CHAPTER FIVE
I snuggled deeper into the blanket and rolled over, savoring the last few moments of sleepy bliss. Something sweet and familiar was in the air. I breathed it in, my stomach growling in response. Did Nan bake something special for breakfast?
And then I heard a hum.
But it was not a Nan hum.
My eyes snapped open. Oh my gosh . . . Oh my gosh . . . Oh my gosh.
The blanket slid to the floor as I assessed my current surroundings, nausea meeting my gut like a head-on collision.
Weston’s living room.
Please, oh please, let this be a really bad dream.
“You’re awake.”
I wiped under my eyes frantically, trying to remove any trace of raccoon-eye smears before working to right my twisted shirt.
“What time is it?”
“You sound like an old man in the morning.”
“Morning?” I looked out the window. Sure enough, it was dawn. “How could you let me sleep here?”
A freshly showered Weston sauntered toward me. “Hey, calm down Miss Grinch. It’s a little before seven . . . and because friends don’t let friends drive asleep. But let me tell you, you were doing a lot more than sleeping. You were snoring and—”
“And you couldn’t have just woken me up like a normal person? What is wrong with you?” I yanked the hair tie off my wrist and gathered my matted mane into a ponytail. “Nan is probably worried sick.”
“I called her. She’s fine.”
I snorted at his nonchalant response. Typical. Sure, maybe somewhere deep down I could see how this act might seem sweet, or maybe even noble, but not here . . . not with him.
My cheeks burned as an unwelcome memory washed over me, his face at the center of it all.
“We’re not friends, Weston.”
I grabbed my boots, which were propped next to his couch, and as I tugged them on, my body suddenly stiffened. Had he taken my shoes off? How had I slept that hard? I pressed my lips together. I knew better than to be vulnerable with him, and falling asleep on his blasted sofa couldn’t be more vulnerable! I pulled my jacket on and headed toward the door.
“Georgia, stop.”
My hand froze on the dead bolt, his voice at my back. I fought against the emotion building in my throat, my heart pounding to the cadence of an old, familiar drum.
“You and I need to have a conversation. One that should have happened seven years ago.”
I shook my head adamantly. “No, we don’t.”
His hand gripped my shoulder. He was so close that his breath tickled my ear. “Then why can’t I forget you, Georgia Cole?”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I felt my voice transform into a shaky whisper of doubt. “I don’t know . . . but I forgot you.”
“Turn around and say that to my face, then.” It was a challenge; one I knew I couldn’t accept.
My breath stopped as he slid his hand down the length of my arm, causing my traitorous body to melt under his touch.
But the voice inside my head prevailed.
Don’t give in.
“What are you so afraid of?”
“Nothing.” You. “Please, just let me leave.”
He withdrew his hand and took a step back. I pulled open the door and charged down the front steps two at a time, putting as much distance between us as I possibly could.
“I knew the real you once, Georgia . . . and I’m willing to bet I still do. No matter what you believe, I have always been your friend.”
As I shut myself inside my car, his words splintered into my soul one after another.
I had spent years convincing myself the opposite was true.
That he hadn’t accepted me.
That he hadn’t understood me.
That he hadn’t cared for me.
Because if Weston James had truly known me, then he had intended to crush me that December night long ago.
I hear the crowd: the coughs, the laughs, the murmurs. And I feel a momentary buzz of panic wash over me. But I push it down. This is my passion. My dream. My purpose.
I spent the last twelve years making good grades, acing tests, winning awards, all to prove that I could be intelligent and imaginative at the same time. And here I am: the lead in the Christmas play. Me, the girl who played “pretend family” in the park by my house. Me, the girl who read books for fun because mom said having friends would get me in trouble. Me, the girl Weston James walked home yesterday after rehearsal.
My stomach spasms when I remember his words, despite the prompting inside me to guard my heart.
“These last three months have changed something for me, Georgia. I see you . . . differently, or maybe I just finally see what’s always been there. I don’t know . . . but I don’t want to go back to how things were before.”
