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Authors: Judy Duarte

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BOOK: Christmas On Nutcracker Court
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By the time he got the lights hung up, especially if Grant continued to shoot the breeze and slow him down, he'd be late to Carly's house. And he had a stop he needed to make before he got there.
So, while Grant took the hint and headed back to his own place, Max rolled up the lights and took them inside.
Twenty minutes later, he parked in front of Carly's house, then glanced at the pink box that sat on the passenger seat. He'd picked up an assortment of every donut and Danish the baker had to offer. Max couldn't imagine a kid who didn't have a sweet tooth, and he suspected Carly's boys would have a difficult time choosing the one they'd most like to eat.
Hemingway, who was wearing his flashing, battery-operated collar and sitting in the backseat, barked as though he knew exactly where they were and what they were up to.
“Take it easy,” Max said, as he reached for the donuts, then got the dog out of the car.
He could have told himself to settle down, too. For some reason, as he led Hemingway to Carly's front door, his pulse had kicked up a beat.
The unexpected rush of nervousness had nothing to do with seeing her again and everything to do with what she had to say about his novel. He'd believed that to be the case, too—until she opened the door, wearing a pair of black denim jeans, a cream-colored sweater, and a breezy smile.
That's when his heartbeat really went whacky.
And when he realized that he'd arrived ten minutes early.
Did that make him appear too eager?
“I hope we're not too early,” he said, wishing he would have remained in the bakery parking lot a little longer.
“No, not at all. Come on in.”
As he stepped into the living room, the aroma of fresh brewed coffee filled the air, and he was again caught up in that same warm, cozy swirl of coming home.
Before he could ponder a comment, the boys came bounding into the room to greet the dog.
“I brought donuts,” he said, hoping that his efforts would earn him a welcome and a few brownie points.
“Cool,” Josh said. “Thanks, Mr. Tolliver.”
Should he tell the boys to call him Max? Or had Carly taught them to be formal when addressing adults?
Deciding to let it go for now, he handed the leash to Mikey and the box to Josh. “Why don't you and your brother have first pick?”
Several minutes later, when the boys had each chosen a donut and taken the dog out to play in the backyard, Max took a seat at Carly's kitchen table, where his manuscript rested next to the donut box like a big white elephant in the room.
Yet for the first time since he'd taken the leave of absence from the probation department, his focus wasn't on the story he was writing. It was on the pretty hairdresser who was pouring him a cup of coffee.
“How'd your date go?” he asked.
“It was okay.”
Grant had pretty much responded the same way, which further convinced Max the two weren't going to make a good match.
“Just okay?” he asked.
“Grant's a nice guy.”
So was Max. But what good had that done him? Even Karen, his ex-wife, hadn't seen the value in that. And in their case, the old adage had proven true: Nice guys finished last.
Carly carried two red mugs—adorned with snow-tinged Christmas trees—to the table, placed one in front of him, then took a seat. “Before we get started, I'd like to ask you a question.”
“Sure.” He settled back in his chair. “What's that?”
“Last time you were here, you said that you gave Josh some advice that you wished you'd taken in the past. You don't have to explain the circumstances, but I was curious about just what that advice was.”
The question took him aback, not because he couldn't remember the conversation he'd had with her son, but because he wasn't sure how he wanted to respond, what he wanted to reveal to her.
Opting for disclosure, which had never been easy for him, he said, “I was divorced about a year ago. And I probably could have done something to prevent it, but I didn't.”
“What could you have done?”
“I might have been a better listener.”
Carly placed both hands on her mug. “You mean you tuned her out?”
More often than not, he supposed, and as much as he hated to admit it, his marriage had started to unravel years before Karen had actually left.
“I guess I've reached that post-divorce state that allows a person to admit they might have been at fault, too,” he confessed.
She smiled, nodding. “It's easier when there's a villain to blame.”
“It's taken me nearly a year to come to grips with that.” He wondered if she took any of the blame for her own divorce, but he didn't ask.
Still, if he had to guess, he'd say the guy had been an absolute fool to let her get away.
“So,” she said, placing a manicured hand on the top page of the manuscript. “Let's talk about your book.”
“Okay.” Max braced himself for the critique, hoping she had something valid to say, something that would free his muse to finish the last two chapters.
“You're a talented writer, Max. Your dialogue is sharp, and the action scenes are very well done.”
So far, so good, he thought.
“But you're lacking the emotion to make this book great. Logan isn't fully fleshed out.”
“What do you mean?”
“He could be so much more if you'd let him show his feelings.”
