A Cliché Christmas Read online

  “It’s community theater, Cara, not Broadway. The cast is mostly made up of high school students.”

  “Ooh . . . like Glee? Any hot music teachers?” she asked.

  No, only hot shop teachers.

  “Not quite. How were your classes today?”

  “Great. You’ll never believe who signed up. You know that blond from that one movie with the shark in Hawaii . . .”

  And with that, Cara was lost in her own little world of Hollywood stardom. The number of actors and actresses who came into her yoga studio was obscene. I laughed at her creative descriptions as I passed the post office and the secondhand bookstore.

  “. . . and then I was like, ‘no bleeping way!’ and she was like, ‘yes bleeping way’—”

  “Hey, Cara—I gotta go. I’ll text you tonight, okay?”

  “Cool. Just don’t die in an avalanche walking to the high school, okay?”

  “Cara, you really need to read up on the Northwest, sweetie.”

  I ended the call and peeked through the large picture window of Sullivan’s Bookstore but was surprised to see that old, crotchety Mr. Sullivan was not the one behind the counter. I loved the store, but the foul mood of Mr. Sullivan usually kept me away. On the glass door was a cheery sign that read “Sunshine Books.” I smiled, remembering Nan’s words to me. “Allow yourself to see with fresh eyes, Georgia.”

  “Good afternoon, may I help you find something?” the woman at the counter asked.

  My lips twitched into a grin, and I was momentarily shocked at the difference one attitude can have on an atmosphere. The knife of Nan’s words kept twisting.

  “No, thanks. Just wanted to browse for a few minutes,” I said before doing a double take. “Mrs. Brown?”

  Her head shot up again from the open book on her lap. “Georgia? Oh, I’m so happy you came in today! I was hoping to run into you.”

  My high school guidance counselor embraced me so tightly I nearly coughed. “I heard what you’re doing for the Harts, and I think it’s wonderful.”

  “When did you buy this store, Mrs. Brown?”

  She laughed. “I’m retired now, no need for formalities. Please call me Violet. Let’s see . . . It’s been about three years ago now.”

  “Well, it looks great.”

  We chatted for a few minutes more, catching up on the last seven years, including my notorious Hallmark movies, with which she seemed well acquainted.

  As I strolled through the store, touching the spines of dozens of books, I thought of Nan. She had planted a love of reading in me many years ago.

  There were so many stories, plots, dreams, and visions enclosed in this tiny space. So many hours of toilsome labor. After browsing through the mystery and romance sections, I came to a small shelf labeled “Classics.”

  I stopped abruptly.

  “No way,” I whispered.

  I carefully lifted the pale-blue leather-bound copy of Little Women from the shelf and found my eyes misting up for a second time that day. This was Nan’s favorite book—mine, too. It was the first chapter book she’d ever read to me. It’s what inspired me to become such an avid reader and writer. Nan always said that I was her Jo March.

  How I had longed for a family like the Marches.

  Ironically, I didn’t long for a daddy nearly as much as I longed for sisters . . . and for a mom who enjoyed being a mother.

  I flipped to the back, reading one of my favorite passages—though I’d almost committed it to memory like so many other passages in this book. Laurie (Teddy), who’d loved Jo as a child, shows up and surprises her by announcing he’s married Amy, Jo’s sister.

  I could almost hear his voice as I read the passage:

  “You both got into your right places, and I felt sure that it was well off with the old love before it was on with the new, that I could honestly share my heart between sister Jo and wife Amy, and love them dearly. Will you believe it, and go back to the happy old times when we first knew one another?”

  “I’ll believe it, with all my heart, but, Teddy, we never can be boy and girl again. The happy old times can’t come back, and we mustn’t expect it. We are man and woman now, with sober work to do, for playtime is over, and we must give up frolicking.”

  “I never could get over that ending.”

  I jumped at the sound of Violet’s voice.

  Dreamily, I sighed, picturing the scene at the end where Friedrich comes to find Jo and mistakes her as the March sister who has recently married. Jo chases after him in the rain, and he says, “But I have nothing to give you. My hands are empty.” Jo intertwines her fingers with his and says, “Not empty now.”

  “Yes, that’s a great scene,” I agreed.

  “No, it’s not. It’s torturous!”

  I took a step back and turned to face her. “What do you mean?”

  “I think Louisa May Alcott got it wrong. I wanted Teddy to marry Jo. They were meant for each other.”

  I gaped at her bold words. This was pure sacrilege—and in a bookstore no less! I took another step back in case a bolt of lightning came down to strike her where she stood.

  “But Teddy couldn’t marry Jo! There was too much history between them, too many childish memories and—” Calm down, Georgia.

  Violet beamed. “I can get pretty passionate about books, too. It’s why I wanted to buy this place from mean old Mr. Sullivan.”

  I studied the old leather book in my hand. “How much is this?”

  She looked at the book and then back at me. “It was appraised at five hundred. It’s a first edition, printed in 1911.”

  I had spent more than that on Nan for vacations, but a single book for five hundred dollars? Nan would lock me out of the house if she knew I’d spent that kind of cash on a gift. Anyway, she didn’t do gifts. She believed we should bless one another all year round with acts of service instead of some onetime piece of garbage (her words, not mine). That being said, the woman had more books than anyone I knew—and she cherished them like no one else I knew.

  “Okay. I’d like to get it.”

  Violet’s eyebrows shot up as she took the book from me and placed it on the counter. She didn’t move as she stared at me. “I’ll tell you what . . . I’ll give you twenty percent off if you’ll come back and tell me all the reasons you think Jo and Teddy weren’t right for each other.”

  My eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Yep. I found this at an estate sale and got it for dirt cheap. I’ll still be making a profit, I promise you.”

  I was intrigued. Definitely intrigued.

  “Okay. Deal.”

  “Great. I love a good literary debate—especially over a classic like Little Women.”

  She rang it up and wrapped the book, so I could stick it into my satchel and hide it when I got home.

  “Thank you, Violet.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, don’t forget to stop by, okay?”

  I nodded as the bells on the door announced my departure.

  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 star
ting 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—