A Cliché Christmas Page 15

  And then Sydney took the stage.

  “Good evening, everyone. Tonight is a special night for several reasons. Not only are we fund-raising for Lenox’s very own Savannah Hart, we are also about to witness a unique rendition of the Christmas story.”

  Okay, maybe she isn’t as bad as I thought.

  “Now, as many of you know, there is a bake sale being held at the senior center immediately after the performance, and one hundred percent of the proceeds will go to benefit this great cause.”

  Sydney turned to glance in my direction, and as she did, a nervous shiver went down my spine.

  “But I also wanted to share some very exciting news—since it pertains to this beloved building. Georgia Cole and Weston James, can you join me on the stage?”

  What? No . . . What is she doing?

  Weston walked onto the stage from the opposite side, looking as surprised as I did. His glare suddenly turned murderous as he focused on Sydney. On shaky legs, I walked forward, reaching Sydney’s side as the crowd waited, the air thick with anticipation.

  “I am sure that many of us remember the last time this building was used for a production of this magnitude. In fact, these two standing beside me were the original leads that night, until Georgia had a little mishap on stage, and I filled in.” Sydney smiled as several of the townspeople chuckled. I could feel the color drain from my face. My pulse whooshed in my ears like crashing ocean waves. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Weston reach for the microphone, but Sydney took a step forward, leaving us standing behind her. When his hand didn’t reach for mine, an icy awareness filled my blood.

  “Since that night years ago, this theater has held a very special place in my heart, and as of this afternoon, my offer to buy this building has been accepted. It will undergo some spectacular renovations in order to become Parker Fitness and Spa—Lenox’s first health club! And all of it has been designed by our very own Weston James, my business partner.”

  Whoosh.

  Whoosh.

  Whoosh.

  I blinked several times. Savannah’s tender face grounded my urge to run, or cry, or kick someone—or two someones. The stage lights above bore down on my skull as the weak applause from the crowd died down enough to hear the first three notes of a well-known Christmas medley. As soon as Nan struck the keys of the piano, the sound jolted me back. I forced a smile and scurried off toward backstage. My legs felt hollow and numb, each step heavy and deadened by my stupidity and regret.

  I gripped the velvet curtain and swayed unsteadily. There was commotion all around me, but I couldn’t move. My knees threatened to give out, and the pressure building in my chest made me short of breath.

  “Miss Cole! Are you all right?”

  Kevin stood in front of me, concern filling his eyes.

  Josie touched my shoulder. “Should I go on, Miss Cole? The music started already.”

  Though my throat was completely dry, I managed to croak out a quiet command.

  “Yes, Josie.”

  I couldn’t let go of the curtain that was in my white-knuckle grasp. “Everyone get back to your places. We’re starting.”

  Kevin didn’t budge. “Shouldn’t I get Mr. Jam—”

  “No. I mean, please don’t, Kevin. We’re starting.”

  He nodded reluctantly and walked away, looking back at me every few seconds before he finally disappeared from view.

  Business partner? Designer? Fitness center?

  The words were a sledgehammer of pain, striking against my heart repeatedly.

  And just like seven years before, the pieces of my life shattered and fell, while Weston James stood back and watched the show.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Despite the rolling sickness in my gut, I made it through the show, physically shrugging Weston off each of the six times he tried to pull me aside during the performance. I had only so much strength—and right now, I needed it for Savannah.

  Not for her backstabbing uncle.

  I walked to the lobby to shake hands with the townspeople, to accept flowers, and to encourage patrons to head over to the senior center. All the while my smile felt as plastic as Holiday Barbie’s.

  The kids had rocked it. And they knew it.

  Every moment of every scene had been on target, and they had shone like bright beacons of talent. Especially Josie and Kevin. But instead of brimming with pride, a second wave of grief swept over me. Sydney wasn’t just destroying the theater: she was taking away these students’ ability to belong to something more. Something that mattered. And though I wanted to weep with pride for all they had accomplished tonight despite their emotionally comatose director, a vine of sorrow coiled around my heart.

  Several parents expressed their surprise about Sydney’s announcement, but I simply nodded, refusing to comment. I didn’t know what to say. I still didn’t understand it myself.

  Nan and Eddy left for the senior center when the show finished, and I was grateful for that. Hugging Nan would be my undoing, and I needed to stay strong and in control.

  As I flicked off the last of the lights for what would likely be the last time, I heard his voice.

  “It’s not what you think, Georgia. Let me explain.”

  My laugh was humorless. “Oh? And what do I think? That you lied to me? That you played me? That you sold me out for Sydney Parker?”

  “It’s not like that, Georgia.”

  I spun around to face him. “Then tell me what it’s like! I guess it wasn’t enough for Sydney to be the mastermind behind my most humiliating moment seven years ago. This time she went and got herself an accomplice.”

  He rubbed his face. “Sydney’s not—”

  I held up my hand. “You know what? I don’t want to listen to this. Whatever sick and twisted relationship you have with that woman is none of my concern. You two are made for each other.”

  I pushed the door open and stepped outside. He followed me, waiting as I turned the key in the lock.

