A Cliché Christmas Page 8

  His eyes crinkled. “You know . . . you’re pretty adorable when you’re not hating my guts.”

  Leaning in closely, I whispered, “Don’t get used to it.”

  He laughed.

  And so did I.

  Misty couldn’t make it to practice that day because her youngest was home sick with the stomach flu. In that moment, I was extremely grateful for Weston’s help.

  It was the first day of blocking. As usual, I directed from the floor while Weston assisted the cast onstage.

  “No, a little more to the left. And the shepherds need to be a lot farther back on stage right. Yep . . . right there is good.”

  Weston taped and marked as the kids rehearsed their places over and over.

  “What about the angel? You gonna try to lower him down?” Weston asked.

  I tilted my head and squinted, imagining how it all might play out. This was the most important scene because it was Savannah’s favorite.

  “I’d like to. Do you think we can rig it?”

  Weston beamed with confidence. “Absolutely.”

  The hours ticked by. Everyone ate sack lunches during a fifteen-minute break, and then we were back at it. No rest for the weary—or the holidayed out. That was my own personal motto, anyway.

  “It’s four,” Weston called out.

  Seriously? How did the time go by so fast?

  “Um . . . okay. Let’s meet back here Monday after school, and then we will lengthen practices when winter break starts next week.”

  Several kids exclaimed in glee while others groaned. I could empathize with both responses.

  As the last student exited, Weston made a move toward me, and my heart skipped an extra beat or two . . . or maybe ten.

  “We have a problem.” He read the question in my eyes. “I can’t continue practicing in this theater every day knowing the truth behind your stage fright.” He shook his head. “Especially when you’ve believed all these years that I arranged that prank. That seriously kills me, Georgia.”

  I swallowed hard. “Well, it wasn’t exactly pleasant for me, either.”

  He stopped a few inches in front of me. “I think we need to make it right.”

  I laughed. “What? How can we possibly do that? It was seven years ago, Weston.”

  He held out his hand. “Let me take you up on stage.”

  “I don’t want to go up there.”

  Angling his head to the side, he flashed a grin, and a lazy dimple winked at me. “You’ve never been afraid of anything, Georgia. Don’t start now. Come on, we’ll do it together.”

  Grabbing my hand, he pulled me toward the stairs.

  “No, seriously. I don’t want to go up there.” I tugged my hand away.

  “Georgia, what happened that night was not your fault.”

  No, but I finally know whose fault it was. A certain blond witch-of-a-woman who apparently has never been told no. By anyone.

  “It wasn’t yours, either.” The words felt strange coming out of my mouth, so opposite of my feelings for so many years.

  “So, let’s have a do-over. We both deserve one.”

  I rolled the idea around in my mind. “Fine.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  I pursed my lips to avoid the smile that threatened to break through. And then we were standing on the stage, looking out at the empty seats below us.

  “See? It’s not so awful.”

  My knees started to shake—quite literally. “Okay, I’m done now.”

  He laughed and pulled me back. “No, you’re not. Let’s do the scene.”

  “What? You’ve got to be joking. I don’t even know—”

  “Bull. You know it. You’ve probably replayed it in that brain of yours a thousand times. Now, go over there, and walk toward me.”

  I gawked at him, waiting for him to say, “Just kidding.”

  Only he wasn’t kidding.

  In a matter of seconds, I was walking toward him, saying the lines that had been lost in a sea of laughter seven years ago. It took me only a second to get into character. He was right. I knew these lines, almost as well as I remembered the character I played.

  “I don’t want your warning, Patrick. I don’t need it.”

  “You need it more than you realize, Catherine. If you marry him, he will ruin you and your family forever.”

  “Is that all you have to say to me?” I took another timid step toward Weston as he beckoned me closer with his hand. I knew what he wanted me to do, but I wasn’t sure I could do it.

  “What more do you want me to say? That I’ll have you? That I’ll be yours forever? I’ve said that with every look and every word I’ve ever spoken to you. You just haven’t been listening.”

  And then . . . I let go.

  I ran toward him, only this time—this time—Weston caught my waist and swung me around as I laughed, my head tipped back in unadulterated bliss.

  Freedom.

  As he slowly lowered me to the ground, his eyes drank me in. My knees weakened once more, but this time for a very different reason. Our silent stare sought the answer to one question, one that seemed to exist under my skin, through the fibers of my muscles, and in the marrow of my bones.

  Could Weston James and Georgia Cole be more than secret friends?

  And then his lips were on mine, his hands climbing from my hips to my face in tender expectation. As his thumbs caressed my cheekbones, Weston held me close, allowing his kiss to wash away my every doubt.

  Yes. The answer was clear. Yes, they could.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I used to buy a new pair of slippers every few months. Not because I needed them, but because the moment I placed my feet inside the warm and fuzzy slippers, I imagined I was walking on clouds.

  That’s how I felt Sunday morning. Like I was cloud walking.

  “I don’t think that smile has left your face all morning.”

  I bit my lower lip under Nan’s scrutiny and slipped on the gloves Weston bought for me.

  “You riding with me to church this morning?” Nan asked.

