A Cliché Christmas (2 page)

He was getting closer. I dropped my arm and reached into the trunk behind me and came up with a half-eaten canister of Pringles.
Crapola!

As it turned out, I needed way more protection than a can of chips.

I knew him. A face from my past.

On
e . . .
tw
o . . .
five seconds of shock invaded the space between us.

“Weston James.” I spoke his name the way one would spit out a sip of curdled milk.

It was him—only he wasn’t the boy I had left behind.

No, this was Weston James, the
man
. And unfortunately time had been good to him.
Too good.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Miss Georgia Cole, the Christmas Prodigy herself. I wondered if the rumor I’d heard about you coming back was true.”

“Funny, I haven’t wondered a
thing
about you.” The lie slid over my lips like butter melting on a hill of steaming mashed potatoes.

We stood there—me and the Lenox Heartbreaker—sizing each other up. This was
us
. And it had been us since that fateful day in first grade when he chased me around my desk with a glue stick and threatened to paste my eyelids closed.

He crossed his arms over his well-built chest. My adrenaline spiked, tiny tremors surging through my body. I had to tell myself to shift my gaze to the ground, or the trunk, or the—

“We gonna put those chains on before it gets pitch-black out here, or were you planning to sleep on the highway tonight?”

“I’m sure you’d have no problem leaving me out here.”

He smiled a don’t-tempt-me smile. Seven years may have passed, but we still had a lifetime of contention to wade through. He bent down, grabbed the chains, and strode past me. His leather jacket pulled tight across his broad shoulders, his dark hair peeked under the sides of his knit cap, and a day’s worth of scruff lined his jawbone. I suddenly felt way too hot for the cold night air. I wanted to jump down a giant hole of denial. And stay there.

Laying both chains out ahead of my two front tires, he hopped in the front seat of my car—without asking—started the ignition, and accelerated carefully until the chains were perfectly lined up.

“You can fasten that one.” He gestured to the far tire and shut the driver’s side door. “Or is that too much to ask of a Hollywood celebrity?”

“Have you ever known me to wimp out?”

I squatted in front of the tire, but that darn chain slipped through my trembling fingers over and over. Weston finished his tire, stretched his arms out like an Olympic swimmer, and sauntered toward me.
Show-off.

A slight nudge to my left leg by Mr. Roadside Assistance was all it took to knock me over, plunging my backside onto the wet ground once again. “Hey!”

“What?” The sparkle in his eyes matched the wicked grin spreading across his face. “You already looked like you peed your pants. No harm done.”

He reached his hand down for me. I swatted it aside. “I guess one doesn’t outgrow being
childish
, huh, Wes?”

He knelt and slipped the chain around my tire in ten seconds flat. My teeth chattered through a new wave of shivers. The arctic air threatened to turn me into a living ice sculpture.

Standing again, he took off his jacket and wrapped the warm piece of Weston-smelling leather around my shoulders. “I guess one doesn’t outgrow being
obstinate
, huh, Georgia?”

I shrugged off the jacket and tossed it back to him, then opened my car door. I resisted spewing the rebuttals crowding my mind. I needed to save some of them for later. But hopefully, he was just here for Thanksgiving weekend and there wouldn’t be a later. I couldn’t imagine enduring his smirk for all of December.

I flicked my wrist in his direction, offering him a halfhearted wave. “Thanks for the help—I’m good now.”

I slid into my seat and slammed my door, waiting for him to pull out in front of me. It didn’t happen. I rolled my window down and waved him on, but still he refused to budge.

Whatever.

For the next hour and ten minutes, Weston James drove behind me on the dark, snowy highway. All the way to Nan’s cottage.

As I stepped out of my convertible onto her driveway, he leaned out his window. “See ya around, Sugar Plum Fairy.”

Bulging muscles or not, Weston James would always be the annoying little boy with the glue stick—the one I could not seem to erase from my memory.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Y
ou planning on sleeping all day, Georgia?”

The door creaked open, and Nan’s slippers shuffled across the old wooden floorboards. Turning my head slightly in her direction, my eyes squinted at the burst of light in the hallway behind her. Though we’d chatted late into the night, I could never sleep past—

“It’s seven thirty,” Nan said, reading my mind. She had this creepy ESP thing with me. I never got used to it, especially because it only worked one way.

I groaned. “Nan, you realize we didn’t go to bed till after one, right?”

“True, but I know how you like to get an early start.”

