The Christmas Cookie Chronicles: Carrie Page 2
The bus that Fact or Fantasy had chartered at DFW Airport was parked curbside as his crew unloaded their gear. The show had reserved the entire third floor of The Merry Cherub for the three weeks they would be filming the “Romance of First Love” episode.
It was the episode he had inadvertently, and regrettably, triggered over dirty martinis at the Emmy Awards, when he’d told Burt Mernit about Twilight’s legendary Jon and Rebekka, the fountain in Sweetheart Park and the enduring folklore of high-school sweethearts forever entwined.
Guests had come out of the establishment. Residents from the surrounding homes peeked through the curtains. Their audience stood on wide verandas, or paused on sidewalks, watching the goings-on with keen-eyed interest.
Eight years and he hadn’t once come back. There’d been no need to return since his parents had moved away after he got a scholarship to Columbia University, buying their retirement home on the Texas Gulf Coast. There was nothing here that he’d left behind.
Except for Carrie.
At the thought of fiery Carrie MacGregor, who for forty-eight glorious hours (back when he had just turned nineteen and she was seventeen and a half) had been his wife, Mark’s gut gave a strange squeeze. Blast from the past. He couldn’t help wondering if she still lived in Twilight. If she did, he knew he’d run into her, and that thought tightened the squeeze.
He could have broken down and looked her up on the Internet, but for some reason he’d been reluctant to confirm her whereabouts. It felt too much like an invasion of her privacy. Too much like picking at an old scar.
Pasting the television smile on his face that he’d been perfecting over the last five years in his meteoric rise from broadcast journalism intern to local L.A. news reporter to host of his own reality show, Mark turned and started up the sidewalk. He greeted the people on the front porch, pressed flesh, winked and charmed his way to the front door.
The proprietors of the Merry Cherub, a couple of married thirty-somethings named Jenny and Dean, ushered him inside. Jenny looked several months pregnant and kept her hand cradled lovingly around her distended belly.
The minute he stepped over the threshold, his mouth gaped. Everywhere he looked there were angels—angels on thick textured wallpaper, angel mobiles dangling from the ceiling, angels carved into the staircase banister and the crown molding. He doubted they had this many angels even in Heaven and every single one of the angels was grinning.
Hence the Merry Cherub. Now the B&B’s name made total sense.
The crew, who trooped up the steps behind him, had similar reactions. There were gasps, chortles, and a few polite coughs.
Mark recovered quickly and dialed his surprise into the stunning dimpled grin that he knew had the power to send women into a swoon. “Beautiful place you’ve got here,” he told Dean and Jenny smoothly.
Blushing prettily, Jenny led the way upstairs, while Dean helped the crew with their equipment. Mark’s natural impulse was to roll up his sleeves and help with the bags as well, but he’d been coached in the finer points of looking like a star. His mentor was fond of saying, “Talent doesn’t fetch or carry.”
Mark was considered “the talent” of Fact or Fiction. The main draw. The future of the show rested on his shoulders. It was a heavy responsibility. Far better for him to look the part of successful host and ensure the crew members got to keep their jobs than to risk losing his authority by carrying a few bags. Still, it bothered him to ascend the steps empty-handed. This wasn’t how he’d been raised. Letting others shoulder his burdens.
You can take the country boy to the city, but you can’t take the country out of the man.
Jenny showed him to his suite. “The best in the house,” she told him.
Angels had encroached even here. He resigned himself to an angel-filled three weeks. He was about to tip her, but when he reached into his pocket, a horrified look crossed her face and she raised her hands. “No tipping allowed at the Merry Cherub.”
Feeling like a jackass, he stuck the twenty back in his pocket as she scooted out the door, tossing over her shoulder, “Dinner at seven. Homemade chicken pot pie.”
She shut the door, leaving him all alone with the angels.
They wouldn’t start shooting until tomorrow when the director, Iris Tobin, arrived. Until then, Mark was at loose ends. He walked to the French doors, threw them open and stepped out onto the balcony.
A bloom of autumn flowers decorated the wrought iron patio table. He stepped to the edge of the stone balustrade. To his right stretched Lake Twilight, simmering green-blue in the November afternoon. To his left lay the public street leading to a main thoroughfare that circled the town square. The street was framed with old-fashioned sidewalks and tall, elegant elms.
And that’s when he saw her.
The tempestuous, gorgeous Carrie MacGregor, the woman who’d first stolen his heart way back in high school. She strode purposefully down the sidewalk, shoulders back, chin up, looking ready to tackle the world. She’d always been fearless like that—undaunted by obstacles, plowing straight ahead, letting nothing get in her way. Except for when his parents and her older sister conspired to break them apart.
The day was burned into his memory when they’d walked into his parent’s home two days after Christmas, simple gold matching wedding bands on their ring fingers. Already the reality of what they’d done was starting to sink in. He didn’t regret marrying Carrie, but facing his parents wasn’t easy. They’d walked into the house, hand-in-hand, to find his parents and Flynn huddled around the kitchen table, the letter from Columbia lying open on the middle of the snowflake tablecloth and weighted down by a round Santa Claus salt shaker.