“Five minutes to curtain,” someone calls, breaking my trance.
I glance at Weston across the open chasm of stage. He’s talking to our drama teacher, Mr. Daniels.
“Georgia,” Sydney Parker, my new understudy, says.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Daniels told me to ask you about a scene change at the end of Act Two. He wants to add the kiss back in to that last scene—it’s the way it was originally written, you know.”
My eyes widen to the size of grapefruits. “Wh—what are you talking about?”
“Mr. Daniels thought it would add a bit more excitement. He’s talking to Weston about it right now, and he asked me to relay the message, see if you’re up for it.”
Kiss Weston James? The popular, charming, funny, and pursued-by-every-teenage-girl-within-a-hundred-mile-radius Weston James?
I stare across the stage skeptically and see both Weston and Mr. Daniels nodding and smiling in my direction. And when Weston gives me the wink—the one I’ve seen since our days on the playground, the one that says, “I’m in if you are”—my doubt melts.
And so does the last protective layer surrounding my heart.
I look to Sydney once again. “Okay, tell me exactly what I’m supposed to do.”
And she does. In detail.
The blocking. The leap. The passionate lip-lock that is to take place.
But when I run toward him, he doesn’t look at me with longing and desire. He doesn’t grab me around the waist. And he certainly doesn’t kiss me with fervent zeal. Instead, he takes a step back, causing me to crash to the floor, rip my dress, and roll off the stage with a painful thud.
I lie in shock, the laughs blurring together as I wallow in my shameful foolishness. But there is one voice I hear clearly through the crowd when the director demands an explanation for the halted show. Sydney Parker’s.
She’s cozied up to Weston onstage, smiling. “Weston, if you wanted a girl to throw herself at your feet, you should have just asked!”
It’s then I realize I’ve been the butt of Weston’s best practical joke yet.
I jump to my feet as the crowd continues to laugh, and I run from the auditorium.
As I weep alone in the same park that at one time housed my imaginary parents, siblings, and friends, I break. Fragments of memories pull at my subconscious and bring the only resolve I can muster: I can’t face Weston again. I can’t see his eyes, or hear his voice, or continue to believe that our childhood friendship had meant something to him—at least the way it had to me. Whatever game he was playing, I couldn’t play it anymore. I had loved him for as long as I could remember, wishing that one day he might return my sentiments.
I’d been a fool.
And I realize with painful clarity that my mom’s advice is the only way to mend my broken heart.
The first chance I get, I leave town.
I leave my memories.
And I leave Weston James.
It was just after seven when I pulled up to Nan’s. The puff of the chimney told me she was awake. Awesome. The walk of shame in front of my grandmother. This day was rapidly going downhill, and I had been awake for less than an hour.
“Good morning!” Nan sang out the second I opened the door. She stood near the kitchen table, drinking her morning cup of coffee, swaying gently in her ratty bathrobe.
I grimaced. “Hi, Nan. I promise you, it’s not how it looks. I didn’t sleep the night before because I was up writing, and I must have passed out from exhaustion on his couch, and then he didn’t—”
“Good grief, girl. You’re going to pass out if you keep talking without pausing to breathe. I don’t think it looks any which way.” She smiled over the top of her mug as I exhaled. “That said, you probably shouldn’t go making a habit of falling asleep on every good-looking man’s couch.”
Something about seeing her calmed me. My Nan. My ever-dependable, loving Nan.
“Sit with me, darlin’.”
I did as I was told, pulling out a chair at the dining room table and plunking myself into it with a thud. And a sigh.
“What’s wrong?” She leaned her elbows on the tabletop.
I started to shake my head, but she covered my hand with hers. It was impossible for me to deny the truth. Who needed a lie detector when the world had Nan?
“I feel like I just took a giant step back in time by coming here. Being in Lenox makes me feel like a stupid high school girl again.”
“You are a lot of things, Georgia. But stupid has never been one of them.”
I shrugged. “That’s debatable.”
