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The front door slammed and Bernie jumped. Quickly she slipped her journal under the tea towels in a kitchen drawer, swept the pile of sodden tissues into the trash, then went to the sink to splash water over her face.
She needn’t have worried about her appearance. Vicky ignored her as she beelined for the fridge. “What’s to eat?”
“An apple? A cheese stick? I hope you remembered to put your boots away.”
“Great.” Vicky ignored the comment about her boots as she dug food from the clear plastic bin. “What else can I eat?”
Wasn’t that enough? Apparently not, when you were twelve and growing. “How about some crackers?” Bernie dug out a box of Wheat Thins, dumped them into a small bowl and put them on the table.
“Did you enjoy your sleepover?”
“Sure.”
“What time did the two of you fall asleep?”
Vicky shrugged. She was wearing a top Bernie recognized as belonging to Karen. Trading clothes again. The two girls had done makeovers on each other, as well. Vicky’s hair, almost white, the way Chad’s had been at that age, was pulled off her face with about a dozen pastel clips, and her nails were painted in matching shades of polish. Probably they’d done their faces, too, but Vicky had been smart enough to wash everything off before coming home.
“Say, Mom, guess who we saw at Lucky’s this afternoon.”
A blizzard had started late this morning, so not likely one of Vicky’s out-of-town classmates. Maybe Chad… Bernie picked up the dishcloth and cleaned the sink. “Who?”
“Her name’s Miranda James. She says she used to go to school with you and Dad.”
Bernie’s skin flamed as if it was being scrubbed instead of the stainless-steel faucet. “You were talking to Randy?”
“Yeah, she figured I was your daughter. Said I looked a lot like you.”
Here Vicky scowled, undoubtedly annoyed at the resemblance. After a moment she got over it, too impressed with Miranda James to stop talking about her.
“I’ve never seen anyone that pretty in real life. And she’s totally awesome to talk to. Was she that cool when you guys were in school?”
“At least,” Bernie said, trying not to sound as if she were choking on a mouthful of sour grapes.
“I love her hair. Should I cut mine short like that?”
She had no idea what Randy’s hair looked like, but still resented the idea that Vicky would want to imitate her. “You just finished growing out your bangs,” she reminded her.
Vicky pulled at a strand of hair that had escaped the row of clips. “How about if I just got some streaks put in? Miranda does that, even though her hair is naturally blond. It’s so funky, Mom, and you should see her clothes. Can I get a black vest? Miranda says they’re so versatile everyone should have one.”
Miranda says. Bernie bit back on the desire to ask if Randy had mentioned anything about Chad. Putting ideas in Vicky’s head wouldn’t do, although the kid wasn’t blind. If she ever saw Randy and her father together, she’d soon get enough ideas of her own.
“She lives in Toronto, Mom, and makes video biographies for a living. Right now she’s doing one on Warren Addison. Isn’t that awesome?”
“Totally.” Bernie rinsed the soap from the dishcloth. She stared out the window into the bleak winter day. Snow continued to fall relentlessly. At least four inches sat on top of the railing that spanned the back deck.
Chad had built that deck three summers ago. When he’d finished, they’d had a barbecue to celebrate. They’d been happy then, hadn’t they? When had everything started falling apart?
“And you should see her car, Mom. It’s a yellow punch-buggy.”
“What?”
“You know, those cars like the old-fashioned Volkswagen bugs that Dad likes so much.”
Great. So the perfect girl with the perfect clothes and the perfect hair also had the perfect car. Judging from the expression on Vicky’s face and the excitement in her voice, Randy had won over Bernie’s daughter, as well as her husband.
In a moment of cold fear, Bernie realized that if Chad and Randy ended up together, Vicky would probably be thrilled. She might even choose to live with them rather than her. Just contemplating the possibility made Bernie’s stomach squeeze in on itself.
Oh, God, she was going to start crying again. But she couldn’t. Vicky still sat at the table, chowing down on the crackers. She’d already finished the apple and cheese. Vicky was so skinny in her jeans and tight top. Bernie had been that thin once, too. Was that why Chad’s interest in her had diminished over the years? Because she’d put on too many pounds?
“Is something wrong, Mom?”
Bernie stiffened. Had Vicky noticed the wetness in her eyes? She had to pull herself together. “I’m fine.” She dried her damp hands on a towel. “Why?”
Vicky shrugged. “Just wondering why you hadn’t started supper. Can we have pizza?”
“Sure. I have one in the freezer. I’ll just warm up the oven—”
Without another word, Vicky slipped out of the room.
