A Cliché Christmas

by Nicole Deese

  Heat crept up my neck at the touch of his hand on mine. “I think I can do that.”

  “Good, because I really want to take you on a third date.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Bags in hand, I left Gigi’s Grocery and fought my way through the arctic wind gusts to my car. It was freezing out. Mid-December was upon us, and the storm of the season was supposed to hit within the next day or so. I told Nan I would stock up on all the essentials just in case. So far, though, there hadn’t been a single snowflake. The weather forecasters in Oregon were overpaid.

  “Miss Cole? Is that you?”

  A pretty woman with long dark hair jogged over to me, pulling her coat tightly across her chest.

  “Yes . . . hi, do we know each other?”

  The woman had rosy lips and round cheeks. “No, but you know my daughter, Josie McDonald.”

  “Ah, yes. I can see the resemblance. She’s a great girl. Glad she’s our Mary,” I said, shivering.

  “I just want to thank you for what you’ve done for those kids—my daughter especially. It’s easy to find trouble, even in a small town like ours. I’ve never known her to be passionate about anything in the arts until you got here. You’ve inspired her, really. She was so excited about getting into drama when she got to the high school, but then the program was cut. She talks about you every night when she comes home.”

  My limbs tingled with warmth as I pictured Josie. She had said only a few sentences to me outside of our rehearsal time, but I’d noticed she’d had a new dedication to her role over the last week. She’d even volunteered to help lead some of the younger kids in a chorus of “Silent Night” at the end of the pageant. Nan had told me a little about Josie’s family after practice one night—a dad who abandoned them, a brother who was into drugs.

  Suddenly, I realized what this play meant to the kids in it. It wasn’t just about raising the funds to pay for Savannah’s cancer treatments anymore; the arts reached a much broader audience, offering hope and healing to the community at large.

  Growing up, I had used writing, reading, and drama as outlets, too; they were really the only viable outlets I had.

  “It’s my pleasure. Thank you for sharing that with me.”

  “You’re welcome. I wish someone would buy that old theater and do something good with it—like what you’re doing now. It’s sat there unused for so many years. I’m glad you got clearance to use it, given its run-down condition. Anyway, I wanted you to know that you’ve made a difference for her—and for my family. Especially in this season; it’s our first Christmas without their dad around.”

  I swallowed a lemon-size lump in my throat. Though I’d never experienced a normal Christmas, I’d written scenes for dozens of them. I knew how they should look and how they should feel. And I knew all about the disappointment that followed when expectations were left hanging on the back of a closed door.

  “Merry Christmas to you, Mrs. McDonald.”

  “You can call me Susie. And merry Christmas to you, too.”

  At rehearsal that afternoon, Misty had to repeat her questions a dozen times before my brain could actually compute them—a surefire bet my mind was preoccupied. I’m sure she assumed it was because Weston had taken the day off to go visit Savannah in Portland, and I didn’t bother to inform her otherwise. But I wasn’t fixated on Weston; I was fixated instead on the words of Susie McDonald.

  I watched as Josie moved across the stage with confidence and ease. She was no longer the shy, timid girl who auditioned three weeks prior. Her empty eyes were now filled with an infectious joy.

  And then there was Justin, who at first could barely stand onstage without shaking and stumbling through his lines. Weston had spent a lot of time helping him enunciate. Now, he was the first to arrive and the last to leave. He had even walked Nan to her car yesterday.

  But the biggest transformation was with Kevin, the boxer-brief-wearing wise-man terrorizer. Over the past week, I’d seen something new in him, too. I realized that every time I praised him for a job well done, his posture changed: his chest puffed out, and he held his head high as if he owned the stage. I wondered how much positive feedback he received at home or in school.

  As Nan played “O Holy Night” for the fourth time that day, something shifted inside me, and a new vision began to surface.

  Nan hooked an arm around my shoulders as we watched the kids leave one by one.

  “You’ve got that deep-thinkin’ look about you today.”

  I let out a soft chuckle. “I have a deep-thinkin’ look?”

  “Oh, yes, your mother has one, too.” Her quiet breathing filled the space between us as we watched the last of the students climb into their cars and pull out of the lot.

  “Nan?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What was she like as a teenager?”

  Her heavily loaded sigh caused a twinge of sorrow to prick my heart as I waited for her answer. I may have lost my mom to a new life that didn’t have room for me, but she had lost her daughter long before that.

  “Your mother was always looking for a place to belong.”

  The numbness inside my chest expanded to my shoulders, arms, and hands, leaving my fingertips tingling. Hadn’t I always wanted the same thing?

  Nan continued, “Some people are born with a restlessness inside them that is never satisfied. No matter how much they are loved or provided for, nothing ever feels like enough. Summer had so much drive, so much ambition, but when she started focusing too much on what lay ahead, she missed out on everything that was right in front of her.”

  Nan glanced at me, her eyes filled with compassion. And I knew she wanted me to understand something important—something about the past, something about how although my mom and I were wired the same, my future could be different. I could be different. Though the ultimate message wasn’t entirely clear to me yet, one thing was.

