A Cliché Christmas(6)

Wrapping a scarf I’d borrowed from Nan’s stash around my neck, I stuffed my bare hands into my pockets and made yet another mental note to buy gloves.

My dark chestnut-colored hair flew around my face in the chilly breeze. I was so not in California anymore.

Walking past Jonny’s Pizza and Gigi’s Grocery, I headed north on Main Street. The thick green pine trees lining the streets were a stark contrast to the white-capped mountains in the background. One thing that Lenox had going for it was the scenery that surrounded the town. It was so different from the cement that suffocated LA.

The mountains stirred an emotion in me, making me want to reach for something unseen. I took a deep breath, savoring the feel of clean air in my lungs. I supposed some people felt this way about the ocean, but though the ocean was vast, the mountains were strong and unyielding.

“Georgia?”

I whirled around.

“Wow . . . it is you. I heard you were in town.”

Sydney Parker stood next to her white SUV and took in every last detail of my wardrobe, stopping on Nan’s ratty, rainbow-colored scarf.

“Hello, Sydney, how are you?”

With a tiny lift of her shoulder, she bobbed her head in a way that made her golden locks swish around her shoulders as though she were in a shampoo commercial. “Great. You still single?”

What kind of a question is that?

“Um . . . well, yes . . . actually, I’m—”

“I’m recently divorced. My ex-husband is the mayor,” she said as if I’d missed a presidential election. “I live over in Greenway.”

Of course, she did. Greenway was the richest neighborhood Lenox had to offer.

“Oh, that’s great.” Just keep smiling, I chided myself. My true feelings have always been hard for me to conceal—or so I’ve been told.

Sydney Parker’s persona in high school screamed status, status, status. She befriended the “populars,” dated the “populars,” and was herself a “popular.” We couldn’t have been more different back then. And something told me not much had changed.

“You here visiting your grandma?”

“Yeah, and I’m helping out a bit at the theater, too, it seems.”

Her face beamed, apparently tapping into a new fuel source that caused her eyes to glow with radioactive freakishness. Then I realized what I had said. My cheeks flamed.

Please don’t.

Her high-pitched cackle exploded through the street. “You remember the Christmas play our senior year—”

I shook my head. “Actually, I need to get going. It was nice seeing you, Sydney.” About as nice as stepping into a den of rattlesnakes.

I hurried down the street, pulling the scarf tighter around my neck to ward off the cold. By the time I made it to the theater for the meeting, I could no longer feel my face. Walking through the small lobby, I heard the laughter of children and the murmur of adult conversation. I hoped to slip into the back and listen to whatever presentation was about to be given, but unfortunately, the second I stepped into the room, applause broke out.

The large crowd parted as Betty Graham grabbed the microphone onstage and waved me forward.

“Everyone, this is Georgia Cole, our town’s very own Hollywood celebrity. She’s written dozens of Christmas plays, pageants, and even screenplays that have made it onto TV. We are very privileged to have her help us with this charity performance to raise money for Savannah Hart.”

The crowd clapped again as she held the microphone out to me.

I stepped forward, and with each stride, I could feel Nan’s scarf tightening around my neck like a boa constrictor. My heart pounded against my rib cage as I flipped through a Rolodex of exit strategies in my mind, some more dramatic than others.

I didn’t like to speak on stage. I hated speaking on stage.

Leaning over to Betty, I whispered, “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

She smiled sweetly, taking my hand as I stopped at the top of the stairs, just shy of the stage. “Just tell us what you’d like us to do, dear. We’re ready.”

“Ready? For what?” My breathy rush of words was hardly audible as I desperately tried to block out the staring eyes around me.

“For the plan. For you to direct us, dear.”

Betty pushed the microphone into my sweaty palm. And then it dawned on me. Nan had been serious. There really was no one else.

I scanned the crowd and told myself to say something. To say anything. But my pulse was pounding so loudly against my eardrums that I couldn’t think, much less speak.

I closed my eyes.

Breathe. Just breathe. I’m twenty-five. This isn’t high school.

I held the cool metal to my chin. “Hi . . . I’m Georgia.”

Betty nodded at me, her face filled with confusion and maybe even pity. I couldn’t be sure.

“I—I’m happy to help. I’ll just need some . . . volunteers.” After three attempts, I finally swallowed.

“Tell us what you need!” a friendly voice called out.

I swayed and tugged on my scarf as my knees locked in place.

Is it getting dark in here? And why is it four hundred degrees?

Just as my vision spotted and tunneled, a heavy arm wrapped around my shoulders, rocking me back on my heels. As I finally sucked in a breath with enough force to fracture a rib, I saw him. My vision miraculously cleared.