Together by Christmas

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.

Hopefully, she hadn’t forgotten anything, because if she had, she’d have to drive an extra two and a half hours southwest to Regina for replacements. Chatsworth’s isolation was one of the main reasons—other than her mother’s prodding for her to become a model or actress—that Miranda had left. Indeed, many of the young people raised there relocated after graduation. Now the prospect of spending two months in the small community brought on a claustrophobic anxiety she tried to ignore.

Her mother was waiting supper when she arrived at her destination on Friday night after several long days behind the wheel.

“You made it! I’ve been so worried. The weather reports say it’s snowing in Winnipeg.” Lovely as ever in a hand-knit sweater and stretch black jeans, Annie James offered her daughter a fragile hug and a peck on the cheek.

“Must have been after I passed through. I saw a few wispy clouds, but that was it.” She lugged her bags down the hall. “Same room?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Of course.”

“Same room” being a shrine to white French-provincial furniture, the best you could order from the Sears catalog. At least her mother had removed the canopy. Cleaning that thing year after year must have been hell.

Miranda settled her bags at the foot of the bed, then put her purse on the dresser, next to the phone her parents had given her for her thirteenth birthday. How many hours had she spent on that thing? Mostly talking to Chad….

She went to the washroom, and when she emerged, Annie was removing her green-bean casserole from the oven.

“You haven’t cooked this big meal for just the two of us?” A lentil casserole sat steaming on the table, next to the beans, a green salad and cauliflower.

“This is a special occasion. I even made brownies for dessert—low fat, unfortunately, thanks to my diet.”

“Sticking to it, are you? That’s great.” They discussed Annie’s health for a while, then moved on to Miranda’s work. Annie wasn’t very interested in the video on the Canadian artist Harry Palmer, which Miranda had just finished collaborating on with his son and the CBC. But Annie did have some input to offer on the upcoming project.

“You realize Warren’s book is going to be made into a movie?”

“You mentioned the possibility on the phone.”

“Well, I’ve been wondering. There might be a role for you.” Her mother’s eyes sparkled. “After we spoke, I took the book out of the library and read it. I could see you in the lead, playing Olena. You’re the right age and the description is you to a tee!”

“Oh, Mom.” Annie had never recovered from her disappointment when Miranda dropped modeling to study film at Concordia University in Montreal. While she’d accepted that Miranda was now too old for modeling, she frequently reminded her daughter it wasn’t too late for acting. In her opinion, her beautiful daughter belonged in front of a camera, not behind it.

“What’s the matter?”

“I talked to Warren’s agent about the film rights. Yes, they’ve been sold, but the screenplay hasn’t even been written yet. Warren insists that he wants to do it himself, and first he has to finish his current book.”

“All the better. You need to get your name in early. Just mention the idea to Warren when you interview him for that video of yours.”

“I have no acting experience.”

“You’ve taken several classes. And you did that commercial.”

“Right.” She ought to command about a million for a picture, based on those qualifications.

Her mother smiled, assuming that one word meant Miranda had agreed with everything she’d just said.

“So when are you planning to meet with Warren?”

“Tomorrow. You’ll have to help me figure out how to get to his farm.” Miranda had only an idea of the general direction.

“I’ll draw you a map. It’s not that hard, but it is far. About twelve miles from town, and at least two miles from the closest neighbors, the Brownings. Frankly, I can’t understand why any sane person with a choice would want to live on his own in such an isolated place.

“In fact,” Annie continued, “I’m not at all sure you should be going out to his farm to conduct your interviews. Couldn’t he drive into town?”

Miranda dug deep for patience. Something she suspected she was going to need a lot of this next little while.

“Mom, this video isn’t something I can accomplish in a couple of short interviews. I need to hang around him, see how he lives, how he works.”

Discovering what made Warren Addison tick would take time. But she had two months, and she’d succeed. The completed video would be her Christmas present to herself.

Vegetables were silently passed back and forth; Miranda topped up her mother’s wine from one of the bottles she’d stashed in the trunk of her Volkswagen.

“The Brownings had a baby boy last year,” Annie said finally. “Did I tell you?”