CHAPTER THREE
Begrudgingly, I grabbed my satchel off the chair and shoved my laptop inside it. Though the ground was still covered with dirty slush from last week’s snowfall, the sun was shining brightly. The temperature was a balmy forty-four degrees. But I needed to walk. Clear my head. Prepare for whatever awaited me at the community theater.
Wrapping a scarf I’d borrowed from Nan’s stash around my neck, I stuffed my bare hands into my pockets and made yet another mental note to buy gloves.
My dark chestnut-colored hair flew around my face in the chilly breeze. I was so not in California anymore.
Walking past Jonny’s Pizza and Gigi’s Grocery, I headed north on Main Street. The thick green pine trees lining the streets were a stark contrast to the white-capped mountains in the background. One thing that Lenox had going for it was the scenery that surrounded the town. It was so different from the cement that suffocated LA.
The mountains stirred an emotion in me, making me want to reach for something unseen. I took a deep breath, savoring the feel of clean air in my lungs. I supposed some people felt this way about the ocean, but though the ocean was vast, the mountains were strong and unyielding.
“Georgia?”
I whirled around.
“Wow . . . it is you. I heard you were in town.”
Sydney Parker stood next to her white SUV and took in every last detail of my wardrobe, stopping on Nan’s ratty, rainbow-colored scarf.
“Hello, Sydney, how are you?”
With a tiny lift of her shoulder, she bobbed her head in a way that made her golden locks swish around her shoulders as though she were in a shampoo commercial. “Great. You still single?”
What kind of a question is that?
“Um . . . well, yes . . . actually, I’m—”
“I’m recently divorced. My ex-husband is the mayor,” she said as if I’d missed a presidential election. “I live over in Greenway.”
Of course, she did. Greenway was the richest neighborhood Lenox had to offer.
“Oh, that’s great.” Just keep smiling, I chided myself. My true feelings have always been hard for me to conceal—or so I’ve been told.
Sydney Parker’s persona in high school screamed status, status, status. She befriended the “populars,” dated the “populars,” and was herself a “popular.” We couldn’t have been more different back then. And something told me not much had changed.
“You here visiting your grandma?”
“Yeah, and I’m helping out a bit at the theater, too, it seems.”
Her face beamed, apparently tapping into a new fuel source that caused her eyes to glow with radioactive freakishness. Then I realized what I had said. My cheeks flamed.
Please don’t.
Her high-pitched cackle exploded through the street. “You remember the Christmas play our senior year—”
I shook my head. “Actually, I need to get going. It was nice seeing you, Sydney.” About as nice as stepping into a den of rattlesnakes.
I hurried down the street, pulling the scarf tighter around my neck to ward off the cold. By the time I made it to the theater for the meeting, I could no longer feel my face. Walking through the small lobby, I heard the laughter of children and the murmur of adult conversation. I hoped to slip into the back and listen to whatever presentation was about to be given, but unfortunately, the second I stepped into the room, applause broke out.
The large crowd parted as Betty Graham grabbed the microphone onstage and waved me forward.
“Everyone, this is Georgia Cole, our town’s very own Hollywood celebrity. She’s written dozens of Christmas plays, pageants, and even screenplays that have made it onto TV. We are very privileged to have her help us with this charity performance to raise money for Savannah Hart.”
The crowd clapped again as she held the microphone out to me.
I stepped forward, and with each stride, I could feel Nan’s scarf tightening around my neck like a boa constrictor. My heart pounded against my rib cage as I flipped through a Rolodex of exit strategies in my mind, some more dramatic than others.
I didn’t like to speak on stage. I hated speaking on stage.
Leaning over to Betty, I whispered, “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
She smiled sweetly, taking my hand as I stopped at the top of the stairs, just shy of the stage. “Just tell us what you’d like us to do, dear. We’re ready.”
“Ready? For what?” My breathy rush of words was hardly audible as I desperately tried to block out the staring eyes around me.
“For the plan. For you to direct us, dear.”
Betty pushed the microphone into my sweaty palm. And then it dawned on me. Nan had been serious. There really was no one else.
I scanned the crowd and told myself to say something. To say anything. But my pulse was pounding so loudly against my eardrums that I couldn’t think, much less speak.
I closed my eyes.
Breathe. Just breathe. I’m twenty-five. This isn’t high school.
I held the cool metal to my chin. “Hi . . . I’m Georgia.”
Betty nodded at me, her face filled with confusion and maybe even pity. I couldn’t be sure.
“I—I’m happy to help. I’ll just need some . . . volunteers.” After three attempts, I finally swallowed.
“Tell us what you need!” a friendly voice called out.
I swayed and tugged on my scarf as my knees locked in place.
Is it getting dark in here? And why is it four hundred degrees?
Just as my vision spotted and tunneled, a heavy arm wrapped around my shoulders, rocking me back on my heels. As I finally sucked in a breath with enough force to fracture a rib, I saw him. My vision miraculously cleared.
Weston.