Max bristled. “Have you ever read an action/adventure novel?”
“No, but I've seen a couple of movies.”
“Which ones?”
“I don't remember the names. One was about a guy who went to a party at a new high-rise in the city. His ex-wife was working for a big corporation, and these terrorists came in and took everyone hostage. The guy, who was a cop, was the only one who knew they were trouble, the only one who could save them.”
“Are you talking about
Die Hard
?” he asked.
“Maybe. I really don't remember the name, but it was a good movie. And even though it had too much shoot-'em-up stuff for me, I loved the romance.”
“If you're talking about
Die Hard
, you're right. It
was
a great movie. Bruce Willis ended up saving the day and kissing Bonnie Bedelia at the end, but it wasn't a romance. It was an action flick. You're probably thinking about another movie.”
“No, I remember now. That's the one. And in spite of all the blood, bullets, twisted metal, and broken glass, it was a romance.”
“Bruce and Bonnie were hardly together the entire movie.”
“But it was his love for her that kept him going, wasn't it?”
Max supposed so.
“Bruce's character wasn't just trying to save the day, he was trying to salvage his marriage. It was his love that refused to die.”
Max tried not to roll his eyes, although he had to admit that she had a point.
Carly took a sip of coffee, then smiled. “It's every woman's dream to have a man love her that much. And if you can show Logan really struggling with his failures as a husband and his feelings for Priscilla, you'll have a much bigger audience for your book.”
She might be right, but she was suggesting a massive rewrite. And even if Max wanted to put that much work into a revision, he didn't have the time.
“Do you just want to see your name on the cover of a book?” she asked. “Or do you want to have a best seller?”
Truthfully? “Both.”
“Then why not try to appeal to male
and
female readers? I'm not saying that you need to make this a full-on romance. But Logan has never failed at anything in his life, and just as he's about to solve the biggest case of his career, bring down the bad cops, and prove the naysayers wrong, he finds himself losing on the home front.”
It was a dilemma Max himself had faced, but on a much smaller scale.
“Can't you see it?” Carly asked. “If Logan goes after Priscilla, he'll fail at the job. And if he puts his job first, he'll lose his wife. It would be a hard choice for him to make, and the reader will enjoy seeing his struggle. Then all you need to do is find a way for him to win both battles in the end.”
“And just how am I supposed to do that without compromising the story?”
“I'm just a reader. You're the author. But the action will mean a whole lot more when there are human emotions at stake.”
Max was still trying to wrap his mind around what she was suggesting when she added, “There's something else missing.”
“What's that?”
“Faith.”
“Why would you say that's missing? Logan's got faith in himself, in his partner.”
“Yes, but you made it clear early in the story that Logan had given up his faith in God. And that he didn't believe that good would ultimately trump evil—at least, somewhere down the road.”
What was she trying to do to his book?
“I'll pray that the plot comes together for you,” she said, “even if you don't take my advice.”
She was going to
pray
about his book? What made her think God even cared about things like that? Prayers were best left for the big stuff—like life-and-death situations.
God didn't care about minor things, like books—or even Max, who was just an insignificant little blip on the heavenly radar, if he was even that.
“I'll also pray that you get a publishing contract soon,” she added.
Now that would be nice. But when push came to shove, Max was skeptical—of her suggestions, of her faith. . . .
. . . and if truth be told, of his ability to pull off something of the magnitude she was suggesting.
Chapter 17
After Max left Carly's house, he wasn't any closer to solving his literary problems than before. In fact, he'd had so much to think about that his muse had gone even deeper into hiding.
Carly's comments about increasing the emotion and adding a faith element in his story had merit, but making changes like that would take his book and his characters in a different direction than he'd planned. Worse yet, it would require a complex revision that would take more of his time than he had available—unless he wanted to deplete his savings completely, which would be foolhardy.
So he'd allowed himself another day off from writing, hoping to give his imagination a break.
Or so he thought. In spite of his best intentions to forget everything Carly had said for the rest of the afternoon and evening, her critique had simmered in his mind for hours.
When he'd gotten home and saw that Grant's car was gone, he'd thought about dragging the lights back to the front yard, along with a ladder, so he could put them up without having his neighbor see what he was doing. But once he'd stepped into the house and saw the rolled strands on the coffee table where he'd left them earlier, he'd stopped short.
For some reason, whatever holiday spirit he'd had earlier in the day had completely disappeared, leaving him with a bah-humbug attitude to rival any Charles Dickens had ever imagined. And he had nothing to blame except Carly's critique.
