C.J. Carmichael - Together by Christmas

Maybe he was gay. Mentally filing the idea for future consideration, she refocused on Chad.

Why had he never asked her out? She’d always wondered. They’d been good friends since grade seven—still were good friends. But while he’d flirted plenty, he’d never taken their relationship that one crucial step further.

Of course, after his marriage to Bernie, Miranda had filed her feelings for him away as inappropriate. They’d continued their friendship, but she’d been cautious not to overstep the bounds of appropriateness.

Despite her circumspection, she knew Bernie didn’t like her. Actually, the other woman never had. Miranda picked out the photo of the petite girl with the light brown hair. Cute, bordering on pretty, but not a woman to turn a man’s head. Yet she’d turned Chad’s, when Miranda never had.

Oh, don’t start feeling sorry for yourself. This is ancient history…. The person she was supposed to be interested in right now had had nothing to do with all of that.

She studied Warren’s photo again. His dark hair was unruly, curling around his ears and down to his collar. In his long, thin face, his nose stood out prominently.

A different emotion stirred inside her now. Uncomfortable, unsettling. Warren had always had that effect, she remembered.

He hadn’t been an attractive kid. Especially compared with… Miranda’s gaze slid to Chad’s photo, then back to Warren’s. His recent success couldn’t help but have an impact on her assessment. Those dark-gray eyes she’d once found disconcerting now gleamed with intelligence and wit. The smile she’d thought of as crooked sported an ironic twist.

She stared a few minutes longer, but the photograph refused to yield anything more. She snapped the book shut and returned it to her briefcase, frustrated that of all her classmates, Warren was the one she’d known the least.

“Your espresso, miss.”

She smiled her thanks to the unobtrusive server before taking a sip.

Yes, Warren had been the most enigmatic of her classmates, and yet, he would be the subject of her next video biography. The check from the CBC, which she now carefully stowed in a zipper compartment of her purse, made it official, even though the idea had come to her only a week ago, during her Sunday phone call to her mother.

Annie James, who still lived in the small town in Saskatchewan where Miranda had grown up, had asked, “You remember Warren Addison?”

“Sure I do, Mom.”

“He’s back in Chatsworth. They say that book he wrote is a real blockbuster. They say there’s a producer who wants to make it into a movie.”

“I know. Where It Began is topping the bestseller lists all over North America.” She’d read the novel and loved it, found it absolutely magical.

“Well, he’s living on his parents’ farm, in that old clapboard the Addisons abandoned when they retired to Victoria.”

According to the dust jacket of his book—which, frustratingly, had included no photo of the author— Warren had a master’s in English from the University of Toronto and now resided and worked in New York City. That he would choose to return to a backwater prairie town remained incomprehensible to Miranda.

“Whatever for?”

“Lucky says he’s working on his second book. The press wouldn’t give him any peace in New York.”

Good old Lucky. The gray-haired proprietor of Chatsworth’s tiny grocery store could always be counted on to hand out more than change and a receipt at the till.

After the call ended, Miranda had thought over her mother’s news. Between projects at the moment, she’d been on the hunt for a challenge. And this struck her as the perfect opportunity. She could do a video biography on Warren Addison and spend some time with her mother.

Annie hadn’t been the same since a heart attack last June. The specialist in Regina had diagnosed only minimal damage, but the scare had raised a specter of worry in the fifty-eight-year-old and had caused her to curtail her lifestyle as well as to revamp her diet.

Miranda was guiltily aware that she hadn’t seen her mother since that week in Regina when Annie had undergone a battery of medical tests. She’d known her mother was waiting for an invitation to Toronto, but she’d been afraid that Annie might end up staying permanently, and so she’d stalled.

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.