Carrie customarily exercised Shasta in Memorial Park a couple of times a week, striking up conversations with anyone who might be a possible prospect for adopting a cute little black-and-white dog. Sometimes Dixie accompanied them when she was due a break at the real estate office.
One day Carrie, Dixie and Shasta stood near the park’s statue of a Confederate soldier and observed the movie people as they set up a scene involving Yancey Goforth and his friends. All Carrie knew from discussing the script with Luke and Tiffany was that it was an important one, in which Yancey debated whether to accept a sponsorship offer from a company that made flour or one that manufactured motor oil. Later there was to be an intense scene, one between Mary-Lutie and Yancey, but Carrie had not been present during rehearsals for that one.
Whip’s people had attempted to replicate a band shell that had stood on the banks of the pond but had been torn down a good ten years ago. It wasn’t much like the band shell that Carrie remembered, being painted white instead of green inside, and apparently she wasn’t the only one who was disappointed in it. A hot-tempered woman named Paola, all decked out in a paisley turban worn with what resembled silk pajamas in a depressing eggplant hue, was loudly bossing everyone around in accented English and complaining volubly that someone had ruined her plans.
“Is not what I expected,” she said huffily to everyone in general, complete with flowery hand gestures. “Is a damn shame. Have to tear down and start over.” She puffed on an enormously long cigarette and exhaled explosively through her nostrils. It was not a pretty sight.
“This woman is too much,” Dixie said flatly. “She’s acting like a horse’s behind.”
Carrie waved away a curtain of acrid smoke, nearly choking on it. “Let’s walk over to the gazebo,” she suggested in the interest of self-preservation.
Near the gazebo they were sheltered from the breeze, which was whipping out of the north at a brisk pace. After a few moments, Dixie assessed Carrie speculatively out of the corner of her eye. “Memaw Frances said she carried a sweet-potato pie over to Luke Mason’s house the other day, and since she was making apple pies yesterday, she took him another one. And guess what—the sweet-potato pie was still on the back steps. Some animal had gotten to it—a possum or some such—so there wasn’t much pie left, and the plastic wrap was all torn into pieces.”
“That’s too bad,” Carrie replied without much expression. Luke hadn’t been home all week because he’d been living at her house. He’d even moved some clothes into her closet, causing her to open the closet door every now and then and peek just to make sure she hadn’t dreamed them.
“Memaw said she didn’t even bother to leave that apple pie. She packed it back up in the basket she’d brought it in and took it right home.”
“Hmm,” Carrie said. She knew Memaw liked Luke a lot, but she hadn’t anticipated her taking him food. This was a circumstance to be reckoned with, and the reckoning was barreling straight at her.
Dixie regarded her with outright curiosity. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Luke’s been all that time, would you, Carrie? His plane’s still parked on the airport tarmac.”
“I, um,” Carrie began, instinctively prepared to make a mess of this. She bent over to pet Shasta, playing for time.
“Oh, so you do know where he’s staying?”
Carrie heaved a giant sigh. “All right, Dixie, I’ll level. Luke’s been at my house a good bit lately. Over and above Sunday dinner, I mean.”
Dixie’s jaw dropped and her eyes bugged nearly clear out of their sockets. “Luke Mason is spending a lot of time with you,” her sister corroborated. “At your house.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Carrie cringed as she waited for the next salvo.
“You and Luke are seeing each other?” This came out all strangulated and yelpy, as if Dixie could hardly bear to spit the words out nice and proper.
“Um, well, yes. We are.”
Dixie sank onto the top gazebo step and appeared as if she might faint.
“You and Luke.”
This time, Carrie merely nodded. She couldn’t say it any plainer.
“I suspected something was up when you didn’t call me after he drove you to Florence for dinner with Tiffany and them.”
“A lot was up,” Carrie couldn’t resist saying, earning her an elaborate roll of the eyes from her sister.
Dixie didn’t speak for a long time, but then she grinned. “You little sneak. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Carrie sat beside her and brushed at an imaginary piece of lint on her navy slacks. “I guess I wanted to keep it to myself. Anyway, why twist everyone’s knickers in a knot over it? Why not just let things be?”
