A Cliché Christmas(8)

“Who?”

“You, darlin’. She’s kindhearted, funny, and one of the most determined people I’ve ever known. She will beat this cancer. We just need to help her do it.”

I leaned my head against a couch pillow and closed my eyes.

What pageant have I written that I can throw together in only four weeks?

It was going to be a very long holiday season.



I sat on the floor next to the fireplace with a dozen papers scattered on the floor beside me. Hair up and yoga pants on, I hunkered down for a long night of note-taking and scene revisions. Though it wasn’t what I’d consider my best work, I chose a play that was fairly consistent with the Christmas story itself. I suspected that was what the town of Lenox would appreciate most. And since I didn’t have a lot of time or resources to work with, it would have to do.

When Nan had requested my presence at church that morning, I simply held up my notebook paper and Post-it Notes, and she went on her way without another word. The woman couldn’t get everything she wanted, right?



Nan was working on her fund-raising plans at the kitchen table while classical jazz played somewhere in the background. No Christmas music. That had been my only request. She must have been feeling generous because she honored it—no questions asked. As I made a note about lighting, I pictured the beautiful blond child I met yesterday at the theater. I couldn’t get her face, her smile, her joy out of my mind.

My chest warmed when I thought about the way she tapped each of Weston’s fists, knowing there was a piece of gum waiting for her inside one. She chose correctly. Everything about her seemed healthy and whole. It was nearly impossible to believe that something so toxic lived inside her.

A loud rap on the door caused me to drop my pen.

“I’ll get it,” Nan practically sang.

I expected Eddy’s shrill bark to reverberate off the walls any second, but instead, I heard a familiar baritone.

“Good evening, Nan.”

I froze. Why is he here?

“Is Georgia around?”

“She sure is . . . right over there, roasting herself by the fireplace.”

I pretended not to hear the conversation that was just twenty feet from me and began writing completely illegible notes on the paper next to my thigh.

“Hey.”

A knot formed at the base of my belly when I glanced up at him. The scent of freshly cut timber lingered between us. And though my pulse quickened to a staccato, I replied as coolly as possible, “Hey.”

“I was asked to give you something.” He pulled an envelope from the back pocket of his jeans.

“Please have a seat, Weston. Can I get you a cup of coffee or hot chocolate?” Nan asked from the kitchen.

Really, the woman was nearly insufferable at times. I hid my inner eye roll.

“Oh, well . . . if it isn’t any trouble. A cup of coffee would be great. Black, please.”

“Decaf?”

“Nah, I’ll be up for a while tonight.”

Weston took a seat across from me on the floral sofa. What is happening here? I touched the messy bun atop my head in search of stray locks, suddenly self-conscious as his gaze fixated on my face.

I looked down at the envelope in my hands and ran a finger under the flap on the back.

“It’s from Savannah,” Weston said.

I pulled out two folded pieces of construction paper and studied them both silently. The first was a letter, addressed to me in the sweetest—and messiest—handwriting I’d ever seen.



Dear Miss Georgia,

Thank you for helping me. I love when the angel comes to Mary. I want to see an angel someday.

Love,

Savannah



On the second page was a picture of Savannah’s angel with Mary. She labeled them both. And the best part was that Mary looked to be in jeans and a T-shirt. I smiled at her originality.

“I think that’s the first honest smile I’ve seen since you got here.”

I wiped it from my face immediately.

Tucking the paper back inside the envelope, I forced out a reply: “Please tell her I said thank you.”

“She’s leaving in the morning for Portland—to start her treatments.”

My gut twisted and my gaze flickered to his briefly. “I’m sorry.”

Biting my bottom lip, I stared at the papers scattered around me.

There were several seconds of uncomfortable quiet, the kind that made my skin itch. I swallowed. Finally, Nan strolled in with Weston’s coffee. She handed him the mug.

“I think I’ll head back to my bedroom to read. Gotta keep the old mind in shape. Good night, kids.”

Naturally.

Weston said good night to her, and I imagined all the ways I could drain his coffee mug so that he would make a quick exit as well.

“So . . . what are you doing down there on the floor?” he asked.

“Working.”

He chuckled. “Anything I can help you with?”

You leaving would help me immensely. “Nope. I’ve got it covered,” I said, marking page numbers on the script in front of me.

“You haven’t changed.”

Was that an insult? “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Who said I was disappointed?”

My breathing faltered, and I forced my next words to the surface. “Listen, I want to help your niece, Weston. She seems like a great little girl. And you know I’ll do my best to raise the funds she needs for her medical care, but I do not have energy to do . . . whatever this is.” I looked up at him despite my internal protest. “I’ll have your scene list ready by tomorrow night so you can build the sets accordingly.”