Trouble was, it was more than the thought of revision that bothered him, it was her pointing out Logan's flaws and shortcomings. Because in spite of the character being a figment of Max's imagination, Logan Sinclair and Max Tolliver had a lot more in common than he wanted to admit. And, according to Carly, Logan was not only lacking emotion and a commitment to his marriage, he was lacking faith in something bigger than himself.
I'll pray that the plot comes together for you,
she'd said.
She might as well have said that she'd be praying for his life to come together, too.
But none of it made sense anymore—the plot of his novel, or the direction his life had either taken or failed to take.
Now, as he stood in front of his open refrigerator, feeling the cold vapor on his face and looking for lunch meat to make a sandwich, something . . . clicked.
While his physical movements froze, his mind took off like a shot, and a scene began to roll in his mind.
Afraid to lose the dialogue that was unfolding, he shut the fridge and hurried to the computer. As he waited for his Mac to boot up, he realized the scene that was coming to him like a gift was pivotal to the story, to the climax.
Why hadn't he seen the big picture before?
Somehow, even without a game plan like this, he'd set the seeds in play early in the manuscript.
Even Carly had noticed it.
You made it clear early in the story that Logan had given up his faith in God,
she'd said.
He doesn't believe that good will ultimately trump evil—at least, somewhere down the road.
Yes, Max had set the seeds, but he hadn't allowed them to bear fruit.
He'd even written a scene in one of the first chapters, where Logan had been holed up in the church, hiding in the confessional. He'd had opportunities to add more introspection there and had missed it.
There'd been other scenes, too, when a teenager had darted out in front of the getaway car. The kid had lay dying in the street, and Logan had been the first one to come upon the scene. He'd had a real dilemma then, too. And Max had missed an opportunity to lay more groundwork.
While he waited for the document to load, he was half-tempted to call Carly and share his literary epiphany, but he didn't dare do anything that might slow the story flowing in his mind. Instead, he placed his hands on the keyboard and let his returning muse take flight.
 
 
The perp raised his Glock, aiming it at Logan's heart. “Say your prayers, tough guy.”
“I always do.” Logan stood firm, looking death in the eye without flinching.
Faith did that to a man, he supposed. Faith in something bigger than himself
.
 
 
Now Logan would need to pull a rabbit out of his hat to get out of the mess Max had put him in. And he would, thanks to the church he'd been holed up in earlier, a scene Max would go back and tweak after he'd finished writing this one.
And write, he did.
The sun went down that evening with Max sitting at the desk, and it rose again the next day with him in the same place.
Sure, he'd taken an occasional bathroom break, as well as some time to stretch his back and to work out the crick in his neck and shoulders. But other than that, he'd continued to work, polishing the new scene, revising others, adding lines of introspection, and tweaking dialogue to match the story's new direction.
At a quarter to nine, with the sun burning through the slats in the shutters, Max typed
“The End.”
Staring at the screen, exhausted, amazed, and still bursting with the kind of energy one felt after a job well done, he was too wound up to sleep. So why even fight it?
He went to the kitchen, put on a pot of coffee, then relished a cup of the fresh morning brew as he reread his ending scene.
Wow, he thought as he sat back in his chair. Even with a red pen in hand to edit the hard copy, he'd only found a couple of typos and a word out of place.
It was good—
very good
—and he couldn't wait to tell Carly that he'd taken her comments and run with them.
But first . . . ?
He got online and composed an e-mail to the agent who'd requested the manuscript months before. After writing a short note as a cover letter, he attached the document. With his hand over the mouse, ready to click on
SEND
, he caught himself.
How much of all of this had to do with his skill as an author? And how much had to do with Carly's critique?
What about her prayer?
There was no need to risk a bolt of lightning for not giving credit where it was due.
“Thanks for letting this come together for me,” he said.
Again he gripped the mouse.
That's not all that's coming together for you
.
What else was working out? A relationship with Carly?
The thought seemed to come out of the blue, although Max knew what had happened. His brain was so numb from his work that stray pieces of dialogue continued to flow out of his subconscious.
Still, maybe there was some truth to that. Maybe something was happening between him and Carly—a friendship for sure. And maybe even a professional relationship. He would certainly value her opinion on any other manuscript he might write in the future.
“Thanks for Carly,” he said.
It wasn't exactly a prayer, he supposed. At least, not the Our-Father-Who-Art-in-Heaven kind he'd been taught in his youth. But it had been directed to God, even if it was a little on the casual side. He supposed looking to and talking to the Almighty didn't come easy for a guy who'd been relying on himself for so long.
