A Cliché Christmas(10)

“Anyone else?” I asked the crowd.

“Sounds cool!” an older teenage boy yelled. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Yeah. Let’s do it!” another one said.

I wiped the smirk meant for Sydney from my face and then announced each part. Audition lines formed as Betty and I settled into the front-row theater seats. I found myself wishing for a third person to help with the judging, dismissing Weston’s face as soon as it came to mind. I looked around the crowd again and saw an old acquaintance from high school, Misty Peach.

She was as sweet as her name implied, and better yet, she had been a stagehand for our high school plays. I swallowed the humiliation that surfaced when I thought about one particular production and waved her over. She looked more than a little surprised.

“Hey, Georgia—did you need me?”

“Yes! Hey, Misty.” I smiled and touched her shoulder. “Would you mind helping me cast tonight? It’s better to have three heads instead of two. That way there’s a tiebreaker.”

She bit her lip. “Well . . . I suppose I could do that. I’m not very qualified, though, I’m afraid. I’m a stay-at-home mom, not a professional in . . . well, anything.”

I squeezed her arm. “You’ll be perfect.”

“If you say so. I do love Savannah. She’s in my son’s kindergarten class at school . . . I think this is a great idea.”

I patted the chair next to me. “Thank you, Misty.”

For the next two hours, I listened, took notes, and tried not to yawn or fall off my seat from exhaustion as every able body in Lenox tried out for Modern Mary.

When the last audition was done, my eyes actually started to leak tears—a mixture of fatigue, joy, and pure delirium.

The three of us agreed on every casting decision except for the boy who would play Joseph. Betty was insistent on giving the part to Ben (a teenager who picked his nose halfway through his reading and proceeded to wipe it on his jeans) whereas I felt Justin was a better fit. Thank goodness Misty chimed in with her two cents.

“Betty, Ben may be your nephew, but we can’t show favoritism in casting. Justin is my choice, too, and majority rules.”

I like this girl.

“Well, it sounds like we’re done here, then.” I yawned as Betty moved to stand up. “Thank you both for your input tonight. Betty, I’m grateful for your help with the music.” Her countenance lifted at the compliment.

“I’m glad to help.” She grinned, her short salt-and-pepper hair bouncing with each step as she walked out the door.

“Misty, how would you like to be my assistant?”

She smiled wide. “Really? I’d love to. Thank you, Georgia. I’ll just need to work out child care in the evenings with my husband, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

I covered a yawn with my fist. “Great, thank you.”

She hugged me. “It’s so nice to have you home, Georgia.”

Home. There was that word again.



As I parked in front of Weston’s house, adrenaline surged through my veins.

Unwilling to let my guard down in front of him for a single minute, I reminded myself that this interaction needed to be quick. The less time in Weston’s company, the better. I may not have slept for nearly forty hours, but I could surely keep it together for a few more minutes—sleep deprived or not. I blinked my eyes against the stinging cold and tucked the set list under my arm. I rubbed my hands together to create warmth that wasn’t there.

Gloves. Why can’t I remember to buy some darn gloves?

Walking toward the blue house on the corner of Maple and Tenth, I wondered, not for the first time, why he was living in Lenox . . . not building skyscrapers in Boston.

I knocked, and the door opened.

He stood there, forearm resting against the doorjamb, his gray T-shirt pulled tight across his chest and biceps. My eyes ignoring the warning bells sounding in my head, I took in his low-slung jeans. Was he for real? I swallowed hard, trying to will moisture back into my mouth.

“Here.” The word escaped like a glorified croak as I tried to hand him the highlighted set list, but he scowled at it as if I’d just pulled the sheaf of paper from a public toilet.

“That’s not how I do things.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, shivering.

“If you want me to build a set for you, you can come inside and talk with me about it—civilly.”

“No.” I crossed my arms, the papers crinkling.

He crossed his, too. “Then you better go down to Ernie’s Hardware in the morning and see if he can help you. Oh, and don’t worry, I hear he still has one good eye.”

Urgh! “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re as irritating as—”

I growled and pushed past him. Surprisingly, his house was quite nice inside. I wouldn’t dare compliment him, though. We were not friends anymore. We were simply working on a Christmas play together.

I still couldn’t quite believe that little twist of irony—which at the moment felt more like a stab wound.

“You can sit down over there. Want a cup of coffee?”

I glanced at the clock and did a quick calculation. Thirty-nine and a half hours without sleep. I nodded. Coffee would be necessary for me to make it through even a five-minute conversation. I sat on his leather sofa and took out my phone, texting Nan. Dropping off set info to Weston. Be home soon.