  Even in the darkness, I could see the deep furrow in Weston’s brow. “None of your concern? Don’t say that, Georgia. Sydney and I don’t have a relationship!”

  “Excuse me, I guess I should say, business partner.” I paused, using air quotes for emphasis. “Here, you might want to give this to her.” Slapping the key into his palm, I refused to let the threatening surge of emotion fill my chest.

  The click of my heels matched the speed of my heart as I raced toward my car, but Weston arrived first.

  Urgh.

  “Sydney and I are not business partners. She contracted me to draw up some plans for her about six months ago, but the city turned down her permit to build—twice. When she mentioned the theater—”

  I shoved him.

  He rocked back, his eyes round with surprise.

  “You knew she was going to make an offer, and you listened to me go on and on about my plans without telling me? You’re revolting!”

  “I was just as surprised as you were tonight! Do you really think I want Sydney to turn that theater into a spa? Really?” He shook his head. “Georgia, I didn’t want to tell you because I was doing everything in my power to change her mind. I didn’t think she would do it.”

  I glared at him. “Like what?”

  He rubbed his head and took a deep breath. “Like paying her back my fee for drawing up her blueprints. And it was more than just a few pennies, believe me.”

  “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “I don’t want to believe you.”

  “Well, it’s the truth, Georgia. I never wanted Sydney to buy that theater. I want you here. I want you with me. I want—”

  I shook my head. “It was a mistake to think I could stay here. My mom was right.”

  “Your mom?”

  Weston grabbed me and forced me to look at him.

&nbs
p; “That’s it, isn’t it?” The unsettling calm in his voice sliced me deeper than the blade of a knife ever could.

  I fought against his hold. “Stop it, don’t try to psychoanalyze me. This is about you.”

  “No. This is about her! I’m not trading you in, Georgia. I’m not waiting around for a better deal . . . I’m not giving you up. Not for anything.” With one quick yank of a loose emotional thread, he was unraveling me.

  “Stop, please.” I squirmed in his grasp.

  “That’s what you meant the other night—about feeling support without condition. But what you really meant to say was that outside of Nan, you haven’t felt love without condition, right? That the only time you felt loved by your mother was when you were on top, succeeding and living the life she didn’t get to live herself. Well, her life is not yours!”

  I shook my head, a sob breaking from my chest.

  “Georgia,” he whispered.

  My chin quivered, my name a lonely, pathetic whisper on his lips. “It’s over, Weston.”

  “I’m not losing you, Georgia—not over this.”

  “I’ve never been yours to lose.”

  His hands fell away, the expression in his eyes punching me hard in the gut.

  Do it. Rip the bandage off.

  “I don’t belong here. And I don’t belong with you. Go to the bake sale, they’re expecting you, but please don’t come after me. I won’t change my mind.”

  His jaw was clenched tight as I got inside my car and pulled the door closed.

  And with all the strength I had, I slammed another door closed as well. One I prayed would never be reopened.

  Not by the kid who chased me around with a glue stick, not by the man who had stomped on my dreams—and my heart.

  Nan offered her condolences over a steaming cup of coffee, after I replayed the realtor’s message on my phone. It confirmed what I already knew—that Sydney’s bid had been chosen over mine. But I was no longer in the mood to shed tears or feel sorry for myself. I had done enough of that last night on my pillow. I had only one mission.

  To finish a debate I had started three weeks ago.

  The bells chimed as I stepped inside the bookstore. Violet looked both surprised and pleased to see me.

  “Well, I hoped I would see you back in here before Christmas. It was a great show last night. Hope there was a lot of money raised. The place was packed.”

  I nodded. “Thanks. I don’t know the final figures, but I think it will be a good-size check.”

  Violet pulled her glasses off and studied my face. “You all right?”

  “Not exactly, but I do want to have that debate—the one I promised you. About Little Women.”

  Her mouth curled into a half smile. “Sounds like you’ve put some thought into this.”

  I swallowed. Not enough, apparently. “Yes.”

  “Okay, then. You start. Tell me why Laurie and Jo were wrong for each other. What did Louisa May Alcott know that we don’t?”

  Easy. “They were too similar. Hot-tempered, stubborn, passionate. Not to mention there was way too much history between them. Sometimes starting over is the best thing we can do for ourselves, and Jo did that with the professor.”

  “Yes, and he was a bore! Sure, opposites attract, but sometimes the only way to understand who we are is to see ourselves through the eyes of someone just like us. Laurie and Jo had an understanding. They had a unique bond—one that is difficult to find in friendship, much less in love. And history? Tell me, if you were given the chance to watch the love of your life grow up, share in his memories, learn his family dynamics, wouldn’t you take it? No matter when love begins, history is only a step behind us—always.”

  I bit the insides of my cheeks, thinking. “Then why did Jo turn him down? Why did she say no to his proposal?”

  My head throbbed with the quiet tick of the clock.

  “Why don’t you tell me,” said Violet.

  I stared at the stain on the carpet. “I don’t know.”

