Risking It All for Love (A Christmas in Snow Valley Romance) (4 page)

The curtains brushed the floor and the relieved dancers burst into
chatter, prop people running around with brooms to clean the floor. On the
other side of the curtain I could hear the audience rising from their seats, a
roar of conversation muted by the heavy stage curtains.

I suddenly sneezed at the carnations, and my crown toppled again
because I’d lost my hair pins.

Two large palms caught the jeweled crown before it hit the floor.

Pastor John Junior smiled. I gave him a limp smile in return.

“So,” he said, looking at me with those annoyingly perfect blue
crystal ones of his. “You don’t strike me as a rancher type girl, either.”

He was still thinking of that line I’d given him fifteen minutes
ago?

“More of a rebel. A retired Goth. Maybe a gypsy girl who listens
to the siren’s call and answers.”

“Now I’d swear you were trying to channel Hemingway, or some hip
poet.”

“I heard he liked hot cocoa with whipped cream—and a shot of
whiskey. Can I take you out for some to celebrate?”

“Right.” I let out a laugh, almost snorting and embarrassing
myself. “You are so full of it.”

“Just channeling Hemingway. Perhaps a cuppa British Earl Gray is
more to your liking, mademoiselle?”

“Please tell me you are not for real.”

James Douglas patted his arms. “Are you saying you’re dreaming?”

“Stop! Stop! Okay, already. Hot chocolate. Orange blossom tea.
Diet Dr. Pepper. The Drive-in down Main? Whatever you want.”

He didn’t say another word. Just smiled, and when he did, his face
lit up with a warm, peaceful glow. His teeth and lips were much too perfect. My
heart stuttered. Like a hiccup. I blamed it on the fall.

I found myself slowly shaking my head, trying to remember
Michael’s face, his smile, his laughter. But I couldn’t. It was as if time was
erasing him. I couldn’t forget him. I didn’t want to forget him. I wasn’t
supposed
to forget him.

What was happening to me?

As
it
turned out, Pastor John’s nephew and I didn’t have our cuppa
or
cocoa,
or anything after the performance. Which Pastor Dude may not have intended
anyway, so I was silly to make any sort of assumptions.

After I changed into street clothes, scrubbed the makeup off my
face until it was pink, and wrapped a scarf around my neck—my seventeen-year-old
brother was dutifully giving me the weather report of a balmy eighteen degrees
Fahrenheit at ten p.m.—I was swarmed by my parents raving about how much
they had enjoyed the ballet; my neighbor Mrs. Guthrie praising my dancing while
she made gushy cooing noises; and my dance teacher Madame Thomas telling me how
proud she was of my accomplishments. “I always knew you had talent,” she
beamed. I was the first of her dancers to go on to join a professional ballet
company. Which, for a small town, was an accomplishment.

I shook my head, thinking of all the other corps ballet dancers in
the New Orleans troupe, and our true rival, Sierra Armstrong, who had just been
promoted to prima ballerina at the tender age of twenty-four, while I was
almost twenty-two and nowhere near that good.

“You were beautiful, Jessica,” my
mother said. “But your crown was having a bit of trouble. Didn’t you have
enough pins with you? I could have helped you do your hair and makeup. I don’t
understand why you won’t ask me to help.”

I didn’t answer, just gave her a faint smile, aware of eyes on me.
Aware—suddenly—of how tired I was. Now that I wasn’t dancing, and
wasn’t under the stage lights I was turning cold again. But not cold enough to
get hot chocolate with James Douglas.

Which suddenly made me remember how cold Michael’s hands were as
he lay in the coffin during the viewing at the church when I held them and said
goodbye. Except that I was still saying goodbye three years later. I couldn’t
seem to let him go. Because I’d promised to love him forever.

Dad leaned in to drop a kiss on the top of my still
sticky-with-hairspray bun. “I thought you were spectacular.”

I tried not to blush in front of James Douglas’s watchful gaze. “Oh,
Dad, you always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

I widened my eyes. “A wobbly crown and a weak ankle made for an
embarrassing performance.”

“
Au contraire
,” he objected, launching into the tiny bit of
French he liked to brag that he knew. Which amounted, in reality, to about ten
words.