  Summer Cole hadn’t left only me.

  She’d left Nan, too.

  And her absence had stained us both.

  “She had a lot of dreams, then, when she was young?” The question strained from my throat.

  “Yes, she had big dreams—all of which included a future outside this town. She was gonna leave Lenox right after graduation, but—”

  “But then she got pregnant before she could finish out her senior year.”

  Nan stroked my arm. “And I wouldn’t trade you for a million vintage cookbooks.”

  I laid my head on her shoulder. “I love you, Nan.”

  She kissed my hair. “Not nearly as much as I love you.”

  “You can’t say that. There’s no way to measure it.”

  “Sweetie, I have decades on you. I’m quite seasoned in the art of love.”

  Yes, you are, Nan. Yes, you are.

  “Wait—are you serious? The Weston? The guy who totally humiliated you in front of your entire town?” Cara’s high-pitched shriek could’ve broken a windshield.

  “Yeah, the same one, only it turns out he didn’t actually do that. I was blaming the wrong person all this time.”

  “Um . . . wow. I’m totally shocked. So what are you two? Like . . . dating?”

  “I’m not exactly sure.” Friends who kiss? Is that a thing?

  “It’s not that hard of a question, G. You’re either going on dates with him, stealing midnight kisses, feeling butterflies when he’s near you . . . or you’re not.”

  “Um . . .”

  “Oh my gosh! I haven’t been able to get you to go on a date for over a year, and then you go home to your Little-House-on-the-Prairie town and bam!”

  I laughed as I unlocked the door to the theater. It was quiet, dark, and completely empty.

  “Well, he’s not an easy guy to say no to.”

  She sighed like a princess dreaming of her prince. “Do you think he loves yo
u, Georgia?”

  I nearly dropped the phone as I groped the wall for a light switch. “What? No, he doesn’t love me! Don’t be crazy. We haven’t seen each other for seven years!”

  “But he’s known you your whole life?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “And he wouldn’t let you give him the cold shoulder like you do every guy here?”

  “Well, no.”

  “And he doesn’t care that you’re the Holiday Goddess?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Cara.”

  “Oh my gosh, he loves you!”

  “Okay, I’m officially never talking to you about him again.”

  “Him who?” a deep voice asked behind me.

  I jumped, screamed, and threw my phone to the ground—all within half a second.

  Weston put his hands up. “I’m sorry . . . I thought you heard me come in.” He went to retrieve my phone, flicking on the theater lights in the process.

  My hand was still gripping my chest when I started breathing again.

  “Hello?” Weston pressed my phone to his ear.

  Oh no. “Give me that.”

  Weston turned around, blocking my futile attempts to knock my phone from his hand.

  “Yes, this is Weston. Who’s this?”

  This is not going to end well.

  “Ah yes . . . Cara—Georgia’s ever-faithful roommate, right? Yes . . . Well, she’s told me a few things about you as well.”

  I grimaced as he flashed an evil grin.

  “Oh, really? That is very interesting. I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

  I will kill her.

  “Oh, well, hang on.” Weston grabbed me around the waist, extended my phone in front of us, and snapped a selfie. Then he proceeded to send it to her!

  “Weston! Are you crazy?” I smacked his shoulder repeatedly.

  “Sorry, Cara, someone is being quite needy at the moment. I think I might have to take a rain check on the rest of this conversation. All right . . . will do. Bye.”

  Weston hung up the phone and offered it to me as if all were perfectly normal.

  “You are incorrigible.”

  “Incorrigible? News flash, this is no longer the 1850s, sweetheart.” His face lit with a smile as he gripped my shoulders. “So, what are you doing over here so late? I saw your car on my way home.”

  “I . . . um . . .”

  He raised his eyebrows in renewed interest. “You meeting someone? Perhaps a rendezvous with an old stagehand from the past?”

  “No, I just had an idea is all.” I strolled toward the stage, touching the worn fabric of the seats as I made my way to the front.

  “What sort of idea?”

  I bit my lip, hesitating. It might sound insane if I said it out loud.

  “How long ago was the drama program cut?” I asked.

  “Um . . . it was cut from most of the school districts in the state about four years ago. Why? What’s this about?”

  “Nothing yet, I’m just thinking.”

  He threaded his way through the seats to where I stood looking around the room.

  “How much work would it take to renovate this building?”

  “This building?” Weston asked. He seemed taken aback for a moment.

  I nodded.

  “Well, it needs a new roof, updated bathrooms, and there are some places where the floors are close to rotting out.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why?”

  “I’m . . .” I shook my head. “It sounds crazy.”

  “You’re in good company, then. Say it.”

  “What if . . . what if there was someone who could do something with this old theater? Make it great again? Bring a passion back to the arts? Not just something for Lenox, but for the surrounding communities, too.” I spun in a circle, taking it all in. “It just sits here, Wes. And Josie’s mom said it’s been on the market for several years.”