Don’t blame it on Mom and Dad and Flynn. You were young, but plenty old enough to fight for her.
Yeah. There was the rub. He hadn’t fought for her. Carrie had taken one look at the letter and quickly sized up the situation. The first words out of her mouth were, “We made a big mistake.”
What she blurted had shocked him because he’d been trying to figure out how he could be a freshman and provide for his young bride who had yet to finish high school. Everyone had discussed it. And Carrie had calmly suggested they should have the marriage annulled.
Mark had just sat there, letting it all unfold around him, feeling mournful, but also secretly a bit relieved and then guilty for that relief. He loved Carrie, but they were in over their heads. They’d allowed their hearts to overcome reason. He had graduated in December. Off-schedule, because when he’d been in seventh grade he’d contracted hepatitis A, missed three months of school and had to be held back a year. To compensate, he’d doubled up on classes in his senior year to finish at the Christmas holidays instead of the following May. With college looming and the thought of leaving Carrie behind weighing heavily on his mind, he’d hatched the idea of a Vegas wedding.
And so the wedding had been annulled.
He’d packed up for college. He’d promised to email. Promised he’d come back for her once he’d graduated.
He had not.
Carrie stopped on the corner, waiting for the light to change. She was dressed in blue jeans, comfortable sneakers and a bright yellow sweater that accentuated the auburn streaks in her soft brown hair.
The light changed and she took a step off the curb just as a zippy black Camaro darted through a red light at the intersection.
Mark’s heart vaulted into his throat and he cried out a warning. “Carrie!”
She halted just in the nick of time as the car sped past her.
Relief pushed out fear, leaving his knees weak, shaky. If he hadn’t called to her . . . He didn’t even want to think about what could have happened.
She stepped back onto the curb, tossed her head, and glanced up over her shoulder.
Their eyes met.
He saw instant recognition dawn on her face. Her eyes were bluer
than ever, her silky hair pulled back in a ponytail, no makeup on her face. But she didn’t need makeup. Carrie was a natural beauty.
“Hold it,” he called, suddenly freaked out that she would disappear on him. “Stay right there. I’m coming down.”
He tore from his room and scrambled down the stairs. Several guests, including members of his crew were in the parlor. They stared at him as he flew out front door. His heart was a piston, slamming hard and quick.
In six ground-eating strides he cut catty-corner across the Merry Cherub’s lawn to find her still standing on the corner, a sardonic arch to one eyebrow, arms folded over her chest. Once he was there, he felt tongue-tied and stupid.
“Carrie,” he mumbled, jamming his hands in his pants pockets. He realized he was breathing only from the top part of his lungs, short and tight, yet he couldn’t seem to make himself haul in a deep breath.
She raked a sharp gaze over him, from the top of his head, down the length of his suit, to the tips of his shoes polished to a high sheen. He was very aware of how different he looked from the last time she’d seen him. Back then he’d dressed just as she dressed now—comfortable, homey, authentic.
Authentic? What did that mean?
“I suppose I should thank you,” she said, cool as an ice water shower. “I was almost Camaro road kill.”
He tried out his grin, hoping to win a smile from her in return, but no dice. Her blue eyes drilled through him like a spike. His smile stumbled, faltered.
“Thanks for the save.” She turned her back and started walking away, but in the opposite direction of where she’d been headed before. Was she that rattled? Or had she simply changed her mind about where she was going?
He took off after her. “That’s all I get after eight years?”
She stopped, her shoulders stiffening, and she sliced him with that razor gaze of hers. “That’s all you deserve,” she sassed.
Okay, he asked for that, but his blood was racing through his veins. He kept smiling.
She never budged, her mouth pulled in a taut, disapproving line. Ah, Carrie. How could she be even more beautiful now than she’d been before?
“You can go on about your rat killing.” She waved a hand.
He hadn’t heard that colloquial term since he’d left Texas. He’d done his best to scrub his accent and vocabulary of Texasisms. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“Fine. Perfect. Hale and hearty. Gotta get back to work. See ya.” She stalked off, ponytail swishing.
He sprinted after her, knowing he looked pretty damn silly in his fancy suit and shoes, chasing after her as autumn leaves swirled around them. “Can’t you just stop and talk to me a minute?”
She chuffed out a sigh, sank her hands on her hips and turned to him. “What? What do you want from me?”
It was a legitimate question. What did he want from her?
She looked ferocious. Like she could rip his head off at the neck. Was she mad at him? Still? After all this time? Why should she still be mad, especially when she was the one who was the first to say they’d made a big mistake?
Why hadn’t he called her?
Yeah, well, and say what? Sorry I bailed on you when opportunity knocked? Sorry I’ve changed and I’m not the country boy you once loved?
“We have nothing to discuss. We knew each other a long time ago.”
“Can we at least be civil?” he asked.
She eyed him suspiciously.
“How’s your folks?” he asked, trying for polite conversation.
“Mom died five years ago on Christmas Eve,” she said dispassionately.
Immediately, he felt like a giant shitheel. He had not known. “Carrie. I’m so sorry.”
