It Really IS a Wonderful Life: The Snowflake Falls but Hearts in Love Keep a Home Warm All Year Long

by Linda Wood Rondeau

  He turned his attention to the poor woman left trembling in Evie’s wake. In an effort to appear nonchalant he took off his ski jacket, slung it over his shoulder, then bowed. “James Paul Sullivan at your service, but my friends call me Jamey.”

  She held the questionnaire out like a ticking bomb, her eyes wide with terror. “Dorie Fitzgerald.”

  “It won’t explode, I assure you.”

  She flashed a grin that set off deep dimples. Not a flirtatious smile exactly, but alluring all the same. He should say something more, engage her in conversation—not his best skill, as ineffective as his flirting. He should take lessons from Gabe Wellington, who could charm the quills off a porcupine. “Don’t let the form thing scare you. Only a formality. I’d be glad to help you with it if you’d like.”

  Her dimples disappeared behind a mask of stone. “You said your name is James Paul Sullivan?”

  “Yes.”

  She squared her shoulders. “I’m quite capable of filling out a form, but thank you for the offer.” She turned around and steamed like an engine toward the main room.

  What had he said to offend her?

  But if she never spoke to him again, it might be for the best. Although he was attracted to her, this was not the time for him to date anyone. He had far too much uncertainty shrouding his life right now.

  On to matters at hand, Sullivan.

  He sauntered into the audition area of the main room, surprised to see Dorie sitting next to Zeke, whose mound of flesh spread over a kid’s chair like melted mozzarella. Why would a girl that cute be with Zeke? Jamey’s conscience seared with his unkind thought, perhaps prompted by a bit of jealousy given Dorie’s hasty retreat a moment ago. Zeke was a good man with a heart as big as his frame. Why shouldn’t he have a girlfriend as pretty as Dorie?

  ***

  Dorie plunked into a child-sized chair next to Zeke. The nerve of that Jamey Sullivan, flirting with her after sending her a rejection letter. It had to be the same name as on the letter. Midville was a small town. He’d seemed cute, though, especially his smile. He reminded her of Emma’s Cowboy Bob doll. She clicked her pen and began filling out the form as if it were a job application. She’d completed at least twenty of them since moving to Midville. Name, address, phone number - these she could handle. The second part asked for availability times. Easy. “Whenever,” she clucked as she wrote the single word in the large space provided. Some people in Midville must have a life.

  Zeke glanced her way and said, “You talkin’ to me?”

  “No, to the Man Upstairs, but sometimes I wonder if He’s home.”

  Zeke laughed. “Oh, He’s always home, but sometimes we don’t wait long enough for Him to answer.”

  The next section asked for the desired part. She had watched the movie every year and could recite most of it verbatim. “Whatever.” She choked on her own saliva at the last section. “List your previous roles, including those with Midville Players.”

  Discretion reared and flailed its hoofs. She should get her coat and leave now—save herself time, trouble, and terror. She tucked the audition form into her pants pocket, then sped toward the coat rack in the hall. That Sullivan man leaned against it like an appendage.

  “Leaving already?” Understanding oozed from his inquisition, his eyes probing as if he understood her fear and was kind enough to skirt the issue.

  Dorie pulled her coat from the hanger and draped it over her shoulders while he took a step back and crossed his arms. Something in his oval brown eyes, slightly hidden behind Ben Franklin-style glasses, hinted more than polite interest.

  “Why don’t you hang around a little longer? If you’re in a hurry, I’ll tell Danny you have to be someplace and he’ll let you audition first.”

  First? Please, no! “I’m not going anywhere. Just came out to get my coat. It’s a little chilly in there.”

  Jamey smiled. “Welcome to the North Country. At least I’m assuming you’re not from here. I’ve lived in Midville all my life, and I pretty much know everyone in town.”

  “I moved here in June.”

  A flannel-jacketed man bustled into the hall. “Hey, Jamey, Danny wants to get going.” This guy had no projection problems.

