A Cliché Christmas(43)

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.

I flattened my hands on his chest, and his fingers hooked into the belt loops of my jeans, tugging me closer. “Thank you, for these past few weeks. I never thought I would feel this from anyone but Nan.”

“Feel what?”

“Support . . . without limits or conditions.”

Several expressions ranging from adoration to concern to something like weary resolution flickered across Weston’s face. “Please don’t ever forget that. No matter what happens.” He cradled my face in his hands. “You will always have my support.”

His lips brushed across mine.

And then he was gone, trudging toward his truck.

“Hey . . . didn’t you have something you wanted to say?” I called to him.

Even from ten feet away, I saw his hand hover with hesitation over his door handle. His reassuring smile was strangely unconvincing. “Not anymore. Good night, Georgia.”