A Cliché Christmas (17 page)

“Well, don’t call me crying when it fails.”

Don’t worry, I won’t.

I hung up the phone and closed my eyes as my tears fell in earnest. If only my faithful Hallmark audience could see me now. Crying in my car. Alone. Five days before Christmas.

Everything I knew about holiday traditions came from TV specials and fictional families who ate ham and fruitcake and opened shiny, bright packages tied with ribbons and bows.

But the truth was as fake as my Holiday Goddess name.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

I
n just twenty-four hours’ time, I met with the realtor, signed an offer agreement, and ordered enough food and drinks to feed an army of hormonal teenagers. It was dress rehearsal night, and I welcomed being busy. Staying focused on the play was easier than thinking about the other things that weighed heavily on my mind.

As the students, stagehands, tech team, and makeup mafia filed in at half past four, my nerves buzzed to life. This was it. What I loved most about theater—watching a script come to life before my eyes.

“U
m . . .
Miss Cole? We have a problem back here!”

Uh-oh.

A handful of townsfolk sat in the audience and strained their necks, trying to get a glimpse of whatever disaster was occurring backstage.

It was Kevin—otherwise known as the Angel Gabriel.

He was squatting in the corner, puking into a garbage can.

“Oh no, is he sick?” I asked Josie.

“Wel
l . . .
you could say that, I guess.” She gave me a don’t-feel-too-sorry-for-him shrug.

“What do you mean?” I closed my eyes briefly. I was afraid I knew exactly what she meant.

“I don’t think that Orange Crush he was drinking was just soda.”

Kneading my temple, I said, “Go get Mr. James, please.”

I knelt down beside Kevin and placed a tentative hand on his upper back. “Kevin, do you need me to call someone?”

He lifted his head as I watched the color drain from his face. “No, please don’t, Miss Cole. I was just nervou
s . . .
and I thought maybe—”

“You could calm your nerves by spiking your drink?”

He looked at the floor.

I sighed heavily. “Kevin.”

“I kno
w . . .
I’m sorry. I haven’t had a drink in over a month. It was stupid.”

“Yeah, it was,” a deep voice said behind us.

Our heads snapped up in unison. Weston stood there, his face stern.

“He knows he made a poor choice. He said he was nervous.” The protective edge in my voice sounded more like a mother’s than a director’s.

Weston’s eyes shot daggers at Kevin. “I’ll handle this.”

“I don’t think he—”

“Miss Cole, Kevin is a student of mine. I can take it from here.”

My eyebrows pinched together as Weston dared me to argue. Stopping midway through my eye roll, I turned to assess the crowd that had gathered around us.

“Okay, peopl
e . . .
Let’s take our places. Who knows Kevin’s lines and can fill in for him tonight?”

“I can.”

Every muscle in my back tensed.

Sydney Parker, leader of the makeup mafia, batted her eyelashes at me, waiting with feigned hopefulness. Behind her sweet and seemingly helpful tone, I heard the poisonous drip of venom.

“U
m . . .
”

“I know his lines. Weston can just help me into the harness, and I’ll be fine.”

Over my dead body.

“The Angel Gabriel is male,” I objected.

“And Mary is supposed to be wearing a robe and riding on a donkey,” she bit back.

Touché.

I cut my gaze to Weston, who was ushering Kevin off the stage, and heaved a sigh.

What else could I do?

“Georgi
a . . .
curtain call was ten minutes ago,” Misty called to me. “People are getting restless out here.”

“Fine. But only for tonight. Kevin will be back for the real deal tomorrow.”

Sydney flashed me her Colgate grin. “Sounds perfect. I just want to help.”

Sure you do. Like a boa constrictor wants to cuddle.

Misty beckoned me to the stage, her eyes pleading. And it was then I remembered I was expected to open the show. Though there were only fifteen people sitting out front—most of them members of the senior center—my knees turned to gelatin. Weston’s kiss may have given me the confidence to stand on the stage without passing out, but
talking
while standing on the stage was a whole different scenario. My heart raced as the tech guy in the back pointed to the microphone. I fumbled with it as the deep whooshing sound in my ears drowned out the melody Nan played on the piano.

“Hell
o . . .
um, I’m Georgia Cole. Welcome to the dress rehearsal for the Lenox Community Theater production of
Modern Mary
.”

Am I smiling?

Weston walked back into the theater and stopped at the corner of the stage, watching me. I could practically hear his thoughts from there, urging me to overcome my ridiculous stage fright.

“I hope you enjoy the show and buy some cookies. I mean, tomorrow. I hope you buy some baked goods tomorrow nigh
t . . .
to benefit Savannah Hart. She has cancer. Okay. Thanks.”