She chuckled, spinning the mug in her hands. “You and Weston were always the talk of the town. How many times did I have to pick you up from the office after some silly prank? Even as a young boy, he could ruffle your feathers quicker than anyone else.”
“Yeah, I know.” This was not news to me.
“Don’t you ever wonder why?”
I stared at her. “I know why, he’s just so . . .” What is he, exactly?
She raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”
I couldn’t possibly sum him up in one word.
Nan laughed hard. “Sweetheart, I think you might be trying to define the wrong thing.”
I laid my head on the table in silent surrender.
“I can’t be around him, Nan. I just can’t.” I heard his words in my head again, and my eyes stung. “I knew the real you once . . . and I’m willing to bet I still do.”
“Georgia, can’t is a four-letter word in this house. Nothing’s ever stopped you before. You’re a strong, independent, fearless woman. Whatever happened between you two was seven years ago. Don’t you think it’s time to move forward? Just because this town may look the same doesn’t mean there aren’t surprises waiting around every corner. I’ve lived here all my life, and I uncover something new every single day. Allow yourself to see with fresh eyes, Georgia.”
I wasn’t sure if she was referencing Lenox or Weston, but in true Nan style, she let me mull it over without further explanation.
“So . . . you’ve moved up the ladder to director now? Geesh, who knew visiting Nowheresville, Oregon, could have career benefits?” Cara’s playful tone made me smile.
I switched my phone to my right ear as I pulled on my Uggs and jacket. The sun was shining today, but it was still crisp. Regardless of the temperature, I needed the fresh air and the stroll. Cara could keep me company on my way to the high school. When Misty, my new assistant director, had called me earlier that morning with a few blocking ideas, I decided I’d better head to town and get the theater key from the school secretary—the same secretary who had both unlocked and relocked the door for us last night after auditions. Apparently, there was only one key, and Mrs. Harper was its guardian, even though it was technically owned by a real estate broker. I had a feeling I was going to have to sign my life—and future generations’ lives—away in order to get it, too.
“It’s community theater, Cara, not Broadway. The cast is mostly made up of high school students.”
“Ooh . . . like Glee? Any hot music teachers?” she asked.
No, only hot shop teachers.
“Not quite. How were your classes today?”
“Great. You’ll never believe who signed up. You know that blond from that one movie with the shark in Hawaii . . .”
And with that, Cara was lost in her own little world of Hollywood stardom. The number of actors and actresses who came into her yoga studio was obscene. I laughed at her creative descriptions as I passed the post office and the secondhand bookstore.
“. . . and then I was like, ‘no bleeping way!’ and she was like, ‘yes bleeping way’—”
“Hey, Cara—I gotta go. I’ll text you tonight, okay?”
“Cool. Just don’t die in an avalanche walking to the high school, okay?”
“Cara, you really need to read up on the Northwest, sweetie.”
I ended the call and peeked through the large picture window of Sullivan’s Bookstore but was surprised to see that old, crotchety Mr. Sullivan was not the one behind the counter. I loved the store, but the foul mood of Mr. Sullivan usually kept me away. On the glass door was a cheery sign that read “Sunshine Books.” I smiled, remembering Nan’s words to me. “Allow yourself to see with fresh eyes, Georgia.”
“Good afternoon, may I help you find something?” the woman at the counter asked.
My lips twitched into a grin, and I was momentarily shocked at the difference one attitude can have on an atmosphere. The knife of Nan’s words kept twisting.
“No, thanks. Just wanted to browse for a few minutes,” I said before doing a double take. “Mrs. Brown?”
Her head shot up again from the open book on her lap. “Georgia? Oh, I’m so happy you came in today! I was hoping to run into you.”
My high school guidance counselor embraced me so tightly I nearly coughed. “I heard what you’re doing for the Harts, and I think it’s wonderful.”
“When did you buy this store, Mrs. Brown?”
She laughed. “I’m retired now, no need for formalities. Please call me Violet. Let’s see . . . It’s been about three years ago now.”