  “Yeah, and then I think I’m going to visit Savannah with Weston.”

  Nan clapped her hands in delight. “I just knew you two could resolve whatever silly quarrel got between you.”

  I looked at her. “It wasn’t silly, Nan. But my anger was misdirected.”

  “Well, whatever it was, I hope you will let it go for good and see each other with new eyes.”

  “I hope so, too, Nan. I really do.”

  She pulled me in for a quick hug, and we were off to church.

  Weston bumped my hip with his while I talked to several old acquaintances in the church lobby. Apparently, he was ready to get on the road. I couldn’t blame him. He hadn’t seen his niece in over a week, and from what I’d gathered, that was a very long time for him.

  “Finally! I thought I’d never get you to shut up back there.”

  I smacked his chest and climbed inside his truck. “You’re such a gentleman, really.”

  As we pulled out of the church parking lot and drove down Main Street, we passed Sydney in her white SUV. I waved at her through the window, and she gaped when she saw me in Weston’s truck. I couldn’t help but feel a tad victorious.

  “So, tell me about your life in LA. We have two hours to catch up on the last seven years, and I want to make them count.”

  “You do, huh?”

  “I do.”

  He picked up my hand and brought it to his mouth. My heart leaped out of my chest as he kissed the back of it. “I keep picturing a certain moment last night, and I want to find out who my competition is back in Plastic Land.”

  “Plastic Land?”

  “Hollywood.”

  I laughed so hard I nearly choked. “Well, I keep pretty busy with wr
iting, and no, I don’t have a boyfriend, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  He flashed that boyish grin I’d known since toddlerhood. “It’s what I’m asking.”

  I shook my head at his antics. “And what about you, O great bachelor of Lenox?”

  His smile flatlined. “You’re still the only girl I’ve ever cared about, Georgia.”

  And just like that, I was fifteen again, writing secret scribbles in my diary.

  Georgia Cole + Weston James = True Love.

  “There’s no way you haven’t dated,” I said, trying to forget the strength of my adolescent hormones.

  “Sure. But let’s just say I’m a two-date kinda guy. You have to be pretty special to get a third.”

  “And how many of those have there been?”

  “I’m hoping you’ll be the first. Today can mark numero uno.”

  Swirling hearts, rainbows, and flowers filled my head quicker than I could stop them. He never was the beat-around-the-bush type. Probably his best quality—if you didn’t count his eyes, lips, or backside.

  “So, you like it there?”

  “Where? Hollywood?” I sighed. How honest should I be? “I’m grateful for what’s happened in my career. It was a good move for me.”

  “Could you write from somewhere else?”

  My stomach tightened at his question. Sure, it was possible, but this all felt so surreal. Too quick, too intense, too—

  “Georgia, come on. Don’t freak out on me. I’m just curious. It’s not like I’m proposing.”

  “Don’t joke like that.”

  “Why not?” He grabbed my hand that was resting on the middle console in an effort to relax my tense posture. “Just because we started over with a clean slate doesn’t mean I have to throw out a lifetime of knowing you. You’ll be hard-pressed to get rid of me now.”

  “I don’t want to get rid of you. I just . . . I don’t want to rush anything, okay?”

  He sat quietly for a moment and then threaded his fingers through mine. “We can take it as slow as you need to, but just so you know, I’m in this, Georgia.”

  I am, too . . . and that’s what scares me.

  During our two-hour trip to Doernbecher Children’s Hospital in Portland, Weston filled me in on his move to Lenox after Willa’s husband passed away. He’d only planned on taking a semester off, but he decided to stay when Willa’s depression worsened during her pregnancy. I knew they’d been close, but I hadn’t realized just how close. When he described his relationship with Savannah, I had to blink away tears. He truly loved her as if she were his own daughter.

  When we arrived at the hospital, Weston carried the gift bags and box of books from Nan through the halls of the cancer ward. I glanced around at all the whimsical sculptures and birds hanging from the ceiling. Truly, the hospital looked like a fairy-tale world.

  Nervous energy ran through my veins as we rode the elevator up to Savannah’s room. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was invading a very personal moment, one that should be shared only with close family.

  When we reached her room, I turned to tell Weston I would wait in the hallway for him, but he announced me before I had the chance.

  “I brought you a special treat, Vannie.”

  Weston pulled me inside the sunshine-yellow room, prints of daisies and flower gardens on the walls. Willa sat in a rocking chair in the corner, and Mrs. James, Weston’s mom, was washing something in the sink.

  “Hey, Mom.” Weston kissed her on the cheek and set Savannah’s loot down on a counter. I stood awkwardly, smiling at the tired-looking little girl.

  “Hi, Georgia,” Willa and Mrs. James said in unison.

  “Hi, um, I hope it’s okay that I’m here. I don’t want to intrude.”

  “We’re happy to have you here,” Willa said. She embraced me quickly and turned toward her daughter. “Uncle Wes brought you a friend, Vannie.”

  The little girl smiled. “You got my drawing?”

  My throat tightened as my heart swelled. “I did. In fact, I designed the whole show around that pretty picture. Your artwork inspired me.”