“Doctor Mason,” my mother chided. “Please no French attempts
tonight.”

My father shrugged at her admonition, and gave me a one-armed
squeeze. “Going to New Orleans has been a good experience, I think,” he
whispered in my ear. “Your dancing has made leaps and bounds. You’re truly a
professional. I
am
proud of you. Not many dancers get that far. To
support yourself in the arts is a huge achievement .”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Not bad,” Sam told me, punching my
arm and scoping out the theater foyer. “Where’s the refreshments?” he asked.

My mother took several deep
breaths, then instructed her son, “Ballet performances do not provide
“refreshments.” Those are almost exclusively for church functions and baby
showers.”

“Bummer. Can we get something to
eat then?”

“Try not to make it so obvious that
you’re in high school, Sam,” I advised him.

He made a show of groaning, but he
knew I was teasing.

My mother went on. “No time for ice
cream. Did you hear about the terrible accident just outside of town? A
multiple car pile-up.”

“That must have happened right after I got to the theater.”

“I was so grateful you missed it, Jessica. It was slow getting
through, a line of cars for a mile on both sides. It’s a good thing we left
early or we would have missed the first act. Unfortunately, I got a phone call
just as we were parking that Joyce was in one of those cars. It was too dark to
tell by the time we came upon the scene. I want to stop by the hospital on our
way home to see her.”

For all her annoying ticks and habits, my mother was a good friend
and neighbor. Joyce Hopkins was one of her oldest friends.

“How bad is it?” I asked. “How is she?”

“I talked to Harold and he said just a sprained wrist and some
bruises. Thank goodness nobody was critically injured.”

“I wish I could have been there to help,” James Douglas murmured.
“I hadn’t even heard about the accident until now, Mrs. Mason.” There was a
dark look of concern in his eyes. He was a stranger in town, but he appeared
deeply concerned. As though the people were long-time friends of his.

“Please call me Marilee,” she told him with a wave of her hand. “Oh,
there’s Catherine now.”

I glanced up and saw my older sister coming up the aisle.

“I didn’t know you were in town already,” I said as she gave me a
quick hug.

“Barely made it for Act II. Terrible accident on the highway.”
After she embraced our parents and Sam, I noticed her eyeing James Douglas with
interest, her eyebrows quite elevated. I elbowed her and she glared at me,
hissing. “We’ll talk later, little sister.”

“Can’t wait,” I said under my breath.

“You mean you came straight to the theater after the drive from
Helena?” my mother asked Catherine.

“I had to drop off the girls at a sitter because Dave is working
nights at the plant and then with the accident . . . But I saw your solo,
Jessica—you were beautiful.”

I made a face. “You’re being too kind about the Most Embarrassing
Moment of my life. When’s Dave coming?”

“Monday. The girls really wanted him to take them to the Night Before
Christmas story and hot chocolate on Monday night, but he won’t get here in
time.”

My mother beamed stiffly. “He’s still going to take them to the
Polar Express, correct? Your dad already got tickets.”

“Of course,” Catherine said with a touch of annoyance. “That’s not
until Wednesday.”

“Don’t forget the tickets at the office, Joe,” my mother said to
my father.

“They’re in my desk drawer at home already, Marilee.” Dad rubbed
his hands together. “Let’s go get dinner. Best part of dance recital night.”

My sister Catherine stared at him aghast. “This wasn’t a recital,
Dad.”

“Oh, Jessica knows what I meant.”

I gave him a weak smile. “Don’t worry about it, Dad. Let’s just
go.
I’m exhausted and want to get off my feet.”

That’s when I remembered that James Douglas, Pastor Dude, was still
standing behind me. Watching our embarrassing family conversation.

My mother quickly introduced Catherine to him.

“Welcome to the world of Snow Valley, Mr. Douglas.”

“You can all call me James.”

“No Jim?” Catherine said with a teasing tone.

“My parents had this thing about calling me James, but I’ll answer
to anything, actually. So just lay it on me.”

“You’re quickly becoming Pastor Dude in my head,” Sam said with a
teenage boy laugh.

