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Except those eyes. And that funny, twisting smile.
“Warren?”
WARREN ADDISON FELT THE COLD wind blasting in and therefore knew he wasn’t hallucinating. But the improbability of the sight stole his words for several long, awkward seconds. Finally, he regained articulation.
“Miranda James.”
God, but she was still so beautiful. Her blond hair was short, bluntly cut and curly. It framed her exquisite face perfectly. She stood taller than he remembered, slim in her boyish jeans, her upper body bundled into a fleece jacket, with a down vest over top.
“None other,” she agreed cheerfully. “Um, mind if I come in? I may track in a little snow, but other than that my boots are clean. I bought them before I came here—never needed snow boots like this in Toronto—we don’t get much snow there. Slush falls from the sky directly.”
Her words overwhelmed him. He hadn’t heard so many in weeks. At last a basic meaning penetrated. “I’m sorry. Of course, come in.” He took a few backward steps to make room. “And don’t worry about snow—or slush, for that matter. As you’ll soon see, I don’t fuss much about things like that.”
But the place wasn’t dirty, he reassured himself, trying to imagine how the old farm kitchen must look in her eyes. At least he wasn’t one to stack dishes between meals or leave food out on the counters. He couldn’t. The mice would make an all-night diner of the place.
“Is that a wood-burning stove?”
“Yeah. Mom wouldn’t part with it. We do have running water and electricity, however.”
He’d meant it as a joke, but she nodded seriously.
“Oh, and an espresso machine!”
“A city comfort I couldn’t imagine doing without. Would you like a cup?”
“Oh, would I.” She brushed the snow off her boots, then sat in one of the wooden kitchen chairs. “Did you bring any other goodies from New York with you?”
“A bag of bagels, frozen in the fridge. I’d offer you one, but I have no microwave.” He shrugged in apology. “Other than that, I packed a few changes of clothing, my books and my computer, of course.”
He measured beans for grinding, still not able to believe that the gorgeous Miranda James was sitting in his kitchen. If she knew how often he’d fantasized about her when they were teenagers…
But hell. That didn’t make him different from any of the other guys who’d gone to Chatsworth High.
“I’ve seen some of your biographies on TV,” he told her. Actually, all of them. “I especially enjoyed the one on prairie musicians. Jack Semple has always been a favorite of mine.”
“Wow, you’ve seen my stuff? In New York?”
“Well, I do get cable.” He noticed her glancing around. “Not here, though. Mom and Dad took the TV with them to Victoria.”
“What do you do with yourself? Isn’t it awfully lonely?”
“I spend a lot of time walking around the property. And I read, play Age of Empires on the computer….” He placed a small pitcher under the espresso spout, then turned on the motor. “And of course I write.”
“Do you ever. Warren, I read your book. Frankly, I was blown away. You deserve all your success.”
He shrugged. Talking about Where It Began was difficult. He was glad, naturally, that the book had done so well. But success had definitely come at a cost.
“You know, back in Toronto, I checked the Internet and the library. I found very little material about you. Not even a photograph.”
Her eyes ran over him, marking the changes, he supposed. Foolishly, he hoped she liked what she saw. He sure liked what he saw. But then, he always had.
“Sugar?” he asked, passing her the froth-covered cup.
“No, thanks.” She hooked the handle with her finger, and as she raised the mug to her mouth he noticed her fragile wrist, with its jangle of silver bracelets.
“I came here to escape notoriety,” he said, referring to the lack of information about him.
“Well, you’ve done a good job.”
“So far,” he acknowledged. “But what about you? Why are you in Chatsworth?” And more particularly, here with him? Not that he didn’t welcome her company, but face it—twenty years ago she wouldn’t have crossed the school yard to speak to him, let alone driven twelve miles of backcountry roads.
No, that wasn’t altogether fair. Miranda had never been a snob. She always gave the impression that she liked everyone, that she would be your very best friend, if only she had more time.
And it wasn’t an act. After twelve years in the same classroom, he’d have sensed it. Miranda was one of those rare people born without an ounce of meanness, or spite, or cruelty. Not that she’d been a goody-goody. Miranda knew, had always known, how to have fun.
That she wasn’t already married was a miracle. Unless there’d been some late developments in that area…no, she had rings on many of her fingers—and even on one thumb—but nothing adorned that all-important fourth finger of the left hand.
“Actually, Warren, I’m here because of you.”
He felt a crazy, scary rhythm in his heart, absent since adolescence. Then reality set in. She didn’t mean that way. He pulled in a breath of air as he took his own espresso to the table and settled himself, too aware of her quiet observation.
