Down Home Carolina Christmas. Pamela Browning

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 reason you can’t ride along.”

      “No, thanks,” Carrie said. “I’m supposed to do a tune-up that morning. Plus, I’m trying to find a home for a stray dog that’s been hanging around the station.”

      “It seems like you just placed the last one. Honestly, dogs must have put the word out—head for Smitty’s if you need a home.”

      “This pup is majorly adorable, and I was hoping the Calphus boys could keep her, but their mom said no. Hub’s named her Shasta. She likes to sleep right near where he’s working during the daytime.”

      “Naming an animal is the first step toward keeping her, I’ve heard.”

      “Hub’s got two pit bulls and I’m owned by a house rabbit. Say, Dixie, take Shasta home today. Trial basis. She’s very sweet.”

      “To my little apartment? Ten dollars a month pet rent? No, ma’am.” After a moment, Dixie resumed her previous line of persuasion. “We were talking about the casting call. It could be exciting to rub elbows with Hollywood folks. We might meet interesting guys besides.”

      Carrie narrowed her eyes. “Why, Dixie Lee Smith! Is that the real reason you’re going? Desperately seeking men?” Dixie had been known to bemoan the fact that guys were scarce these days.

      “Well, let’s face it. I’m pushing thirty. If middle age starts at forty-five, I’m two-thirds of the way there, with no husband in sight. You should be worried about this, too. Especially since you said goodbye to Mert over six months ago.”

      “Forty-five is the new thirty-five. It’s hardly middle-aged,” Carrie said, though she remained pensive for a moment. She was thirty-one, which was fine with her. The trouble was that girls tended to marry young in Yewville and have children early. It made late bloomers like her seem backward.

      “Back to the casting call,” Dixie said. “Joyanne and I made a pact to try out together.”

      “At least Joyanne was Miss Yewville and Soybean Festival Queen, not to mention she’s played parts in community theater since she was yay high. She’ll be a natural.”

      “Also they’re paying $104.50 a day.”

      “How’d you find that out?”

      “Joyanne heard it from somebody at the lake last week. Still not interested?” Dixie aimed a sly smile across the table.

      “I’ve already turned down twenty thousand dollars from those movie people for the use of Smitty’s. I guess I can do without their $104.50.”

      Dixie’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. “You turned down twenty thousand dollars?”

      “Sure did, and from Luke Mason himself,” Carrie replied calmly. She stirred her sweet iced tea and watched the lemon slice bob around amid the crushed ice, taking pleasure in Dixie’s rare speechlessness. She did not add that she’d spotted Luke’s car idling past the garage a couple of times as if he’d been looking for someone. She’d stayed inside where she belonged, though she certainly was intrigued. Maybe she’d made more of an impression on him than she’d thought.

      “You’re a fool, Carrie Rose Smith,” Dixie said with great conviction.

      “I don’t want those people swarming all over my garage. They’ve already overrun the town.” A change of subject was long overdue. “By the way,” she told Dixie, “Tiffany Zill’s chauffeur brought her limousine into the station for gas this morning. I don’t even care to tell you how much it cost to fill it up.”

      “I saw the limo, all right. It occupied the whole business district when it stopped at the traffic light. I bet it has a hot tub in it. Peek inside next time you’re pumping gas.”

      “That galloping gas guzzler could hide the whole peachoid inside and I wouldn’t care,” Carrie said, smiling at Dixie’s unabashed curiosity. The peachoid was Yewville’s famous water tower, which the town leaders, mindful of peach farming’s role in area history, had painted to resemble a peach. Unfortunately it much more resembled someone’s very large fanny, which made it the most photographed feature in Yewville. People traveling north and south along I-95 went out of their way to snap pictures of it.

      “Have you seen her yet?” Dixie asked.

      “Who?”

      “Tiffany Zill. I wonder if she looks as good in person as Luke Mason does. I bet she wears Gucci and Pucci and has her hair colored by a stylist named Raoul.”

      “Like I care,” Carrie said as she slid out of the booth. “I’ve got to run, Dixie. I’ll call you tonight.” She slapped a couple of quarters down on the counter for the waitress and hurried out into the humid afternoon.

      Across the street at the bank, workmen were completing