by Nicole Deese
“Really?” She huffed. “Believe me, I want it to work out for you two, I really do. But this is a huge purchase. It’s a big deal, Georgia. You’ll be stuck there—even if the worst-case scenario does happen.”
“Don’t you think I know that? I’m not stupid. I’ve actually thought a lot about this. I don’t need you to be my mom. I just need you to be my friend.”
I opened my mouth to apologize, when Cara’s voice softened, soothing me over the phone. “You haven’t told her yet, have you?”
“No.”
She sighed, and I heard every word of reassurance she didn’t speak aloud inside it. “I’m on your side, G. No matter what. You know that.”
My eyes burned with unshed tears. “I’m sorry . . . I know you are. I love you, Cara.”
“I love you, too. Please keep me posted.”
Pots and pans clanged in the kitchen as Nan made cookies for the bake sale she had organized to benefit Savannah, who was due home the next evening. Willa had called Weston yesterday with the news. He’d sported a permanent grin for most of the day.
Since school was out for winter break, rehearsals had been switched to daytime, which freed up my evenings to spend with Weston. Tomorrow we were cooking for his sister and Savannah at her house—a welcome-home surprise. Having no siblings of my own, I craved the kind of devotion that seemed to come so easily for Weston. But at the same time, I feared trespassing.
“Georgia, are you off the phone?”
“Yep. I am now.”
“Come on in here and help me, would you? I need a couple more hands. I’m trying to make peanut brittle for the sale.”
Surrounded by an arsenal of kitchen gadgets, Nan was busy stirring liquid goo in a pot, occasionally checking the temperature with a candy thermometer.
“Get that pan ready with the wax paper, please.”
I did as she asked. This was serious business. As Nan poured the peanut-filled lava onto the wax paper, her face glistened. She smoothed the bumps with her red spatula.
“Now, can you turn that left burner on? There’s fudge in that pot. Just keep stirring.”
I nodded. “Sure thing. Are you still planning on hosting the sale after the play? At the senior center?”
“Yep. I volunteered Eddy to help me.”
“Oh, good. How is she . . . I mean, with Franklin?”
Nan’s smile was sad. “She’s strong. He’s had the signs for years now. My guess is he will have to go to a facility within the next few months. He’s just getting more and more confused.”
The low boil prompted me to quicken the pace of the wooden spoon in my hand. I stared into the mixture, lost in thought.
“No need to attack it, Georgia. It’s done nothing wrong.”
She reached around me and turned the burner off as I stepped aside to watch her work her magic.
“Sorry.”
Nan looked at me after she poured the fudge into the pan to cool. “What’s bothering you?”
I shook my head, unsure of how to answer.
“Are you having second thoughts about your theater idea?”
Am I? “I don’t think so.”
When her eyes bored into mine, I knew she was about to pluck the truth from my soul. It’s how she worked—her Nan-vision, I called it.
“Whatever you decide . . . it needs to come from here.” She touched her heart. “Not here.” She touched her temple, smearing a trail of chocolate onto her cheek. “I may be getting older, Georgia, but I wouldn’t want you to make a life decision based on proximity to me. No matter how senile I become.”
She took a step toward me and placed her warm hands on my cheeks.
“You’re important to me, Nan.”
“And you’re important to me, too, darlin’. But you living inside God’s plan is even more important to me. You can’t make this decision for anyone and can’t unmake it for anyone, either.” She rubbed her thumbs over my pinched eyebrows. “Maybe that’s not the advice you want to hear from your old gran, but it’s the best advice I know. There’s only one place that peace comes from. And it’s a commodity I wouldn’t trade for anything or anyone.”
She pulled me close, her sweet scent filling my nostrils and stirring up the childish feelings I had put to rest a long time ago.
“I do feel that, Nan. Peace, I mean.”
“Then don’t let anyone take it from you.”
There was no need for a name drop. She knew as well as I did that my mother would not care about peace or any other kind of divine revelation.
Success wasn’t a feeling for her; it was a formula.
Amazingly, rehearsal ran smoothly—both times. Misty managed the blocking while I listened for lines and cue issues. Between Nan, the crew backstage, and the volunteers for lighting and sound who joined us, we were starting to feel like a full-fledged production team. Josie, my modern-day Mary, even hugged me before she ran out to meet her mom in the parking lot. I couldn’t remember a more satisfying feeling. I thought again of the peace Nan spoke of. Every time I checked for its presence, it was there, waiting for me, unshaken by my doubt.
I pulled up to Willa’s house, and my insides actually fluttered. Going a day without seeing Weston felt wrong. Her house shared a driveway with their parents’. It was small, but even from the porch, I could feel the inviting warmth that lay just beyond the front door.
It swung open.
“I was hoping that was you.” Weston wrapped his arms around me, lifting me off the ground and nuzzling his face into my neck.
“Hi.” My voice was shaky and breathless. I was glad I hadn’t tried to say more.
As he pulled me inside and closed the door, I smelled something baking.
“Did you cook without me?”
“I may have cheated and stolen one of my mom’s frozen casseroles from the freezer.”