I let my head loll to one side and blinked. “Yes, when I’m
working
.”

“Well, I hate to tell you this, sweetheart, but I signed you up to help me today.”

I glanced up at the smile that could convince a child to give up her last piece of candy and chuckled. God only knows what Nan had in store for us. Sitting up, I swung my legs over the edge of the twin bed and narrowly avoided knocking a stack of books to the ground. It was hard to believe I’d spent my childhood sleeping in this coffin-like space.

I picked up the cookbook on top of the pile closest to me,
Best Foods in Brazil
.

“Some great recipes in that one.”

I smiled as I flipped through the old, crusty pages that smelled like damp pepper and cloves. That was my Nan. Always trying something new.

“I have some coffee and oatmeal for you on the counter. The senior center needs help preparing for the big day tomorrow. I volunteered us for the shift at nine. Figured you’d want to shower first.”

I stretched my arms, yawning as I stood. “Yes, a shower would be good.”

She patted my messy hair. “It’s so good to have you home.”

As her eyes sparkled with tears, a familiar warmth wove through my ribs and cinched my heart.
Home.
“I’ve missed you too, Nan.”

She pulled me close for a hug, one full of the soft, squishy comfort I’d never find in LA.

“Ready to open a few dozen cans of cranberry sauce?”

I clasped my hands together. “It’s like my Thanksgiving dream come true.”

She swatted my backside. “Go eat your breakfast before it gets cold, smarty-pants.”

Nan wasn’t kidding.

By the fifteenth can of green beans, I started worrying about carpal tunnel syndrome. The nauseating aroma of soggy vegetables had started to seep into my pores. I shook the stiffness out of my hand and concentrated on breathing through my mouth. Just then, Eddy, wearing her signature navy-blue trench coat, flew through the front door like a bat bolting out of a dark cave.
Some things never change.

“Georgia Cole! Get your behind over here, and give me a smooch!”

I laughed and wiped my hands on the towel in front of me. “Hi, Eddy.”

“You should have heard your grandma talking about you all over town these last few weeks. It was startin’ to get on my nerves, and I’m sure I’m not the only one.” She kissed my cheek, surely leaving behind her bright-coral lip mark as a souvenir. “Of course, I’ve never seen her so happy.”

“Well, I’m glad I could make her happy.”
Even though I should be planning our snorkeling excursion in Hawaii right about now.

“Wow,” she said, taking me in. “You sure are a pretty thing. Look just like your mama did at that age.”

I managed a smile, though the compliment fell flat more than it flattered.

“Eddy, give the girl some space to breathe. I don’t need you suffocating her on her first day back.”

Eddy ignored Nan and pulled up a stool near the counter where I was working. Apparently, she was sticking around. She plucked a green bean out of the pan and smacked on it loudly.

“So, what do you think of the place? Nan give you a tour yet?”

I looked around the senior center—at least what I could see of it from the kitchen. It was a great little space. Cozy and cheery. A perfect spot to socialize: eat, play games, celebrate, and laugh. I was grateful that Nan had it, along with good friends to fill it with.

I nodded. “It’s very nice.”

“Except for that hideous puke-colored wall over there. Nan insisted on a shade of baby poop.”

Nan flung a dish towel at Eddy. “It’s
mustar
d
! And it looks great, I found it in a décor magazine from France.”

“Well, maybe the French like staring at bug guts, but I don’t.”

I laughed. Being with these two felt like old habit.

Their comfortable banter reminded me of—
Don’t go there, Georgia.

“What day do you start working with the kids?” Eddy asked.

Confusion plucked me out of reminiscing time. “What kids?”

“The high school kids. They’re already rehearsing, you know. Betty’s been plunking away on that wretched piano, teaching them Christmas carols down at the church. They’re waiting for you.” She swung her dirty boot across her knee, holding it in place with her hand. “Looks like that old theater will finally have a purpose again now that you’re back. I don’t think those doors have been opened in years.”

I shifted my eyes to Nan, who was suddenly very busy mixing a bowl of Stove Top stuffing—and humming. “Nan?”

The humming grew louder.

“You’re butchering that song, Nan,” Eddy said, plugging her ears. “And I don’t even care for music all that much.”

Nan dropped her spoon into the metal bowl with a clang. “There’s a meeting on Saturday to discuss the Christmas pageant. They expect you to be there, Georgia. Everyone’s excited about having the ‘Holiday Goddess’ in town.” She beamed, proud of herself for remembering the quote from the article in
USA Today
.