“Well, it looks great.”
We chatted for a few minutes more, catching up on the last seven years, including my notorious Hallmark movies, with which she seemed well acquainted.
As I strolled through the store, touching the spines of dozens of books, I thought of Nan. She had planted a love of reading in me many years ago.
There were so many stories, plots, dreams, and visions enclosed in this tiny space. So many hours of toilsome labor. After browsing through the mystery and romance sections, I came to a small shelf labeled “Classics.”
I stopped abruptly.
“No way,” I whispered.
I carefully lifted the pale-blue leather-bound copy of Little Women from the shelf and found my eyes misting up for a second time that day. This was Nan’s favorite book—mine, too. It was the first chapter book she’d ever read to me. It’s what inspired me to become such an avid reader and writer. Nan always said that I was her Jo March.
How I had longed for a family like the Marches.
Ironically, I didn’t long for a daddy nearly as much as I longed for sisters . . . and for a mom who enjoyed being a mother.
I flipped to the back, reading one of my favorite passages—though I’d almost committed it to memory like so many other passages in this book. Laurie (Teddy), who’d loved Jo as a child, shows up and surprises her by announcing he’s married Amy, Jo’s sister.
I could almost hear his voice as I read the passage:
“You both got into your right places, and I felt sure that it was well off with the old love before it was on with the new, that I could honestly share my heart between sister Jo and wife Amy, and love them dearly. Will you believe it, and go back to the happy old times when we first knew one another?”
“I’ll believe it, with all my heart, but, Teddy, we never can be boy and girl again. The happy old times can’t come back, and we mustn’t expect it. We are man and woman now, with sober work to do, for playtime is over, and we must give up frolicking.”
“I never could get over that ending.”
I jumped at the sound of Violet’s voice.
Dreamily, I sighed, picturing the scene at the end where Friedrich comes to find Jo and mistakes her as the March sister who has recently married. Jo chases after him in the rain, and he says, “But I have nothing to give you. My hands are empty.” Jo intertwines her fingers with his and says, “Not empty now.”
“Yes, that’s a great scene,” I agreed.
“No, it’s not. It’s torturous!”
I took a step back and turned to face her. “What do you mean?”
“I think Louisa May Alcott got it wrong. I wanted Teddy to marry Jo. They were meant for each other.”
I gaped at her bold words. This was pure sacrilege—and in a bookstore no less! I took another step back in case a bolt of lightning came down to strike her where she stood.
“But Teddy couldn’t marry Jo! There was too much history between them, too many childish memories and—” Calm down, Georgia.
Violet beamed. “I can get pretty passionate about books, too. It’s why I wanted to buy this place from mean old Mr. Sullivan.”
I studied the old leather book in my hand. “How much is this?”
She looked at the book and then back at me. “It was appraised at five hundred. It’s a first edition, printed in 1911.”
I had spent more than that on Nan for vacations, but a single book for five hundred dollars? Nan would lock me out of the house if she knew I’d spent that kind of cash on a gift. Anyway, she didn’t do gifts. She believed we should bless one another all year round with acts of service instead of some onetime piece of garbage (her words, not mine). That being said, the woman had more books than anyone I knew—and she cherished them like no one else I knew.
“Okay. I’d like to get it.”
Violet’s eyebrows shot up as she took the book from me and placed it on the counter. She didn’t move as she stared at me. “I’ll tell you what . . . I’ll give you twenty percent off if you’ll come back and tell me all the reasons you think Jo and Teddy weren’t right for each other.”
My eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yep. I found this at an estate sale and got it for dirt cheap. I’ll still be making a profit, I promise you.”
I was intrigued. Definitely intrigued.
“Okay. Deal.”
“Great. I love a good literary debate—especially over a classic like Little Women.”
She rang it up and wrapped the book, so I could stick it into my satchel and hide it when I got home.
“Thank you, Violet.”
“You’re welcome. Now, don’t forget to stop by, okay?”
I nodded as the bells on the door announced my departure.