A Cliché Christmas Page 3

  “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.

&
nbsp; “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.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I’d been staring up at the ceiling in my tiny bedroom for hours, thinking about Savannah’s letter—and a certain uncle of hers.

  Whether it was the seventh-grade home economics bake-off when Weston put cumin in my oatmeal cookies instead of cinnamon, or when I stole his shoelaces before the timed mile run in PE our sophomore year, Weston and I had more stories than a library could contain. Our entire childhood—kindergarten through high school graduation—overflowed with our shared history. He teased me relentlessly growing up, and I had secretly relished his attention.

  We ran in completely separate circles, if you could call my complete lack of social status a circle. But even though we were never officially friends, I knew Weston James had accepted me even when none of the others had.

  And it was all fun and games until—

  I sat up in bed, unwilling to let my mind wander any further. Instead, I fixated on something else entirely. Throwing off my covers, I made a dash for the living room, where I’d left Savannah’s letter. I pushed her grateful words aside and lifted the creative drawing of her modern-day Mary to the dying firelight.

  Modern Mary.

  And that’s when I struck gold. At 3:03 on Monday morning. Why does creativity flourish at the most inopportune times?

  I grabbed my laptop from the sofa and clicked open a new document. Instead of the blink of the cursor taunting me, I found a friendly challenge. A new story waited to be told. Yes, I may have been so over Christmas plots in general, but there was something quite enticing about a modern-day Nativity scene. I picked up the pile of scattered papers marked with useless notes and set them aside.

  I lifted up a silent prayer, hoping I could pull this off in time for the casting.

  And then I typed. Furiously.

  Fifteen hours and counting . . .

  Sleep was overrated anyway.

  With a fresh script in one hand, my fourth cup of double-shot espresso in the other, and my undereye concealer as thick as painter’s putty, I was ready to face the music—literally. I could hear the plunking of piano keys from the parking lot.

  As the doors of the theater whooshed open, I found myself searching every face. True to his word, Weston wasn’t there. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

  I hated the idea of him hovering around, yet driving to his house later to drop off the set plans was likely a worse fate.

  Betty took the stage. “Gather around everyone. Our director is here.”

  I walked toward the stage, quietly refusing to join her up there. Once had been enough. I stayed on the floor just below her. When I reached for the microphone, she looked at me with confusion in her eyes.

  “I’m fine down here. Thank you, Betty.” She nodded, handing it over immediately.

  “Thank you all for coming tonight,” I began. “I’ll be casting for the roles in Modern Mary in a few minutes, but if there isn’t a role for you, please know that we can still use you somewhere. This production will take a lot of work to pull off. We may have set a lofty goal, but it’s for a good cause. Let’s not forget that.”

  I heard several verbal confirmations before I continued. “This play is a new one.” The I-wrote-it-this-morning kind of new. “It was actually inspired by Savannah herself, and I hope you’ll be as excited as I am about it. It’s the Christmas story we all know . . . but set in modern times. What if Mary were a freshman in high school? What if the wise men were stockbrokers from New York? What if the shepherds who were out tending their flocks were actually cowboys on a dude ranch? It’s the same story with a modern twist.”

  “Don’t you think it’s sacrilegious to make the Virgin Mary a high school student?”

  I stood on my tiptoes to see where the sharp voice had come from. It didn’t take long to find the source. Sydney Parker stood to the side, arms crossed over her large and perky chest.

  “I mean, really? That sounds like a bad holiday TV special.”

  Her well-planned dig was easy enough to avert.

  “Well, good thing it’s just a pageant then, one to raise money for a sick little girl who loves to draw Mary in jeans and a T-shirt.”

  The sour look on Sydney’s pouty lips intensified.

  “Anyone else?” I asked the crowd.

  “Sounds cool!” an older teenage boy yelled. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  “Yeah. Let’s do it!” another one said.

  I wiped the smirk meant for Sydney from my face and then announced each part. Audition lines formed as Betty and I settled into the front-row theater seats. I found myself wishing for a third person to help with the judging, dismissing Weston’s face as soon as it came to mind. I looked around the crowd again and saw an old acquaintance from high school, Misty Peach.

  She was as sweet as her name implied, and better yet, she had been a stagehand for our high school plays. I swallowed the humilia
tion that surfaced when I thought about one particular production and waved her over. She looked more than a little surprised.

  “Hey, Georgia—did you need me?”

  “Yes! Hey, Misty.” I smiled and touched her shoulder. “Would you mind helping me cast tonight? It’s better to have three heads instead of two. That way there’s a tiebreaker.”

  She bit her lip. “Well . . . I suppose I could do that. I’m not very qualified, though, I’m afraid. I’m a stay-at-home mom, not a professional in . . . well, anything.”

  I squeezed her arm. “You’ll be perfect.”

  “If you say so. I do love Savannah. She’s in my son’s kindergarten class at school . . . I think this is a great idea.”

  I patted the chair next to me. “Thank you, Misty.”

  For the next two hours, I listened, took notes, and tried not to yawn or fall off my seat from exhaustion as every able body in Lenox tried out for Modern Mary.

  When the last audition was done, my eyes actually started to leak tears—a mixture of fatigue, joy, and pure delirium.

  The three of us agreed on every casting decision except for the boy who would play Joseph. Betty was insistent on giving the part to Ben (a teenager who picked his nose halfway through his reading and proceeded to wipe it on his jeans) whereas I felt Justin was a better fit. Thank goodness Misty chimed in with her two cents.

  “Betty, Ben may be your nephew, but we can’t show favoritism in casting. Justin is my choice, too, and majority rules.”

  I like this girl.

  “Well, it sounds like we’re done here, then.” I yawned as Betty moved to stand up. “Thank you both for your input tonight. Betty, I’m grateful for your help with the music.” Her countenance lifted at the compliment.

  “I’m glad to help.” She grinned, her short salt-and-pepper hair bouncing with each step as she walked out the door.

  “Misty, how would you like to be my assistant?”

  She smiled wide. “Really? I’d love to. Thank you, Georgia. I’ll just need to work out child care in the evenings with my husband, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”