“How long, Carrie?”
Shasta nosed into Carrie’s hand, and Carrie focused on the high white steeple of the First Baptist Church rising majestically above a bank of trees. “Since we went to Pothier’s the night of the Chicken Bog Slog,” she said.
“You slept together afterward?” Dixie was smiling with glee, and Carrie had to remind herself that her sister meant well.
“I’m not telling,” Carrie said with dignity.
“You did! Oh, wait till Joyanne hears this.”
“You’re not going to announce anything to anybody,” Carrie said firmly. “It’s private.”
“Nothing about Luke Mason is private,” Dixie informed her. “Have you read the Enquirer this week? They’ve printed pictures of him on the way into a convalescent home for cosmetic surgery patients. The implication is that he’s had a few nips and tucks.”
Carrie laughed at this. “That’s very doubtful.”
“What else do you know about him?”
“That he misses his parents.”
“No kidding. That’s what you talk about?”
“And other things.” Carrie stood and tugged on Shasta’s leash. “Let’s leave, Dixie. They won’t be filming this scene until this Paola person gives the go-ahead, and that isn’t happening any time soon.”
“Obviously you’re not going to tell me much. That’s kind of sweet.”
Carrie smiled. “It’s self-protection.”
“Well, be like that if you must. I love you anyway. Say, I’ll walk you as far as the office. How about stopping to get a chocolate banana at the Confectionery?”
“I’ve got a whole freezerful at home, so I’ll pass.”
As they left the park, Dixie resumed her line of questioning. “Does Luke snore? Sleep with his mouth open? Does he favor boxers or briefs?”
Carrie, though amused, refused to answer any questions, and soon they arrived at the door of Yewville Real Estate, where, right beside the window, Mayzelle and her poodle were holding forth to a couple of associates standing around her desk.
“Would you like to come in for a minute?” Dixie asked.
Carrie shook her head. “Not right now.”
“Okay. Catch you later.”
Carrie continued toward Smitty’s. As Dixie opened the door to the office, Carrie turned around.
“Oh, one thing I can tell you,” she said with a twinkle.
“What’s that?” Dixie was all ears.
“Luke Mason takes his pants off like any other man. One leg at a time.”
They were both still laughing as Carrie hurried on her way.
“I’M SO SICK AND TIRED of this—this love you have for racing,” Tiffany said, staring into Luke’s eyes.
“Honey, I don’t love racing nearly as much as I love you,” Luke told her earnestly. He removed his hands from her shoulders and leaned on a dilapidated old car. He gazed upward, as if he saw a vision that only he could see. “It’s—it’s my destiny.” He whirled, faced Tiffany, whose bottom lip was tremulous. “Don’t you understand, Mary-Lutie? I’m doing this for us. For our children. I’m going to make something of myself, but not for me. It’s for you, all of you.”
“Cut!” called the director, beside himself with delight. “That was wonderful, Tiffany. You, too, Luke. We’ll do a couple more takes when we resume here day after tomorrow.”
Carrie, who was standing nearby, beside a pile of ropes and cables, unclasped her hands and let herself breathe again. Tiffany had finally captured the accent, and Luke was doing an incredible job of portraying Yancey Goforth with a depth and understanding that he’d never displayed in his earlier films. In fact, there was a synergy between him and Tiffany, an interaction that really clicked. It was all Carrie could do not to applaud.
The technicians switched off the bright lights, and Luke, a towel draped around his shoulders, approached Carrie. His eyes held a triumphant gleam. “Tiff’s getting it, finally. Thanks, Carrie. You’ve been a lot of help.”
She would have hugged him, but he held her off with one hand. “Not until I’ve showered. I’ll stop by my place and pick up clean clothes. Meet you at the home place in an hour?”
“Sure, and I’m making chicken and dumplings.”
“Great,” Luke said. He claimed to love rolled dumplings made the way her mother taught her.
He pecked Carrie on the cheek.
“Is that all I get?” she teased.