“Nan, please don’t call me that. And, like I’ve told you a thousand times before, writing scripts and directing a production are two very different things. I’ll gladly assist in whatever way I can, but I’m sure there’s someone else who—”

“There
is
no one else,” the women said in unison.

I rolled my eyes and stuck my spoon into a large vat of vanilla custard.

As I brought it to my lips, Nan said, “Just wait till you meet Savannah. She’s worth whatever effort you put into this. I promise. You’re doing it for her.”

Sugar sweetened my tongue while bitterness soured my gut.

As I was searching through Nan’s overstuffed hall closet for a clean towel, something hard and heavy fell from a shelf. A pink ceramic heart skittered across the old hardwood. I picked it up and cradled it in my hand, clearing away a layer of dust and grime with the tip of my finger. I swallowed the ageless hurt that bubbled up in my throat.

I could easily picture my sixth-grade art class where I’d painted the heart for my mother’s birthday. And yet, here it was. Forgotten. Left behind.

I heard her words again, hovering like a haunted memory.
“Don’t be like me, Georgia. Go somewhere. Be somebody. Leave this town and never look back.”

Through all the different retellings of the story about the drunken night I was conceived, or the gory details surrounding my birth just days after her seventeenth birthday, my mother’s message to me remained crystal clear. It never faltered. No matter how old I became. No matter what goals I achieved.

In fact, she liked the mantra so much that she followed her own advice the spring before my sophomore year in high school.

Move to Florida—
Check
.

Get married—
Check
.

And never look back—
Check
.

I slid down the wall and pulled my knees to my chin. The smell of musty sweaters and blankets lingered in the air around me.

Even when her home address had read Lenox, Oregon, there was always something about my mother that was never truly
home
. Not really. Not with me.

I wasn’t surprised when her new marriage took priority.

I wasn’t surprised when the birth of her twins filled her days.

I wasn’t even surprised when the long silences that spanned three thousand miles and stretched across a dozen states became the rule, not the exception.

But I was surprised by all the
happiness
this new life had brought her.

It was as if the years we’d spent together crammed into Nan’s tiny cottage were only the dress rehearsal. And finally, my mother was living her real life.

With a
real
husband and
real
children.

My unplanned birth had stolen her youth, her dreams, her freedom. And though Nan had always been the one to check up on me, tuck me in at night, and kiss my tears away, Summer Cole—my mother—was still the whisper that echoed in my soul.

“Make my sacrifice worth something, Georgia.”

“Pass the rice, please!” Eddy shouted at Franklin, her husband. Apparently, in addition to losing his memory, his hearing was also on the fritz. It seemed likely it was related to Eddy’s always speaking at a shrill, glass-breaking volume.

It was no surprise that she still held the throne as Lenox’s top bingo caller.

A large bowl of rice was passed around the table by Nan’s friends, all of them three times my age. I carried Nan’s Thanksgiving platter of spicy chicken masala to the table. And no one said a negative word about it. In this crowd, her unconventional ways were accepted—even appreciated. Her friends would eat here before heading over to the center at five for their traditional meal. They had the best of both worlds.

“I saw that Hallmark movie you made,” a woman named Pearl with a beak-like nose and tight poodle curls said. “The one about the couple who met on a skating rink, with the guy who had a prosthetic foot.”

“Leg,” I corrected.

“Yeah, that was a good one. I loved her family—and that Christmas Eve scene—I blubbered like an old fool.”

“Thank you, but I just wrote the screenplay. I didn’t actually make the movie.”

Pearl stared at me blankly. “I just wonder how you write all those things.”

I opened my mouth to answer my most asked interview question,
“How do you come up with so many good Christmas stories?”
But as it turned out, that was not what Pearl was asking.

“I mean, all that holiday love and romance stuff. Nan tells us you never go out on dates, so how can you write about something you don’t know?”

I choked on an ice cube, and Eddy slammed my back—repeatedly.

Everyone waited for my reply, even Nan. What was this? An intervention for my pathetic love life?

I lifted my chin and met the eyes of each of Nan’s guests. “Ever heard of Jane Austen?”

Eddy leaned toward me, eyebrows drawn so tightly it would take pliers to separate them. “You do realize that things didn’t turn out quite so well for her in that department, right?”

Okay, fine. Bad example.