The Christmas Cookie Collection

by Lori Wilde

  “Mark and I were high school sweethearts,” she confessed to Iris. “We ran away to Vegas and got married on Christmas Day, the month he graduated from high school.”

  Iris’s eyes glowed. “Seriously? You’re divorced?”

  “The marriage was annulled after forty-­eight hours.”

  “You did not live happily-­ever-­after.” Iris rubbed her palms gleefully.

  “That’s your busted myth, and the host of your show is caught right in the middle.”

  “I love it!”

  “You’ll leave Raylene alone?”

  “Meet me in my suite tomorrow afternoon for an on-­camera interview, and it’s a deal.”

  The following morning, Mark knocked on the door of Iris’s suite. She’d called him the night before just as he was getting ready for bed and told him she had a surprise interview with someone who was prepared to blow the lid off the sweetheart legend and give them the ratings scoop they were hoping for, but she refused to tell him who it was.

  After Carrie had kicked him out of her bedroom window, Mark had been hurt at first, then he’d experienced a moment of total clarity. Because he’d finally put two and two together. She was afraid that if she let herself love him, he’d hurt her again. His tough little Carrie was far more vulnerable than he’d realized.

  He’d given it a lot of thought, and then on Saturday he’d made his move. He’d called his real estate agent and told him to list his house for sale. Then he called Burt Mernit and told him this episode of Fact or Fantasy would be his last and he wanted out of his contract no matter what it cost. Last, he called his manager and asked him to find a literary agent. He was writing a novel about his experiences in Hollywood. When he finally was able to tell Carrie he was moving back to Texas, he wanted it a done deal. She would no longer be able to argue that his life was in L.A.

  On Sunday, he’d borrowed a motorcycle from Jesse and driven to Fort Worth to shop for the perfect engagement ring. He’d spent the remainder of the day worrying about how and when to pop the question.

  Apprehension tickled the back of his neck when Iris answered the door with a triumphant grin on her face. A bi-­fold screen had been set up, creating a backdrop setting for the filming, and he could only see a shadow of the mystery person sitting on the other side of the screen.

  “Come on in,” Iris said, stepping aside.

  LaDonna rushed him over to a makeup chair in front of a vanity, and tied a bib around his neck so she wouldn’t get makeup on his clothes. He twisted around, trying to see who was behind the screen, but LaDonna took hold of his head. “Face forward, squirmy worm.”

  “Who is it?” he murmured as Iris directed the camera crew in their setup.

  “You’ll see soon enough. Be still.” Ladonna tucked on his ear.

  “Why is everyone acting so enigmatic?”

  “You know Iris. How she likes to make a deal out of everything.”

  Mark certainly wasn’t going to miss Iris. She was a terror to work for. He just wanted to get his interview over, so he could go tell Carrie he loved her and was moving to Twilight. Then he’d go down on one knee and tell her what he should have told her eight years ago. That she was the love of his life and he was never going to let her go.

  “Iris,” he called, “where’s my questions?”

  “They’re on the teleprompter,” she said, coming over to stand next to him, a sly smile on her face.

  Something was up. Mark didn’t trust Iris when she was happy. “I don’t get to see the questions first?”

  “It would give away the identity of our guest.”

  “I’m going to find out who it is as soon as I step in front of that screen. What’s the big secret?”

  “You’ll see.” Iris chuckled.

  The hairs on the back of Mark’s neck lifted. Who on earth could it be? Obviously, it was some muckraker set to make trouble for Twilight.

  “You done?” he asked LaDonna. Without waiting for an answer, he pulled the bib from around his neck. Enough of this nonsense. He stalked around the screen.

  And stopped in his tracks.

  Carrie.

  Sitting in the interview chair. Looking pale and nervous.

  For one split second his blood ran completely cold. She was giving an interview? She was here to bust the sweetheart myth using their relationship of love gone wrong?

  Staggered, he could do nothing but stare at her.