“Weston—”
He put his finger to my lips. “I need you to help me with something else.”
His eyes pleaded for my understanding.
“Fine. Just stop with those eyes already.”
He grinned and swept a kiss across my forehead.
“This way. I have everything set up.”
I dropped my coat and satchel on a chair and followed Weston down a short hallway and into a bathroom. A stool sat in front of the mirror.
“Um . . . what exactly did you have in mind?”
Weston turned around, holding hair clippers in his hand. I gasped.
“What are those for?”
“You’re going to shave my head.”
“What? Why?”
“I want to do it. For Vannie. Willa said she’s having a hard time with her hair loss. So I want us to match for the holidays.”
My heart melted into a puddle at my feet. I slumped against the doorjamb, staring at him. Is he truly this wonderful?
He pushed the clippers at me again. “Is that okay? You don’t have a weird hair phobia that I don’t know about, right?”
I shook my head, taking the clippers from his extended hand.
No, but if I did, this would have cured me.
Ten minutes later, I buzzed away the last patch of Weston’s hair, watching it curl into a half-moon against the tile floor. Running my hand over the rough texture that remained on his scalp, a hypnotic pull seemed to tighten the invisible cord between us.
Weston had always been striking, but until that moment, until I saw him in such a rare state of vulnerability, it was hard to separate which of his features caused my insides to ache whenever his gaze met mine. But now, there was no doubt.
His eyes.
I glanced away, the walls pressing in on me as I reached for the broom.
His warm hand braceleted my wrist.
My pulse hammered under the pressure of his thumb. His touch both stren
gthened and weakened me. As the broom slipped from my grasp, he hooked a finger under my chin. Our eyes met, embraced in a silent understanding.
“Thank you for being here tonight. For doing this for me.”
My spine tingled as his whispered words fluttered across my cheek.
Gripping my waist, he lifted me up onto the counter, pushing my legs to either side of him. His gaze held steady, focused. I struggled for breath as his fingers ran through my hair. One, two . . . ten seconds passed before his hand brushed against the nape of my neck. And then oxygen ceased to matter at all.
I pulled him close to me, clutching his shirtfront while clinging to this moment in the fear that it could slip away, that he could slip away.
When our mouths finally touched, there was no ravenous greed propelling us, no irrational drive making us forget who we were.
Because for the first time in my life, I wanted to remember the details.
The tender awareness of his lips against mine created a perfect symphony of emotion. And with one kiss, Weston had reached deeper into me than anyone before.
I’d been sliding in the wrong direction for years, and something—God, maybe—had finally led me back to home base.
To Lenox, Oregon.
To Weston James.
And I’d fallen wholly, madly, completely in love with him.
A tiny whimper escaped my throat just before he broke contact with my lips. Though his eyes still blazed with hunger, he took one step back and then another.
A full ten seconds of silence spun around us.
“I don’t think I’ll ever go back to my regular barber again.”
I suppressed an anxious giggle.
He cleared his throat. “Um, that being said, I should probably handle the cleanup—alone.”
Without need for further explanation, I slid off the countertop and on wobbly legs made my way toward the kitchen. Alone.
We needed to add a good thousand feet of space between us if we were going to accomplish anything that night—other than kissing.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Working alongside Weston in the kitchen as we waited for Willa and Savannah to arrive proved no simple task—not when the spark between us felt hotter than the candles I lit on the dining room table for ambiance. Or the steam rolling off the casserole inside the oven.
It was ten minutes past six when they came through the front door, both looking exhausted.
Willa’s eyes welled with tears when she saw the beautifully set table. “Wow, thank you both! We’re starving.”
Weston knelt before a fragile, beanie-wearing Savannah.
“Where’s your hair?” she gasped, running her fingers over his prickly scalp.
Weston’s chuckle made my stomach flip. “I thought this was the new style. Was I wrong?”
She grinned and pillowed her head onto his shoulder. “Mom said I’ll get hair again . . . maybe for Easter.”
“Well, I’m sure your mom’s right. But you’re still my little princess. A really cool, hat-wearing princess.”
After we took their luggage to their bedrooms, it was time to eat. We joined hands, bowed our heads, and blessed the stolen casserole and bread.
I also whipped up some chocolate mousse, Savannah’s favorite dessert. She beamed when I placed it in front of her. I was thrilled to see her eating, and by the look of it, Willa was, too.
As I stood to gather the plates, my phone buzzed on the counter. I felt like my organs were fusing when I read the number on the screen.
“Um . . . I’ve gotta take this.”
I made a quick exit out the front door, answering just in time.
“Hello, is this Georgia?”
“Yes—yes this is Georgia.” Adrenaline mixed with the bite in the wind made me shiver.
“This is John Harvey from the credit union. I know it’s after-hours, but I thought you’d want to know so you can make plans for tomorrow. You’ve been approved. You can make an offer on the theater.”
With a soft whoosh, I expelled the breath I’d been holding. “I’m approved?”
