A Cliché Christmas (19 page)

Me.

I tugged my coat tighter and tromped up 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 fel
t . . .

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 oppositio
n . . .
so what are you afraid of?”

“What am I afraid of?” I whispered.

As soon as I asked the question, I heard another voic
e . . .
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 create
d . . .
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.

Lifting my eyes to the manger, I let a sob break loose from my chest. Swaddled inside that wooden crib lay the purest form of Unconditional Love I would ever know.

And if I couldn’t accept God’s perfect love for me, His sacrifice for my salvation, His divine plan for my life and future, then I would never truly be free.

Neither to receive love nor to give it away in full.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

H
alfway to Weston’s house, I realized whatever romantic notion I had of professing my undying love to him on Christmas Eve may not have been my brightest idea to date. My feet were bricks of ice, and my nose was colder than Frosty’s frozen carrot stick. Even with Nan’s scarf double-wrapped around my face, every pore tingled.

One more block.

In reality, Weston’s house was only a mile from the park, but in near-freezing temperatures that mile felt like ten. Most of the Christmas lights were turned off for the night. Surely, all the children were safely tucked into their beds waiting for Santa Claus to arrive.

As I neared his house, disappointment slowed my steps.

No car.

No lights.

No Weston.

I collapsed onto his front-porch steps and hugged my knees to my chest.
Of course, he wasn’t home!
He had a famil
y . . .
He was probably stuffing stockings and eating gingerbread right now, or reading to Savannah before he tucked her into bed for the night.

As I stared at the tip of my boots, I saw it: a snowflake. The complex detail of it melted as soon as it made contact with my shoe. My heart lifted at the sight. There were so many amazing and intricate mysteries in the world; I just needed to open my eyes to see them.

Lifting my sappy, tear-filled eyes to the sky above, I stared in wonder as the snow fell. Holding out my gloved hand, I caught snowflake after snowflake in my palm. Suddenly, headlights nearly blinded me. I shielded my eyes with my arm.

“Georgia?” Weston slammed his door and jogged around his truck, slowing as his eyes took me in.

I blinked him into focus, and his expression hardened.

“U
m . . .
hi.”

“What are you doing, Georgia?” Weston’s face held a mix of concern and confusion. “It’s almost midnight—on Christmas Eve.”

I stood, the snow drifting around us. Biting my numb bottom lip, I tried to stop the quivering of my chin, but it was a lost cause.

“
I . . .
wanted to sa
y . . .
some things.”

His gaze roamed my face. “You look terrible.”

Of all the things I’d expected him to say, that wasn’t it.

He glanced down the street and back, shuffling closer. “Tell me you seriously didn’t walk here.”

“I wa
s . . .
already out.”

He took my hand and pulled me toward his door, unlocking it with his free hand and pushing it open for me.

So far my romantic stunt was not quite going as planned. I’d pictured running and laughing and kissing and—

“Stand there, you’re soaking wet. I need to get you some dry clothes before hypothermia sets in. You look halfway to rigor mortis.” He took three steps and then whirled back to face me. “Are you trying to make me crazy?”

Shivering involuntarily, I shook my head.

He left the room and returned a minute later with lounge pants and a hooded sweatshirt. Without another word, I went to the bathroom and changed, catching sight of my bluish-purple lips in the mirror.

Wo
w . . .
I do look awful.

When I walked out of the bathroom, holding the sweatpants at my waist—I’d rolled them three times to keep myself from tripping—he was carrying several large quilts in his arms.

“Sit.”

I obeyed.

He tucked the quilts around me like he was folding an overstuffed burrito, and he knelt in front of me.

“Don’t you ever do something so careless again, Georgia.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “If you wanted to talk, you should have called. I’ve been going out of my mind these last two days trying to figure out how to balance giving you space and breaking your stubbornnes
s . . .
and then you show up at my house tonight halfway frozen.”

