A Cliché Christmas(7)
Weston.
“She’ll need costume designers, an audio tech, a lighting and stage crew, a musician . . .” Weston rambled on, my mind jolting awake as if I’d been slapped in the face. I tried to shrug off his heavy arm—twice—but his grip held like duct tape.
Betty took the microphone from Weston. “You heard him. Now, who are our volunteers?”
Several ladies toward the front offered to help with costumes and makeup, a nerdy-looking man with glasses said he could run the tech booth and coordinate a lighting crew, and Betty announced that she had the music covered. A large group of older high school students agreed to be the stagehands. That just left—
“We need a set designer,” I whispered to Betty.
“I’ve got the set handled,” Weston said with a squeeze.
“That’s perfect. Now, what day would you like to officially start rehearsal, Georgia?”
Betty had asked a question, at least I was pretty sure she had, but my thoughts were still on the man plastered to my left side. A waft of sawdust filled my nostrils with every inhalation. What did she ask me?
“Georgia?”
I shook my head. “Um . . . Monday evening?”
I elbowed Weston in the ribs, forcing him to release me. He chuckled as I gave him a stare that said, “Don’t even think about touching me again.”
“Okay, well you heard the lady, folks. We’ll start casting Monday night. That leaves us twenty-nine days before production. Susan, can you make sure you send out a town e-mail and get it out on the bulletin boards?”
A lady toward the back shouted, “Sure thing! Thanks again, Georgia.”
And just like that, I was officially done with my vacation from Christmas and thrown back into the land of red and green.
After I’d endured several rounds of back pats and cheek pinches, the crowd began to dissipate. Weston dropped to the edge of the stage and swung his legs like a toddler. But my legs were still like rubber, so I walked down the steps slowly, trying to process what had just happened.
I was not normally prone to panic. Normally, I was confident, self-assured, and levelheaded. But having an entire town depending on me to raise funds for a child with cancer was not normal.
“You ready for this, Holiday Barbie?”
I snapped to attention. “It’s Holiday Goddess.”
His shocking-green eyes traveled the length of my figure shamelessly, his lips in a boyish grin. My scalp tingled when his gaze locked on mine.
I blinked first, breaking the spell. “What are you doing here, Weston? Shouldn’t you be traipsing back to Boston? The weekend’s almost over.”
His eyes lit up with amusement. “You think I live in Boston?”
“Don’t you?”
“I—”
“Uncle Wes!” A little girl with blond pigtails skipped over to us, hooking her arms around Weston’s legs. Looking away from them, I saw a woman headed our way.
“Willa James?”
“Hi, Georgia. It’s good to see you again. And it’s actually Willa Hart now.” Her smile fought to reach her eyes, failing miserably. But still she hugged me, her touch as soft as a feather.
Willa was Weston’s older sister, a girl I’d idolized when I was young. She had everything: beauty, charm, and class. But she was too sweet to envy and too kind to dislike. How she ended up with a brother like Weston was beyond me. Perhaps their parents spent all their good genes on her.
“Is Nan your grandma?” the little girl asked me.
“Yes, she is. And who are you?”
The little girl smiled brightly and held out her hand. “I’m Savannah Hart.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Hands on my hips, I scowled at Nan.
“Tell you what, dear?” Nan peeked over her glasses as she worked her daily crossword puzzle.
Tossing my satchel onto a chair, I sighed. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Weston James is Savannah’s uncle?”
Nan lifted her head, her eyes bright with feigned innocence. “Well, Georgia, you trained me a long time ago to stop updating you on Weston. Every time I so much as mentioned his name, you’d cut me off—tell me you didn’t want to hear about him or his endeavors. So if you failed to make that particular connection until today, the only person to blame is yourself. I would have gladly volunteered that information if only you would have asked.”
I swear, if she weren’t seventy I’d—
“Weston James is a good man, Georgia—one of the best men I know. He’s taken care of—”
“Weston James is a competitive jerk. I know him very well, Nan.” Even if he is the most attractive jerk in the history of humankind.
She took her glasses off and laid them beside her on the table. “You sure that’s how you should feel about him now, after all these years? Don’t you think people can change?”
“Not him—no. And thanks to you, I’m stuck working next to him for the next four weeks.”
I flung myself onto the sofa, realizing how childish I sounded, especially in comparison to what a certain five-year-old girl was about to face. “I’m sorry . . . I do want to help Savannah. She seems like a really special little girl.”
“She is . . . In fact, she reminds me of someone else I know.”