CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The bright yellow star swayed to the left and then to the right.
“A little more to the left I think!”
“Here?” Weston hollered down at me from the rafters.
“Um . . .” I put my hand on my hip, debating.
“Hey, Christmas Diva, I kinda need you to make a decision. Like . . . yesterday.”
“Hmm . . . okay, I think it’s fine right there.”
“Thank you, Lord!”
I couldn’t help but grin. We’d been hard at work all evening, carrying in sets and positioning them on stage. And by we, I mean Weston and his senior brutes. Tonight was our first rehearsal with everything in place. A feeling of relief and satisfaction swept over me.
Misty nodded in quiet affirmation as we watched the students file onto the stage.
“It looks awesome, Georgia. I still can’t believe you pulled this off in less than a month.”
“Honestly, I can’t either.”
Mr. Harvey leaned forward in his chair, clicking a fancy pen into action before handing it to me.
“I just need your signature here and here so I can submit this over to our preapproval department. If you’re approved for the amount you need, you’re free to make an offer with your realtor.”
“Thank you, Mr. Harvey. When do you think I’ll hear back?”
“Possibly tomorrow. It depends on how bogged down our loan department is. Everyone is trying to tie up loose ends before the holidays.”
As I shook his hand and headed for the door, I waited for the familiar rush of panic to grip me in its talons or for my mother’s voice to berate me for making such a hasty decision.
But for once, neither came.
“You did what?”
I sighed. “I know . . . It sounds crazy.”
“Um, no. Crazy is wearing suede when there are rain clouds. Crazy is playing the nickel slots in Vegas. Crazy is what happens on reality TV shows with girls who beg for a rose. You are buying a theater!”
“Cara. Honestly. You should be an actress. You are way too dramatic to be locked inside a yoga studio all day.”
“Maybe so. But that’s beside the point. What are you thinking?” She paused a beat. “You’re really thinking of moving away?”
There was no mistaking what I heard in her voice: a sense of abandonment. Guilt pulsed through my veins. I loved Cara; she was the closest thing I had to a sister.
“Cara . . . even if I get the loan, it will likely be a slow process. This kind of thing doesn’t happen quickly.” I exhaled. “Something’s happened since I’ve been here, something I didn’t expect. I realized . . . I’ve missed it here. I’ve missed the mountains and genuine smiles, the slow-paced atmosphere, and I’ve really missed Nan. Yes, it’s a small town, but I can make a dent here. Opening this theater could help a lot of kids who need an artistic outlet. It’s hard to explain, but it feels right. I’ll still write, of course, but I want to do more, and being closer to Nan and Weston—” I pursed my lips together. His name rolled off my tongue so easily now. Like I was always meant to say it.
“But what if . . . what if things don’t work out with him, G?”
It was a good question—the kind of question a best friend should ask, yet it caused my stomach to roll with discomfort. “It won’t change anything.”
“Really?” She huffed. “Believe me, I want it to work out for you two, I really do. But this is a huge purchase. It’s a big deal, Georgia. You’ll be stuck there—even if the worst-case scenario does happen.”
“Don’t you think I know that? I’m not stupid. I’ve actually thought a lot about this. I don’t need you to be my mom. I just need you to be my friend.”
I opened my mouth to apologize, when Cara’s voice softened, soothing me over the phone. “You haven’t told her yet, have you?”
“No.”
She sighed, and I heard every word of reassurance she didn’t speak aloud inside it. “I’m on your side, G. No matter what. You know that.”
My eyes burned with unshed tears. “I’m sorry . . . I know you are. I love you, Cara.”
“I love you, too. Please keep me posted.”
Pots and pans clanged in the kitchen as Nan made cookies for the bake sale she had organized to benefit Savannah, who was due home the next evening. Willa had called Weston yesterday with the news. He’d sported a permanent grin for most of the day.
Since school was out for winter break, rehearsals had been switched to daytime, which freed up my evenings to spend with Weston. Tomorrow we were cooking for his sister and Savannah at her house—a welcome-home surprise. Having no siblings of my own, I craved the kind of devotion that seemed to come so easily for Weston. But at the same time, I feared trespassing.
“Georgia, are you off the phone?”
“Yep. I am now.”
“Come on in here and help me, would you? I need a couple more hands. I’m trying to make peanut brittle for the sale.”
Surrounded by an arsenal of kitchen gadgets, Nan was busy stirring liquid goo in a pot, occasionally checking the temperature with a candy thermometer.
“Get that pan ready with the wax paper, please.”
I did as she asked. This was serious business. As Nan poured the peanut-filled lava onto the wax paper, her face glistened. She smoothed the bumps with her red spatula.
“Now, can you turn that left burner on? There’s fudge in that pot. Just keep stirring.”
I nodded. “Sure thing. Are you still planning on hosting the sale after the play? At the senior center?”
“Yep. I volunteered Eddy to help me.”
“Oh, good. How is she . . . I mean, with Franklin?”
Nan’s smile was sad. “She’s strong. He’s had the signs for years now. My guess is he will have to go to a facility within the next few months. He’s just getting more and more confused.”
The low boil prompted me to quicken the pace of the wooden spoon in my hand. I stared into the mixture, lost in thought.
“No need to attack it, Georgia. It’s done nothing wrong.”
She reached around me and turned the burner off as I stepped aside to watch her work her magic.
“Sorry.”
Nan looked at me after she poured the fudge into the pan to cool. “What’s bothering you?”
I shook my head, unsure of how to answer.
“Are you having second thoughts about your theater idea?”