  “Yeah, it has.” His words were careful, hesitant even, but my pulse was like a runaway stallion.

  “What if I could do that? What if I could be that person?”

  Weston’s mouth fell open, and shock veiled his handsome face.

  “Maybe it’s not even possible.” I shook my head as something like a giggle raced up my throat. “Tell me it’s crazy, Weston. I mean, I already have a career—a successful career—but this . . . I don’t know, this just feels right somehow.”

  “You’re not crazy, Georgia.” He seemed to be measuring his words, but his eyes gleamed with tenderness.

  He held my hand, intertwining our fingers, as I looked around the room, visualizing the updates and repairs. I could easily imagine the plays and performances, recitals and readings, but most of all, I could see the faces that walked through the lobby doors.

  Faces looking for a place to belong.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  December 14—otherwise known as “practice-free Saturday”—was upon us.

  I climbed into Weston’s truck in my borrowed snow gear—thank you, Misty—and a thrill of childish excitement rushed through my veins. I hadn’t been tubing for nearly a decade. I looked up at the mountain ahead of us; another layer of fresh snow slept atop it.

  “We should probably head home by early afternoon,” Weston said, shutting his door. “They say the storm is headed our way late this evening.”

  I chuckled and clicked my seat belt. “I’ve heard that for three days now. And last night I finally broke down and ate the stash of Cocoa Puffs I’d been saving for this big storm.”

  “Well, as much as I’d love to get stuck in a snowstorm with you, I’d like to make sure that you and Nan are well secured tonight in a warm house, with or without Cocoa Puffs.”

  Tilting my head to the side, I grinned at him. “Thanks, by the way, for carrying in all that wood for the stove. I worry about her doing that by herself when I go home.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Leave.” Weston took my hand and kissed the top of it.

  A fluttering erupted inside me.

  “Oh, guess what I found out last night? You’ll never believe it!” I nearly jumped out of my seat as I remembered my online discoveries the night before.

  “What?” Weston mocked me by bouncing in his seat. “Please tell me before you combust.”

  “Nan knows the realtor who listed the theater. She called him this morning, and he said I definitely have a chance, Weston. There’s been no offers on it in a year! I can’t help but feel like it’s some sort of sign. I mean, seriously, how cool is that?”

  I couldn’t help but notice the skeptical flicker of emotion on Weston’s face. “So you’ve talked to your agent in LA about all this? And she doesn’t have any objections to you writing from Oregon if you get the theater?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly. She has some concerns, but . . .”

  I also couldn’t ignore the way Weston rubbed the back of his neck anxiously.

  Not exactly the response I was hoping for. Wasn’t he just asking me to stay?

  “Why are you acting like that?” I asked.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you don’t care—like I just told you I wanted to purchase a goldfish and not the town’s community theater.”

  “I do care. It’s just—”

  “Just what?”

  He gripped the steering wheel. “Remodeling that theater will be a lot of work, Georgia. Don’t get me wrong, I want you in Lenox . . . but I also want to make sure you’re prepared for that kind of commitment.”

  Which commitment is he talking about? The commitment to the theater . . . or to him?

  I couldn’t deny the hurt that seeped into my heart when I heard his words. I’d daydreamed about us working together on the theater—at least in some capacity.


  “Okay,” I said.

  “Georgia, don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “That stupid girl-thing where you pretend you’re fine when you’re obviously not.”

  “I’m not pretending.” Great, now I’m pretending and lying.

  “I just don’t want you to have unrealistic expectations.”

  I turned my head to stare out the window as the snow started to fall on the pass. We were thirty minutes from the mountain, but the closer we got, the more I felt like going back to Nan’s and crying into my pillow . . . not sliding down the bunny slope in a giant rubber tube.

  “Georgia?” Weston’s soft voice tugged at the wound in my chest.

  I couldn’t answer him, not without shedding unwanted tears.

  “I admire your passion and ambition, I always have. I just . . . I want you to be aware of all that’s involved in this decision.”

  Several minutes of torturous silence lingered between us. His words rolled round and round inside my head on a mental spin cycle, tossing around an insecurity so deep, so tender, that I struggled to push it aside. Though I’d been the one to apply the brakes after Weston stated his feelings—requesting that our new relationship move at a slow pace—purchasing the theater would stomp on the accelerator with a lead foot.

  But maybe . . . maybe Weston didn’t want to move that fast. Maybe the hesitancy I’d felt from him had less to do with the theater and the work it involved and more to do with us.

  With me.

  My throat tightened with a familiar uneasiness. “I realize we’ve made no commitments to each other. I mean, I was only supposed to be here for a few weeks—it’s not like you signed up for anything long-term.” I exhaled and picked at the hangnail on my thumb. “Nan is reason enough for me to stay and take this project on. So, please understand, I have no expectations for you if you don’t want to be part of this.” Or me. But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to say those words.

  Weston remained quiet until we pulled into the white-blanketed parking lot of the ski area. The consistent clenching of his jaw ticked like Nan’s piano metronome.