And then it hit him. God, he was such an idiot. She filmed biographies for a living. That comment about the paltry information available about him. Of course. That had to be it.
He couldn’t believe how disappointed he felt. Dreamy Miranda wasn’t here to see Warren Addison, her old schoolmate, but Warren Addison, the famous author.
Crap.
“You don’t look pleased. I’m guessing you don’t want to be the subject of my next video.”
“I think my books should stand on their own. Who I am, and whether I write in the night or in the morning, whether I work from an outline or just create, shouldn’t figure into the equation.”
“But isn’t it human nature to wonder about the author of a book you’ve loved? When Mrs. MacIntire read us Huckleberry Finn, weren’t you curious about Samuel Clemens?”
“Mark Twain was a literary icon. I’ve written one book.”
“Warren, your book will oversell the Harry Potter books. A movie’s in the works….”
“But we’re still talking only one novel. And who knows how the next one will be received. If I ever finish writing it…”
“Trust me, Warren. All artists worry that their next work may not be as good as their last—even us lowly video biographers. So you aren’t alone in that. Even if you never publish another story, the success of Where It Began will make you immortal. Think of Margaret Mitchell. And Harper Lee.”
“I appreciate your faith. But selling lots of copies doesn’t guarantee anyone will remember who I am twenty years from now.”
“Yes, but your reviews…”
“Reviewers can be flawed, too.”
“Oh, Warren!”
She laughed, and the clear, musical sound made his heart feel strange again. Her presence in the large kitchen was clear and bright, like a vase of yellow daffodils on the table. He had to admit it would be wonderful to have her around while she worked on that video. But would the cost to his soul be worth the benefit?
“I need quiet to write. That’s why I’m here. If you did that video, my cover would be shot.”
“Warren, persistent journalists will find you eventually. It’s not like where you grew up is a secret.”
“Miranda, surely you’ve got better prospects.”
“Not a one.” Miranda leaned over the table and grasped his hand. Her cool, silky touch was unlike any woman’s he’d ever known.
“I’ll be as unobtrusive as possible. I’ll work around your schedule. Warren, I can be very flexible.”
Oh, he just bet she could. With that slender, willowy body…
“Hell, Miranda. Has anyone ever been able to say no to you?”
CHAPTER THREE
ACTUALLY, TWO PEOPLE had said no to her, Miranda reflected, on the drive back to Chatsworth. Her mother had honed that talent to an art long ago. The other—well, he hadn’t truly said no. He’d just never said yes.
Chad. She’d promised her mom she’d pick up a few groceries for dinner tonight, but after that she was going to drive to the golf course to see him. She simply couldn’t wait any longer. If anyone asked, she’d say she was inquiring about cross-country ski lessons.
Too bad there wasn’t much snow.
There would be soon, though. On her car radio, after Beethoven’s “Hammerklavier” piano sonata had concluded, had come storm warnings for the southeastern corner of Saskatchewan. Heavy snowfalls and driving winds were expected within hours. Already a few flakes were falling from the gray, depthless sky.
It had taken only the hour she’d spent at Warren’s for the weather to change. Now she wondered what the roads would be like tomorrow when she drove out again to begin work on the video. She dismissed the faint worry. One thing Saskatchewan had lots of was snowplows.
She picked up her cell and dialed Catherine with the good news that Warren had agreed to work with her on the video. After leaving a message, she thought about Warren. He hadn’t exactly brimmed over with enthusiasm for the project. She couldn’t take his cooperation for granted. She’d have to tread cautiously.
But at least she’d received a chance. Something she was very relieved about, because after meeting Warren again, her enthusiasm for doing his biography had increased exponentially.
Physically, he’d changed so much from his youth. He could have matured into a skinny, prematurely balding man who wore cardigans and smoked American cigarettes—didn’t most novelists smoke?
But she’d smelled no trace of tobacco in his house and observed no ashtrays or matches. His dark, unruly hair was still thick and he’d grown into his strong facial features. As for his physique, while he remained lanky, his height had been balanced by a broadening of his shoulders. He still wasn’t handsome, but maturity had definitely given him an edge. She’d bet money the camera would love his face. And sex appeal was never something to ignore in the TV business.
She liked the way he moved, too, and was eager to capture that masculine grace with her camera. She’d enjoyed watching him operate the espresso machine. His long, slender fingers were so fluid she’d immediately imagined filming him at the keyboard. Smiling, she tapped her fingers against the steering wheel. Working on Warren was going to be such divine fun.
