A Cliché Christmas(41)
“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 strengthened 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.”