By the third hot week in September, the leaves of the sycamores were brown-edged and curling in the dust of a monthlong drought. The lack of rain was to Carrie’s advantage, considering the sorry state of her roof, but that aside, she wished for a good downpour on behalf of her garden.
Foolish, she knew; the last thing she needed was more leaks. What she could really use was enough money to repair the roof, but she’d shillied and shallied so long that Dixie had out-and-out lost her patience and was barely speaking to her. Because she didn’t want to submit herself to more of her sister’s badgering about taking the movie company’s offer, Carrie had even considered skipping Yewville’s biggest celebration, the Chicken Bog Slog.
This annual event brought a welcome surfeit of visitors to Yewville and alleviated the problem of sluggish sales for local merchants after Labor Day. The influx of visitors always created a traffic jam on Palmetto Street and a glut of sunbathers at the Pine Hollow Lake beach, which remained open for swimming until the first of October. This year the narrow white strand was packed with prone bodies catching the last rays of the season.
Chicken bog was a local specialty stew featuring big hunks of chicken and lots of soupy rice cooked together in a pot with celery and, occasionally, sausage. Long lines had queued all day at the serving tables where the bog was being ladled onto plastic plates, and a band played bluegrass music at the far end of the beach. A softball game was in progress on the diamond behind the parking lot.
Carrie sat at a picnic table in the shade with Dixie and their friends, all of them drying off after a swim. Kids were racing from the pier to the raft anchored offshore, their efforts accompanied by lots of shouting. Farther out, water-skiers were showing off.
“Looka there,” said Hoyt Granthum, hefting a beer can and swilling most of its contents before resuming his sentence. “That woman skiing on the other side of the lake is way too thin if you ask me.”
“No, she’s skinny,” said Bubba Andrews, squinting through his sunglasses.
“What’s the difference?” Dixie asked.
“A skinny person, you can see bones knobbing under the skin,” Joyanne contributed.
“Then there’s emaciated,” Hoyt said. “That’s like those models we see on TV.”
“No way is she emaciated,” Bubba rejoined. “Notice those luscious—”
“Bubba!” Joyanne warned. “Don’t get too personal.”
“Pumpkins on the tailgate of that pickup truck over there,” Bubba continued smoothly. “Anybody else want one? Get a head start on Halloween?”
“Me,” said Dixie. “I’m going to bake a big batch of pumpkin bread and freeze it. Let’s go buy a couple, Bubba.”
As Dixie and Bubba walked away, Carrie eyed two extra chicken-bog dinner tickets in the middle of the table, pressed on her by a grateful customer. “Anybody hungry for another dinner? Before the bog’s all gone?”
“Back to that babe on water skis, I’d say she’s skinny,” Hoyt opined, scarcely able to take his eyes off the woman, who wore a bright-pink bikini.
“How about thinny?” Joyanne suggested brightly. “That pretty well covers it.”
“Her bikini top barely covers anything,” Carrie pointed out, then eyed the skier more closely. “I do believe that is none other than Ms. Tiffany Zill, star of the silver screen,” she said.
“Yeah? For real?” Hoyt sat back down again.
“I thought I saw her bodyguard watching the softball game,” affirmed Dixie, lugging a big pumpkin over to the table.
“Hot damn,” Bubba said. He set his own pumpkin down on the bench and pushed his cap back.
Carrie leaned forward, the better to observe. The towboat was zooming closer to shore, and Tiffany was wobbling on her skis.
“The guy running the boat has weird orange hair,” Hoyt said. “Must be one ’a them movie folks.”
“It’s Whip Larson, the producer,” Joyanne said excitedly. “Ooooh, maybe I’ll get to talk to him.”
“Who’s the spotter?” asked Bubba.
“It’s certainly not the bodyguard,” Dixie said. “You recognize him, Joyanne?”
“No,” Joyanne said, reaching for her lipstick. She was not the type to chat up a Hollywood producer while wearing insufficient makeup.
