Down Home Carolina Christmas. Pamela Browning

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 a facade that included a painted-on clock. Carpenters next door at the insurance office were removing a door; the new red one stood nearby. To Carrie, it seemed as if the movie people were fashioning Yewville to resemble a Norman Rockwell painting gone South.

      “Painted-on clocks,” Carrie muttered. “New window boxes. Knowing these movie people, they’ll probably plant polyester geraniums in them.” Her suspicions were correct. On the way past the Southern Confectionery Kitchen, where she customarily bought frozen bananas and, for New Year’s celebrations, bottle rockets, she almost stumbled over two large cardboard cartons labeled Geraniums—Faux Silk.

      “Faux silk,” Carrie said under her breath. “Fake, fake, fake. Isn’t anything real anymore?” Well, Yewville used to be real before they started gussying it up. Carrie had no patience with such things.

      Shaking her head, Carrie walked back to Smitty’s, where nothing was illusion, where what you saw was definitely what you got. Including, presently, a real dog with real fleas.

      Chapter Three

      During the next week, Luke Mason did his best to initiate another encounter with the delightful Carrie Smith, but she never seemed to be at work. He began dropping by Smitty’s to refill his gas tank every time the gauge hit the three-quarters mark. Unfortunately the only person who was even around was the lanky mechanic who emerged from the nether regions of the garage and offered in an offhand way to pump fuel. Luke always declined. He figured that if he took his time filling the tank, that would give the elusive Ms. Smith a chance to show up.

      “Where’s Carrie?” he asked the mechanic one day.

      “Oh, she’s gone off somewhere with her sister,” said the man, whose name, Hub, was embroidered over the pocket of his coveralls. “You want me to tell her you’re looking for her?”

      “No, that’s not necessary,” Luke said, but, of course, Hub stared at him until he drove away.

      Luke didn’t understand his fascination with the woman. She hadn’t been particularly bowled over by him. Maybe the thing he liked about her was that she didn’t fawn over him as women tended to do. Carrie Rose Smith treated him as if he were any other man in the world. This in itself was refreshing, but it didn’t explain why he’d begun to have dreams about kissing her.

      In one of them, they were making out in his Ferrari, cramped and uncomfortable but undeniably passionate. In another, they were in some dark, unspecified place, their bodies tangled amid rumpled sheets, and he was—

      Better not to think about that, maybe. That one had ended up being X-rated because he’d done quite a lot more than kiss Carrie, and he wondered if in real life her lips were as soft as they had been in the dream. Softer, maybe. And willing.

      Considering that he was trying his darnedest to get into the role of Yancey Goforth, he didn’t need the distraction of daydreaming about making love to her. Or kissing her.

      But if he ever got the chance, he would make sure it was a kiss that Carrie Smith never forgot. Since he hadn’t managed to further their acquaintance, though, the likelihood was slim to none that he’d ever get to play out his dreams in reality.

      He had an idea that Carrie would like kissing him. Women usually did.

      “I MUST BE AN IDIOT to let Hub do that tune-up for me this morning. I don’t belong here,” Carrie said as she and Dixie Lee waited with the rest of the crowd in the hot sun at the seed-company parking lot. A thickset man with an orange ponytail was striding purposefully here and there, conferring at times over his clipboard with a train of harried assistants.

      “There’s Joyanne,” Dixie said suddenly. She jumped and waved. “Hey, Joyanne!”

      Their friend shouldered her way through the crowd. “Isn’t this exciting?” she declared, bouncing with enthusiasm. She was a tall brunette with naturally curly hair, ridiculously high cheekbones and long, long legs. Carrie figured Joyanne Morrissey had the best chance of anyone of being chosen to work as an extra in a movie.

      “I don’t know about exciting, but it’s certainly hot,” Carrie said, fanning herself with her hand for all the good it did, which wasn’t much.

      “Hush, Carrie, we’re not letting you throw cold water on our parade, especially since it’s the only one in town,” Dixie said self-righteously.

      “I hope all three of us get jobs. It’ll be fun being in a movie,” Joyanne said buoyantly.

      “Luke Mason just stuck his head out of that trailer over there,” Dixie said, standing on tiptoe to crane her head above the crowd.

      “Hot as it is today, he should have stayed inside so the sun wouldn’t cook his brain,” Carrie muttered.

      “Carrie, I’m warning you. No more of that.” Dixie thumped her on the arm for emphasis.

      The man with the orange ponytail jumped up on a loading platform. “All right, all right,” he said. “Let’s get started here.” He had to shout to make himself heard.

      Everyone ceased talking except for Little Jessie Wanless, who was bouncing her baton off the ground and catching it while chattering a mile a minute to no one in particular. But her mother, Big Jessie, proprietor of the Wanless School of Dance and Baton, shushed her and confiscated the baton. Since she had nothing left to do with her hands, Little Jessie folded her arms over her flat chest and stuck out her chin—always a bad sign.

      “I’m Whip Larson,” the man on the platform shouted. “I’m the producer of Dangerous.”

      Because he was the person whose business card Luke Mason had handed her, Carrie studied Whip. He wore white pants that were decidedly California, loafers with no socks and a silk shirt printed with geometric designs. His tan must have been poured straight out of a bottle. In spite of the California sheen, he didn’t seem like such a bad person. Carrie pegged him as sincere, and that was saying something. So far, her impression of the movie people was that most of them were phonies.

      Whip went on talking. “The casting director, Fleur Padgett, and her assistants will be moving through the crowd. We’ll call you aside if we’re interested in you.”

      Three chic young women wearing all-black outfits distributed cards to various members of the waiting group. Dixie got a card, and so did Joyanne. Hoping to avoid the same fate, Carrie slipped behind a refreshment stand, where two guys in T-shirts displaying the production company’s logo were distributing cold bottles of water, presumably to ward off heatstroke. An awning projected a few feet beyond the stand, and Carrie intended to shelter in its shade for a few moments before continuing to her car. Unfortunately someone else had the same idea.

      “Well, hello,” said the man. His velvet voice unexpectedly made her knees go weak, or maybe it was the heat that caused her to feel a bit faint at the moment.

      “Luke Mason,” she breathed, taking a step backward. Today he sported a gray baseball cap and at least a two days’ beard stubble, which should have put her off but didn’t. “What are you doing here?”

      “Scouting,” he said. “Trying to blend in with the locals so I can scope out how they walk, how they talk. Plus the disguise fools any stray paparazzi who might turn up to make my life miserable. How about you?” His eyes sparkled with