“More later, okay?”
She grinned back. “Okay.”
She always stayed at Smitty’s for a while after the movie people left, making sure that electrical lines were unplugged after the day’s work and walking the dog. So far, Whip Productions had been model citizens, though Shasta didn’t seem to think so. When Carrie released her from the prison of the office, she galloped around the garage a few times and came back to nuzzle Carrie’s knee, gazing up at her with adoring eyes. Carrie knelt and hugged her.
“Tomorrow I’ll spend quality time with you,” she promised. “Maybe we’ll walk down and visit Mike and Jamie after they get home from school. Don’t worry, I’m still trying to find you a permanent home.” She’d had two turndowns this week alone, the first from one of the sound techs and another from Glenda’s mom, who had decided to get a cat, instead.
Carrie played with Shasta briefly before heaping food in her dish. Then she hurried home to start dinner.
The chicken and dumplings had been bubbling on the back of the stove for a long time when Luke called. He was already late, but Carrie wasn’t worried. It had happened before. Sometimes he had calls to return or a phone conference with his manager or other businesspeople. She’d been surprised to learn how much time Luke spent on work matters other than actual hours in front of the camera.
“Luke?” she said, flipping open her cell phone.
“Hi, Carrie,” he said. “How are you doing?”
“Missing you,” she said. “The chicken and dumplings are ready, and I can throw together a salad when you get here.”
A long silence. “Listen, I hate to do this,” he said as her whole system went on alert. “I have to cancel.”
“Cancel? Why?”
“I told you about Paola Nicoletti,” Luke said. “She’s freaking out because her assistants goofed up the set in the park. Whip wants me to go out to dinner with them and try to calm her down.”
Paola’s theatrics in the park were fresh in Carrie’s mind. “I see,” she said slowly. If she had to, she could stash dinner in the fridge and accompany Luke to dinner. If he asked, that is.
But he didn’t. “Carrie, they’re waiting for me and I’ve got to run. How about if you and I go out tomorrow? I’m so sorry I can’t have dinner with you tonight.”
“Me, too,” she said.
“Bye, Carrie.”
She clicked her phone off and stared at it for a moment before it rang again. It was Luke, and she perked up immediately. Maybe he had changed his mind and wanted her to accompany him tonight.
“Carrie, sweetheart, I just had an inspiration. Maybe you could invite Tiffany over. Would you mind? She’s all alone in that big house.”
“She has Ali and Becky and Ham,” Carrie pointed out.
Luke brushed off this statement. “They’re employees,” he said. “You’re a friend.”
Carrie wanted to remind him that she was getting paid to be Tiffany’s vocal coach and would put herself in the same category as the other employees, but in the interest of maintaining her equilibrium she decided against it. She liked Tiffany. She really did.
“If you’d give her a call and go pick her up, I’d appreciate it,” he said. “Tiffany’s really high on you at present. Without you, she would still be talking like someone from Mississippi by way of Long Island.”
“What about Liz?” Tiffany’s personal trainer still didn’t allow so much as a peeled grape to cross her charge’s lips without approval, and Carrie doubted that she’d approve of chicken and dumplings, whose goodness derived from who knew how many grams of forbidden animal fat.
“Liz left this morning for Saskatchewan, something about her father’s will. Anyway, Jules believes the extra weight makes Tiffany look the part of Mary-Lutie better than she did.”
At least hanging with Tiffany for the evening would be more fun than sitting around and contemplating a full pot of chicken and dumplings all by herself. Maybe she’d invite Dixie and Joyanne, too.
So that was what she did. Carrie went to pick up Tiffany, Dixie and Joyanne arrived soon after, and they ate dinner. They mostly talked about their work, and Tiffany was just like one of the girls. In fact, she was one of the girls, and the three of them made plans to go outlet shopping at the beach on the Saturday before the hiatus began. When it was time to leave, Joyanne, more than eager to make points with Tiffany, offered to give her a ride home, and the two of them left before Dixie did.
When they were alone, Dixie plunked herself down on the parlor sofa as if digging in for a long stay.
