Down Home Carolina Christmas. Pamela Browning
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toward the door, “I heard that conversation with your cousin Voncille. Don’t pay her no mind.” His homely face was earnest.
“I get right annoyed when people tell me to find a rich husband. It’s not like there are scads of them hanging around on every corner,” Carrie replied with considerable ruefulness. Except for Luke Mason, maybe. But a kiss wasn’t exactly a proposal of marriage. Nor should it be, since she was determined to pretend it never happened.
“Maybe you’ll get lucky,” Hub said, treating her to a comical waggle of his eyebrows as she gathered her things. “You might land yourself a Hollywood tycoon while the movie people are in town.”
“Stick to fixing cars, Hub,” Carrie told him. “You’re a lot better at that than fortune-telling.”
They were both laughing as she drove away.
Chapter Four
Luke shifted uncomfortably on the lumpy couch in the office of the old seed farm, doing his best to convince Whip of the unsuitability of the Mullins garage for filming.
“It’s too far away,” Luke argued. “I don’t want to be running back and forth from here to there.”
“Neither do I, but what’s the big attraction of Smitty’s? The owner is dead set against renting to us.” Whip eyed him impatiently.
Luke had wanted to smile at Carrie’s feistiness in threatening poor Whip with pepper spray, but he’d managed to subdue his mirth when Whip told him about it. “Well,” he said, determined to choose his words carefully, “the set designers wouldn’t have to work too hard to make Smitty’s look authentic. There’s an old Coke machine from the fifties. A two-bay garage. A Marilyn Monroe calendar hanging over the desk.”
“Marilyn Monroe?” Luke had finally captured Whip’s attention.
Unsure why Whip had picked up on this particular, Luke took his time answering. “Right. The real Norma Jean, circa 1955.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Whip heaved himself out of the swivel chair. “What do you say we ride over to Smitty’s right now to follow up with Carrie Smith? The two of us together can wear her down.”
Luke’s spirits brightened. “Why this change of heart?”
Whip jangled his car keys. “Did you know I collect Marilyn Monroe memorabilia?”
“Actually I didn’t,” Luke said, wondering at this turn of good luck.
“Not that I think dealing with Ms. Smith will be easy,” Whip said.
“Of course not,” Luke agreed as he followed Whip to the parking lot.
With Whip at the wheel of the company van, they headed into the center of town, where renovations were continuing apace. As Whip turned sharply in to Smitty’s, they both spotted a dog drinking out of a blue plastic dishpan on the side of the building near the restroom doors. A bell sounded faintly from inside the garage as the van ran over the rubber signal beside the pumps, but as usual when Luke stopped by, there was no sign of Carrie Smith. This time, however, the doors to the garage bays were closed, as was the one leading to Carrie’s office, and there was no sign of Hub.
“Well, that’s a hell of a note,” Whip said after a cursory glance around. “The place is deserted.” He drove slowly past the building before backing up so they could see inside. “Could I get a view of the calendar if I peeked in the window?”
“Probably not. It’s hung over Carrie Smith’s desk, which is around a corner.”
“All right, we’ve ridden all the way over here for nothing. I say we go to Dolly’s and drown my curiosity,” Whip proposed.
“Wait a minute,” Luke said, his attention distracted by the dog meandering alongside the number two gas pump. “That dog over there looks as if it might be gagging on something.” The animal in question, hardly more than a pup, flopped down in the dust between the gas pumps and lowered its head to its paws. It gazed at them with eyes that were enormously dark and soulful.
“It looks fine to me,” Whip said with considerable lack of sympathy.
Luke jumped out of the van. “Maybe it’s just hungry or scared.”
“Oh, sure. That dog’s terrified. Observe how it’s lying there wagging its tail in sheer fright.”
Luke knelt and held his hand out so the dog could sniff it. “Come on,” he coaxed. “You’re going to let me pet you, aren’t you?” This produced a tentative lick of his fingers.
Whip was getting antsy. He called out the window, “Luke, stay away from that dog. She might have rabies or something.”
Luke paid no attention. The animal wasn’t exactly what you’d term peppy, but then, neither was anything else in Yewville.
“Luke! Hey, man, come on.” Whip revved the engine a couple of times to emphasize the urgency of his request.
Luke ignored him. The dog was drooling, probably just water she hadn’t swallowed. She flopped over on her back, squirming in ecstasy when Luke scratched her stomach. If this was Carrie Smith’s dog, shame on her for leaving such a winsome animal here to get run over or worse.
The dog licked Luke’s hand when he stopped petting her, and he couldn’t resist those big liquid-brown eyes. Beguiled by her friendliness, Luke made a quick decision.
“C’mon, girl,” he said.
“What are you doing?” Whip yelled.
“I’m taking the dog with us,” Luke answered. At his call, the dog stood up and obediently trotted after him.
“You don’t even know that dog. And you sure can’t keep him at that rental house where you’re staying.”
“This is a her, not a him, and I’ll bring her back here after she’s had a square meal.” There wasn’t any food around, just the dishpan filled with water. Personally, he’d put the dog’s owner in jail for neglecting the animal, even though said owner was blond and had a beautiful set of legs, not to mention considerable other assets. But no matter how gorgeous she was, Carrie shouldn’t go off and leave a dog to fend for itself.
“The people who own your house specified no pets,” Whip reminded him with the defeated attitude of someone who understood that he was slinging weak shots in a losing battle.
“No one has to find out I’ve had an overnight guest,” Luke said, opening the sliding door of the van and placing his hands on both sides of the dog’s rump to shove her in.
“She’s probably got fleas,” Whip retorted. “If I have to pay to fumigate that house, I’m going to be mad as hell.”
“I don’t see a single flea,” Luke said.
“You don’t necessarily see fleas. You feel their bites eventually,” Whip explained with great patience. The dog hopped up on the backseat of the van and faced front, as Luke got in and buckled his seat belt.
“That’s it, girl, settle down,” Luke said unnecessarily, refusing to comment on the flea situation, if there was one.
“She smells,” Whip complained.
“She’s a dog, Whip. That’s the way dogs are supposed to smell.”
Whip threw the van into gear and wheeled onto Palmetto Street. “We were going to stop for a beer. Now, don’t walk up to the bartender at Dolly’s with that dog. ‘Have you ever heard the story about the talking dog?’ you’ll say. And he’ll say—”
“Oh, can it, Whip,” Luke said in disgust. “This is a fine animal we’ve got here. She’s much too smart to talk, aren’t you, girl? Talking only gets people in trouble. Anyway, we can swing by my house and you can drop both of us off.”
“Yeah, Luke, whatever,”