“She’ll need costume designers, an audio tech, a lighting and stage crew, a musician . . .” Weston rambled on, my mind jolting awake as if I’d been slapped in the face. I tried to shrug off his heavy arm—twice—but his grip held like duct tape.
Betty took the microphone from Weston. “You heard him. Now, who are our volunteers?”
Several ladies toward the front offered to help with costumes and makeup, a nerdy-looking man with glasses said he could run the tech booth and coordinate a lighting crew, and Betty announced that she had the music covered. A large group of older high school students agreed to be the stagehands. That just left—
“We need a set designer,” I whispered to Betty.
“I’ve got the set handled,” Weston said with a squeeze.
“That’s perfect. Now, what day would you like to officially start rehearsal, Georgia?”
Betty had asked a question, at least I was pretty sure she had, but my thoughts were still on the man plastered to my left side. A waft of sawdust filled my nostrils with every inhalation. What did she ask me?
“Georgia?”
I shook my head. “Um . . . Monday evening?”
I elbowed Weston in the ribs, forcing him to release me. He chuckled as I gave him a stare that said, “Don’t even think about touching me again.”
“Okay, well you heard the lady, folks. We’ll start casting Monday night. That leaves us twenty-nine days before production. Susan, can you make sure you send out a town e-mail and get it out on the bulletin boards?”
A lady toward the back shouted, “Sure thing! Thanks again, Georgia.”
And just like that, I was officially done with my vacation from Christmas and thrown back into the land of red and green.
After I’d endured several rounds of back pats and cheek pinches, the crowd began to dissipate. Weston dropped to the edge of the stage and swung his legs like a toddler. But my legs were still like rubber, so I walked down the steps slowly, trying to process what had just happened.
I was not normally prone to panic. Normally, I was confident, self-assured, and levelheaded. But having an entire town depending on me to raise funds for a child with cancer was not normal.
“You ready for this, Holiday Barbie?”
I snapped to attention. “It’s Holiday Goddess.”
His shocking-green eyes traveled the length of my figure shamelessly, his lips in a boyish grin. My scalp tingled when his gaze locked on mine.
I blinked first, breaking the spell. “What are you doing here, Weston? Shouldn’t you be traipsing back to Boston? The weekend’s almost over.”
His eyes lit up with amusement. “You think I live in Boston?”
“Don’t you?”
“I—”
“Uncle Wes!” A little girl with blond pigtails skipped over to us, hooking her arms around Weston’s legs. Looking away from them, I saw a woman headed our way.
“Willa James?”
“Hi, Georgia. It’s good to see you again. And it’s actually Willa Hart now.” Her smile fought to reach her eyes, failing miserably. But still she hugged me, her touch as soft as a feather.
Willa was Weston’s older sister, a girl I’d idolized when I was young. She had everything: beauty, charm, and class. But she was too sweet to envy and too kind to dislike. How she ended up with a brother like Weston was beyond me. Perhaps their parents spent all their good genes on her.
“Is Nan your grandma?” the little girl asked me.
“Yes, she is. And who are you?”
The little girl smiled brightly and held out her hand. “I’m Savannah Hart.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Hands on my hips, I scowled at Nan.
“Tell you what, dear?” Nan peeked over her glasses as she worked her daily crossword puzzle.
Tossing my satchel onto a chair, I sighed. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Weston James is Savannah’s uncle?”
Nan lifted her head, her eyes bright with feigned innocence. “Well, Georgia, you trained me a long time ago to stop updating you on Weston. Every time I so much as mentioned his name, you’d cut me off—tell me you didn’t want to hear about him or his endeavors. So if you failed to make that particular connection until today, the only person to blame is yourself. I would have gladly volunteered that information if only you would have asked.”
I swear, if she weren’t seventy I’d—
“Weston James is a good man, Georgia—one of the best men I know. He’s taken care of—”
“Weston James is a competitive jerk. I know him very well, Nan.” Even if he is the most attractive jerk in the history of humankind.
She took her glasses off and laid them beside her on the table. “You sure that’s how you should feel about him now, after all these years? Don’t you think people can change?”
“Not him—no. And thanks to you, I’m stuck working next to him for the next four weeks.”
I flung myself onto the sofa, realizing how childish I sounded, especially in comparison to what a certain five-year-old girl was about to face. “I’m sorry . . . I do want to help Savannah. She seems like a really special little girl.”
“She is . . . In fact, she reminds me of someone else I know.”
“Who?”
“You, darlin’. She’s kindhearted, funny, and one of the most determined people I’ve ever known. She will beat this cancer. We just need to help her do it.”
I leaned my head against a couch pillow and closed my eyes.
What pageant have I written that I can throw together in only four weeks?
It was going to be a very long holiday season.
I sat on the floor next to the fireplace with a dozen papers scattered on the floor beside me. Hair up and yoga pants on, I hunkered down for a long night of note-taking and scene revisions. Though it wasn’t what I’d consider my best work, I chose a play that was fairly consistent with the Christmas story itself. I suspected that was what the town of Lenox would appreciate most. And since I didn’t have a lot of time or resources to work with, it would have to do.