“So Luke is friends with this Paola person?” she asked brightly as Carrie went around gathering up glasses and dessert dishes to put in the dishwasher.
“He met her at some party in Hollywood,” Carrie said, moving on to the kitchen.
Dixie picked up Killer and cuddled him on her shoulder. He moved to nibble her dangling earring, though she kept it from becoming just another munchie by yanking him away. “And they’re friends?”
“I guess. All I know is that Luke was planning to eat dinner here and canceled.”
“I don’t blame you for being ticked off.”
Carrie regarded her, exasperated. “I am not ticked off.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
Deciding a change of subject was overdue, Carrie held out her arms and appropriated her rabbit. She stroked him for a moment. “Did Tiffany enjoy herself?”
“It seemed like it.”
“All this informal counseling of Tiffany has made me understand one thing,” Carrie told her sister. “It doesn’t matter if we’re rich or poor, famous or unknown, all women have the same problems.”
“She’s waiting for Peyton to call—you’re waiting for Luke. Is that what you mean?”
“I’m not waiting for Luke to call,” Carrie said indignantly. “Oh, okay, maybe I am.” This didn’t change the subject as she’d intended, so she tried again.
“Tiffany’s upset that her wardrobe doesn’t fit,” she said.
Dixie dismissed this concern immediately. “Oh, they’ll get her something to wear. From what you’ve told me about those adorable little frocks they’ve flown in from Hollywood, her character isn’t dressing much like our own Mary-Lutie, who was never seen without a bib apron except at church.”
“Hey, Dixie, you’ve given me an idea.”
Dixie followed her into the kitchen, where Carrie dug in the refrigerator and liberated a lone carrot from its plastic bag. She tossed the carrot onto the newspaper beside Killer’s dish and set him down beside it.
“What kind of idea?” Dixie asked.
“About Tiffany’s wardrobe problems.”
“You’re planning to shop at the outlets for clothes she can wear in the movie, are you? Mary-Lutie wasn’t into fashionable knockoffs. Though she might have gone for Hanes underwear, come to think of it.”
“No, it’s nothing like that. I’ll tell you about it after I find out how it goes over.”
“You’re not exactly a wealth of information, Carrie. You play your cards too close to the vest.”
“Vest? Mary-Lutie certainly didn’t wear vests,” Carrie replied innocently, upon which Dixie declared that she’d better go home, since she had to get up early in the morning.
After she waved goodbye to Dixie from the porch, Carrie went back inside. The house seemed too big and lonely without Luke. She lay awake past midnight, hoping that Luke might phone after he was through with dinner, and as usual, the back door was unlocked in case he wanted to sneak in to sleep with her, but he didn’t call. When she woke up around three o’clock, Killer was burrowed under the pillow beside her head and Luke was nowhere around.
It was the first night in weeks that they hadn’t been together, and the sense of loss was crushing. She rolled over into the middle of the bed where the sheets smelled of Luke, thinking that would make her feel less lonely, but it didn’t work. Only Luke himself could do that, but he wasn’t there.
CARRIE ARRIVED at Smitty’s early the next morning while the crew was still setting up. She walked Shasta, shut her up in her office and retrieved a big box out of the back of her SUV. Luke drove up as she was maneuvering it through the door.
“Carrie!” he said, his face lighting up at the sight of her. He was out of his car in an instant to help her. “What do you have in here?”
She set the box on the counter. “Wardrobe,” she said. “Slightly used clothes from my church clothes bank.”
Luke threw back his head and laughed. Then he hugged her and kissed her on the cheek. “Only you would come up with something like that.”
“Well, you all want the movie to be authentic, which is hard to accomplish with clothes from Hollywood,” she pointed out.
“I’ll be sure to tell Whip you said that. As if he doesn’t have enough problems as it is.” He blew out a deep breath. “Paola,” he said. “She’s driving us all nuts.”
“You didn’t manage to calm her down?” Carrie said, striving to keep her tone even. “Last night?”
He stared at her for a moment. “Carrie, what are you thinking?”