  Jamey raised his hand in acknowledgement. “Be right in, Dave,” he said, then turned to help her put on her coat. “Please stay. You’ll be glad you tried out. Our last production was Ten Little Indians. They cast me as the Australian because my British accent is the pits. Irish I can do, but no one will ever accuse me of being to the manor born.”

  Dorie gasped. “Will I have to do an accent?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Should she go or stay?

  “Do you want me to give your form to Danny?”

  Why did he have to be so nice? He’d rejected her once already and she didn’t want to like him. Didn’t he even remember doing so? Yet like a landscape drawing one in for a closer look, her dislike ebbed with each smile he gave her. She handed him her uncompleted form.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Dorie followed Jamey into the audition area. He graciously folded it without peeking, then zigzagged through the crowd to where Danny sat. The two talked as if they were lifetime friends, a warm scene.

  Will I ever find that comfortableness with anyone from Midville besides my parents?

  Dorie looked for Zeke, who mingled on the other side of the room. Great, abandoned by Sulu the Great without so much as sayonara. She leaned against the wall as Danny Riley took center floor, her heart only flipping once this time.

  “Thanks for coming, everyone. What a great turnout—better than I’d hoped. We’ll read in a group tonight. I might need to do callbacks for the leads; otherwise I’ll notify every one of their assigned parts within three days. Jamey, Evie, and Zeke—come on up. Begin with the opening scene.” As they read, Danny sat at a desk and wrote on their audition sheets. “Mrs. Davidson, would you come up, too?”

  Dorie pinged her forehead. The lady from Mom’s church. That was her name. Gillian Davidson. Best tuck it away for future reference in case the tryouts came up in conversation Sunday.

  Danny gave everyone a script. “Let’s read the scene where the town descends on the Savings and Loan.”

  Jamey read the part of George Bailey with convincing professionalism, especially compared to Zeke and Evie’s more obvious amateur renditions. Then Danny switched scenes and had Jamey read Clarence, while Zeke and Evie took the leads. Evie as an ingénue? Not even in Midville. But Jamey, though much thinner and younger than the movie’s version, made a very believable Clarence.

  Danny closed his script. As the first group took their seats, he picked out more forms. “Now I’d like Dorie Fitzgerald to come up.”

  He called a few other names—names she’d never remember. She walked the imaginary plank to her doom while the rest of the group confidently sauntered forward, among them a shapely brunette with gyrating hips.

  Danny handed all the readers a script. “Let’s go back to the first scene with the townspeople. Dorie, would you please take the part of Miss Andrews?” He spoke to the female Elvis next. “Susan, would you be the other townsperson for now?”

  Susan flicked her long curls. “Whatever.”

  Put the distraction aside. Focus on how someone might feel if they were about to lose every cent they owned. Dorie remembered how Daddy had fumed at selling some stock at half what he had paid. As she read, she modeled Daddy’s anger.

  “That’s good,” Danny said. “Thanks.” Sincerity covered his words of approval. Dorie took her seat feeling a little more confident than when she’d entered the building. Maybe the night wouldn’t be a disaster after all. She watched the remaining tryouts with reserved amusement. Like the dichotomy of wealth prevalent in the North Country, talent stood side-by-side with absurdity. Danny and Jamey huddled for a few minutes, and then Danny took center again. “That’s all for tonight. I’ll be in touch.”

  The hopeful cast put on their coats.
Some lingered to chat while others paraded to the parking lot. Dorie joined the latter group, their pace a little shy of a full gallop. She had done the best she could do, and Danny had seemed pleased. Now she’d have to wait for his call.

  “You read well, Dorie.”

  When had Jamey caught up to her?

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you did a great job tonight.”

  She’d accept the compliment, even though he didn’t think she was good enough to work in his store. She stammered an acknowledgement and resumed her brisk clip.

  He kept pace. “I’ll probably see you at read-through next week.”

  “Read-through?”

  “That’s when the cast gets together and runs through the entire script. Then we do the blocking over the next few rehearsals.”

  “Blocking?”

  “Don’t worry about the terms. You’ll catch on.”