Carrie knew who the spotter was: Luke Mason, unmistakable to her even though he’d grown more of a beard. He’d eschewed his Dodgers baseball cap for a dark green one from John Deere, and he sported a long gray ponytail, which protruded from the hole in the back. Fake ponytail, of course. He couldn’t have grown a hank of gray hair in the few days since she’d seen him last.
“What are they doing?” Bubba asked with a frown as the boat veered sharply.
“Getting themselves in trouble,” Carrie said, rising and kicking off her flip-flops. There was a sandbar in an illogical location, and Tiffany Zill’s towboat was headed straight for it.
“Carrie!” Dixie called in alarm. Carrie was sure that Dixie’s concern was not for her but for the skier, who seemed to have popped a strap from the top of her swimsuit and was clutching at it, which qualified as disconcertingly odd behavior in a woman who had appeared topless in at least two movies.
Carrie hit the water a millisecond after Tiffany tangled herself in the tow rope and let out a holler. The engine quit as the boat ran aground, but by that time, Carrie was already swimming swiftly toward the deep water where Tiffany was struggling to stay afloat.
By the time she reached Tiffany, the actress was going under for the second time. She’d not only managed to snarl herself in the rope, but her bikini top was floating away in the backwash, and Luke Mason, with his annoying knack for showing up where he wasn’t wanted, had jumped out of the boat and was thrashing toward them, churning up an inordinate amount of water.
Carrie dived below the surface and yanked at the rope encircling Tiffany’s ankles. It wouldn’t budge, and as Carrie pushed upward and gulped more air, a wild-eyed Tiffany went under. Carrie dived again and felt around until she found the heavy wooden beam that had snagged the rope. She tugged at the coils, but they stuck tight. She surfaced again, gulped a lungful of air and went down once more. This time she worked methodically at the rope, her lungs feeling as if they were going to burst. Beside her, Tiffany flailed the water into a muddy whirlpool, and Carrie hoped she wouldn’t get the notion to grab her and pull her under.
Finally, just before Carrie needed another breath of air, the rope looped and loosened. Carrie gave it a hearty yank, and it disengaged and floated toward the bottom of the lake.
As Carrie came up gasping, Tiffany did, too. Reminding herself not to lose control, since two terrified people would do neither of them any good, Carrie inserted a reasonable distance between them. At least now that Tiffany’s legs were free of the rope, she was treading water.
“Relax,” Carrie cautioned Tiffany. “Let me help you.”
Fortunately Tiffany had the good sense to go limp. Carrie swam behind her to institute the Red Cross–approved carry position, after which she began to kick powerfully toward the rim of white sand about twenty feet away.
Once they both established a footing in waist-deep water, Carrie let go. Tiffany stood on her own, arms crossed across her bare chest.
Carrie peeled off her wet T-shirt and held it out for the topless Tiffany. “Here, put this on,” she said.
Tiffany, her expression one of gratitude, managed to wriggle into the shirt as Luke arrived.
“Tiff, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Tiffany said, her breathing easing slightly. “I barely swallowed any water thanks to—and what’s your name? I’m so grateful. I wouldn’t have been able to free myself from the rope without your help.”
“I’m Carrie Smith,” Carrie told her. “I lifeguarded on this beach during the summers when I was in high school.”
“You knew exactly what to do,” Tiffany marveled. “You’re a one-woman rescue squad.”
“Tiffany? Are you all right?” Whip called. He’d managed to start the boat’s engine and was maneuvering closer, his expression one of concern.
“Thanks to Carrie Smith,” Tiffany said warmly. She draped an arm around Carrie’s shoulders. “I would have drowned if it hadn’t been for her.”
“Carrie Smith,” Whip repeated, studying her as the boat drifted closer. “We meet again.”
Carrie nodded, eager to swim back to shore where her friends were congregated.
Luke was boosting Tiffany into the boat. “Climb in,” he said to Carrie. “We’ll give you a ride to the dock.”
