. Then he passed it back to her.
“What deal?”
“Any question you ask me, I get to turn around on you. If I want.”
“That’s very sneaky, Warren Addison.”
“Did you know all the boys in our class had a crush on you?”
Not true. Chad hadn’t. And probably not Warren, either.
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Maybe a little,” he admitted. “But pretty damn close.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You’re embarrassed.” He seemed amused by the discovery.
“We aren’t meant to be discussing my love life,” she pointed out. “Why don’t you tell me something about yours?”
“What did you want to ask?”
“Is there a woman in your life right now?”
“Right now?” He stared into the distance, then glanced back at her. “No.”
“Well, what about the women in your past, then?”
“What about them?”
He wasn’t making this easy. “Warren, this is a subject we’ll have to cover. Eventually. I’d like to meet some of them, if I could. I’d like to meet with all the people who’ve been important to you. Have you ever been married?”
“No. Haven’t even lived with anyone. I’m a private guy, Miranda.”
But there had been women. And some of them had mattered. She knew these things with total certainty, although she couldn’t say how.
“Was there ever anyone special? Someone you never managed to forget…?”
Knowing Warren had been a loner, knowing how private he was, she didn’t really expect him to answer.
He surprised her, though, when he said slowly, “There was this girl….”
After giving him a few seconds to finish his sentence, she was forced to prod. “What was her name, Warren? Was she in our class?”
With the force of a magnetic attraction, her gaze was drawn to the gray of his eyes.
“Just a girl,” he said. “I don’t think you ever really knew her.”
WARREN REALIZED his answer was evasive. It was also true. At thirty-two Miranda was as oblivious to her extraordinary qualities as she’d been at eighteen. She allowed her obvious natural beauty to define her, even as she tried to discount its value—to herself and to others.
Miranda’s kindness, her sense of fun, her intelligence. Those were the qualities that drew her friends. That drew him.
But they didn’t totally explain her appeal to the opposite sex. Since their meeting the other day, he’d given this subject some thought. And he realized that what made Miranda so utterly irresistible was that she just didn’t care about the impression she was making. That kind of laid-back attitude was bound to trigger any man’s competitive instincts. It had triggered his.
Way back when.
And now.
“What about you, Miranda? Are you seeing anyone right now? Have you ever been married?”
“No and no.” She slipped her camera back inside its case. “Why do you refuse to do promotion for your book?”
He sighed. He’d have to add tenacious to the list of qualities this woman possessed. Summoning patience, he tried to be brief. “Book signings are difficult. People meet you…they think they know you because they’ve read your book. But the fact remains that they’re strangers.”
“Well, what about interviews?”
“I dislike the narcissism. Why should anyone be that interested in me? Also, most journalists are pretty predictable. Interviews get dull after a while.”
“Oh. So today has been—”
“No. Today was different.” He stopped in front of the gate. They’d circled back to where they’d begun.
“The tip of your nose is turning white. How about we go back to the house and I’ll make you an espresso?”
CHAPTER SIX
SIPPING ESPRESSO in a warm farm kitchen was just the thing on a cold winter afternoon, Miranda decided. Warren had made her cup first, then frothed his own cappuccino. Now he sat in one of the vinyl-covered chairs and stretched out his legs until his feet almost touched the heat-spewing woodstove.
He wore thick wool socks, the kind you’d team with a sturdy pair of leather work boots. Miranda found herself remembering how his feet had looked bare, those long, slender toes with squarely cut nails. Her imagination traveled upward, picturing long, toned legs, narrow hips, a tight butt—
Better stop there.
“Warren, why did the teachers never get mad at you for not raising your hand?”
“What are you talking about?”
“At school. When you had something to say.”
“Miranda, did I make your coffee too strong?”
“Come on. It’s a valid question. We all had to raise our hands and wait for the teacher to call on us before daring to talk. Why didn’t the same rules apply to you?”
His expression remained puzzled, and finally she waved a hand dismissively.
“Oh, never mind. I already know the answer.”
“And what would that be?”
“The teachers forgot about the rules because they were so eager to hear what you had to say. We all were,” she added, remembering how the air had seemed to clear a little when Warren started to speak.
“You didn’t talk in class much, but when you did, you said such interesting things.”
“Interesting?”
“Even bizarre sometimes.” And yet, his ideas had made people think.
“Suddenly I’m very nervous about how you’re going to portray me in this video of yours.”
“Just keep making me these lovely espressos and I’ll be very kind,” she promised.
“Are you happy with how things went today?”
“Yes, I think so. A slow start in some ways, but that’s better than beginning too intensely.”
“Yes.”
He gave her one of those odd looks, his old unsettling gaze that penetrated barriers like skin and bones. She supposed she’d have to get used to this strange, off-balance feeling. They would be spending a lot of time together these next few months.
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C.J. Carmichael
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Some old acquaintances are never forgotMiranda James is back in the tiny prairie town of Chatsworth, Saskatchewan, to work on a video biography of reclusive writer Warren Addison. While she′s there, she hopes to help her best friend, Chad English, whose wife has kicked him out of the house. But his wife has always been jealous of Chad′s relationship with Miranda, so maybe her presence won′t really improve the situation. More important, is fixing their marriage what Miranda really wants?Warren Addison went to school with Miranda and Chad. He knows about Miranda′s feelings for her best friend. But Warren has his own ideas about what′s best for this woman. He hopes he can convince her before Christmas, before a family is torn apart–and before his heart is broken again.