CHAPTER SIX
Just as I predicted, Mrs. Harper lectured me quite extensively before handing over the theater key. I wanted to fire back with a little speech of my own, starting with, “Listen, lady, I didn’t ask to direct a Christmas play during my vacation,” and ending with, “Perhaps you should go make a few copies down at Ernie’s Hardware if you’re that concerned about losing the key.” But I simply smiled and kept my mouth shut.
As I walked out of the school office and slipped the treasured key into my coat pocket, a throat cleared behind me. I knew before turning around exactly whom that throat belonged to.
“You just can’t stay away from me, can you?”
“I actually forgot you worked here.” Big. Fat. Lie.
Weston’s eyes may have reflected disbelief, but he didn’t call me out. Instead, he said, “Do you have a minute? I need to show you something . . . in the shop.”
I glanced around. No students. Deserted hallway. Didn’t anyone hang around after dismissal anymore?
After our awkwardly intimate exchange this morning, it seemed strange to debate such a small request, but that was exactly what I was doing. The school held a lethal number of memories, especially where Weston was concerned.
“I can spare five minutes,” I lied again. In fact, I had over an hour before I was supposed to meet Misty at the theater.
Weston strode down the long hallway. Apparently, I was supposed to follow him.
The large shop had a concrete floor and was filled with workbenches, saws of many varieties, and wood. Lots of wood. I realized why Weston always smelled like freshly cut timber.
I touched one of the tall countertops and swiped my finger through a fine layer of dust.
“Bring back memories?”
I glanced up at Weston, who was studying me from across the room. I took in his dark wash jeans and olive thermal shirt. My cheeks burned with awareness. He wasn’t like any high school teacher I remembered. That was for sure. And I was willing to bet he had quite a large group of cougar moms following him around—not the kind with fur and fangs. Okay, perhaps fangs.
“Not all memories should be resurrected,” I mumbled under my breath.
He slapped a large piece of graph paper onto the counter and pulled up a metal stool beside me. I remained standing.
Resting his chin on his palm, he said, “I don’t know. I can recall some pretty good ones. Remember our build-off junior year?”
“You mean the one where you paid Jimmy Lawkins to spray paint all my tools pink?”
“Well, it’s not like you didn’t retaliate.”
I laughed easily, remembering how I’d managed to steal his remaining allotted nails, which ultimately helped me win the competition.
“A woman must never reveal her secrets.”
He grinned his wickedly annoying smile, dimples grooving deep, while my stomach plummeted fifty floors.
Needing a quick diversion, I refocused my attention on the graph paper.
“So, what is this?” I asked.
“A sketch-up of your set pieces.”
My eyebrows could not have arched any higher. “You always were such an overachiever.”
“I learned from the best.”
Then he pointed to each piece, explaining it in detail. His arm grazed mine, and my skin ignited.
“Looks good.”
His eyes lingered on my face. “Yes, I agree.”
I took a step to the side. “You sure you’ll be able to finish this in time? It seems like a lot of work.”
“You doubt me, Georgia? You know I enjoy a challenge as much as you do.”
The temperature of the room rose by a hundred degrees. As I looked anywhere but at Weston’s face, something in the corner of the room caught my eye. I walked toward it as he spoke.
“For the two weeks before school lets out for winter break, I’ll have my classes working on some of these bigger pieces. And then I’ll finish up the rest at my shop at home.”
I nodded, only half listening.
“What are these?” I asked. On a table were tiny replicas of furniture.
“It’s, uh . . . something I’ve been working on in my free time. For Savannah.”
My hand hovered over a miniature sofa set.
“Go ahead.”
I examined one of the chairs. So much detail was etched into every centimeter. He had a lot of talent . . . not surprisingly. Weston could do anything he put his mind to. He’d always been that way.
“These are beautiful.”
“So is she.” He cleared his throat. “I talked with her a couple of hours ago, actually. The side effects of the chemo are starting to make her pretty sick . . . but she’s a trooper.”
I carefully touched a dining table and chair set, thinking of the little girl who should be home playing with these, not lying in a hospital bed.
“I’m heading up to see her on Sunday. Thought maybe I could bring a couple of video clips of rehearsal to show her. It would make her happy to see what’s going on.”
“Sure. Whatever I can do for her.”
“Thank you.”
My stomach knotted at the vulnerability in his voice. I had no doubt he loved his niece, but I sensed there was something unique he shared with her.
As I turned to leave, he called my name.
“Yes?”
“If I promise to wake you up the next time you pass out on my couch, will you call me your friend?”
“You’re unbelievable.” I bit back a smile.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
I waved before walking out of the shop.
Halfway down the hall, I heard him bellow, “O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree!”
As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t suppress my giggle.