  Savannah beamed, her sweet dimples coming to life and resembling those of the man who stood at her side. He leaned over and kissed her forehead, speaking softly into her ear. Her eyes sparkled, although there were dark circles beneath them.

  Weston pulled up a stool and took her hand in his. The sight overwhelmed me. Who was this kindhearted man? Had he always been this way? Had I missed it somehow between our fights and flirtations?

  “Wes,” Willa said, “Mom and I haven’t had lunch yet. Would you mind staying here while we go down to the cafe?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Did you want to come along, Georgia? You’re welcome to.”

  I looked to Weston, unsure of the correct response. Where would I be less of a burden today?

  “I want her to stay,” said a soft, sweet voice.

  Everyone looked at Savannah.

  It was in that moment that I understood why Nan had opted to stay home from Hawaii, why an entire town would be willing to raise funds for her care during a busy holiday season, and why Weston would put aside his dreams so he could watch her grow up.

  My voice diminished by half. “I’d love to stay.”

  I pulled up a chair to the side of her bed opposite Weston and watched as he gave her the books Nan sent with us. I saw one—Madeline—that I’d loved as a young girl: I was inspired by her adventures, her friends who eventually became her family, and her imagination.

  “Ooh, these are from Nan?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Yep, and actually, they were mine when I was young.”

  Her eyes smiled. “Will you read me one?”

  “I sure will.”

  I read Savannah two books while Weston held her cold hand in his and laughed at all the funny scenes.

  “I like your silly voices,” she said. “That’s how my teacher, Mrs. Maple, reads, too.”

  Weston leaned over and kissed her temple. “You should probably rest, sweetie. We’ll stay here with you, though, okay?”

  She started to close her eyes, her voice trailing off as she spoke. “I always wanted to meet you. Cuz of our names . . .”

  And then she was asleep.

  I looked to Weston for clarification, but his eyes were glued to Savannah’s resting face. I sat quietly, waiting for whatever Weston wanted to do next. It didn’t feel like my place to ask questions or make small talk.

  Now that she was asleep, I glanced around the room, taking it all in: the IVs in her arm, the uneaten food on her plate, the container beside her bed that was obviously meant for unexpected bouts of nausea.

  “I hate this.” Weston dropped his head into his hands and pulled at his hair.

  “I know,” I whispered.

  “Why her? I mean, I believe God has a purpose and a plan for everything, but this—what’s the good that comes from a child having cancer?”

  I couldn’t even begin to understand the reason. I couldn’t fathom why God would allow something like this to happen to someone so precious. I’d always been one to have a lot of questions but not many answers.

  I reached over Savannah’s still form and held my hand out for Weston. He took it.

  “Thanks for coming with me today.” His eyes pierced mine with a mixture of vulnerability and strength.

  “Is she asleep?” Willa’s voice broke the spell. I pulled my hand away, tucking it back into my lap.

  “Yes, she just dozed off a minute ago. Georgia read her a couple of books.”

  “Oh, I bet she loved that,” Mrs. James said, smiling at me kindly.

  I watched them interact for the next hour or so while Savannah slept, and one thought looped over and over again in my mind: this is a family.

  I’d always had a sp
ecial relationship with Nan—she was the most important person in my life to date—but still, I’d always ached for something more.

  “You ready?” Weston asked me after saying good-bye to Savannah, his sister, and his mother.

  I nodded, my voice lost somewhere inside my longing for a fantasy family I’d never have.

  The ride home to Lenox was far less playful than the ride to Portland had been. We were both preoccupied with our thoughts of Savannah. And though we stopped for gas and grabbed a quick bite to eat, we had little to say. I wanted to be sensitive to Weston. He had a lot to process, and who was I to interfere with that?

  Halfway home, he picked up my hand and broke the silence. “Your mom had twins a few years ago, right?”

  Startled, I pulled myself from my introspective stupor. “Yes.”

  “And you never considered moving there—to Florida, I mean?”

  Was that a note of accusation I heard in his voice? “No.”

  “How come?”

  “We aren’t like that.”

  “Like what?”

  Sighing an I-wish-you-would-drop-this sigh, I said, “Like . . . normal.”

  His chuckle rumbled low. “What is normal when it comes to family?”

  “I don’t really want to talk about this, okay?”

  “Hmm.” He was doing it again, that scrutinizing thing he does when he thinks he knows me better than I know myself.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.” He shrugged diplomatically. “I’m just analyzing you is all.”

  “Well, you can stop. I don’t need a shrink.”

  “Maybe not a shrink. But maybe someone to talk to?”

  I shook my head and pulled my hand from his. “Let’s talk about your shop class.”

  Weston slowed his truck as we turned off the highway toward Lenox. “Let’s talk about why you make a living writing about clichés that are nothing like your life.”

  “How do you even know what I write?” I shot back, my heart pounding.

  “I’ve read every script you’ve published, Georgia . . . not to mention the cheesy Christmas specials I’ve watched on TV.”

  The intimacy meter in the truck skyrocketed to the “Approach with Caution” level.