  “Surprise,” Iris whispered in his ear.

  “Carrie,” Mark said, ignoring Iris. “What are you doing here?”

  “Giving us an exclusive interview,” Iris supplied, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “Won’t this make for sensational television?” She turned to the cameraman. “Randal, did you get a shot of the look on Mark’s face when he saw Carrie?”

  From behind the camera, Randal made the “okay” sign. Mark had been so startled to see Carrie that he hadn’t even noticed the camera was recording. Some newsman he was.

  You’re not a newsman anymore. You’ve been co-opted into a smiling boob. If he harbored any lingering doubts about leaving Fact or Fantasy, they completely evaporated. He’d already asked Burt Mernit to be let out of his contract; he didn’t have to stay here and do this.

  “Have a seat, Mark,” Iris said. “I’m conducting today’s interview. Oh and in case you’re thinking of refusing, I’ve talked to Burt. If you don’t want to be sued for breach of contract, you’ll give this interview.”

  The second she saw the stunned look of betrayal on Mark’s face, Carrie knew that granting the interview was a big mistake, but there was no turning back now.

  He sat in the chair behind her, his eyes burning into hers.

  A poignant bleakness crept over her—­bleak as a North Pole blizzard wind. She’d been here before, felt this before. When she’d lied about wanting out of their marriage. She’d been so young and foolish then. What was her excuse now?

  “Carrie,” said Iris, who was perched on a third chair in front of their two chairs. There were three cameras. One on her face, one on Mark’s, one on Iris. “You and Mark Leland were high school sweethearts.”

  Carrie couldn’t get her breath. The air in the room tasted stale. “I . . .” She swallowed, kept her gaze fixed on Iris so she didn’t have to look at Mark. “Yes.”

  Iris shifted her attention to Mark. “And do you confirm this, Mark?”

  “I do.” I do. The same words he’d spoken at their wedding.

  “High school sweethearts,” Iris said directly into the camera. “In a town that romanticizes first love.”

  Iris returned to Carrie. “And you bought into the legend. To the point where you and Mark decided to run off to Vegas and get married when you were only seventeen. Is that correct?”

  “It is.” Oh God, this was a train wreck.

  “But things did not end with a happily-­ever-­after for you, did they?”

  Silently, Carrie shook her head. She felt like she was on trial. She didn’t know it was going to be like this. She could feel the heat of Mark’s stare on her, but she did not dare meet his eyes.

  “Please speak up,” Iris urged.

  Carrie cleared her throat. “No, they did not.”

  “And why is that?”

  “We were too young.” She wasn’t going to say anything more. It was the truth, and the rest of the details weren’t anybody’s business but hers and Mark’s. “And the marriage was annulled.”

  “In the aftermath of your tattered marriage, did you ever fling a penny into the Sweetheart Fountain and wish to be reunited with Mark?”

  “I did,” Carrie confirmed.

  To the camera, Iris said, “The sweetheart legend claims that if you toss a penny into the fountain you will be reunited with your first love and be happily married for life.”

  “Yes.”

&nb
sp; “But the legend did not come true for you, unlike all the other ­people in your town who claim that it did. Why do you suppose that’s the case?” Iris leaned forward, malicious delight in her eyes.

  “Iris,” Mark said, his voice hard as a stone. “You’ve made an erroneous assumption.”

  The woman snapped her gaze from Carrie, swiveled her head to face Mark. “And what is that, Mr. Leland?”

  “That the course of true love runs smoothly. The sweetheart legend is based on Jon Grant and Rebekka Nash who were separated for fifteen long years. You’re missing the entire point. Just because lovers are separated does not mean they stop loving each other. Sometimes circumstances are beyond their control.” He shifted his gaze from Iris to Carrie. “Or sometimes, in the case of Carrie and me, love is the reason we were separated in the first place.”

  Iris looked miffed. “How do you mean?”