“I can swim,” she said. But it was too late. Luke was already propelling her toward the boat’s ladder, and before she knew it she was climbing up and in. He followed and sat beside her. Tiffany was bent over, clutching her stomach.
“What’s wrong?” Carrie asked.
“Just—just a cramp. I felt dizzy for a moment.”
“Maybe we’d better have a doctor check her out,” Whip said to Luke.
“I’m just hungry,” Tiffany said. “I skipped breakfast and lunch.”
“Well, why’d you do that?” Whip asked impatiently.
Tiffany sat up straight. “My diet, Whip,” she said softly. “My contract. I’ve gained five pounds this week.”
“Oops,” Whip said. “Not good.” He grabbed an oar and pushed off the sandbar.
“I know.” Tiffany sighed and smiled wanly.
Carrie felt sorry for her and was worried about the pallor of Tiffany’s skin, in spite of her tan. “Why don’t you stop by our table. We’ve got a couple of extra chicken-bog dinner tickets. You’re welcome to them, and maybe you’d feel better after eating something.” It was a reluctant invitation, but there was something pitiful about a woman who was the envy of most of the men in the civilized world, yet had to go hungry in order, apparently, to keep her job. Plus, Hoyt and Bubba would go crazy at the appearance of Tiffany Zill at their table. Carrie grinned at the thought.
“Well,” Tiffany said consideringly. “I don’t know.”
For a moment, Carrie had the fleeting impression she’d overstepped her bounds. But courtesy and hospitality were ingrained in her nature; offering extra meal tickets to a stranger seemed the natural thing to do.
“Go ahead, Tiff,” Luke said, easing Carrie’s mind on that account. “I’ll come with you.”
A glance passed between Luke and Whip, and Carrie was unsure how to interpret its meaning, though she gathered that it had something to do with Tiffany. When they reached the dock, Luke helped Tiffany, then Carrie, out of the boat. A knot of people had gathered to ogle Tiffany Zill and her companions. Tiffany appeared self-conscious about Carrie’s wet T-shirt, which clung exposingly to her breasts, and she plucked it away.
“I’ll have to get my sweatshirt out of the van,” she told Luke. “Otherwise my picture will show up in some tabloid with a lurid headline—Tiffany Zill Loses Wet T-shirt Contest.”
“Maybe you’d win,” said Luke. “That should be worth some points somewhere.”
“Not with Peyton Kirk,” Tiffany said with great certainty.
Carrie’s ears were registering all of this, but she felt out of her element. A wet T-shirt contest would offend the sensibilities of a lot of people in Yewville and therefore would never happen, and, anyway, who was Peyton Kirk? She wished she’d read some of those tabloid articles.
The people gathered at the end of the dock pressed closer as they approached.
“Why, it’s Tiffany Zill!” exclaimed one of the women.
“Who’s that with her?” asked another.
“It’s Luke Mason.”
Tiffany’s pretty forehead knotted in consternation as she hung back, obviously reluctant to engage with any of them.
“Don’t worry, I’ll handle this,” Luke told Tiffany in an undertone, and in an instant, his expression became one of approachability. Tiffany, meanwhile, managed to hang back so that Carrie’s body shielded her from most of the fans.
“I’m Luke Mason,” he said to the people as they approached. “I’m glad to meet you.” He removed the hat with the fake ponytail attached.
That was all it took to deflect attention from Tiffany. “Sign me an autograph, Mr. Mason?” asked a kid who might be one of Joyanne’s cousins from Bishopville, though Carrie couldn’t be sure.
A ripple of exclamation ran through the crowd. “It’s Luke Mason! It really is!”
“I never saw him with a beard before. I wonder if he’s going to wear the beard in the movie.”
“Yancey Goforth was clean-shaven,” someone else said.
“Take all the photos you want,” Luke offered magnanimously as someone snapped his picture.
Carrie shielded Tiffany from view as they angled through a stand of trees to the parking lot. While Tiffany was in the Whip Productions company van slipping into her dry shirt, Carrie observed idly as down by the dock Luke Mason graciously fielded questions.
