Together by Christmas

Except those eyes. And that funny, twisting smile.

“Warren?”

WARREN ADDISON FELT THE COLD wind blasting in and therefore knew he wasn’t hallucinating. But the improbability of the sight stole his words for several long, awkward seconds. Finally, he regained articulation.

“Miranda James.”

God, but she was still so beautiful. Her blond hair was short, bluntly cut and curly. It framed her exquisite face perfectly. She stood taller than he remembered, slim in her boyish jeans, her upper body bundled into a fleece jacket, with a down vest over top.

“None other,” she agreed cheerfully. “Um, mind if I come in? I may track in a little snow, but other than that my boots are clean. I bought them before I came here—never needed snow boots like this in Toronto—we don’t get much snow there. Slush falls from the sky directly.”

Her words overwhelmed him. He hadn’t heard so many in weeks. At last a basic meaning penetrated. “I’m sorry. Of course, come in.” He took a few backward steps to make room. “And don’t worry about snow—or slush, for that matter. As you’ll soon see, I don’t fuss much about things like that.”

But the place wasn’t dirty, he reassured himself, trying to imagine how the old farm kitchen must look in her eyes. At least he wasn’t one to stack dishes between meals or leave food out on the counters. He couldn’t. The mice would make an all-night diner of the place.

“Is that a wood-burning stove?”

“Yeah. Mom wouldn’t part with it. We do have running water and electricity, however.”

He’d meant it as a joke, but she nodded seriously.

“Oh, and an espresso machine!”

“A city comfort I couldn’t imagine doing without. Would you like a cup?”

“Oh, would I.” She brushed the snow off her boots, then sat in one of the wooden kitchen chairs. “Did you bring any other goodies from New York with you?”

“A bag of bagels, frozen in the fridge. I’d offer you one, but I have no microwave.” He shrugged in apology. “Other than that, I packed a few changes of clothing, my books and my computer, of course.”

He measured beans for grinding, still not able to believe that the gorgeous Miranda James was sitting in his kitchen. If she knew how often he’d fantasized about her when they were teenagers…

But hell. That didn’t make him different from any of the other guys who’d gone to Chatsworth High.

“I’ve seen some of your biographies on TV,” he told her. Actually, all of them. “I especially enjoyed the one on prairie musicians. Jack Semple has always been a favorite of mine.”

“Wow, you’ve seen my stuff? In New York?”

“Well, I do get cable.” He noticed her glancing around. “Not here, though. Mom and Dad took the TV with them to Victoria.”

“What do you do with yourself? Isn’t it awfully lonely?”

“I spend a lot of time walking around the property. And I read, play Age of Empires on the computer….” He placed a small pitcher under the espresso spout, then turned on the motor. “And of course I write.”

“Do you ever. Warren, I read your book. Frankly, I was blown away. You deserve all your success.”

He shrugged. Talking about Where It Began was difficult. He was glad, naturally, that the book had done so well. But success had definitely come at a cost.

“You know, back in Toronto, I checked the Internet and the library. I found very little material about you. Not even a photograph.”

Her eyes ran over him, marking the changes, he supposed. Foolishly, he hoped she liked what she saw. He sure liked what he saw. But then, he always had.

“Sugar?” he asked, passing her the froth-covered cup.

“No, thanks.” She hooked the handle with her finger, and as she raised the mug to her mouth he noticed her fragile wrist, with its jangle of silver bracelets.

“I came here to escape notoriety,” he said, referring to the lack of information about him.

“Well, you’ve done a good job.”

“So far,” he acknowledged. “But what about you? Why are you in Chatsworth?” And more particularly, here with him? Not that he didn’t welcome her company, but face it—twenty years ago she wouldn’t have crossed the school yard to speak to him, let alone driven twelve miles of backcountry roads.

No, that wasn’t altogether fair. Miranda had never been a snob. She always gave the impression that she liked everyone, that she would be your very best friend, if only she had more time.

And it wasn’t an act. After twelve years in the same classroom, he’d have sensed it. Miranda was one of those rare people born without an ounce of meanness, or spite, or cruelty. Not that she’d been a goody-goody. Miranda knew, had always known, how to have fun.

That she wasn’t already married was a miracle. Unless there’d been some late developments in that area…no, she had rings on many of her fingers—and even on one thumb—but nothing adorned that all-important fourth finger of the left hand.

“Actually, Warren, I’m here because of you.”

He felt a crazy, scary rhythm in his heart, absent since adolescence. Then reality set in. She didn’t mean that way. He pulled in a breath of air as he took his own espresso to the table and settled himself, too aware of her quiet observation.

And then it hit him. God, he was such an idiot. She filmed biographies for a living. That comment about the paltry information available about him. Of course. That had to be it.

He couldn’t believe how disappointed he felt. Dreamy Miranda wasn’t here to see Warren Addison, her old schoolmate, but Warren Addison, the famous author.

Crap.

“You don’t look pleased. I’m guessing you don’t want to be the subject of my next video.”

“I think my books should stand on their own. Who I am, and whether I write in the night or in the morning, whether I work from an outline or just create, shouldn’t figure into the equation.”

“But isn’t it human nature to wonder about the author of a book you’ve loved? When Mrs. MacIntire read us Huckleberry Finn, weren’t you curious about Samuel Clemens?”

“Mark Twain was a literary icon. I’ve written one book.”

“Warren, your book will oversell the Harry Potter books. A movie’s in the works….”

“But we’re still talking only one novel. And who knows how the next one will be received. If I ever finish writing it…”

“Trust me, Warren. All artists worry that their next work may not be as good as their last—even us lowly video biographers. So you aren’t alone in that. Even if you never publish another story, the success of Where It Began will make you immortal. Think of Margaret Mitchell. And Harper Lee.”

“I appreciate your faith. But selling lots of copies doesn’t guarantee anyone will remember who I am twenty years from now.”

“Yes, but your reviews…”

“Reviewers can be flawed, too.”

“Oh, Warren!”