Five minutes into the first rehearsal, I realized why I’d never dreamed of directing.
Half a dozen students ran around the stage aimlessly, while another few texted on their phones as if life itself hung in the balance. But the worst was the group who fought over what the ideal costume should look like for each modernized character. And those were the adults! At the center of that particular argument was Sydney Parker.
It was like watching Real Housewives of Lenox, Oregon. I realized that every one of the women who signed up to help with costume design had been a cheerleader.
Shoot me now.
When the arguing got so out of control that I could no longer hear the voices in my head, I turned to Misty and asked whether it would be appropriate for me to wear a whistle during future rehearsals. When she laughed, I took it as a sign I was in for trouble.
Finally, I stood up. “Okay, okay! I’m going to need everyone except for my cast to step out of the theater, please. We have a lot to get done here tonight.”
Sydney put her hand on her hip. “And just where are we supposed to go? We need to figure out these costumes or your cast will have nothing to wear!”
Calm down, Blondie.
“Well, why don’t you try a coffee shop or maybe one of your living rooms? You have a large house, right, Syd?”
She turned the color of Pepto-Bismol and clamped her mouth shut, glancing around nervously. “Well . . . I . . . fine. Ladies, let’s head to the coffee shop on eighteenth. I’ll buy the drinks.”
Snatching her designer purse off one of the theater chairs, she marched her crew out the side exit.
Thank God.
“All right, Mary and Joseph, please take center stage. You, there—kid with the plaid boxer briefs hanging out of his pants—please stop harassing the wise men. And . . . girl with the pink stripe in your hair, can you collect everyone’s chewing gum in a waste-basket? And for the love of all that is good and holy . . . No cell phones during rehearsal!”
Suddenly, all eyes were on me.
Fine. Good. Perfect.
Misty gave me a thumbs-up and flashed a you-tell-’em grin my way.
“Now, please open your scripts for our first read-through. We’ll do this three times tonight, and then I want this memorized by the end of the week. We have a lot of blocking and scene changes to learn. I do not want you to be fumbling with lines, understood? If you know your times tables, then you can memorize a script.”
“Um . . . not everyone knows their times tables, Miss Cole,” said boxer-brief boy in the back. Everyone laughed.
Gosh, I need to learn their names soon.
“Well, if you can memorize the script, I will memorize all your names. Deal?”
“Deal!”
Great. Who said teenagers are so hard, anyway? They seem perfectly lovely to me.
But by the third read-through, I was starting to have some serious doubts. Four weeks. No, twenty-seven days. Maybe we should just get a giant group of kids together to sing “Frosty the Snowman” and “Jingle Bells” and call it good.
This is not LA. These are not professionals.
I tried to remind myself of that fact—many times over.
“Okay, stop.” I stood and walked over to the stage, although I did not get on it.
I wasn’t exactly sure what to say, but I knew I couldn’t listen to another word without giving some kind of direction. It simply wasn’t working. My actors sounded like . . . well . . . high schoolers.
We just stood there, staring blankly at each other, waiting for a magic solution I wasn’t sure how to provide.
Um . . .
“No one sounds like they care.”
I spun around.
Weston. Naturally.
He sauntered down the center aisle, measuring tape in hand.
“Josie, pretend like you’re talking with Max whenever you have a scene with Justin. You two are supposed to be getting married. And Justin, you have to enunciate your words, bud.”
He was right. Dang it. He was so right.
I didn’t know who Max was, but given the blush on Josie’s face, he was obviously someone she had a crush on.
“Okay, Mr. James,” Justin said.
“Mary—I mean—Josie, let’s take it from page twenty-three,” I said.
They started reading again. I felt the eyes of Weston on me, but refused to turn around. Instead, I focused on the stage.
As we painfully limped to the end of the script, I heard the snap of Weston’s measuring tape several times. I managed to sneak a few glances at him while he was busy scribbling on his tablet.
When we called it a wrap, the daunting amount of work left to do hit me like a punch to the gut. It was going to take a lot more than a few simple pointers. There was still music, blocking, lighting, props, costumes—
Savannah. Remember Savannah.
“Don’t stress about it. It will all come together. It’s Christmastime. No one expects perfection. People just want somewhere to spend an evening with family and friends and have the opportunity to help out a great cause,” Misty said.
Why doesn’t that feel like enough for me?
Misty gave me a quick hug and told me she would be back tomorrow night, same time, same place.
Pulling my jacket on, I heard the lobby doors to the theater bang closed. I glanced around.
I was alone.
Weston must have left with the cast. Without saying good-bye. Good. It’s better that way.
Shoving my hands into the pockets of my coat, I walked toward the stage, staring it down like the Goliath it had become. For being an inanimate object, it had a surprisingly intense impact on me. And just like viewing an old movie, the vivid details of my humiliation played out for me again.
