C.J. Carmichael - Together by Christmas

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.”

“How can you doubt that? Your first novel was a phenomenon. Surely your publisher is desperate for the follow-up.”

“If by ‘follow-up’ you mean the next in the series, then you’re right. But I never intended Where It Began to be part of a trilogy or anything like that.”

“Still, you had several unanswered questions at the end.”

“The main theme was resolved. As for the dangling threads, I thought they were best left to the reader’s conjecture.”

“So we’ll never find out whether Olena leaves her husband?”

“Whether she leaves or stays isn’t really that interesting.”

“Only a man could say something like that.” Miranda let her fingers trace the keyboard. Warren had crossed his hands over his chest. Defensive about his work? Or just a usual distancing maneuver? “I think it would very much matter to your readers what Olena decides. It matters to me.”

“Why? Olena and her lover face an all-too-familiar dilemma. End their affair or end their marriages. We’ve seen both scenarios acted out so many times in real life we know what will happen in either case.”

“If you find the situation so commonplace, why write about it in the first place?”

“What interested me was how a moral, intelligent woman like Olena could end up in such a predicament.”

“I see. And what about the new book? Does it take place in your fictional town of Runnymeade, too?”

“Yes, but in a later period.”

“So there will be no connection to the characters in the first book.”

Warren smiled. “I didn’t say that.”

“Ah, you’re trying to torment me, aren’t you?” She moved away from the computer, but not before noticing he was on page 467 of his document. “Would you sit down for a moment? Let me get some footage of you at work?” She pulled out her camera.

“I’m sorry, Miranda. I can’t pose. I won’t.”

“But—”

“If you catch me at the computer sometime, I give you permission to film me while I’m writing. But I won’t fake it. Not even for you.”

Miranda wasn’t sure she understood, but she was hardly in a position to argue. She was here on his grace, after all. Eating up time that he’d undoubtedly prefer to spend on his book. Besides, he’d just granted a greater gift than he’d denied. To get a shot of him when he didn’t realize she was there would be a marvelous coup.

“Want to go for a walk? It’s snowing.”

“Already?” She put a hand to the cold window-sill. The morning’s blue sky had vanished. The forecast storm had arrived.

“We can stay inside if you’d rather.”

“Oh, no. I’m game. Can I bring my camera?”

“I guess I’d better say yes, since it seems permanently affixed to your arm.”

Miranda bundled herself back into her outerwear. Warren offered her an extra scarf, then slipped into a thick sheepskin coat and heavy-duty Gore-Tex boots.

“Since I work at a desk, I try to make sure I get my exercise. Don’t want to turn into a blob.”