When Nan had requested my presence at church that morning, I simply held up my notebook paper and Post-it Notes, and she went on her way without another word. The woman couldn’t get everything she wanted, right?
Nan was working on her fund-raising plans at the kitchen table while classical jazz played somewhere in the background. No Christmas music. That had been my only request. She must have been feeling generous because she honored it—no questions asked. As I made a note about lighting, I pictured the beautiful blond child I met yesterday at the theater. I couldn’t get her face, her smile, her joy out of my mind.
My chest warmed when I thought about the way she tapped each of Weston’s fists, knowing there was a piece of gum waiting for her inside one. She chose correctly. Everything about her seemed healthy and whole. It was nearly impossible to believe that something so toxic lived inside her.
A loud rap on the door caused me to drop my pen.
“I’ll get it,” Nan practically sang.
I expected Eddy’s shrill bark to reverberate off the walls any second, but instead, I heard a familiar baritone.
“Good evening, Nan.”
I froze. Why is he here?
“Is Georgia around?”
“She sure is . . . right over there, roasting herself by the fireplace.”
I pretended not to hear the conversation that was just twenty feet from me and began writing completely illegible notes on the paper next to my thigh.
“Hey.”
A knot formed at the base of my belly when I glanced up at him. The scent of freshly cut timber lingered between us. And though my pulse quickened to a staccato, I replied as coolly as possible, “Hey.”
“I was asked to give you something.” He pulled an envelope from the back pocket of his jeans.
“Please have a seat, Weston. Can I get you a cup of coffee or hot chocolate?” Nan asked from the kitchen.
Really, the woman was nearly insufferable at times. I hid my inner eye roll.
“Oh, well . . . if it isn’t any trouble. A cup of coffee would be great. Black, please.”
“Decaf?”
“Nah, I’ll be up for a while tonight.”
Weston took a seat across from me on the floral sofa. What is happening here? I touched the messy bun atop my head in search of stray locks, suddenly self-conscious as his gaze fixated on my face.
I looked down at the envelope in my hands and ran a finger under the flap on the back.
“It’s from Savannah,” Weston said.
I pulled out two folded pieces of construction paper and studied them both silently. The first was a letter, addressed to me in the sweetest—and messiest—handwriting I’d ever seen.
Dear Miss Georgia,
Thank you for helping me. I love when the angel comes to Mary. I want to see an angel someday.
Love,
Savannah
On the second page was a picture of Savannah’s angel with Mary. She labeled them both. And the best part was that Mary looked to be in jeans and a T-shirt. I smiled at her originality.
“I think that’s the first honest smile I’ve seen since you got here.”
I wiped it from my face immediately.
Tucking the paper back inside the envelope, I forced out a reply: “Please tell her I said thank you.”
“She’s leaving in the morning for Portland—to start her treatments.”
My gut twisted and my gaze flickered to his briefly. “I’m sorry.”
Biting my bottom lip, I stared at the papers scattered around me.
There were several seconds of uncomfortable quiet, the kind that made my skin itch. I swallowed. Finally, Nan strolled in with Weston’s coffee. She handed him the mug.
“I think I’ll head back to my bedroom to read. Gotta keep the old mind in shape. Good night, kids.”
Naturally.
Weston said good night to her, and I imagined all the ways I could drain his coffee mug so that he would make a quick exit as well.
“So . . . what are you doing down there on the floor?” he asked.
“Working.”
He chuckled. “Anything I can help you with?”
You leaving would help me immensely. “Nope. I’ve got it covered,” I said, marking page numbers on the script in front of me.
“You haven’t changed.”
Was that an insult? “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Who said I was disappointed?”
My breathing faltered, and I forced my next words to the surface. “Listen, I want to help your niece, Weston. She seems like a great little girl. And you know I’ll do my best to raise the funds she needs for her medical care, but I do not have energy to do . . . whatever this is.” I looked up at him despite my internal protest. “I’ll have your scene list ready by tomorrow night so you can build the sets accordingly.”
“So, that’s it, then?”
I gawked at him. What else does he want from me?
“Um . . . pretty much, yeah.”
“Fine.” He stood, placing his mug on the coffee table beside me.
“Fine,” I said, standing quickly to beat him to the front door.
Swinging it wide, I felt a burst of frosty air bite my face and sting my eyes. Weston took two steps out the door, then turned to face me again. My lungs emptied of oxygen as I worked to rip my gaze from his.
“I live in the blue house on Maple and Tenth.”
He lives here . . . in Lenox?
I opened my mouth to ask—
“You can take your set demands there after rehearsal tomorrow night.”
The wind cut through me, and I shivered. “You’re not coming?”
“Are you asking me to come?” His eyes sparked with challenge, but I refused the bait. I didn’t need him. I would never rely on Weston James.
Not again.
“No.”
He chuckled before jogging down the steps toward the walkway. Just as I closed the door, I heard, “Good night, Miss Figgy Pudding.”