With that, I set the microphone down and exited stage left as fast as my wobbly legs could carry me. If there had been any doubt of how awful my little speech was, the pitying look on Weston’s face confirmed it when he made his way backstage.

“I think we need to work on your public speaking, babe,” he whispered in my ear.

I groaned. My cheeks were so hot I could fry a strip of bacon on them.

He pecked me on the forehead and pointed backstage. I nodded. He was needed in the back, to direct the stage crew.

Urgh. And help Sydney Parker into a harness.

I erased that particular mental image and focused my attention up ahead.

Let the show begin.

With only five stops due to lighting disruptions and three missed lines, the night was a great success. Even Sydney as a last-minute understudy had performed perfectly. And acted almost
normal
. When I saw her chatting and laughing with the students after rehearsal, I swallowed a big wad of pride and headed her way.

“Hey, Sydney?”

“Yes?” She raised a thinly shaped eyebrow.

“Thanks for helping out tonight.”

“My pleasure.”

I forced a smile and started to turn away when she called my name.

“You know, I’m pretty comfortable on stage. I’d be happy to handle the opening announcements tomorrow evening if that would help you.”

I blinked. It was painfully obvious to everyone in this town that I was horrible on stag
e . . .
but Sydney Parker?

“U
m . . .
”

“I mean, I understand that you’ve put a lot of time and energy into this play, but if it would free you up to handle other things tomorrow night, then I’d gladly take it over for you. It’s no problem at all.”

I stared at her, measuring the inflection in her voice, the gleam in her eye, the perfect placement of every blond hair atop her head.

Something didn’t feel quite right—

Stop it, Georgia. Anyone can change. Isn’t that what Nan is always saying?

“
I . . .
u
h . . .
I guess that would be okay.”

She grinned and pulled me in for a quick hug. I was so shocked by her display of affection that I almost gagged on her musky perfume.

“See you tomorrow night, Georgia.”

“Yeah. See ya.”

I watched her leave, the four-inch boot-heels and bedazzled backside making her exit hard to ignore.

Nice or not. Good or bad. Right or wrong. Sydney Parker was my new emcee.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

M
y phone rang as I walked into the theater. Arms full of thank-you gifts for my cast and crew, I pressed my cell to my ear with my shoulder and held the door open with my foot.

“I can hardly hear you. What did you say?” I asked.

Static and strange, robotic sounds followed.

“New
s . . .
your offer,” my realtor said.

“What? You’re breaking up.”

I dropped the box carrying twenty-eight bags of Christmas candy and faced the parking lot. Pressing my hand to my opposite ear to drown out the surrounding noises, I heard the sickening slam of the theater door at my back.

Oh no!

“U
m . . .
can you please repeat that? What about my offer?”

I whipped around and tried the door.
Locked.

“Driving on pas
s . . .
bad signal.”

The line went dead.

I threw my head back.
Awesome.
Not only was I still in the dark about my offer, I was locked out of the theater as well. Dressed in a black skirt, tights, and heels, I buttoned my coat and checked the windows.
Why must security be such an important thing to people? Urgh!

Weston picked up on the first ring. “Hey, you at the theater already?”

My heels clicked the ground in the rhythm of a Celtic dance as I tried to keep warm.

“Sort of.”

“What’s that sound? And why are you panting?”

“My fee
t . . .
and because I’m locked out.”

“What? Where’s the key?”

“Inside—thus the reference to being locked out.”

He sighed that long, drawn-out sigh of his, and I could imagine the face to match it. “Oh, Georgia.”

“Hey! My realtor called, and I was trying to balance boxes of Christmas goodies and listen at the same time—”

“What did he say?” Weston’s voice became a taut wire, stretched between two points.

“I don’t know. He was driving on the pass. The signal was bad.”

“I’ll be there in a second. Go wait in your ca
r . . .
please
. I don’t want an ice sculpture for a girlfriend.”

I laughed. “Fine, but please hurry. The cast will be here in twenty minutes.”

Weston pulled into the parking lot six minutes later and jumped out of his truck, crowbar in hand.

“What do you plan to do with that thing?” My heels clipped as I scurried over to him across the frozen parking lot.

Stopping dead in his tracks, he looked me up and down. A wide, mischievous grin appeared on his face.

“Weston?” I waved my hand in front of his face. “I asked you a question.”

His eyes danced. “You look gorgeous.”

My stomach flipped. “Thank yo
u . . .
but why do you need a crowbar?”

“Don’t change the subject. I’m not focused on the crowbar right now.”

I shook my head as my body tingled. I tried to ignore it. “Well, I kind of
need
you to be focused on the crowbar. We have a play to put on, and we can’t get inside the theater, remember?”

He exhaled. “Fine. But later—”

“Later we’re making an appearance at Nan’s bake sale—the one benefiting your niece.”

His eyes cleared, and his focus shifted.