With that aside, he clicked on the mouse, sending his manuscript hurtling through cyberspace to an office in Manhattan. Then he sat back in his seat, and blew out a weary sigh.
Carly would be pleased to know what he'd done, but she deserved more than a phone call.
 
Shear Magic buzzed with activity, as the clients filed in and out of the salon in an attempt to get their hair cut or styled before the holiday, and Carly's appointment book was full. She'd started early and had already completed a color, highlights, and a haircut by ten thirty.
Unless someone canceled, she'd be working through lunch again, but she'd much rather be busy than not, so she wouldn't complain about having to steal bites of a peanut butter sandwich between clients.
Twyla Helfrich, who worked in the station next to hers, had taken the morning off to go shopping, and Carly couldn't help feeling a little envious. Fortunately, she'd managed to pick up two small gifts for the boys on her way to work this morning, and she'd hidden them in the trunk of her car.
Now, as she blew-dry Lori Barton's hair, she found herself praying again that God would come through with enough cash to get her caught up on her rent and her car payments.
She knew He could work a miracle. And she truly believed that He would, but as the time drew nearer, her faith was getting a little sketchy.
“Do you think I should have had a touch-up instead of just a cut?” Lori asked over the drone of the dryer.
Carly studied her client's roots, which were just beginning to show a gray fringe underneath the dark brown color. “I know you're on a tight schedule today, and it's not too bad. You can wait another week or two.”
“I know, but John and I are going to an open house at his boss's house this evening, and I wanted to make a good impression.”
“You're going to look great, Lori. Don't give it another thought.” Carly brushed a wet strand of hair, lifting it and rolling it under as she aimed the hot air on the ends.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of someone approaching her station. She turned to get a better look and spotted Max.
What was he doing here? He didn't have an appointment. Had he come by to talk to her?
A boyish grin suggested that he had, and her heart did a little swan dive in her chest.
“Hey,” he said as he reached her side. “I know you're working, so I won't keep you. I just wanted to thank you again for reading my manuscript.”
“You already thanked me,” she said, forcing her hands to keep moving as she tried to wrap her mind around his surprise visit. “And you paid me, too.”
“I know, but . . .” He glanced at the client in Carly's chair, then back to her. “I'm sorry to just drop in like this, but is there any chance I could talk to you for a second or two when you're finished?”
As much as she'd have liked to take an early lunch break and talk to him at length, she had an eleven o'clock appointment coming in, so she gave a little nod toward the empty station to her right. “Sure, I can take a minute. Why don't you have a seat? I won't be much longer.”
“Great.” He folded his large frame into Twyla's chair and spun it a few degrees so he could face her while she finished Lori's hair.
Trouble was, Carly was more interested in making eye contact with Max and trying to read his expression than she was in minding her work.
Curiosity nagged her while she continued to blow-dry Lori's hair, and when she finally finished, she walked her client to the front of the salon so they could take care of the payment and make another appointment for a touch-up. Then Carly went back to her station.
Upon her approach, Max got to his feet and tossed her yet another crooked grin. “I'll make this quick. You were right about the lack of emotion in my novel, as well as Logan's lost faith. If I wouldn't have addressed those issues, they would have been loose strings I hadn't tied up, and the book would have fallen flat.”
“I'm glad I was able to help. After you left yesterday, I worried that I'd upset you.”
“In a way, you did, but you were right. So besides thanking you again—this time from the bottom of my heart—I also want to tell you that I'm sorry if I came across as hardheaded and unappreciative yesterday.”
“You don't have to apologize.”
“Yeah, well, something tells me that I do. Logan wasn't the only one making a character arc last night.” Max tossed her another grin, but this one wrapped itself around her heart and gave it a breath-stealing squeeze. “I also have some good news to share with you. While I was writing last night, the story took a turn neither of us expected. And now it's done.”
“You finished the book?”
A full-on smile splashed across his face, crinkling his eyes and setting off an I-struck-it-rich spark in his eyes. “I sure did. And it's already in New York.”
“That's great.”
“Well, the agent probably won't read it for months, but at least I met my goal. I'd told the guy he'd have it by the end of the year, and thanks to you, I was able to pull it off.”
“I don't know what to say.”
“You don't have to say anything, but right now, as far as I'm concerned, you're a genius.”
His praise went a little over the top, yet it touched something deep inside of her, making her feel as though she wasn't a complete failure after all, something that seemed to be a Christmas miracle in and of itself.
BOOK: Christmas On Nutcracker Court
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