Right here, on this very spot, Weston James had set me up for the last time. He’d done permanent and irrevocable damage to my heart. And I’d allowed it. I’d allowed myself to be blinded by his alluring glances, his sexy dimples, and his sultry smiles.
But it was a ruse. Just like our secret friendship had been.
Adored for his magnetic charisma, Weston had always had it easy—family, friends, girlfriends, sports, talents, you name it. He charmed the world.
But I wouldn’t give in to that charm of his. Not this time.
What did I care about a missed good-bye tonight—or any other night for that matter? After all, we hadn’t spoken in seven years! Hadn’t I already proven to myself that I didn’t need him?
I shoved my hands inside my coat pockets and turned away from the stage, fixing my gaze on a giant red-and-green wreath hanging on the back wall.
A second punch to the gut in only a few seconds.
Christmas.
Repressing the hurts that ensnared my heart around the holiday season wasn’t always possible, but whatever memories I couldn’t bury completely, I’d found another way to conquer.
On paper.
And thus, my career was born.
Within the limitless boundaries of my imagination, every perfect cliché of Christmas hovered on the tips of my fingers. The joy, the cheer, the happiness—all of it could be real: families gathering for traditional meals, and parents doting on their grateful children while gifting them treasures purchased with care and thought and . . . love.
Nothing could taint the Christmases I created in my mind.
No matter how my past had failed me.
And no matter who had failed me.
I may have lacked firsthand experience in the magic of Christmas, but my ambition to rise above my shortcomings proved stronger. Like it always had.
Nan was right: can’t was simply not an option.
I locked the theater door with the sacred key and turned to face the dark, empty parking lot.
Shoot! I forgot I walked here.
I was so not in LA anymore. There wasn’t a single light anywhere on the street. And it was only nine.
I started walking, cursing the wind gusts that seemed to blow directly from the Arctic, and calculated how quickly a girl without gloves and a hat could last in thirty-degree weather. My hands were turning a strange shade of red, and my face had gone completely numb—again.
I heard a loud rumble behind me. “Hey, is your name Candy? As in Candy Cane? Want a ride?”
Despite my near hypothermia, I ignored the obnoxious but familiar voice shouting through the open window of the truck rolling up beside me.
Though I could imagine the feel of the heater vent blowing across my frostbitten skin, my willpower held out.
“Come on, stop being so stubborn. I got halfway home and realized I didn’t see your car in the parking lot. You must be freezing. Get in, Georgia.”
“N-n-no. I’m f-f-fine.”
He laughed but continued to match my pace. “Get in, Georgia.”
“W-w-e aren’t-t f-friend-ds, West-ton-n.”
“Fine. Whatever you say. Now, get in this truck before I throw you over my shoulder.”
He stopped the truck the very millisecond I stopped walking. When I tried to grip the door handle, it snapped away from my hand, twice. My fingers were now beet purple, and my hands were frozen into arthritic claws. As I climbed into the seat, he turned all the heater vents toward me. I wasn’t about to complain. If blood could freeze inside a living body, I was almost positive it was happening inside mine right now.
“You should remember how cold the winter nights get. You did grow up here, you know.”
I didn’t respond, but only because my jaw needed to defrost before I could open my mouth.
“And where are your gloves?”
I balled my hands in front of the vent and shrugged.
After a few moments, he sighed. “You’ll get it, you know. Those kids on stage—you can make them great. You just need to show them you believe in them. Learn who they are. If you do that, they will give you what you want. I promise.”
I shivered involuntarily. “You know all of them?”
“Yep. I’ve had every single one of them in my class at some point.”
It was still so strange for me to think of Weston as a shop teacher. Weston, who had dreamed of designing buildings and skyscrapers since second grade.
He pulled into Nan’s driveway and then hopped out, opening my door before I could protest.
“All you have to do is say the word, Georgia. I could help you pull this off. But I won’t be ignored.”
I stared at him dead-on, my earlier resolve coming back full force. “I appreciate the ride tonight and the set construction, but I’ll be fine on my own.”
When I started to walk toward the front door, he caught up to me and grabbed my arm, pulling me back. “When you change your mind, and you will change your mind, Nan has my number.”
“Your cockiness is out of control.”
His eyes roamed my face before fixing on my lips. “You don’t really think that. You know me, Georgia.”
I swallowed as he leaned in so close I could smell the peppermint on his breath.
His right dimple came to life as his mouth ticked up on one side. “Good night, Frost Princess. I’ll see you around.”
As I watched him pull away, I was no longer concerned about the chill of the air, but about the protective frozen wall around my heart . . . that was slowly beginning to melt.