Bernie set the dial on the stove, then retrieved her journal and sank back into her cushioned chair.
Talk in the staff room at school yesterday was that Miranda James is in town to do a video biography on Warren Addison.
Bull.
In her outrage, Bernie’s pen flew across the clean page she’d just turned to.
Miranda never paid a moment’s attention to Warren when we were kids. It was always Chad for her. They were best friends, but I knew she wanted more. It made me proud, knowing that the sexiest guy in the school preferred me to her. Blond, beautiful, perfect Miranda could have had any guy she wanted.
But not Chad.
Bernie paused to pull a pizza from her freezer. She removed the wrappings, then set it on the counter, waiting for the oven to reach four hundred degrees.
Back at her journal, the words continued to flow.
I’ve never dared think this before—writing down the words is even scarier. But is it possible Chad has secretly loved Miranda all along? Why else would he have stayed such close friends with her for so many years?
She knew they communicated regularly by e-mail. On the occasions when she dropped in at the golf course, she usually found an excuse to slip into Chad’s office and check his electronic in-box. Almost always she found something from Miranda in there. She’d never actually read the messages. Maybe she should have.
What is happening to me? I’m turning into one of those desperate women who would do anything to keep her man. What about my dignity? My self-respect?
Perhaps those qualities were overrated. They’d landed her in this mess in the first place. Spurred by comments from her friend Adrienne, when Chad had marched into the house, late as usual, demanding his supper.
“You shouldn’t let him treat you that way,” Adrienne had said. It was the first time she’d ever spoken the least bit negatively about Chad. Pressed, however, she’d spewed out more.
“Does he ever take you out, just the two of you? Between work and golf in the summer and work and curling in the winter, you never see him!”
True, and the trend had worsened over the years. Just this fall he’d opted out of the mixed curling league with her so he could play in Yorkton with another group of men.
Bernie loved her sports. Curling and cross-country skiing in the winter, golf in the summer. And she liked playing them with her husband. Having Chad withdraw from the mixed curling league had hurt.
“That man needs a wake-up call,” Adrienne had said.
Problem was, Bernie had called, but Chad hadn’t woken up.
And now Randy was in town. Bernie went on writing.
What can I do to protect my marriage? I know she’ll be full of sympathy for Chad—and I can guess where that will lead. Meanwhile, what about me? Am I supposed to sit back and let her move in on my husband?
No! Of course not. But what were her options? She was the one who’d kicked Chad out of the house. She’d listed three requirements before he could move back in. If she went back on her demands, she’d look like a fool.
She also had no illusions about how she would look next to Randy James. No ordinary woman could compete with her.
Of course, I haven’t seen Randy in years. Maybe she’s gained a pile of weight or aged prematurely.
Not likely when her mother, Annie James, in her late fifties, was still the most attractive woman in town.
I won’t allow myself to be dragged into a competition. It’s ridiculous. I’ll hold my head high and act like I couldn’t care less about Randy James. No one will guess my true feelings.
Bernie stared at the words on the page. At first reading they sounded good, but now… Well, holding her head high just seemed so awfully passive. She wasn’t the type to sit back and wait. Her marriage was in trouble and she had to do something.
Chad was her husband. That made Miranda James the enemy. This was a war.
And she needed a battle plan.
CHAPTER FIVE
MIRANDA SHOULDN’T have felt nervous driving out to the Addison farm this second time. She’d convinced him, hadn’t she? The elusive, reclusive Warren Addison would be the subject of the next Miranda James video biography. And she hadn’t even needed to promise her firstborn for the privilege.
So why did she feel like a kid facing university finals—unable to recall a single fact she’d memorized the night before, stomach queasy, palms perspiring.
Everyone thought success came so easily to her. No one in her life had ever guessed just how untrue this was. The things she didn’t care about—yes, those came easily. Like those two men at the restaurant when she’d had lunch with Catherine. They’d practically drooled over their plates watching her. But they were strangers. She had no interest in them.
The men she’d really wanted in her life she’d never been able to keep.
And the work she truly loved—filming video biographies—scared her to death half the time. At the beginning of each project she was so afraid of failure. And this time the stakes were even higher than usual.
Everyone in Chatsworth knew what she’d come here to do. What if she did such a lousy job the CBC refused to air the finished project? She’d look like a fool. Everyone would consider her a fraud.
A pretty face and nothing more.