In a few moments, Tiffany stepped out of the van, then slammed the door behind her. “Wow,” she said. “That feels much better. I’ll take your T-shirt home and make sure it gets washed.” She’d changed into a pair of shorts, which made her look more or less like anyone else at the Chicken Bog Slog. She linked her arm through Carrie’s. “And now, Carrie Smith, to whom I am forever grateful for saving my life, how about introducing me to this local delicacy called chicken blog?”
“Chicken bog,” Carrie corrected as she smothered a smile, since Tiffany’s malapropism brought to mind one of old Mrs. Sweeney’s hens typing away at a computer keyboard, enlightening the Internet with self-satisfied musings about the world in general. “And, anyway, Tiffany, I didn’t really save your life,” she added.
“Oh, but you did,” Tiffany said seriously. “I’ll never forget how you jumped right in. Never.”
Chicken blog, indeed. She and Dixie would laugh over that one. But somehow she knew that she wouldn’t tell Dixie of Tiffany’s slip of the lip. She sensed a vulnerability in Tiffany Zill, and only a lesser person would make fun of her.
Carrie wasn’t that person, not by a long shot.
ONCE TIFFANY ZILL was installed at their table, wouldn’t you know that Bubba and Hoyt acted as if their tongues were tied in knots. This left it up to Carrie, Dixie and Joyanne to engage Tiffany in conversation so that she wouldn’t be sitting there with people paying her absolutely no mind as she dug into a big plate of food.
“I guess you never had chicken bog before,” Dixie ventured, being the least shy.
“Mmm, no, but it’s beyond good. Say, could you pass me another napkin, please?” Tiffany scarfed down another bite of soupy rice.
Apparently surprised at being addressed by a real live celebrity, Joyanne gawked for a second or two but regained her poise, for which she was famous, and handed over a couple of napkins. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to meet you,” Joyanne said, sidling closer on the bench. “Maybe you could tell us how you started your career. How you became a Mouseketeer, I mean.”
“Oh, that. My mother dragged me to tryouts. I was chosen, and that’s about all I remember about it.”
“But didn’t you have dancing lessons? Singing lessons?”
“Well, yes. I started early, I guess you’d say.” Tiffany chomped down on a roll slathered with butter.
“So did I,” Joyanne confided. “I wish I’d had a chance like that.”
“Oh, sweetie, are you sure?” Tiffany replied, furrowing her brow. “I never got to do the most basic childhood things, like play a sport or—or just hang out at a lovely lake like this one. I couldn’t go to Girl Scout camp or regular school.”
“I never thought about any of that as special.”
“Believe me, you should be thankful for having a real childhood.” Tiffany sounded very serious, even preachy as she said it, and Carrie focused more carefully on her. But before she could assess where Tiffany was going with the subject, Luke Mason sauntered right up to the table. Dixie seemed on the verge of swooning at the sight of him, so Carrie poked her sharply in the ribs.
“Hi, everyone. Mind if I join you?”
The silent Bubba and Hoyt exchanged a startled glance, and Dixie gasped. Carrie didn’t say anything one way or the other, but Joyanne summoned the presence of mind to beam a sparkly smile at him as Tiffany slid over on the bench.
“In case you don’t know, this is Luke Mason in person,” Tiffany said lightly, and then she smiled. “He’s one of my best friends.”
Carrie wondered what that meant? Did this Hollywoodese indicate that Luke was Tiffany’s boyfriend? For instance, when a celebrity called a woman his lady, sometimes that meant she was his mistress. Carrie had figured this out from viewing late-night programs, like Leno and Letterman.
Luke smiled at Carrie. “I’ve met Carrie at Smitty’s. Hi, Carrie.”
This forced Carrie to say hi back, and since she was uncomfortable with the attention being solely on her, she wasted no time in going around the table and giving everyone’s name.
After everyone had said hello, uneasily in the case of Hoyt and Bubba, Dixie simpered in that annoying way she had when she wished to capture someone’s notice. “We may be seeing a lot of each other,” she said. “I—well, Joyanne and I—have signed on as extras in Dangerous.”