As for the possibility he was gay… No. Definitely not. She couldn’t pinpoint the reason for her certainty. She just knew. Not that he’d flirted or acted attracted to her at all. In fact, it might have been nice if he’d done either, just a little. Still, there’d been something in his eyes when he’d looked at her. And he’d done a lot of that.
Had Warren dated anyone during their school years? She couldn’t remember that he had, but she’d have to make sure. She’d compile a list of people in Chatsworth she should talk to. Not just about his social life, of course, but all sorts of things. How he’d done at school, if he’d participated in any extracurricular activities, and whether anything in his childhood might have affected his destiny to write.
She was already at the road turning into Chatsworth. A quick stop at Lucky’s grocery store extended fifteen minutes when she ran into some familiar faces. Back in the car, her bag of groceries on the passenger seat next to her, she headed for Willow Road. The graveled lane provided the only access to the Chatsworth Golf Club. Built when she was a kid, the eighteen-hole course had proved extremely popular. Many of the members traveled from surrounding towns such as Bredenbury and Church-bridge…even Yorkton, twenty-six miles away on the Yellowhead highway.
Years ago, Chad’s father had purchased a good chunk of lakefront footage, transformed the surrounding acres of wood and cleared land into a top-quality resort. Besides golf, his club offered clay tennis courts and an outdoor pool in the summer, supplementing the public beach just down the road.
In the winter, they groomed the course for cross-country skiing. This had been Chad’s innovation, as well as the idea of adding a minigym so people would have something to do during what was, after all, Saskatchewan’s longest season. Since his father’s death several years ago, Chad had run the entire operation on his own.
Miranda switched on the wipers. The snowflakes fell faster now, and grew thicker and heavier. She passed through the main gates to the clubhouse. A lone truck sat parked at the front door. She had no idea if it belonged to Chad, but likely it did.
She pulled down the visor, then used the mirror as she reapplied her lipstick. The lip-liner went on crooked and she had to start over. God, she was nervous! How long had it been since she and Chad had actually seen each other? Sure, they e-mailed once or twice a week and spoke to each other on the phone every now and then. But neither was the same as a face-to-face meeting.
If he was here. Please let him be here.
Her new boots etched treaded prints all the way from her car to the double front doors of the clubhouse. She looked back at them. Already fresh snow had begun to fill them in. It was really dumping now, although she was protected under the overhang from the roof.
She tried the door. It wasn’t locked. Knowing Chad slept here, though, she didn’t feel right entering without warning. So she knocked, then pushed the door inward a few inches.
“Anybody home?”
At the faraway sound of a male talking, she opened the door farther and stepped inside. She couldn’t see Chad. He wasn’t at the reception desk, or by the racks of sporting equipment lined up to take advantage of the ill-prepared sportsman. She passed through a doorway to the cafeteria. During the summer, staff prepared casual meals on-site and served from a long buffet that ran along the kitchen wall. Now the only sustenance offered sat in vending machines.
She passed through the room into a short hall. On the right were change rooms; to the left, an office. Chad was just hanging up the telephone. Seeing her, he smiled, revealing a mixture of surprise and pleasure.
“I don’t believe it. Miranda James, in person. I wasn’t sure whether to take your e-mail seriously.”
Chad was always teasing her about being a city girl, too important to waste her time visiting old friends. But Miranda hadn’t consciously avoided Chatsworth. Her mother honestly preferred to fly to Toronto for their visits and avail herself of the city’s theater, shopping, fine restaurants.
“I can’t quite believe I’m here, either,” she admitted.
She found it hard to take her gaze off Chad. Even unshaven, he looked gorgeous. His blond hair had probably only been finger-combed, but it shone clean and bright. His green polo shirt brought out the color of his eyes, and his jeans showed off powerful quads.
“Ah, honey, it’s so good to see you.” He captured her in a hug that swamped her senses like the snowstorm outside. God, his smell, she remembered his smell. The strength of his arms, the firmness of his chest, though—they were new.
“You’ve been working out?” She pressed on one bicep.
“I’ve got the time, don’t I?” He let her go to check her out. She tilted her head and dared him to find a flaw. He just grinned. “Gorgeous as ever, hon. Toronto must agree with you.”
You agree with me. Just to see him again, hear his voice without the aid of human technology, felt so good.
“How are you, Chad?”
“Oh, fine.”
She regarded him steadily, until finally he dropped his gaze.
“You’ve heard.”
“Yes.”
He sank onto the sofa across from his desk and she followed, leaving one square cushion between the two of them.
“Shit,” he said.
Miranda let him sit quietly for a while, stewing in his obvious unhappiness. Finally she had to ask. “Tell me what happened.”
“What’s to tell? She kicked me out.”
“You’re talking about Bernie.”