  “Carrie loved me so much that she put my needs ahead of her own. She knew that if she didn’t convince me to go, then I would not have taken the scholarship I’d been awarded to attend Columbia. I would not have gotten my degree. I would not have this job or the lifestyle that I do today. So she pretended our marriage was a silly mistake, and she did it because she loved me. Did it hurt? Hell, yeah. But I eventually came to realize why she’d done what she’d done. I also figured out just how much she loved me.”

  Iris rolled her eyes. “Pul-­lease.”

  “She’s doing the same thing right now. That’s why she’s on this show. Not to help you bust some myth, but because she’s under the mistaken impression that I’m better off without her.”

  Carrie blinked. Her heart pulsed. Her throat tightened.

  Mark stood up, came to stand right in front of her. “Carrie, my love, I’m on to you. I made a mistake by walking away the first time. I let my ego get the better of me. But I know what you’re up to, and I’m not letting you get away with it. I belong here in Twilight with you. Coming home has shown me how much I’ve missed out on.”

  Her hands flew to her mouth. She couldn’t speak. Not a word came out.

  “I take full responsibility,” he said. “I let my hurt keep me from contacting you, from coming back. But I’m here now. I want to make amends.” Then he hitched up his pant leg and went down on his right knee.

  Her heart pounded so hard she feared it would explode. She could hear the throb, throb, throbbing in her ears. Her entire body vibrated with the force of it.

  Carrie looked down and saw a black velvet box clutched in his hand. He thumbed it open and the biggest diamond engagement ring she’d ever seen caught the light and sparkled.

  “I told you when we got married the first time that one day I would buy you the kind of diamond ring you deserved.” His voice quavered. “Here I am, keeping my promise. Carrie MacGregor, will you do me the honor of becoming my bride? This time forever and always?”

  “Mark,” she whispered. “Oh, Mark.”

  Then tears were flowing down her face, and she was out of the chair and into his arms and kissing his face all over. His eyelids, his nose, his cheeks, his chin.

  Mark laughed and wrapped his arms around her, still on one knee. “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes, yes, yes, yes.” She slung her arms around his neck and squeezed so tightly they both had trouble drawing in breath.

  He stood up, taking Carrie with him. Then with his arm around her waist, he turned to face Iris Tobin and the camera. “Looks like this is one myth that has just been confirmed. In Twilight, Texas, true love really does conquer all.”

  EPILOGUE

  Carrie MacGregor loved Christmas.

  She adored the carolers on the street corners, even though a ­couple of them were singing off-­key. She treasured the artificial Douglas fir her friends had put up in the window of her shop for customers and the passing tourists to enjoy. She cherished the wreath hung from every intersection on the town square and The Sweetheart Tree in the park, hung with paper Christmas angels. She loved wassail and peppermint candy canes and popcorn garlands.

  Yes, okay, she was a Christmas cliché—­the fanatic who wasn’t happy until everything was gift wrapped or covered in tinsel. Every family had one. Merry Christmas!

  Her only goal for the next month was to enjoy every single minute of the holiday with her new fiancé. Yes, Carrie loved Christmas, but not half as much as she loved Mark.

  They walked hand-­in-­hand through the town square, taking in the annual Dickens-­on-­the-­Square event. Street vendors sold food from carts—­roasted chestnuts, turkey legs, spiced apple cider. Reenactors were dressed in Victorian garb from Beefeaters to English bobbies to Charles Dickens himself. The courthouse square hosted Santa’s workshop and children ran giggling about. The air was cool. A right nice fifty degrees.

  After the interview in which Mark proposed to Carrie on the camera, the Fact or Fantasy crew had packed up and left Twilight. They still had no idea whether Burt Mernit was going to run the episode or not. They didn’t care. Mark was home to stay, and for once Carrie believed he was right where he was supposed to be.

  With her.