She dug into the box and tossed a bib apron on the counter. It might do well for Tiffany except for the raveling of the Sunbonnet Sue appliqué on the pocket. “Nothing. I’m thinking nothing.”
“It’s about last night, right? You’re angry because I didn’t show for dinner.”
“Oh, no. I had a fine time listening to Tiffany complain, to Joyanne getting on her good side and to Dixie asking me all kinds of questions about our relationship. If we have one, that is.”
Luke stood back. “Whoa,” he said. “You’re peeved.”
“Only a little,” Carrie allowed, sending him a look that probably contradicted the statement.
“I ate dinner with Whip and Paola. We listened to her gripes.”
“The band shell in the park is all wrong?”
“How’d you figure that out?”
“I was there when she pitched a full-barreled totally ballistic conniption fit.”
“Pardon me?”
She’d forgotten he wasn’t familiar with Southernisms. “Flipped out maximumly,” she translated for his benefit.
Luke blinked, then continued his explanation. “Well, anyway, we convinced her to repaint the band shell, to forget that it’s turned forty-five degrees too far to the west, and keep our shooting schedule intact. After dinner, Whip drove Paola back to her motel, which happens to be in Florence, and I went to my place and crashed. It was a difficult day and I was exhausted.”
“Luke, it’s all right. You don’t have to explain.” She turned away from him, but he pulled her into his arms.
“It’s not just dinner, is it?” He rubbed her back, and she melted into him. It wasn’t easy to stay mad at Luke.
“I missed you,” she said moodily. “When I reached for you in bed, you weren’t there. Killer chewed lace off the pillowcase overnight, and it’s some that my great-grandmother crocheted. I’m in a bad mood, that’s all.”
He kissed her, and as usual, it made everything else go away. She’d never enjoyed kissing a man so much in her life, and that was saying something, because she and her first boyfriend had necked for hours in the back rows of the Skyline Drive-in years ago, and those kisses had always been the mark for each successive suitor to match.
“We’ll make up for it tonight,” Luke said. “Pothier’s, then bed. Okay?”
She smiled up at him as a car drove over the rubber bell signal out front. “I have a better idea. Bed, then Pothier’s?”
He laughed and hugged her tighter. “That’s what I love about you, Carrie. You think the way I do. But I’m warning you, it could be a late dinner.”
They heard whining and pawing on the other side of Carrie’s office door. Shasta nudged the door open and bounded toward Luke, her hind end wagging enthusiastically and her front end sniffing his hand for the dog biscuits he’d taken to carrying with him.
“She’s learned to push the office door open if it doesn’t click tightly shut,” Carrie said with a sigh. “She’s tired of being homeless.”
Luke knelt to scrub Shasta behind her ears. “She’s going to find someone eventually, aren’t you, girl?” He slipped her the dog biscuit as Carrie went outside to greet her customer.
A perplexed Odella Hatcher was studying the gas pumps, over which Carrie had tied croker sacks printed in black Magic Marker: CLOSED UNTIL FILMING ENDS.
“I declare, when are these movie people going to be through with the garage?” Mrs. Hatcher wanted to know. “I need a tune-up real bad.”
“I’m not sure, Mrs. Hatcher,” Carrie said politely, leaning over the window so Odella wouldn’t spot Luke right inside the door.
“Well, you call me, Carrie, when you can serve customers again. I don’t want to go to the Quik-Stop if I don’t have to. I started trading here when your granddaddy owned the place, and I’m not about to stop now.”
“I really appreciate that,” Carrie said sincerely, stepping back.
“By the way, the school district has a contract to let. They’re planning to buy six new portable classrooms. Would you mind asking that boyfriend of yours to contact my husband at the school-district office?”
The word boyfriend brought Luke to mind, though only momentarily. Mrs. Hatcher was surely referring to Mert, the mobile-home installer.
“Mert and I broke up, Mrs. Hatcher. Six months ago, at least.”
“Oh, well. I’m a little behind.”
It was all Carrie could do not to snicker, seeing as Odella Hatcher’s behind was a lot bigger than most.
