A Cliché Christmas (3 page)

Pearl piped up, “Well, there’s an eligible bachelor in Lenox that you—”

“More chapati bread, anyone?” Nan asked, standing abruptly.

Thank you, Nan. I owe you one.

Though I smiled at her, her gaze never met mine as she passed the bread basket to her right.

And knowing her like I did, I could tell she was up to something.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

B
egrudgingly, I grabbed my satchel off the chair and shoved my laptop inside it. Though the ground was still covered with dirty slush from last week’s snowfall, the sun was shining brightly. The temperature was a balmy forty-four degrees. But I needed to walk. Clear my head. Prepare for whatever awaited me at the community theater.

Wrapping a scarf I’d borrowed from Nan’s stash around my neck, I stuffed my bare hands into my pockets and made yet another mental note to buy gloves.

My dark chestnut-colored hair flew around my face in the chilly breeze. I was
so
not in California anymore.

Walking past Jonny’s Pizza and Gigi’s Grocery, I headed north on Main Street. The thick green pine trees lining the streets were a stark contrast to the white-capped mountains in the background. One thing that Lenox had going for it was the scenery that surrounded the town. It was so different from the cement that suffocated LA.

The mountains stirred an emotion in me, making me want to reach for something unseen. I took a deep breath, savoring the feel of clean air in my lungs. I supposed some people felt this way about the ocean, but though the ocean was vast, the mountains were strong and unyielding.

“Georgia?”

I whirled around.

“Wo
w . . .
it
is
you. I heard you were in town.”

Sydney Parker stood next to her white SUV and took in every last detail of my wardrobe, stopping on Nan’s ratty, rainbow-colored scarf.

“Hello, Sydney, how are you?”

With a tiny lift of her shoulder, she bobbed her head in a way that made her golden locks swish around her shoulders as though she were in a shampoo commercial. “Great. You still single?”

What kind of a question is that?

“U
m . . .
well, ye
s . . .
actually, I’m—”

“I’m recently divorced. My ex-husband is the mayor,” she said as if I’d missed a presidential election. “I live over in Greenway.”

Of course, she did. Greenway was the richest neighborhood Lenox had to offer.

“Oh, that’s great.”
Just keep smiling
,
I chided myself. My true feelings have always been hard for me to conceal—or so I’ve been told.

Sydney Parker’s persona in high school screamed
status,
status,
status
. She befriended the “populars,” dated the “populars,” and was herself a “popular.” We couldn’t have been more different back then. And something told me not much had changed.

“You here visiting your grandma?”

“Yeah, and I’m helping out a bit at the theater, too, it seems.”

Her face beamed, apparently tapping into a new fuel source that caused her eyes to glow with radioactive freakishness. Then I realized what I had said. My cheeks flamed.

Please don’t.

Her high-pitched cackle exploded through the street. “You remember the Christmas play our senior year—”

I shook my head. “Actually, I need to get going. It was nice seeing you, Sydney.”
About as nice as stepping into a den of rattlesnakes.

I hurried down the street, pulling the scarf tighter around my neck to ward off the cold. By the time I made it to the theater for the meeting, I could no longer feel my face. Walking through the small lobby, I heard the laughter of children and the murmur of adult conversation. I hoped to slip into the back and listen to whatever presentation was about to be given, but unfortunately, the second I stepped into the room, applause broke out.

The large crowd parted as Betty Graham grabbed the microphone onstage and waved me forward.

“Everyone, this is Georgia Cole, our town’s very own Hollywood celebrity. She’s written dozens of Christmas plays, pageants, and even screenplays that have made it onto TV. We are very privileged to have her help us with this charity performance to raise money for Savannah Hart.”

The crowd clapped again as she held the microphone out to me.

I stepped forward, and with each stride, I could feel Nan’s scarf tightening around my neck like a boa constrictor. My heart pounded against my rib cage as I flipped through a Rolodex of exit strategies in my mind, some more dramatic than others.

I didn’t like to speak on stage. I
hated
speaking on stage.

Leaning over to Betty, I whispered, “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

She smiled sweetly, taking my hand as I stopped at the top of the stairs, just shy of the stage. “Just tell us what you’d like us to do, dear. We’re ready.”

“Ready?
For what
?
” My breathy rush of words was hardly audible as I desperately tried to block out the staring eyes around me.

“For the plan. For you to direct us, dear.”

Betty pushed the microphone into my sweaty palm. And then it dawned on me. Nan had been serious. There really was no one else.

I scanned the crowd and told myself to say something. To say
anything
. But my pulse was pounding so loudly against my eardrums that I couldn’t think, much less speak.

I closed my eyes.

Breathe. Just breathe. I’m twenty-five. This isn’t high school.

I held the cool metal to my chin. “H
i . . .
I’m Georgia.”

Betty nodded at me, her face filled with confusion and maybe even pity. I couldn’t be sure.

“I—I’m happy to help. I’ll just need som
e . . .
volunteers.” After three attempts, I finally swallowed.

“Tell us what you need!” a friendly voice called out.

I swayed and tugged on my scarf as my knees locked in place.

Is it getting dark in here? And why is it four hundred degrees?

Just as my vision spotted and tunneled, a heavy arm wrapped around my shoulders, rocking me back on my heels. As I finally sucked in a breath with enough force to fracture a rib, I saw him. My vision miraculously cleared.

Weston.

“She’ll need costume designers, an audio tech, a lighting and stage crew, a musicia
n . . .”
Weston rambled on, my mind jolting awake as if I’d been slapped in the face. I tried to shrug off his heavy arm—twice—but his grip held like duct tape.

Betty took the microphone from Weston. “You heard him. Now, who are our volunteers?”

Several ladies toward the front offered to help with costumes and makeup, a nerdy-looking man with glasses said he could run the tech booth and coordinate a lighting crew, and Betty announced that she had the music covered. A large group of older high school students agreed to be the stagehands. That just left—

“We need a set designer,” I whispered to Betty.

“I’ve got the set handled,” Weston said with a squeeze.

“That’s perfect. Now, what day would you like to officially start rehearsal, Georgia?”

Betty had asked a question, at least I was pretty sure she had, but my thoughts were still on the man plastered to my left side. A waft of sawdust filled my nostrils with every inhalation.
What did she ask me?

“Georgia?”

I shook my head. “U
m . . .
Monday evening?”

I elbowed Weston in the ribs, forcing him to release me. He chuckled as I gave him a stare that said,
“Don’t even think about touching me again
.
”

“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 sorr
y . . .
I do want to help Savannah. She seems like a really special little girl.”

“She i
s . . .
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.