“Great,” Luke said. “Speaking parts, or—”
“We’re beauty contestants,” Joyanne volunteered. “Though I’d love to have a speaking part. I do have some theater experience.” She paused expectantly.
“I’ll mention that to the director,” Luke said smoothly.
“You will? You mean it?”
Carrie considered passing a hand over her face in embarrassment at Joyanne’s brazenness but discarded the idea as soon as it entered her head. Joyanne proceeded to outline her community-theater credits as if Luke should be more interested in them than anything else in his life.
Carrie noticed that Luke had inched the plate holding the rolls and butter out of Tiffany’s reach. What with Joyanne hell-bent on getting herself discovered and Dixie nudging her under the table to say something once in a while, Carrie zoned out. She needed to figure out what to do about her roof. She’d ask Norm if he offered any sort of time-payment plan. When she zoned in again, Luke Mason was looking at her as if she had a bug on her nose, but when she brushed it away, the bug turned out to be nonexistent.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” she said in a low tone while Bubba and Dixie, having recovered sufficiently, were noisily debating the merits of chicken bog with sausage or without.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a blob on a microscope slide.”
He laughed. “I’m admiring the way your nose perks into a cute little point. And how you don’t wear lipstick.”
“I forgot to put it on today,” Carrie said defensively. “I really didn’t intend to come to this shindig.”
“But we convinced her,” contributed Joyanne, momentarily taking time off from self-promotion.
“And I’m so glad you were here, Carrie,” Tiffany said with utmost sincerity. “What if I’d drowned? What if I’d ended up at the bottom of that lake, my feet still tangled in the tow rope?” She shuddered.
Whip Larson arrived to hear her two questions. “We’d be searching for a new costar for Luke,” he said, and he didn’t smile when he said it. “Ms. Smith, I have you to thank for saving Tiffany today. It was a heroic thing you did.”
“Oh, but I—” Carrie began, intending to mention that she’d been trained to jump in after anyone who was struggling in the water, movie star or not.
“No, I mean it. We don’t want anything to happen to Tiffany here.” Whip bent to give her a spontaneous hug, into which Tiffany leaned enthusiastically. So maybe Tiffany and Luke Mason weren’t a couple, Carrie reasoned. She had barely had time to consider this, when Hoyt and Bubba stood to leave.
“Got to go on a beer run,” Hoyt said. “You girls want to stop by Bubba’s place later? Maybe take in a video?”
“Me, too?” Tiffany squealed, which took both Hoyt and Bubba aback, if their comical facial expressions were any indication.
“Well, uh, sure,” Bubba said, blushing.
“I’ll pass,” Joyanne said regretfully. “I have a date.”
Whip spoke up. “Tiffany, I’m treating you and Luke out to dinner tonight. Have you forgotten that we have reservations at that steak place in Florence?”
“Oh, Pothier’s,” Tiffany said without much enthusiasm.
“Right,” Luke said, putting an arm around Tiffany’s shoulders and squeezing them companionably.
Carrie cocked her head, studying this gesture. Perhaps those two were a couple after all. Figuring out the mixed signals wasn’t easy, considering the predilection these movie people had for hugging and kissing all the time.
“Would you mind if I bow out tonight?” Tiffany asked.
“I certainly would,” Whip said emphatically. “So would Luke.”
“Don’t leave two bachelors alone in a strange town, Tiff,” Luke said cajolingly.
“I’ll go if Carrie will,” Tiffany said suddenly.
A long silence ensued during which Joyanne and Dixie stared at Tiffany, Bubba’s and Hoyt’s jaws dropped yet again, and Luke grinned engagingly.
“That’s a wonderful idea,” he said.
“If, uh, the rest of you would care to join us,” Whip began, though it was clear that he was only being polite.
“Nope, we’ve got plans,” Hoyt said for him and Bubba. “Got a new DVD player at my house.”
