A Cliché Christmas(40)
Misty nodded in quiet affirmation as we watched the students file onto the stage.
“It looks awesome, Georgia. I still can’t believe you pulled this off in less than a month.”
“Honestly, I can’t either.”
Mr. Harvey leaned forward in his chair, clicking a fancy pen into action before handing it to me.
“I just need your signature here and here so I can submit this over to our preapproval department. If you’re approved for the amount you need, you’re free to make an offer with your realtor.”
“Thank you, Mr. Harvey. When do you think I’ll hear back?”
“Possibly tomorrow. It depends on how bogged down our loan department is. Everyone is trying to tie up loose ends before the holidays.”
As I shook his hand and headed for the door, I waited for the familiar rush of panic to grip me in its talons or for my mother’s voice to berate me for making such a hasty decision.
But for once, neither came.
“You did what?”
I sighed. “I know . . . It sounds crazy.”
“Um, no. Crazy is wearing suede when there are rain clouds. Crazy is playing the nickel slots in Vegas. Crazy is what happens on reality TV shows with girls who beg for a rose. You are buying a theater!”
“Cara. Honestly. You should be an actress. You are way too dramatic to be locked inside a yoga studio all day.”
“Maybe so. But that’s beside the point. What are you thinking?” She paused a beat. “You’re really thinking of moving away?”
There was no mistaking what I heard in her voice: a sense of abandonment. Guilt pulsed through my veins. I loved Cara; she was the closest thing I had to a sister.
“Cara . . . even if I get the loan, it will likely be a slow process. This kind of thing doesn’t happen quickly.” I exhaled. “Something’s happened since I’ve been here, something I didn’t expect. I realized . . . I’ve missed it here. I’ve missed the mountains and genuine smiles, the slow-paced atmosphere, and I’ve really missed Nan. Yes, it’s a small town, but I can make a dent here. Opening this theater could help a lot of kids who need an artistic outlet. It’s hard to explain, but it feels right. I’ll still write, of course, but I want to do more, and being closer to Nan and Weston—” I pursed my lips together. His name rolled off my tongue so easily now. Like I was always meant to say it.
“But what if . . . what if things don’t work out with him, G?”
It was a good question—the kind of question a best friend should ask, yet it caused my stomach to roll with discomfort. “It won’t change anything.”
“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.