  She chuckled. “Georgia, I’ve been married to my best friend for thirty-eight years. I’ve learned a few things about love and regret in that time.”

  Sliding my gaze up to hers, I watched her lean over the counter as if to tell me a secret. “Fear is love’s greatest opposition. Now . . . what are you afraid of?”

  The ache in my chest suddenly ignited, singeing the edges of carefully wrapped truths and melting layers of old hurts. “I should get going. Thank you again for the discounted book, Violet.”

  “Georgia?”

  Two steps from the door, I turned. “Yes?”

  “I married my Laurie . . . and it was the best decision of my life.”

  My hair was up, my sweats were on, and I was eating through my second box of Cocoa Puffs. Apparently, I didn’t need a storm warning to create a new stockpile.

  “Come with me, Georgia. I don’t want you to be alone tonight.”

  “I’m not, Nan. I have Mary Higgins Clark to keep me company.”

  She scowled. “That doesn’t seem like appropriate reading on Christmas Eve.”

  “Well, I live Christmas Eve eleven months out of the year. I’ll be fine.”

  Nan didn’t move an inch.

  “Go, Nan. Eddy needs you.”

  Her shoulders sagged with her exhale. “I’m sorry, Georgia.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for. You’re a good friend. Eddy is lucky to have you, and you’re lucky to have her.”

  I was pulling another handful of cereal from the box when I saw the tears falling from her eyes.

  “Not about that.” She waved her hand in the air. “About your mother. When your grandpa died . . . a part of me did, too. The holidays became so painful for me. He was the king of tradition and Christmas spirit, so I guess that when your mom acted indifferent toward the whole thing, I was kind of relieved. I just wanted to fill time, to spend the season helping others. But I’m afraid it came at a greater price than I realized. I didn’t think enough about the little girl in my own house. I won’t make excuses for your mother, Georgia, but whatever part my decisions have played in your hurt . . . I’m truly sorry.”

  The handful of Cocoa Puffs plinked onto the hardwood as I stumbled to my feet and flung my arms around her. I’d never seen her so exposed or so vulnerable.

  “Nan. I could never be upset with you. I don’t blame you for anything.” Then I squeezed her tighter. “I wish I could stay.” I wasn’t ready to leave her again.

  “I know, darlin’. I know. I wanted that, too.”

  Nan pressed a kiss to my forehead and made me promise I’d join her at Eddy’s if I started to feel lonely. Little did she know that Lonely and I had coexisted inside my world for as long as I could remember. Life was no different on the holidays.

  “I’ll be back late, but we can do Christmas breakfast together, okay?”

  “Okay.” I smiled. “But Nan . . . I did get you a gift this year. So you’d better prepare yourself now, all right?”

  She shook her head and chuckled. “I suppose.”

  That was as good as I would get on that particular point, no matter how sentimental she was feeling tonight.

  Snuggling into the sofa, I picked up my latest mystery novel and let my eyes drift over the words and paragraphs, pages and chapters. I didn’t comprehend a single phrase.

  At a quarter to nine, I decided I needed a walk.

  I didn’t care that it was freezing outside. I layered myself with Nan’s scarf and hat, and the warm black gloves Weston had bought me nearly four weeks before.

  The streets were silent, but lights glowed in every house. It was Christmas Eve after all. Who wasn’t home celebrating with family, reading “The Night Before Christmas,” and drinking hot chocolate?

  Me.

  I tugged my coat tighter and tromped u
p the frosty knoll toward the park. If there was one place I could imagine allowing myself to get frostbite, it was that park. After all, it was part of the majority of my childhood memories. The town’s big blinking Christmas tree was smack-dab in the middle of the open field, but that wasn’t the best part of the park this time of year. The Nativity scene, which was displayed a couple hundred feet away, was even more striking. The ground crunched beneath my feet as I made my way toward it.

  It was the typical setup: the stable, the manger, the wise men, the shepherds, and, of course, Mary and Joseph. But this time, as I stood staring, it no longer felt typical. I had retold the Christmas story dozens of times—profiting greatly from its themes—yet tonight, it felt . . .

  I knelt down in the hay, my heart beating hard and fast.

  As I stared into the manger where some child’s baby doll lay, I heard Violet’s voice sigh through my mind.

  “Fear is love’s greatest opposition . . . so what are you afraid of?”

  “What am I afraid of?” I whispered.

  As soon as I asked the question, I heard another voice . . . a stronger voice.

  “I’m not trading you in, Georgia. I’m not giving you up.”

  As my head fell forward, the walls inside me collapsed one by one.

  And then my tears came.

  Not for the woman I had become, but for the girl I had lost along the way.

  For all the years I tried to make up for my mother’s regrets with awards, scholarships, and contracts—I never truly believed she would love me without them. Yet someone had.

  For twenty-five years Nan had showered me with love and affection, but I’d been too focused on the gaping void my mother left behind, too absorbed with the crater of insecurity she’d created . . . that I didn’t see what was right in front of me.

  And maybe I’d done the same with Weston.

  And with God.

  Believing the voice of my fear—both past and present—had not kept me safe from rejection. It had held me hostage.