скачать книгу бесплатно
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.