She’d feel more assured if she had more memories from her past to guide her. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t picture Warren playing with any of the other kids in their class when they were younger. In the high school years, he hadn’t attended any of the parties with her and her friends. As far as she knew, he hadn’t dated any of the girls.
Yet he’d never been teased or treated like an outcast. Warren had too much natural dignity about him. She cast her mind back and realized that while she’d never really known him, she’d always kind of admired him. He didn’t care what others thought. He spoke his mind without obsessing how people might react to what he said. He had a confidence most adults never attained.
Reflecting on their meeting the other day, she acknowledged that he hadn’t lost an ounce of that self-assurance.
The long red barn of a prosperous dairy farm appeared to the right, signaling an upcoming turn. Miranda eased off the gas, glad that the roads had been plowed this morning. Still, a thin layer of packed snow made them treacherously icy.
Three miles after the dairy farm, two more houses came into view, one on either side of the road. A large, shaggy mutt raced out from one spruce-lined driveway. He barked at her frantically as she passed by.
“My car is probably the most exciting thing you’ve seen all day…hey, boy?”
Saskatchewan was well known for being flat and treeless. In truth, this small corner of the province was neither. Admittedly, the hills were gentle contours at best, and the trees were mostly scrub poplars and willows, but Miranda found the land beautiful nonetheless. It didn’t hurt that the sky was clear and blue this morning and that sparkling frost coated every surface from tree branch to fence post. The forecast was for more snow and soon, though right now that seemed highly unlikely.
Before she knew it, Miranda was driving past the turnoff to the Browning and Bateson farms. Since Libby’s and Gibson’s marriage, the two properties had been run as one operation, with the help of Libby’s father.
Miranda didn’t know Libby all that well, but she remembered Gibson, all right. He and his best friend, Libby’s brother Chris, had dominated the dreams of every girl in school. She had been thrilled when Chris, two years her senior, had asked her out when she was in grade ten. Of course, her mother had nixed those plans. Probably wisely, Miranda had to admit with hindsight. At the time she’d been furious. Chris had been such a hunk. How tragic that he’d died so young in a car crash with his mother….
Half an hour after leaving Chatsworth, Miranda pulled into the Addison lane. Deep snow covered the small stretch of private road. Worried about her car getting stuck, Miranda parked off to the side of the main road and walked in, carrying her camera case in one hand and her duffel bag in the other.
Her new boots squeaked in the fresh snow; the cool breeze bit at her cheeks and the tip of her nose. On foot, she noticed the poplar trees lining the driveway appeared much larger. She could hear a flock of sparrows chattering on the branches of one of them.
She stopped twenty yards from the house and took out her camera. “A typical Saskatchewan farmhouse,” she said, recording her voice along with the images. “Two stories, built from wood. Small, double-hung windows.”
Swinging the camera to the right, she centered first the barns in her viewfinder, then an equipment shed. The paint on all these buildings was in even worse shape than the paint on the house.
She turned off the power to the camera and slipped it back in its case. Smoke filtered out the plain metal chimney of the house. Peeking in one of the double-hung windows, she saw only frost. But Warren had to be in there, working, since no fresh tracks led from out his back door.
Wouldn’t it be lovely to sneak inside and get a candid shot of him at his computer?
She didn’t dare.
After again bypassing the boarded front entry, she knocked at the back. Warren had the door open in a flash. He wore jeans and bare feet. He had long toes, she noted, before lifting her head to smile.
“Right on time.” He closed out the frosty air with a firm shove on the slightly warped door.
Her professional eye approved the dark turtleneck he was wearing—the style suited his long, narrow face, and the color coordinated perfectly with his hair and thick eyelashes.
“It’s nice and warm in here. Smells yummy, too.”
“I had oatmeal and cinnamon for breakfast.”
No sign of the meal remained in the tidy kitchen. “Were you working?”
“I was.”
“Can I see?”
He shrugged. “This way.”
She dropped the duffel bag on the worn Arborite table and shrugged her jacket onto a kitchen chair. Warren led her through an arched entry into the next room. Papers covered the polished dining room table. A laptop computer hummed gently in one corner, while a violin concerto played softly from a radio on the matching buffet table against the far wall.
As Warren hung back, Miranda moved in for a closer inspection. The seemingly chaotic piles of papers were actually organized into specific areas of research, chapter outlines, character profiles. On the computer screen were lines of typing, ending with an unfinished sentence. Her arrival had definitely interrupted him.
“Just think.” She placed a hand gently on the computer. “This will be a book. Millions of people will read it.”
“If it gets published.”