“And I promised my cousin Voncille I’d babysit her kids,” Dixie said as she kicked Carrie under the table. For purposes of safety, Carrie removed her feet to a position where Dixie couldn’t kick them. She knew what Dixie was thinking: Carrie had better not pass up a chance to hobnob with the movie people.
Whip seemed relieved that no one was jumping on his bandwagon, and Tiffany gave an excited little bounce. “I’m so glad you can go with us, Carrie. I’m just starved for girl talk.”
“I didn’t say I’d go,” Carrie said defensively. “I don’t—”
“Oh, please, Carrie,” Tiffany said, reaching across the table to clasp Carrie’s hand. “It would mean so much to me. After all, you saved my life. I want you to have the best steak dinner Pothier’s has to offer. And after that, a big dessert. Or two or three.”
“Let’s not talk about dessert,” Whip warned.
“My diet. Right,” Tiffany said, though with an obvious lack of interest in that topic at the moment.
“Our reservations are for seven-thirty,” Whip said. “That gives us plenty of time to go home, shower and dress.”
“My driver and I will pick everyone up tonight. Carrie, tell me where you live,” Tiffany said.
Dixie, butting in as usual, reeled off Carrie’s address and instructions about how to get there.
Stunned by this odd turn of events, feeling that somehow she’d boarded a runaway train, Carrie didn’t speak a word.
Tiffany rose to leave, and so did Luke. Tiffany fluttered her fingers in everyone’s direction. “Nice meeting you. Maybe we’ll be seeing each other around.”
“I hope so,” Joyanne said sweetly and with great presence of mind.
The three movie people sauntered off in the direction of the parking lot.
“Hot dang,” Hoyt said after they’d left. “I could have gone out to dinner with two real movie stars.”
“Speaking of movies, we’ve got a vintage video to watch,” Bubba reminded him. “Return of the Killer Tomatoes, remember?”
“Bubba, I could have been sitting across from Tiffany Zill, admiring her tomatoes.”
“Knock it off, Bubba,” Dixie said. “She’s nice.”
“Come on, Hoyt,” Bubba said. “It’s time for us to go.”
Hoyt went on alert, for all the world like one of his coon dogs pointing at game. “Say, do I spy a bit of pink at the edge of the lake? Caught up in those reeds down there?”
Bubba let out a rebel yell. He ran and scooped Tiffany’s jettisoned bikini top out of the water, waving it jubilantly over his head.
Joyanne said, “These guys are hopeless. Let’s go.”
“I’m for that,” Dixie said as Hoyt and Bubba headed for their pickups. “We’ll check Carrie’s wardrobe and make sure she doesn’t wear that awful olive-green outfit with the barf scarf.”
“The one that looks like Killer threw up on it,” Joyanne agreed. “A definite wardrobe no-no.”
Carrie, unresisting, allowed herself to be hustled toward the parking lot. “What is it with Tiffany, anyway? Don’t movie stars have lackeys who follow them around and pretend to be their best friends? I don’t get it. Why does Tiffany Zill want to talk to me?”
“Because you’re a kind, sweet person and clearly someone who cares about other people,” Dixie said generously.
Joyanne had moved ahead of them on the path. “Hurry up, you two,” she said impatiently. “I want to tweeze my eyebrows tonight. I’m deeply embarrassed that Luke Mason saw me with eyebrow hair sprouting all over the place.”
“I don’t see any, Joyanne,” Carrie said.
“Maybe not, but I can feel it.”
“Come on, Carrie, I promised Voncille and Skeeter I’d be at their house by eight o’clock,” Dixie said.
Joyanne leaned closer to Carrie. “Shall I go home and get my tweezers? You might have a wayward eyebrow hair or two that I could remedy quick as a wink.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Dixie said.
“Of course she does,” Joyanne countered, and they continued this argument halfway to Carrie’s house. This suited her just fine, since it gave her plenty of time to consider what she might have to say to people from Hollywood, California.
Which, she reluctantly concluded, was exactly nothing.