Whip. I’m going to do some hanging out with the locals this week, try to absorb Yancey’s background, get a handle on how he thought, lived, loved.”
“I can respect that. I understand as well as you do that Dangerous is your big break. You’re ideal for the role of Yancey Goforth, and everyone else is just fluff.”
“Fluff?”
“What I’m saying is that a lot depends on you.”
“We’re working with a great script, a fine cast, a fantastic director.” Luke had found the script himself, pitched it to Whip and lobbied for Tiffany as his costar. He heartily approved of the director, whose successes at the box office were legend in the business. “And don’t forget that Southern is in,” he added.
Whip nodded in agreement. “‘Southern’ is stupendous, packs in the audiences. And it doesn’t hurt that Tiff has the best unfake boobs in Hollywood.”
“Let’s not get hung up on sex appeal,” Luke said sharply. “Tiffany can act.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m just saying—well, you know what I’m saying.”
Luke certainly did. He had been listening to Whip’s overblown views for months, and a little of that went a long way. At the moment, Luke found it much more enjoyable to think about Carrie Smith and how glad he was that he’d kept the conversation perking along today until she dropped her prickly facade.
Whip appeared ready to launch into another oration, which Luke didn’t want to hear. “Ready for another beer?” he asked as he stood up to head for the house, which seemed like the perfect place to marshal his thoughts into a more orderly procession.
“And some chips if you have them,” Whip called after him.
Rummaging for snacks in the ample pantry, Luke wondered what Carolina Rose Smith did on Sunday afternoons. And with whom. And if there was the slightest chance that he might be able to insert himself, if ever so briefly, into her life.
A FEW DAYS AFTER Luke showed up at Smitty’s, Carrie and her younger sister, Dixie Lee, were digging into banana splits at the Eat Right Café as they discussed the most important events in their lives, which they did several times a month. From outside came the racket of hammers and saws as the movie people went about their work of transforming simple Yewville into a Hollywood movie set.
“I’m telling you, Carrie, you should sell the home place and move into the Livingston Apartments. We have a swimming pool and everything.” Dixie took a huge bite of banana and chocolate sauce, rolling it around on her tongue appreciatively.
“‘Everything’ includes people slamming doors at all hours and stumbling over garbage cans in the hall. I’ll stay put, thanks.”
“I can’t understand why you’re so attached to that big house,” Dixie said. “When Mert left, you had a chance to get out. I don’t know why you didn’t.” Mert was Carrie’s former boyfriend. He was a mobile-home installer.
“The home place is precisely why I downgraded Mert to a long-distance relationship. You can’t seriously believe I’d have been better off in a double-wide with him, not to mention that it was located way upstate in Spartanburg,” Carrie said.
“Mert misses you. Everyone says so.”
“Well, I don’t miss him. Plus, I love the home place.”
Dixie shrugged at the preposterousness of this assertion. “It’s not like we grew up in that house, and it’s a hundred years old. You’ll have to do something about that sagging porch one of these days, and you said yourself the roof is on borrowed time. The place is a maintenance nightmare.”
“Our father was reared on that farm,” Carrie reminded her, annoyance creeping into her tone.
“Daddy rented out his tobacco allotment after Miss Alma died and brought up us kids in town.” Miss Alma had been their father’s first wife, who had died young, and their mother, Jo Ellyn, hadn’t much cared for country living, preferring the brick ranch house in town where they’d grown up.
“I wouldn’t be able to plant a garden at the Livingston Apartments,” Carrie mentioned for about the nineteenth time.
“What good is a garden?” Dixie sniffed. “All those nasty mealy worms and slugs chomping on the fruits of your labor, and besides, it’s a lot of work. Why don’t you take the real-estate course like I did? We could turn Smitty’s Garage into a real-estate office. There’s plenty of room for two firms in Yewville now that they’re going to develop all that property out by the lake.” Dixie rarely missed an opportunity to goad Carrie with a reminder that she’d recently passed the real-estate exam.
“I enjoy gardening,” Carrie said stubbornly, hoping Dixie would let the conversation drop. Carrie found solace in the quiet peaceful vistas of cotton and soybean fields stretching toward the horizon, and mockingbirds tuning up outside her bedroom window in the morning, and the long walk up the alley of pecan trees to the mailbox on the highway.
Dixie pushed the last bit of pineapple around in the syrup in the bottom of her dish. “So what is your opinion of Luke Mason?” she asked in a welcome change of subject.
Carrie shrugged. “Nothing special. I figure he puts on his pants one leg at a time, like any other man.”
Dixie favored her with a wicked grin. “I’d like to see how he takes his pants off,” she said.
“Dixie!”
“It’s what every woman in town is thinking.”
“Not me,” Carrie said, not quite truthfully.
“You’re an aberration,” Dixie pointed out. She paused, with an air of relishing what she was about to say next. “I read in the Yewville Messenger that Whip Productions is having a casting call Monday afternoon, and I’m going,” she said.
The Yewville Messenger was the local newspaper, usually abbreviated to the Mess. Most articles in the Mess touted nothing more earthshaking than the largest cucumber grown that summer or four-year-old winners of the Tiny Miss Yewville Pageant.
“You have a job, Dixie, and you’ve started a new profession. It’s ridiculous to go to that casting call, if you ask me. How will you get off work if they choose you?”
“Mayzelle will cover for me at the office. All I do is answer phones, anyway.” Mayzelle was the broker’s wife and had excess time on her hands now that both their sons were off at Clemson University. “Besides,” Dixie said, “I’ve always fancied becoming a movie star.” She struck a pose. “How’s this? Am I competition for Hilary Swank? Or maybe Jennifer Lopez? On the red carpet at the Academy Awards?”
“Stop it, Dixie. People are staring.”
“They’re looking at you, not me. You have a big grease smear on your right cheek.”
Carrie located a reflective surface on the side of the stainless-steel napkin holder and swiped at the grease with a balled-up napkin.
“Listen, Carrie, why don’t you go to the casting call with me. Joyanne and I are going to keep each other company, and there’s no