“You’ve been going out of your mind?” I whispered, my heart flipping wildly.

He laid his stocking-capped head in my lap and chuckled. “Yes, Georgia.” Snaking his arms behind my back, he hugged me close. “Please tell me you believe me now.”

As his eyes lifted to mine, I knew the answer. “Yes. If you tell me that Sydney isn’t your business partner, or any other kind of partne
r . . .
I believe you. But I still wish you had told me what she was up to, Weston. About her wanting to make an offer on the theater.”

“I know. It was stupid. I really thought I could spare you the worry and convince her otherwise. I should have told you.” He kissed my wrist. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.” I rubbed my hands over his knit hat, the warmth thawing my fingers. “You were right, though.”

“About what?”

“Everything—my mom.”

Weston touched my cheek. “You have no idea how much I wish I wasn’t.”

My chest ached at his words. “I’ve built my adult life around ideas and stories I knew next to nothing abou
t . . .
until now. Until you. Only now, I want the real thing, Weston.”

The curve of Weston’s mouth made my heart pound. Little by little, his dimpled grin became full-blown. “I’m in love with you, Georgia Cole. And I think I always have been.” He kissed each of my frozen fingertips. “I see your face in every childhood memory, but I want to see it in every memory that’s to come, too. My future was always meant to be connected to yours.”

Leaning forward, I took his face in my hands and kissed him. At first it was sweet and sincere, deepening quickly to hungry and wanting. And want him I did. Forever.

“I love you, too, Wes. More than I ever imagined I could love anyone. And even without the theater, I know I belong with you.”

His lips found mine again as he made his way onto the sofa.

With hands braced at the nape of my neck tenderly, Weston kissed me and unleashed the passion I’d heard in his words, seen in his eyes, and felt in his touch.

I was loved by Weston James.

When our kiss finally broke, he glanced at the clock. “S
o . . .
it’s official then.”

“What is?” I giggled.

“Our story has surpassed all your cheesy holiday romance screenplays. We just said ‘I love you’ for the first time at midnight on Christmas Eve. Doesn’t get much better than that.”

I swatted his shoulder and pulled him close again. “N
o . . .
and as cliché as it sounds, I wouldn’t trade our story for anything in the world.”

His eyes sparkled as he kissed me again.

“Merry Christmas, Georgia Cole.”

“Merry Christmas, Weston James.”

After spending the wee hours of Christmas morning baking several large pans of cinnamon rolls with Nan, I checked off another name from the list of lucky people fortunate enough to receive her heavenly pastries. She changed the list every year, making sure to include widows and widowers, families struggling financially, and those who had recently experienced loss. I admired her for so many reasons, but that morning, the tradition of hers shone even brighter as I reflected on my moments in front of the manger the night before.

I had added both Josie’s and Kevin’s families to the list. Everyone was beyond grateful as they received the hot plate, hugged me, and wished me a Merry Christmas.

As Nan pulled into the Greenway neighborhood, I glanced up at her.

“Nan? I don’t think we have a delivery in this neighborhood.”

“Yes. We do.”

“U
m . . .
” I glossed over the list again. “Nope, we really don’t.”

“It’s under J. Parker.”

“J. Parker? Is tha
t . . .
Sydney’s father?”

“Yes.” She turned at the next corner, passing several estates decked out in gaudy holiday trimmings.

“But why, Nan?”

Eyes full of empathy, she pulled into a driveway. My stomach bottomed out. Sydney’s white SUV was parked in front of the garage.

Nan rested her hand on my knee. “Sometimes we need to love our adversaries more for our sake than for theirs.”

“Nan, you don’t know—”

“Georgia. I don’t care nearly as much about the wrong she’s done to you as I do about what your heart chooses to do with it. No one’s life is exactly as it seems. Everyone is capable of being redeemed.”

That seemed questionable when it came to Sydney Parker.

I stared at my Yoda-like grandmother and thought of every credible argument as to why I wasn’t going to get out of this car.