  He hesitated, as if waiting for a response. She should make a stab at being friendly, even though she still seethed a little at his unfeeling rejection letter.

  Wait, Dorie. You don’t know for sure he is the same James P. Sullivan or even if he’s connected to Bargains Galore. How many times had Mom told her she should always give people the benefit of the doubt?

  “I liked your readings the best. I hope you get the part you want,” she said.

  “Danny has already cast me as Clarence. I always get the oddball parts. Typecasting I guess.”

  A brown-eyed typecast angel? Another reason to stay clear of Jamey Sullivan.

  “Danny wants you to play Miss Andrews and help with publicity.”

  Publicity? “How did you find that out?”

  “I asked if he planned to cast you. I like to see new people get involved. Seems like we have the same players in every production.” He rocked on his feet as if wanting to say more.

  She opened the car door and slid behind the wheel, then lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. Mom’s wisdom could always be counted on. Why be angry with someone who wasn’t even aware they’d done anything offensive?

  “Until next week?”

  Jamey tipped his cap like a backwoods Sir Galahad. “Unless a greater Power than Midville theater group throws us together before then.”

  Chapter Three

  You drink too much of this stuff. Dorie dumped her coffee into the sink, then switched the landline to her other ear. “It’s only a small part, Mom. Even Meryl Streep had to start somewhere. I’m sure it will lead to better things.” Mom could make a workhorse feel like a prized thoroughbred.

  “Of course, the children can stay with me while you’re at practices.”

  “I think it’ll be a lot of fun.”

  “Goodness knows you’ve not let yourself have any for too long.”

  “Rehearsals begin Monday night. I’ll have to go only a few times for my part, but I’m going to help with props and publicity too … ouch!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Josh just hit me in the ankle with his bike. Hold on a minute. He knows better than to ride his bike in the house.”

  Dorie put the phone down and brought Josh and his bike to a halt. “Bikes are for outside, young man.”

  “It’s raining. I’m bored.”

  “Why don’t you color?”

  “I don’t want to.” The bike crashed to the floor, narrowly missing her feet as Josh stormed out of the kitchen.

  Should she go after him? Make him apologize? Why did he edge her into corners, make everything a challenge? Perhaps she should be more lenient. He’d lost his father, after all. Devon would’ve known how to handle Josh’s outburst. When he used to ask the kids to mind their mother, their behavior improved like magic—at least for a few days. She should send Josh to his room. Instead, she let his tantrum ride and resumed her conversation with Mom. “Sorry for the interruption. Josh has been miserable today.”

  “At six, boys are tougher to manage. When your children are teenagers, you’ll be glad you have only one girl.”

  “I don’t want to think about the kids getting older.” Dorie gazed at the drizzling rain, her heart as droopy as the chrysanthemums in her window box. “Why does it always rain on Saturday?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  “I suppose so. Can I call you back later? The kids are probably hungry.”

  When Dorie put the receiver back on the cradle, inspiration hit her. She grabbed Boomer by the collar and wrestled him into the cellar. “Sorry, Boomer, an evil necessity. We won’t be away long. Emma! Josh! Go get your coats. We’re going out for pizza.”

  Josh dashed for the closet.

  Clutching her oversized stuffed toy, Emma scrambled off the recliner. “Can I bring Mr. Bear?”

  Dorie smiled at Emma’s faithful companion. “If he promises to behave himself.”

  Emma leaned her ear against his black-buttoned mouth. “He says he’ll be good.”

  Dorie took pleasure in Emma’s three-year old antics as she rummaged through the closet, examining each article from the bottom, the apex of her reach. Then she pulled down her favorite yellow raincoat. She held Mr. Bear with one hand and eased the other into the opposite sleeve. Her impatience blared like an out-of-tune trumpet. “I’m hurrying, Mommy, but my coat’s all stuck.”

  “Come here, honey.” Dorie kissed Emma on the head and drank in the lingering strawberry scent left in her blonde ringlets after her morning bath. “Are we all set? Last one to get into the car has to sing Smelly Pants.”