Am I? “I don’t think so.”
When her eyes bored into mine, I knew she was about to pluck the truth from my soul. It’s how she worked—her Nan-vision, I called it.
“Whatever you decide . . . it needs to come from here.” She touched her heart. “Not here.” She touched her temple, smearing a trail of chocolate onto her cheek. “I may be getting older, Georgia, but I wouldn’t want you to make a life decision based on proximity to me. No matter how senile I become.”
She took a step toward me and placed her warm hands on my cheeks.
“You’re important to me, Nan.”
“And you’re important to me, too, darlin’. But you living inside God’s plan is even more important to me. You can’t make this decision for anyone and can’t unmake it for anyone, either.” She rubbed her thumbs over my pinched eyebrows. “Maybe that’s not the advice you want to hear from your old gran, but it’s the best advice I know. There’s only one place that peace comes from. And it’s a commodity I wouldn’t trade for anything or anyone.”
She pulled me close, her sweet scent filling my nostrils and stirring up the childish feelings I had put to rest a long time ago.
“I do feel that, Nan. Peace, I mean.”
“Then don’t let anyone take it from you.”
There was no need for a name drop. She knew as well as I did that my mother would not care about peace or any other kind of divine revelation.
Success wasn’t a feeling for her; it was a formula.
Amazingly, rehearsal ran smoothly—both times. Misty managed the blocking while I listened for lines and cue issues. Between Nan, the crew backstage, and the volunteers for lighting and sound who joined us, we were starting to feel like a full-fledged production team. Josie, my modern-day Mary, even hugged me before she ran out to meet her mom in the parking lot. I couldn’t remember a more satisfying feeling. I thought again of the peace Nan spoke of. Every time I checked for its presence, it was there, waiting for me, unshaken by my doubt.
I pulled up to Willa’s house, and my insides actually fluttered. Going a day without seeing Weston felt wrong. Her house shared a driveway with their parents’. It was small, but even from the porch, I could feel the inviting warmth that lay just beyond the front door.
It swung open.
“I was hoping that was you.” Weston wrapped his arms around me, lifting me off the ground and nuzzling his face into my neck.
“Hi.” My voice was shaky and breathless. I was glad I hadn’t tried to say more.
As he pulled me inside and closed the door, I smelled something baking.
“Did you cook without me?”
“I may have cheated and stolen one of my mom’s frozen casseroles from the freezer.”
“Weston—”
He put his finger to my lips. “I need you to help me with something else.”
His eyes pleaded for my understanding.
“Fine. Just stop with those eyes already.”
He grinned and swept a kiss across my forehead.
“This way. I have everything set up.”
I dropped my coat and satchel on a chair and followed Weston down a short hallway and into a bathroom. A stool sat in front of the mirror.
“Um . . . what exactly did you have in mind?”
Weston turned around, holding hair clippers in his hand. I gasped.
“What are those for?”
“You’re going to shave my head.”
“What? Why?”
“I want to do it. For Vannie. Willa said she’s having a hard time with her hair loss. So I want us to match for the holidays.”
My heart melted into a puddle at my feet. I slumped against the doorjamb, staring at him. Is he truly this wonderful?
He pushed the clippers at me again. “Is that okay? You don’t have a weird hair phobia that I don’t know about, right?”
I shook my head, taking the clippers from his extended hand.
No, but if I did, this would have cured me.
Ten minutes later, I buzzed away the last patch of Weston’s hair, watching it curl into a half-moon against the tile floor. Running my hand over the rough texture that remained on his scalp, a hypnotic pull seemed to tighten the invisible cord between us.
Weston had always been striking, but until that moment, until I saw him in such a rare state of vulnerability, it was hard to separate which of his features caused my insides to ache whenever his gaze met mine. But now, there was no doubt.
His eyes.
I glanced away, the walls pressing in on me as I reached for the broom.
His warm hand braceleted my wrist.
My pulse hammered under the pressure of his thumb. His touch both strengthened and weakened me. As the broom slipped from my grasp, he hooked a finger under my chin. Our eyes met, embraced in a silent understanding.
“Thank you for being here tonight. For doing this for me.”
My spine tingled as his whispered words fluttered across my cheek.
Gripping my waist, he lifted me up onto the counter, pushing my legs to either side of him. His gaze held steady, focused. I struggled for breath as his fingers ran through my hair. One, two . . . ten seconds passed before his hand brushed against the nape of my neck. And then oxygen ceased to matter at all.
I pulled him close to me, clutching his shirtfront while clinging to this moment in the fear that it could slip away, that he could slip away.
When our mouths finally touched, there was no ravenous greed propelling us, no irrational drive making us forget who we were.
Because for the first time in my life, I wanted to remember the details.
The tender awareness of his lips against mine created a perfect symphony of emotion. And with one kiss, Weston had reached deeper into me than anyone before.
I’d been sliding in the wrong direction for years, and something—God, maybe—had finally led me back to home base.
To Lenox, Oregon.
To Weston James.
And I’d fallen wholly, madly, completely in love with him.
A tiny whimper escaped my throat just before he broke contact with my lips. Though his eyes still blazed with hunger, he took one step back and then another.
A full ten seconds of silence spun around us.
“I don’t think I’ll ever go back to my regular barber again.”
I suppressed an anxious giggle.
He cleared his throat. “Um, that being said, I should probably handle the cleanup—alone.”
Without need for further explanation, I slid off the countertop and on wobbly legs made my way toward the kitchen. Alone.
We needed to add a good thousand feet of space between us if we were going to accomplish anything that night—other than kissing.