CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In just twenty-four hours’ time, I met with the realtor, signed an offer agreement, and ordered enough food and drinks to feed an army of hormonal teenagers. It was dress rehearsal night, and I welcomed being busy. Staying focused on the play was easier than thinking about the other things that weighed heavily on my mind.
As the students, stagehands, tech team, and makeup mafia filed in at half past four, my nerves buzzed to life. This was it. What I loved most about theater—watching a script come to life before my eyes.
“Um . . . Miss Cole? We have a problem back here!”
Uh-oh.
A handful of townsfolk sat in the audience and strained their necks, trying to get a glimpse of whatever disaster was occurring backstage.
It was Kevin—otherwise known as the Angel Gabriel.
He was squatting in the corner, puking into a garbage can.
“Oh no, is he sick?” I asked Josie.
“Well . . . you could say that, I guess.” She gave me a don’t-feel-too-sorry-for-him shrug.
“What do you mean?” I closed my eyes briefly. I was afraid I knew exactly what she meant.
“I don’t think that Orange Crush he was drinking was just soda.”
Kneading my temple, I said, “Go get Mr. James, please.”
I knelt down beside Kevin and placed a tentative hand on his upper back. “Kevin, do you need me to call someone?”
He lifted his head as I watched the color drain from his face. “No, please don’t, Miss Cole. I was just nervous . . . and I thought maybe—”
“You could calm your nerves by spiking your drink?”
He looked at the floor.
I sighed heavily. “Kevin.”
“I know . . . I’m sorry. I haven’t had a drink in over a month. It was stupid.”
“Yeah, it was,” a deep voice said behind us.
Our heads snapped up in unison. Weston stood there, his face stern.
“He knows he made a poor choice. He said he was nervous.” The protective edge in my voice sounded more like a mother’s than a director’s.
Weston’s eyes shot daggers at Kevin. “I’ll handle this.”
“I don’t think he—”
“Miss Cole, Kevin is a student of mine. I can take it from here.”
My eyebrows pinched together as Weston dared me to argue. Stopping midway through my eye roll, I turned to assess the crowd that had gathered around us.
“Okay, people . . . Let’s take our places. Who knows Kevin’s lines and can fill in for him tonight?”
“I can.”
Every muscle in my back tensed.
Sydney Parker, leader of the makeup mafia, batted her eyelashes at me, waiting with feigned hopefulness. Behind her sweet and seemingly helpful tone, I heard the poisonous drip of venom.
“Um . . .”
“I know his lines. Weston can just help me into the harness, and I’ll be fine.”
Over my dead body.
“The Angel Gabriel is male,” I objected.
“And Mary is supposed to be wearing a robe and riding on a donkey,” she bit back.
Touché.
I cut my gaze to Weston, who was ushering Kevin off the stage, and heaved a sigh.
What else could I do?
“Georgia . . . curtain call was ten minutes ago,” Misty called to me. “People are getting restless out here.”
“Fine. But only for tonight. Kevin will be back for the real deal tomorrow.”
Sydney flashed me her Colgate grin. “Sounds perfect. I just want to help.”
Sure you do. Like a boa constrictor wants to cuddle.
Misty beckoned me to the stage, her eyes pleading. And it was then I remembered I was expected to open the show. Though there were only fifteen people sitting out front—most of them members of the senior center—my knees turned to gelatin. Weston’s kiss may have given me the confidence to stand on the stage without passing out, but talking while standing on the stage was a whole different scenario. My heart raced as the tech guy in the back pointed to the microphone. I fumbled with it as the deep whooshing sound in my ears drowned out the melody Nan played on the piano.
“Hello . . . um, I’m Georgia Cole. Welcome to the dress rehearsal for the Lenox Community Theater production of Modern Mary.”
Am I smiling?
Weston walked back into the theater and stopped at the corner of the stage, watching me. I could practically hear his thoughts from there, urging me to overcome my ridiculous stage fright.
“I hope you enjoy the show and buy some cookies. I mean, tomorrow. I hope you buy some baked goods tomorrow night . . . to benefit Savannah Hart. She has cancer. Okay. Thanks.”
With that, I set the microphone down and exited stage left as fast as my wobbly legs could carry me. If there had been any doubt of how awful my little speech was, the pitying look on Weston’s face confirmed it when he made his way backstage.
“I think we need to work on your public speaking, babe,” he whispered in my ear.
I groaned. My cheeks were so hot I could fry a strip of bacon on them.
He pecked me on the forehead and pointed backstage. I nodded. He was needed in the back, to direct the stage crew.
Urgh. And help Sydney Parker into a harness.
I erased that particular mental image and focused my attention up ahead.
Let the show begin.
With only five stops due to lighting disruptions and three missed lines, the night was a great success. Even Sydney as a last-minute understudy had performed perfectly. And acted almost normal. When I saw her chatting and laughing with the students after rehearsal, I swallowed a big wad of pride and headed her way.
“Hey, Sydney?”
“Yes?” She raised a thinly shaped eyebrow.
“Thanks for helping out tonight.”
“My pleasure.”
I forced a smile and started to turn away when she called my name.
“You know, I’m pretty comfortable on stage. I’d be happy to handle the opening announcements tomorrow evening if that would help you.”
I blinked. It was painfully obvious to everyone in this town that I was horrible on stage . . . but Sydney Parker?
“Um . . .”
“I mean, I understand that you’ve put a lot of time and energy into this play, but if it would free you up to handle other things tomorrow night, then I’d gladly take it over for you. It’s no problem at all.”
I stared at her, measuring the inflection in her voice, the gleam in her eye, the perfect placement of every blond hair atop her head.
Something didn’t feel quite right—
Stop it, Georgia. Anyone can change. Isn’t that what Nan is always saying?
“I . . . uh . . . I guess that would be okay.”
She grinned and pulled me in for a quick hug. I was so shocked by her display of affection that I almost gagged on her musky perfume.
“See you tomorrow night, Georgia.”
“Yeah. See ya.”
I watched her leave, the four-inch boot-heels and bedazzled backside making her exit hard to ignore.
Nice or not. Good or bad. Right or wrong. Sydney Parker was my new emcee.