“I’ll call you when we open again,” Carrie promised.
Mrs. Hatcher smiled and drove off in a whirlwind of dust. Before the Lincoln was out of sight, Luke came up and circled his arms around her right out there beside the gas pumps.
“Luke,” she objected. “Stop it.”
“I don’t care who knows we’re a couple, Carrie Rose Smith. Not your sister, not Memaw Frances and most particularly not Mrs. Hatcher.”
Carrie let him kiss the side of her neck before twisting away. “How about bringing Shasta’s water dish out here so I can fill it from the spigot?”
He went, but Carrie was pensive as she hurried back inside the building. So far Luke had said that he loved certain things about her. He’d said that he missed her and that he didn’t care who knew they were a couple. But he still hadn’t said the magic words.
He hadn’t said that he loved her. Nor had she said that she loved him, but in such a situation, it was Carrie’s firm belief that ladies first was a really bad idea. He’d have to say it and he’d have to mean it before she could let on how she really felt.
“I’M SO SICK and tired of this—this love you have for racing,” Tiffany said for the umpteenth time, and Carrie couldn’t figure out how in the world actors could repeat the same line over and over yet keep it sounding fresh and new.
Her attention wandered, and she didn’t hear the click of Shasta’s toenails on the concrete floor, nor did she see the dog until it was too late. When Shasta pranced onto the set, Carrie made an involuntary squeak, causing Jules to holler, “Cut!” and glare at her. Meanwhile Shasta was shaking Luke down for a biscuit.
“The dog,” Carrie said. “When I last checked, she was shut up in my office. Sorry about that.”
“Get. Her. Off. The. Set,” Jules commanded, pointing a finger at poor Shasta, who was by now trying to reach Luke’s fingers for a lick.
“I have an idea, Jules,” Luke said in a reasoning tone. “Let Shasta stay. She can sit next to that pile of tires and be cute.”
“This scene doesn’t need any cute,” Jules said disgustedly. “It needs passion, excitement. It needs—” and he paused dramatically “—acting.” The edges of his mustache turned down—never an optimistic sign.
“Can we have a conference?” Luke said, slinging his arm around Jules’s shoulders and walking him to a corner. The wardrobe lady appeared and fussily adjusted the waistband of the skirt from the church charity barrel, which was made of softly faded gingham and hung on Tiffany like a flour sack. At least to Carrie’s eye, it looked authentic.
Jules and Luke returned from their conversation, and Jules ordered Shasta to lie next to the tires, where she lay chastened, head on paws. Jules consulted with the lighting tech and the camerapeople before stalking to his chair in the far bay of the garage.
“Okay, we’re ready.”
Luke and Tiffany assumed their places, and Becky materialized out of nowhere to wipe the thin sheen of perspiration from Tiffany’s upper lip.
“Action!” Jules said, leaning back in his chair to observe.
“I’m so sick and tired of this—this love you have for racing,” Tiffany said, and the take was so perfect that Carrie couldn’t pull her eyes away from the two main characters. She didn’t see when Shasta made her own bid for stardom at the end of the scene as Yancey strode after Mary-Lutie, desperately trying to win her to his way of thinking and failing utterly. Mary-Lutie ran from the garage in tears, and that was when Shasta yawned.
“Cut! That was perfect,” Jules said. “Especially the dog,” he added with obvious reluctance. Shasta had yawned at precisely the right time to lend a bit of comic relief to what was otherwise an overly intense scene, and Luke was jubilant when he walked Carrie to her SUV.
“Catch you later,” he said, kissing her lightly before closing the SUV’s door after her.
“You’ll be there for dinner?”
He shook his head. “Paola’s complaints about the park struck home, and Whip’s talking with the writers about moving the later scenes between Yancey and Mary-Lutie to another place.”
“But where?” Carrie asked.
“How do I know? We’re having a meeting at Whip’s house and I’ll probably eat dinner there.”
“In the script, what happens after the talk in the park about sponsorship of Yancey’s race car? Maybe I can suggest something.”