“Appreciate the condolence card you sent.” Her sarcasm was a knife to his heart.
He toed the ground, getting his shoes dusty. This was a mistake, trying to talk to her, but he didn’t turn away. “How’s your dad?” he asked softly.
“Clean and sober, thanks for asking.” More sarcasm.
“What about the twins?”
“My brothers are in their senior years at Texas Tech.”
“I can’t believe it. Little Noah and Joel about to graduate college?”
“It has been eight years.”
“And Flynn?”
“Happily married and expecting a baby.”
“That’s great news.” He paused. “What about you, Carrie? Did you ever get married again?” He was stricken by the idea that he was too late, that she was already married. His gaze darted to her ring finger. Bare.
“Did you?” Her eyes narrowed.
“No.”
“Me either. Once bitten, twice shy.”
He swallowed, tried to think of the right thing to say.
“Listen, I’ve got things to do.” She shifted her weight but did not meet his gaze.
“I’m going to be in town for three weeks, filming a show. Maybe we could get—”
“I know all about your show. Yay for you. In the future, if I see you coming, I’ll be sure to head in the opposite direction. Like now.” She turned and started walking again.
“You didn’t use to hold grudges,” he called out, feeling unexpectedly desperate to keep her engaged in conversation. What was that all about? Why did he care?
Face it. You blew the best thing that ever happened to you.
It was a reality he’d spent eight years running from. He’d tucked her into the recesses of his mind. In the mental file, marked FOOLHARDY YOUTHFUL MISTAKES. From time to time, usually when he was feeling nostalgic or lonely, he’d trot out the memory file. Not often, but every once in awhile when he found himself wondering, What if?
But now that he was here, looking at her, seeing how she’d bloomed into an amazingly beautiful woman, one thought dominated his brain.
You were a fool to let her slip through your fingers.
He remembered the salty sweet taste of her lips, like a big scoop of vanilla ice cream drizzled with caramel and topped with chopped nuts, and he had a compelling urge to taste them again.
She whirled on her heels and came marching back, wagging a finger at him. “Don’t you believe for one single minute, Mark Leland, that I’ve had the time or inclination to think of you even once. God, what an ego! You think I’ve been sitting here pining away for your return?”
“A guy can hope.”
“Look, yes you were a hottie in high school and I was smitten enough to run off to Vegas with you, but it was just one dumb weekend out of my life.”
One dumb weekend? She’d married him.
“Time marches on and you—” She waved a hand, curled her upper lip. “You became a sellout. Once upon a time you wanted to be a novelist. How in the hell did you end up hosting some silly reality show? The way I see it, you did me a huge favor. I dodged a bullet when you left. Thank you. I owe you my undying gratitude.”
A sellout? She thought he was a sellout? He didn’t know why that staggered him, but it did. “You’re going to deny that you were in love with me?”
She opened her mouth as if she was about to hit him with a humdinger of a zinger, but she then snapped it shut. He dropped the smile that he’d been hanging onto. It was his default mode, and he just let it go. It felt scary, shucking off Mark Leland TV personality, letting the well-constructed mask slip, if only for a second.
Narrowing her eyes, she stepped closer. So close the tips of her sneakers were almost touching the ends of his toes. He could smell her. Fragrant as the summer memories of time spent on her family’s porch swing, all ripe honeysuckle and peaches and lovesick teens. Her scent had not changed. It was still the same honest, melodious aroma. She smelled of home.
Every impulse in his body pushed him to grab her up in his arms and kiss her until neither one of them could breathe.
If she’d hauled off and punched him in the stomach he couldn’t have been more shocked. He shook his head. “I’m not here to wreck Twilight.”
“No?”
“This show is going to help the town. Bring in more business.”
Her glare dissected him like a medical examiner’s scalpel, clean and mean. “Ah, I get it now.”
“Get what?”
“How you live with who you’ve become. You spin yourself beautiful lies and then fall for them. Lying is one thing, believing your own bullshit is something else.”
A brackish taste filled his mouth, and he felt immediately defensive. Who was she to judge? The woman who’d stayed in the same small town all her life. The woman who told him their marriage was a mistake. “What’s wrong with who I’ve become?”
“If you have to ask, you’re even more clueless than I thought.” Tart. That tongue of hers.
He should have just let it go. There was absolutely no reason to continue the conversation. He had changed. He no longer belonged here, and she was wrapped in the cocoon of Twilight and couldn’t see beyond the narrow confines of her insular little world. This is what he would have been like if he’d stayed.
But he couldn’t help thinking about all he’d missed. Waking up beside her every morning, making love to her every night. Wistful. Whenever he looked at those lush lips, stared into her saucy blue eyes, he felt an unexpected yearning for what he’d let slip through his fingers.
“Wake-up call, Leland. Your show is going to destroy Twilight,” she said. “Not boost business.”
“How do you figure?” He leaned in toward her until their noses were almost touching. Alarm flared in her eyes, but she held her ground. She’d always been brave. It was one of the things he’d most admired about her.
“Fact or Fantasy is about busting myths and legends, right?” She notched up her chin.