“You know, guys,” I said, trying not to grit my teeth. “I’m too
tired to drive anywhere for food or ice cream if the weather is so bad and
there was an accident . . . besides, it’s already so late . . .”

“I agree,” Catherine piped up. “I gotta get the girls from the babysitter
and get them in bed so we don’t miss church in the morning.”

“But I’m starving!” Sam protested.

“You’re always starving,” Catherine
teased. “I’ll make you some of my grilled cheese and ham sandwiches when we get
back to the house. I also brought a plate of brownies from home.”

Sam groaned in ecstasy as though he
hadn’t eaten in a week. “Can I drive?” he asked Dad, taking off for the doors.

“Not in this weather,” was the
abrupt answer.

“Aww man, how will I ever learn how to drive with snow tires if
you don’t let me practice?”

The theater was emptying, lights going off. Saturday evening performances
were always a scatter-and-run afterward.

Even the foyer had only a few people left standing in small groups,
and then waving goodbye, crying “Merry Christmas!” as they exited the glass
doors. On the far end, a janitor was already beginning to sweep.

I heard a slight cough and glanced up to see James Douglas, not
looking uncomfortable one iota at our Mason Family dynamics.

“Aren’t we just a typical family?” I asked tightly.

“Perhaps I should take a rain check. I’m sure you’re tired, and
you need to put your foot up.”

Suddenly, I felt a wave of disappointment and relief at not going
out for hot cocoa. A puzzling reaction, actually. I would have thought relief
would be my dominating emotion, and I’d spend the next two weeks of Christmas
break avoiding the guy.

Part of me wanted to debate him on the merits of dance and
religion and hot cocoa.

“My foot will be fine,” I said airily. “So, okay. See you around.”

“Church tomorrow morning?” His dark hair fell forward as he tipped
his head toward mine.

“Don’t hold your breath, Pastor.”

“I take the official final exam in January.”

“Then I won’t hold my breath either.”

“You’re not a Sugar Plum Fairy, you
know that?”

“Check your forehead for
temperature.” I waved a hand through the air in the Obi Wan Kenobi mind-bending
move. “It was all a fantasy.”

“Touché.”

Since
I’d
driven early to the theater for warm-up, makeup, and costume dressing, I drove
myself home.

Mom fretted, of course. “I should have driven you instead of
helping Marianne Cook set up for the quilting booth at the craft show.”

“There was no way to know I was going to fall, but I can walk just
fine. I’m
fine.”

It was so difficult not to become testy with my family, especially
my mother. I’d lived away for too long. Been too independent.

“Are you sure your ankle is okay to
drive?” James Douglas had asked as he walked out with my family, the theater
lights extinguishing behind us.

“I’m fine!”
I repeated, biting my tongue at my snappish
tone. Instantly, I apologized. “I’m sorry. I’m just—there’s no reason for
me to be irritated.”

He gave me an understanding smile. “Families. Enough said.”

“You too?”

A shaft of moonlight glinted on his
white teeth. “That’s a story for another day. Drive safely, Miss Jessica Mason.
I’m pleased to officially meet you.”

“I suppose I wasn’t particularly
friendly at the cemetery today, either. I was—I just was visiting—”
I stopped speaking, not wanting to share Michael with anyone.

“No need to apologize. I came up to you because you looked like
you’d frozen to the ground. I wasn’t sure who you were at first. But it’s
understandable. You and Michael Grant were close.”

I stiffened. A strange roar filled my ears hearing Michael’s name
on his lips and I spun toward him. “How did you know—?”

“Um, I saw the headstone.”

I didn’t answer—hoping he would drop the subject.

“I often walk through that section of the graveyard from Main to
the church. It’s a beautiful path along there with the lines of cottonwoods and
oak trees.”

I just nodded, annoyed that he would presume to know the
relationship Michael and I had. “You don’t know anything, Mr. Douglas. Don’t
you dare talk about him.”

“Now it’s my turn to apologize. I never meant anything hurtful.
Please know that.”

I shrugged, feeling my nose drip just a little from the cold. I
walked more briskly, trying not to slip on the ice.

Once I reached my car, I jabbed the key into the lock and swung
the door wide.

James Douglas held the door open while I climbed in.