But her expression was steady.

If there was a woman more stubborn than me, it was my Nan.

I grabbed the plastic-wrapped snowman plate filled with buttery goodness and trudged up the driveway as slowly as humanly possible. I noticed then that this was the only house on the street without Christmas lights or a giant inflatable snow globe in the yard.

Hiking up my pants along with my pride, I said a prayer under my breath as I knocked on Sydney Parker’s front door.

A man—John Parker I assumed—swung the door open. His disheveled dark hair looked like a peacock’s tail after a fight. But his face was handsome, young, with a light scruff around his jaw. There was no doubt he was the father of one Miss Sydney Parker.

“Who are you?” His glassy eyes ticked back and forth rapidly, putting my nerves on edge. There was something off about him, about his voice and the way he stared at me. It was as though he could see something I couldn’t.

“I’m—” I shoved the plate toward him. “I’m Nan’s—Nancy Cole’s granddaughter. These are for you. Merry Christmas.”

The man tilted his head, blinked once, and snatched the plate from my hands roughly. “You want money—a delivery fee?”

“Um, no, they’re a gift.” I started to turn away from the awkward man when I heard—

“Daddy? Who’s at the—” Sydney stopped dead in her tracks, her face a canvas of a variety of emotions—going from weary exhaustion to wide-eyed disbelief and then finally revealing a slow-simmering humiliation that pinkened her makeup-free cheeks. She touched her dad’s shoulder, and he shrugged her away, the plate of homemade cinnamon rolls slipping out from under the plastic wrap and splattering onto the floor. I sucked in a sharp breath—and resisted the urge to run from this porch and never look back.

“Stupid girl! I haven’t paid for those yet!” His brow crumpled in anger.

“Daddy, go wait in the other room, please.” Sydney dropped to the floor, scraping up frosting as he stood there rocking back and forth on his feet.

He seemed to consider this for a moment, and then he looked back at me. “You said today’s Christmas?”

“It is.” My voice squeaked with doubt.

“Dadd
y . . .
please.
Go wait in your recliner. I’ll get your breakfast to you in just a minute.”

With one final glance in my direction, he shuffled away, muttering to himself. I suddenly realized why Sydney didn’t want to meet with the costume committee in her home. She was hiding her mentally ill father.

Sydney tried to clean up the frosting on the beautiful entryway tile with the edge of the plate, but she ended up just swirling it around in the process. Something inside my chest pulled tight. I didn’t like this girl, or the things she’d done to me, but when every instinct told me to turn away from her, I couldn’t.

I couldn’t leave.

I knelt down beside her, and her eyes flicked to my face.

“What are you still doing here? Go home to your family, Georgia.” Her voice caught on the word
family
. It was a word that had snagged my voice plenty of times.

“Do you have any paper towels? I think those might work better.”

She stood up without speaking and left the entryway. She was back moments later with a roll of paper towels. I took one from her hand and wiped up the sticky mess without saying a word.

When we were both standing, Sydney’s shoulders sagged with the weight of a thousand lifetimes. And something inside me shifted—something that felt less like comparison and more like compassion.

“Let me get you a new plate of rolls. Nan has extras in the car.”

She shook her head. “It’s okay. He’s not supposed to have sugar anyway—it doesn’t mix well with his medications.”

Oh.
“Wel
l . . .
u
m . . .
Merry Christmas, Sydney.”

The smile that came to my face wasn’t my normal forced-for-Sydney-Parker grin. It was instead an authentic, joy-filled smile. And I meant it.

Whatever was going on inside this house, or inside her world, it wasn’t easy. It didn’t justify what she’d done or make me understand her motivations, but it did make her human.

Just like me.

The door closed with a soft click, and I headed down the driveway toward Nan.

“Georgia?”

I spun back around to see Sydney’s pale face staring back at me from a small crack in her front door.

“Yeah?”

“Merry Christmas.”