  He led her down the street to the walkway leading to Sweetheart Park. White twinkle lights decorated every tree in the park. They traveled along the wooden bridge spanning a narrow creek that was an offshoot of the Brazos, and they ended up in the middle of the park where the statue of Jon Grant and Rebekka Nash locked in a passionate embrace graced the flowing stone fountain.

  “Got a penny?” Carrie asked.

  Grinning, Mark fished in his pocket and produced a copper coin.

  Carrie plucked it from her fingers, made a wish for a happy-­ever-­after love, and tossed it into the fountain. It hit with a merry splash.

  “Do you have any idea how beautiful you look right now?” Mark murmured, drawing her close.

  She nuzzled his neck. “You say the sweetest things.”

  “Only because they’re true. I’m so sorry that it took me so long to get here.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “You’re here at last.”

  “I had to come back.” He smiled. “We were fated after all.”

  “Joined from the first time we laid eyes on each other in study hall.”

  “Linked for life.”

  “There’s no escape.”

  “If this is prison,” he said, “lock me up and throw away the key.” Then Mark dipped his head and kissed her, proving once and for all that the sweetheart legend lived on . . .

  Raylene

  CHAPTER ONE

  Down at the Horny Toad Tavern off Highway 377 in Twilight, Texas, Elvis Presley was singing, “Blue Christmas.”

  The jukebox music sounded tinny and faraway as it bled through the door into the crisp night air. Weather reports predicted temperatures would slide below freezing by morning, and listeners had been urged to bring in plants and pets. No holiday lights decorated the building as they had in previous years. Other than Elvis’s mournful tune, the establishment gave no hint that Christmas was on the way. Only a few cars sat in the parking lot, sparse for a Saturday night, but most of the hamlet’s denizens were out celebrating the annual Dickens on the Square.

  In the thick of darkening shadows from the cedar copse rimming the outskirts of the parking lot, a silent figure in a red suit, long white beard, and shiny black boots waited, watching the back entrance of the tavern, hungry to catch a glimpse of one person in particular.

  After an interminable half-­hour, shortly before midnight, the rear door to the Horny Toad opened, hinges creaking in the cold and letting out the strain of the Eagles singing “Please Come Home for Christmas.” The watcher tensed, heart pounding and windburned hands fisted inside the pockets of the Santa costume.

  A woman appeared. Once upon a time she’d possessed beautiful blond hair, but now it had grown steely gray. The watcher’s breath caught. She
had stopped dying her hair.

  She carried a black garbage bag, heavy with clanking bottles, and started toward the Dumpster, her movements graceful as always. Years ago she’d been a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader and she’d kept her slender, hourglass figure even into her sixth decade of life. But instead of the mini-­skirts she usually favored because she had the most sensational legs of any woman in town no matter what their age, she wore oversized blue jeans and a gray wool sweater with a saggy hem.

  The watcher’s tongue moistened parched lips. Wishing. Wishing for so many things. Wishing, but unable to make those dreams come true. You couldn’t turn back the clock, no matter how hard you might try. Redemption was so close and yet so far away.

  The garbage bag made a muffled thumping sound when it landed in the Dumpster. The air smelled of juniper and wood smoke. She dusted her hands and turned toward the bar. Her breath came out in frosty puffs. The moonlight caught her face. Her eyes were worn thin, exhausted.

  The watcher shifted in the darkness, gut twisting. Don’t go. Stay. Stay so I can see you for just a little while longer. One last time.

  She paused and looked out into the darkness, her face a portrait of abject bleakness.

  A lump blocked the watcher’s throat.

  The woman shook her head, pushed open the door. Roy Orbison was singing “Pretty Paper.” Sad songs. All sad Christmas songs. She stepped inside, the door snapping shut behind her.

  A single chilly tear tracked down the watcher’s cheek. Gone. Everything once loved and taken for granted was now forever gone.

  “Last call,” Raylene Pringle said, more out of habit than necessity. There was only one patron left in the Horny Toad on this lonely Saturday night, and he never drank more than a single glass of whiskey. “Have another one, Nate?”