  Emma sprinted out the door while Josh leaned on the wall by the closet, his jacket half on. “There’s no such song Mommy. Billy Townsend told me so. You made that up so we wouldn’t lollygag.”

  “Maybe so, Josh. But I’d still appreciate it if you’d hurry up.”

  “Yeppers.”

  “The word is ‘yes,’ Josh.”

  “Yes, Josh.”

  Patience, Dorie.

  Once Emma was safely buckled in, Dorie circled to the other side to help Josh with his booster seat. “I got it already.”

  “Good for you.” Stop growing so fast, Josh.

  By the time Dorie pulled into the Pizza Barn, the drizzle had calmed to a mere mist. She parked in the first available space. Before Dorie could stop him, Josh burst from the car and rushed toward the entrance. She shouted toward his scurrying form, “You wait for us by the door.”

  She reached into the car to help Emma out.

  “Hello, Dorie!”

  When she turned toward the slightly familiar male voice, she knocked her head against the door. Not hard, thankfully, embarrassment the only pain. Jamey Sullivan leaned against a gray Nissan next to her Cavalier. He pulled his Yankees cap over his face, probably to hide his laughter.

  “I’m glad we came along for your amusement.”

  “I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you. The pizza’s on me.”

  Now how was this supposed to work? They eat separately and she sends him the bill?

  Seemed a little ungrateful. She’d decided to forgive Jamey for not hiring her, but did she want to share a meal with him?

  Get over it, Dorie. It’s just a pizza, not a date. “I’ll take you up on that offer, but only if you join us.”

  Emma tugged at her mother’s sweater. “Mr. Bear is super hungry. Can we go in now?”

  Josh yelled from the curb. “Come on, Mom.”

  “Jamey, you don’t know what you’re in for.”

  With a broad smile he squatted, meeting Emma’s gaze. “Does Mr. Bear like pizza?”

  She tunneled underneath her mother’s trench coat, Mr. Bear’s buttons peeking out aside Emma’s blue eyes.

  “Emma, this is Mr. Sullivan. Can you say hello?”

  “Please. Just Jamey. Mr. Sullivan reminds me of my tenth-grade maths teacher, and we didn’t get along very well.”

  “Okay. Just Jamey. Over there, trying to look like a twenty-something know-it-all, is my son Josh.”

  Jamey waved toward the bench where a fidgety Josh squirm
ed with impatience. He harpooned them both with a scowl as if Devon condemned her through his son’s eyes. She shrugged off the guilt.

  You’re being irrational, Dorie.

  Jamey had been polite, nothing more. Kind too. Not put off by sulking preschoolers and judgmental sons.

  Dorie inched Emma from her hiding place. She scrunched behind her mother’s back. “Emma’s a little shy. She’ll warm up.”

  “That’s okay. I’m used to kids. They need their space when it comes to strangers.”

  Jamey motioned to a waiter, who then led the group to a large booth. As they approached, Jamey answered the question dangling in Dorie’s mind - how he was used to kids but here alone. “I’m a Boy Scout leader, Sunday School teacher, and a Little League coach.”

  Dorie tugged off Emma’s jacket. Emboldened with uncharacteristic courage, she shot Jamey her double-dare-you-to-scare-me glare, a Fitzgerald trademark. Meeting her challenge, he squatted again. “Where should Mr. Bear sit? Would he like to be by the window?”

  In spite of her best efforts to avoid him, Dorie warmed toward this odd man willing to humble himself before a stuffed animal to bring a child comfort. She saw him not as the man who wouldn’t hire her but as someone she’d like to know better.

  Unexpectedly, Josh threw his wet outer clothes onto the bench and sat on top of the heap. “I want the window too! Emma has room on the other side.”

  Josh could be obnoxious sometimes, but he’d never been this rude. “That’s not polite, Josh.”

  Jamey stood up again. “Mind if I join you then, Josh? This can be the men’s side.”

  Josh nodded approval. Jamey sat, then jumped back up. He rubbed the seat of his jeans. “Only water. It’ll dry.”