“Okay, let’s go break in.”

I followed him to a window in the back, still confused as to how he was going to use his apparent tool of choice. Weston stood on the balls of his feet as he shoved the curve of the bar under the lip of the window. Within a second, the seal creaked and popped.

“How did you—”

He winked. “I may have spent a few evenings here in high school. This window doesn’t have a latch.” Pointing to my heels, he added, “Kick those off, and I’ll give you a boost.”

“What? No. I’m in tights, Weston. Not to mention a skirt. I can’t climb through a window!”

“Well, I’m sorry I forgot my Go-Go-Gadget shoes. I can’t exactly jump inside. You’re all we’ve got, babe.”

I rolled my eyes and glanced down at my outfit again.

“Here, I’ll throw my coat over the sill so it won’t snag you
r . . .
u
h . . .
stockings. Okay?”

“Fine. But don’t peek.”

He grinned innocently. “Of course not.”

I slapped his shoulder. “I mean it, Weston. Keep your eyes down.”

“I’ll keep them on your pretty legs, okay? Don’t completely rob me of the beauty of this moment.”

Men.
Shaking my head, I placed my stocking foot into Weston’s cupped hand.

A minute later, I was climbing through the window, skirt and all.

I should win a prize for this. Seriously.

Once I was inside, Weston tossed my heels up to me and winked.

“I’ll meet you at the front, gorgeous.”

The murmuring of the crowd heightened my senses.

Breathe, Georgia. Just breathe.

Everything was set. Everyone was in his or her place.

This is it.

Savannah and Willa sat in the front row. When I saw them, my heart took flight. All of it had been worth it. That little girl’s smile could melt a glacier. She waved to me as I peeked out from behind the curtain.

And then Sydney took the stage.

“Good evening, everyone. Tonight is a special night for several reasons. Not only are we fund-raising for Lenox’s very own Savannah Hart, we are also about to witness a unique rendition of the Christmas story.”

Okay, maybe she isn’t as bad as I thought.

“Now, as many of you know, there is a bake sale being held at the senior center immediately after the performance, and one hundred percent of the proceeds will go to benefit this great cause.”

Sydney turned to glance in my direction, and as she did, a nervous shiver went down my spine.

“But I also wanted to share some very exciting news—since it pertains to this beloved building. Georgia Cole and Weston James, can you join me on the stage?”

What? N
o . . .
What is she doing?

Weston walked onto the stage from the opposite side, looking as surprised as I did. His glare suddenly turned murderous as he focused on Sydney. On shaky legs, I walked forward, reaching Sydney’s side as the crowd waited, the air thick with anticipation.

“I am sure that many of us remember the last time this building was used for a production of this magnitude. In fact, these two standing beside me were the original leads that night, until Georgia had a little mishap on stage, and I filled in.” Sydney smiled as several of the townspeople chuckled. I could feel the color drain from my face. My pulse whooshed in my ears like crashing ocean waves. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Weston reach for the microphone, but Sydney took a step forward, leaving us standing behind her. When his hand didn’t reach for mine, an icy awareness filled my blood.

“Since that night years ago, this theater has held a very special place in my heart, and as of this afternoon, my offer to buy this building has been accepted. It will undergo some spectacular renovations in order to become Parker Fitness and Spa—Lenox’s first health club! And all of it has been designed by our very own Weston James, my business partner.”

Whoosh.

Whoosh.

Whoosh.

I blinked several times. Savannah’s tender face grounded my urge to run, or cry, or kick someone—or two someones. The stage lights above bore down on my skull as the weak applause from the crowd died down enough to hear the first three notes of a well-known Christmas medley. As soon as Nan struck the keys of the piano, the sound jolted me back. I forced a smile and scurried off toward backstage. My legs felt hollow and numb, each step heavy and deadened by my stupidity and regret.

I gripped the velvet curtain and swayed unsteadily. There was commotion all around me, but I couldn’t move. My knees threatened to give out, and the pressure building in my chest made me short of breath.

“Miss Cole! Are you all right?”

Kevin stood in front of me, concern filling his eyes.

Josie touched my shoulder. “Should I go on, Miss Cole? The music started already.”

Though my throat was completely dry, I managed to croak out a quiet command.

“Yes, Josie.”

I couldn’t let go of the curtain that was in my white-knuckle grasp. “Everyone get back to your places. We’re starting.”

Kevin didn’t budge. “Shouldn’t I get Mr. Jam—”

“
No.
I mean, please don’t, Kevin. We’re starting.”

He nodded reluctantly and walked away, looking back at me every few seconds before he finally disappeared from view.

Business partner? Designer? Fitness center?

The words were a sledgehammer of pain, striking against my heart repeatedly.

And just like seven years before, the pieces of my life shattered and fell, while Weston James stood back and watched the show.