“Good night,” I said, reaching for the handle as my family’s
vehicle pulled out of the empty parking lot.

I glanced up and James Douglas’ eyes were dark and meaningful.
There was a long pause.

“I’m afraid I keep sticking my foot in my mouth around you.”

I shrugged. “Just trying to avoid religious platitudes.”

“Why would I say something like that?”

“I heard more than enough to last a lifetime after—after
Michael died.” His name stuck in my throat. Painful. I swallowed hard, biting
my lips.

“I’m not going to say any trite clichés. I’d rather cut my tongue
out.”

I snorted again, but the laugh suddenly died in my throat as my
neck prickled. The way he was watching me was so . . . so unexplainable. So
tender.

“Jessica, I’m serious when I say that I would love to get to know
you. Your dancing was really beautiful.”

I snorted, because I knew my stupid fall was unprecedented. Some
of the corps ballet girls tripped or slipped during rehearsals but never during
a performance. If my director had seen me tonight, he’d give me a pink slip. No
second thoughts.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he went on.

“You have no idea what you’re saying. Goodnight,” I said again.

“Travel safe, Miss Mason.”

“Don’t call me Miss Mason, either.”

“Alright. Jessica.”

I shook my head, wanting to bite his head off. I
almost
told
him not to call me that either, but I stopped. I wasn’t normally so rude.

I gave myself a list of excuses. I was tired. I was embarrassed. I
was still grieving. I was regretting ever coming home.

But I was also, suddenly, wanting to burrow my face into his warm
wool coat and sob my eyes out. But why, why, why, would I do something like
that? It must be his whole “pastor” demeanor. A childish reaction to the running
away episode at the cemetery when I thought he’d been stalking me.

I hardly knew James Douglas, but I was already completely
overwhelmed by the man.

Slowly, I shut the door and rolled out of the parking lot.

I could see James Douglas’s car lights following behind me.

At first I was just annoyed again,
but then realized that it was comforting to know I had a safety net behind me
in case I slid off the road.

The snow had stopped and, as I
pulled onto the interstate to head the last couple miles into Snow Valley, it
became apparent several inches of fresh snow had fallen during the late
afternoon and evening. I saw skid marks, and a car sitting askew on the left
side going the wrong direction. Pieces of metal and broken glass glittered in
my headlights. The pile-up earlier. I shivered, knowing I’d just missed it
coming this direction on my way to the theater.

Chills ran along my neck and down
my arms. Déjà vu of mine and Michael’s accident three years ago. In a week it
would be the anniversary of his death.

A sudden stab of pain pierced my
ribs. The thought caused my breath to leave and my car swerved just a little
bit.

A quick glance behind me at James
Douglas’s car made my face burn with self-consciousness. Would he think I’d
secretly drunk something to ease the pain from tonight’s humiliating performance?
Except James Douglas didn’t realize that I’d never touch alcohol again in my
life. Not even a sip of plain, benign beer.

I shuddered, tempted to turn around and head straight back to New
Orleans on Interstate 25. But I couldn’t do that to my parents, or my younger
brother. Sam had changed a lot the past couple of years, and I’d missed it.

Instead, I turned up the heater, running it full blast to get warm.
Even my bones felt cold. I felt as though I was suddenly getting
so
old.
Visiting Michael’s grave had created a peculiar aura of having aged ten years.

I eased back on my speed as I hit
the 30 mph sign on Main. Up ahead, the tree-lined streets were decorated with
thousands of lights. Even the church’s evergreens were lit with a brilliant,
blinking white. It was certainly beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

When I passed the church I snorted for the third time that
evening. Pastor John always had “creative” signs on the church billboard, which
was stuck into the manicured grass along the sidewalk—although the usual
green had become a silvery white of snow.

Whoever
is praying for snow, please stop.

That was a sentiment I could say “Amen” to.

My eyes flicked to my rearview mirror again. I noted that James
Douglas did
not
turn into the church yard. I’d assumed he was living
with his uncle, Pastor John. Maybe I’d assumed wrong.

Then I had a strange thought. Almost like a voice speaking inside my
head.

Maybe I was assuming wrong about a lot of things.