“Mary-Lutie and Yancey make love in the band shell.”
“In the band shell?” She remembered Mary-Lutie as a staid little old lady with thick calves and bad dentures.
“Apparently they met to break up but made up, instead.” Luke grinned, a wry twist to his lips.
“How do we know that really happened?”
“We don’t, but it makes a good story. I understand that the location of that scene will change but the dialogue will remain substantially the same.”
Carrie shook her head. These movie people were a different breed, all right. “Who’s going to the meeting?”
“Whip, me, a couple of scriptwriters, Paola.”
Paola? What would she be doing there? The woman was a set designer, not a story person. “You’ll be by my house directly after dinner, right?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound as suspicious as she felt.
“I’ll call you.”
“Okay.” She smiled, rammed the SUV into Reverse and backed up. “Hey,” she said, sticking her head out the window. “If you aren’t going to show, how about phoning ASAP?”
“I’ll try,” he said, turning to walk away.
I’ll try, she fumed as she sped through the green light. In this instance, trying was not enough. If he didn’t want to be with her as much as she wanted to be with him, she was the one with the greater emotional stake in the relationship, and in the Rules According to Carrie, this was not a good thing.
She made herself a grilled-cheese-and-bacon sandwich and ate it from a TV tray, with a salad and sweet tea. She was glad that neither Dixie nor Joyanne was around, because she might have vented in an embarrassing way and then they’d pity her. Worse, they’d turn against Luke for hurting her feelings.
After eating, she decided to go through some of her old photographs and insert them in a new album she’d recently bought for that purpose. There were hundreds of her family, her friends, Smitty’s. She’d snapped them around Yewville, at the beach, at church functions, and they brought back so many memories.
She’d finished several pages when a faded snapshot of Brandon, her first love, surfaced. She was prepared to toss it out when she remembered why they’d broken up. It was over a wrestling match in the backseat of his old Pontiac at the Skyline Drive-in Theater. Brandon had wanted more than she cared to give, and she’d ripped his high-school ring from the chain around her neck and thrown it at him the very next day.
An idea began to form in her mind, and as it was starting to come together, the phone rang. She jumped to answer it.
“Carrie? It’s Luke. I’ll be over in half an hour or so.”
“How did the meeting go?” she asked.
“Not well. Everyone’s arguing over the change, and no one’s suggesting a better place for the scene than the park.”
“Luke,” she said. “Meet me somewhere, okay?”
He sounded puzzled. “Meet you?”
“At the old Skyline Drive-in just after you turn onto the Allentown highway. Hang a left onto the asphalt at the broken-down sign—the pavement’s kind of crumbly, but the road’ll take you past an admission booth that’s missing a roof. You’ll spot my SUV to your right.”
“Carrie, Carrie,” he said, chuckling. “What do you have up your sleeve?”
“Something you’ll like, I hope.”
“Okay, but it had better be good. I was so looking forward to—”
“You still can. Bye, Luke.”
CARRIE WAS ALREADY parked in the dark in the back row of the drive-in when the Ferrari passed through the gate. She flicked the SUV’s headlights on and off a couple of times so Luke would see her, and waited until he got out of the car before jumping out of the SUV into knee-high grass wet with evening dew. She wore a raincoat, even though no rain was forecast, and high heels because they were sexier than her usual flats. She hoped she wouldn’t be wearing the shoes long enough for them to pinch.
“This is a little spooky,” Luke said, taking in the old screen, still in pretty good shape, and the speaker stands spaced at regular intervals along the rows where cars used to park.
“It’s was the place to go when I was in high school, and it was definitely in business when Yancey and Mary-Lutie were courting. I’d bet all her Elvis Presley records that this is where those two did their breaking up and making up, not in the band shell at Memorial Park.”
“Wow, Carrie, this is amazing,” Luke said. “Switch on your headlights again so I can walk around.”
“You’ll get sandburs in your socks,” she warned, following after him, though she tended to wobble on those high heels.