“Yes. I’ll e-mail you the contact information I have for the realtor. I know him personally, so I’ll put in a good word for you. With any luck, you could have a signed offer before Christmas. That theater hasn’t had any movement on it in years.”
“Thank you, Mr. Harvey.”
The call ended just as Weston opened the front door. He narrowed his eyes questioningly as he draped my coat across my shoulders.
“Why do you insist on freezing to death?”
“Weston—”
“I mean, there were other rooms you could have escaped to. But no, you must have some kind of freaky need to shiver and chatter and—”
“I’m approved. I can make an offer on the theater.”
Weston’s mouth clamped shut.
I laughed and then leaped at him, my coat falling onto the ground. His strong arms snaked around my back, holding me as I buried my face into his neck. I drank in his scent.
“Can you even believe it? He said there’s been no activity on it in years. This is really happening, Wes. I’m going to buy a theater.”
I pushed him away suddenly as the words fully registered inside my brain.
“Oh my gosh. I’m going to buy a theater!”
Weston’s grip on my waist strengthened. “Whoa, Georgia. Do not faint on this porch,” he said, pulling me out of my fuzzy, half-frozen delirium.
Before I could rock back on my heels a second time, Weston forced me into the warmth of Willa’s house. He deposited me on the couch with a single kiss to the temple. “Sit here, I need to make a quick call.” I could only nod in agreement.
And then Savannah was at my side, dressed in pj’s and holding a tattered book in her hand.
“Would you read this to me, Georgia?”
I cleared my throat, hoping it would also clear the fog from my brain.
“Absolutely.”
She snuggled into my side while Willa loaded the dishwasher in the kitchen. I felt a bit guilty sitting down while Willa cleaned up, but when her eyes met mine, she winked her approval.
“This is my favorite book. It’s about a princess.”
“I see that. I’m sure I’ll love it, too.”
And love it I did. It was a sweet story, filled with happily ever afters, the kind we all hoped would be in Savannah’s future. With a scrappy-looking blanket wrapped around her hand, she laid her head on my shoulder. And then I remembered a question I wanted to ask her weeks ago.
“Savannah? Do you remember when I visited you in the hospital? You said you’d always wanted to meet me . . . because of our names?”
She lifted her head and played with my hair.
“Uncle Wes picked my name. When I was in mommy’s tummy.”
“He did? I didn’t know that.”
She ran her tiny hands over the ends of my hair, and then she curled a lock around her fingertips.
“But what does that have to do with me?”
The back door slid closed, and Weston sauntered into the living room, breaking Savannah’s concentration. In one smooth movement, he swept his niece into his arms. “Come on munchkin, it’s time for you to go to bed. Can I tuck you in tonight?”
She nodded, grinning at me before leaving the room.
Willa dried her hands on a towel and slumped down across from me. Her petite body was swallowed up by the old recliner. Exhaustion imprinted her every feature. As I studied her, I realized the kind of beauty Willa Hart possessed would never be found in Hollywood. There was nothing superficial or contrived about it. It was pure and untainted. She was lovely in every sense.
I remembered watching her in school, emulating her speech and mannerisms, envying from afar the kind of natural perfection she possessed.
But here she sat now, a young widow and mother in a fight to save her daughter from the deadly web of cancer.
A thick, bitter taste coated my throat as I tried to swallow.
Her eyes crinkled in the corners as she smiled faintly at me. I prayed she couldn’t detect the pity that filled my heart.
“She’s right, you know.”
“Who? Savannah?”
Willa nodded. “When I lost Chad while I was pregnant, I wasn’t in a good place mentally. Daily tasks were nearly impossible, much less thinking about having a baby without my husband. I don’t think I could have made it without my family. One night Weston told me he found a name, and I loved it, immediately. But I’ll never forget what he said about it.” She paused, as if recalling his exact words. “He said that the strongest girl he’d ever known was Georgia Cole . . . and if he could give any gift to his niece, it would be that kind of strength. He said, ‘Savannah is a name forever connected to Georgia . . . even if only on a map.’ And you know what? My daughter is a fighter.”
He named his niece after me?
“Um . . . you girls all right in here?”
Weston stood looking at us, his eyes going from one to the other. I wiped at my eyes hastily, and Willa nodded. She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket.
“Would you mind running to the store for me, Wes? I need a few things I forgot to grab when we left the hospital.”
“Sure thing.” Weston turned to me. “Do you want to stay here or come with me?”
“Actually, I should probably be getting home. I have a few things I need to do.”
Weston nodded and grabbed my coat as I hugged Willa good-bye.
“I’ll see you at the show, Georgia. We’re looking forward to it.”
I smiled. “I can’t believe dress rehearsal is only two days away.”
The weight of Weston’s hand warmed the small of my back. As we approached my car, he turned to face me.
We spoke at the same time.
“Georgia—”
“Weston—”
“You first.” He rubbed his palm on the back of his neck. I still couldn’t get over how good-looking he was, even without hair. He waited for me to speak, but I found it difficult to utter a single word. But I had to. He’d given me so much in the last few weeks. And it was time I said so.