Together by Christmas. C.J. Carmichael

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      “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.”

      Now, that was something she couldn’t imagine. Warren had always been thin. She’d noticed, though, he now had a definite muscularity. “You go to the gym, too?”

      “When I’m in New York.”

      He held open the back door and Miranda stepped out into swirling ice crystals.

      “What about you, Miranda? What do you do to stay in shape?”

      “I like walking, too.” Although she preferred graveled trails to plowing through eighteen-inch snowdrifts. She squinted against the driving snow and clutched her camera protectively.

      “Here.” Warren took her free arm and tucked it next to his body.

      He led the way to a path that he’d obviously walked before. A wooden gate stood open, and they passed through into an open field.

      “My parents rent this land to the Hodges now. I believe they grew canola last summer.”

      Miranda was adjusting to the cold. And to the wind. She didn’t mind walking close to Warren, either. It made it easier to hear when he spoke to her.

      “Why did you decide to be a writer, Warren?”

      “Because that’s what I am. I’ve had other jobs, though. I worked on this farm every summer when I was a boy. If my parents had had their way, I’d still be working here.”

      “Aren’t they proud of what you’ve accomplished? A bestselling novel and critical acclaim….”

      “It doesn’t mean that much to them, I’m afraid. Last visit I overheard Mom say to one of her neighbors, ‘His marks were always so good he could have been anything. Even a lawyer.’”

      Miranda laughed. “You’re kidding.”

      “No, I’m not. It’s too bad I was an only child. They might have had more success with other offspring.”

      “Gosh, don’t I know that feeling. My mother has dreams of me on stage or in movies. In her mind I’m the perfect person to play Olena in the film version of your book. By the way, I’m supposed to be angling for an audition.”

      “Would you like the part?” he surprised her by asking.

      “You’re speaking hypothetically, of course. The answer is no. I’ve never cared for acting—I feel too silly trying to pretend I’m someone other than myself. My mother’s sure I failed at being an actress on purpose, to spite her.”

      “You need to care about what she wants less. I think what you do is fascinating. Present project excluded.”

      Compliments rarely flustered Miranda. For some reason, this one did. “Speaking of my present project, did you try any other jobs besides helping out on the farm?”

      “I also worked at the potash mine in Esterhazy for a few months. God, that was an experience—clearing out debris from thousands of feet underground.”

      Miranda shuddered sympathetically.

      “And I’ve taught. I still do, from time to time.”

      He was a frequent guest lecturer. Yes, she’d read that somewhere.

      “But I’m most content СКАЧАТЬ