“I don’t care about that,” Luke said, keeping within the beam of light. “This place is great, a real find.” He whirled, thinking out loud. “A good mowing would restore it, sort of. A new roof on the admission booth, a bunch of old cars parked in the rows.”
“The speakers are all pretty well intact, and maybe they still work. A tinny sound in the background as Yancey and Mary-Lutie snuggle up in Yancey’s old Nash Rambler would be a good counterpoint.”
“We don’t have his car.”
This was the surprise she’d waited to spring on him ever since the other day when Memaw had mentioned that Yancey’s first car was jacked up on cinder blocks in the barn on her friend Dottie’s property. “Yes, we do,” Carrie announced with glee. “And Dottie will sell it to Whip in the blink of an eye. She needs the money.”
“Wow,” Luke said, favoring her with an awestruck look. “You’re amazing.”
“I know,” Carrie said with an unavoidable degree of smugness.
“And the movie screen—it could be repainted.”
“With scenes from old movies projected on it?”
“Yes!” Luke reached out to slap her an exuberant high five, which almost caused her to lose her grip on the two sides of the raincoat that she held bunched in her fists.
She turned back toward the SUV. “Well, here we are at the local passion pit,” she said with exaggerated nonchalance, “and maybe we should make good use of it.” Her heart was thumping against her ribs with excitement at her daring at setting this up.
She couldn’t have scripted it better. As if on cue, Luke backed her against the side of her car. She lifted her lips for his kiss, a lingering one, and she let the raincoat swing open.
In mid-kiss, Luke opened his eyes. “Carrie?” he said, reaching inside the folds of fabric and encountering bare flesh. His touch was delicious, sending goose bumps everywhere that counted.
“Surprised?” she asked, starting to laugh, but he was speechless.
“What’s wrong—don’t they do things like this in Hollywood, California?” she asked.
“Not in my experience,” he said. “What am I supposed to do now?”
She trailed kisses along the side of his neck. “Hint—your hands should be on the roundest place you can find,” she said.
Quickly he slid them around to her derriere.
“Keep going,” she told him, guiding his hands to her breasts.
“What is this? Fulfillment of a fantasy?”
“Isn’t it?”
“It’s one I never knew I had,” he said. He kissed her again. “I really like you, Carrie,” he murmured. “When you do things like this, it turns me on.”
She untucked his shirt and unbuttoned it. Warmth radiated from his flesh, and he hardened against her. “Okay, Mr. Movie Star, what do you say we get in my car, and I’ll show you what else I can do.”
“Works for me,” he said, his voice rough and fingers on the door handle.
She’d already lowered the backseat so that the cargo area of the SUV was large and comfortable. They disagreed on whether to put the blanket she’d brought over them or underneath, and finally draped it over them in case someone should come.
“Anybody comes, it’s going to be me, and soon,” Luke said, which made Carrie giggle.
It wasn’t as if anyone could see anything inside the SUV, because their heavy breathing soon steamed up the windows anyway, and after Luke inadvertently bumped his head on the dome light in the middle of the ceiling, the whole thing became an exercise in who could most pleasure the other without hogging the blanket. Their lovemaking was hard and fast, and Carrie noticed that it was getting awfully hot in there, even though the blanket had disappeared in the direction of their feet after only a minute or two. The heat became a flame that consumed her until it took off like a bottle rocket from the Southern Confectionery Kitchen on New Year’s Eve, exploding into a fountain of sparkles inside her head.
Afterward, with the condensation on the window trickling down in silvery rivulets, she lay with her head pillowed on Luke’s shoulder, contentedly floating along with the stars in the sky, listening to a chorus of katydids and trying not to speak what was on her mind.
I love you, she wanted to say, afraid that the words would leap from her throat unbidden and ruin everything. In order for that not to happen, she bit down on her tongue, hard.
Before she drowsed, she made herself face reality. Either this was a thrilling way to introduce Luke to a new possibility for the scene in the movie that needed to be changed, or it was a desperate bid to get him to commit to her, which so far hadn’t worked.
Well, maybe it would. Could. But she only had a few days before Luke left to visit his parents, and what if that wasn’t enough time?