Silent Night Dreams (Mistletoe Meadows #8)

Chapter 1

"Ten minutes until showtime."

Grace Dempsey looked up at the stage assistant, the comb clutched so tightly it bit into her hand.

"Thank you so much," she said, inclining her head graciously, pleased to note her voice did not tremble.

"The crowd is sold out. There are people standing in the back! I've never seen it this packed!" The stage assistant's cheeks were flushed, and he clasped his hands together, giving her the kind of look that was usually reserved for mega rock stars or A-list movie stars.

Not a classically trained concert pianist like herself.

She waited until the door closed before she allowed the starch in her back to drain out, and she slumped down, deliberately setting the comb down on her dressing table.

You've got to get it together. Everyone is expecting to see a performance like last time. You can't let them down.

She had no sooner thought that than cramps squeezed her abdomen painfully, and she only hesitated a moment before she jumped up from her seat, running to the restroom.

She barely made it in time. But it didn't take long because she'd already emptied out everything in her digestive system from both ends. Her hands slid on the doorway as she leaned against it, her knees shaking, her forehead hot and clammy, hands cold and clammy.

How was she going to go out and perform? She couldn't even sit at her dressing table without having to run to the restroom.

And what was wrong with her? She'd never had this kind of problem before. She'd always been eager to perform, excited. She looked forward to it.

But today, today, she was scared to death to go out in front of that huge crowd.

Everyone was expecting her to be able to play like she had last time. And the time before that. And the time before that. And she could, she knew she could. She just had to play the way she always had.

Except that the idea of going out made her turn right back around and head back into the restroom.

She couldn't go out like this. There was just no way.

But she couldn't cancel. Not at this late moment.

Her phone buzzed, and she finished washing her hands, drying them on the towel and noticing that they shook so badly she could barely hang it back up.

On trembling legs, she walked back out into her dressing room and picked up her phone.

It was her manager.

Clearing her throat, she stared at her phone.

Could she tell Sasha that she couldn't go out on stage?

It would be unheard of for her to cancel at such late notice, unless there was a serious problem, probably requiring hospitalization.

If she wasn't dead, she would perform. That's the way she'd been brought up, that was her mindset, except. ..

She took a deep breath. What was wrong with her?

Her hands trembled and she almost dropped her phone. How could she hit the notes with her fingers shaking so hard?

Finally, she swiped and put the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" she asked, in the cultured, casual tone that she always used. To her ears, it didn't sound like anything was wrong. How could she fake it so convincingly and yet be so utterly sure that she absolutely could not go out on stage?

"Grace. I just wanted to let you know that the president has made a last-minute decision to attend.

He is settled in his seat, and he is looking forward to your performance.

I just spoke with him, and he gushed over your last concert.

He has several members of his cabinet with him, and they are eager to hear our American talent. "

Grace swallowed hard, but she knew she wasn't going to be able to hold down the dry heaves for long.

"I can't." The words came out choked, as much as she would like to have continued to be able to speak in her unaffected tone.

"I'm sorry?" Sasha said, like the idea that Grace might have said that she couldn't do it was absolutely ludicrous.

"I'm sorry. I want to be able to, but I absolutely cannot." At least she had gotten better control of her vocal cords. Why couldn't she have been a singer?

But she still couldn't go out on that stage.

The idea of performing in front of all of those people made her feel like her knees were going to collapse, and she felt hot and cold and absolutely petrified, like she needed to go hide somewhere.

Without even thinking about it, her eyes darted about the room, looking under the chair, trying to figure out if she would fit there.

She was a grown woman. What was wrong with her?

“What?”

"I said I can't."

"I'm sorry, you can't what?" Sasha said, still obviously having trouble grasping the reality.

"I cannot go out on stage. You're going to have to cancel the concert."

Where would she go? What could she do? If she canceled this.

.. She could still make next week's performance, except.

.. The idea of performing anything made her feel like her throat was rotating like helicopter blades, and her stomach was attached for the ride.

She needed to get out of here. She needed to escape.

"Are you sick? Should I call an ambulance?" Sasha asked, her concern reaching through the phone.

Sasha was not coldhearted, but she was not going to understand that Grace was pretty sure all this was, was a panic attack.

"Yes. An ambulance."

There, she'd admitted it. She felt a touch of relief, but mostly, admitting it had allowed it to have the upper hand, and she sank to the floor.

"I need an ambulance," she managed to grind out.

"All right. I'm hanging up right now and I'm calling an ambulance, and then I'll be right there. Five minutes tops. Hold on."

The phone went dead, and Grace allowed her head to rest on the cold floor.

It didn't really make her feel better, but at least the heavy, suffocating weight of the thought of going out in front of all those people was no longer in the forefront of her mind, and she slowly felt like her insides were calming down.

Her chest only ached a little, and she no longer felt like she needed to stay in the bathroom indefinitely.

What had happened? Was that what stage fright was? Could she go through with her performance anyway? If she tried to go out, would she have some kind of attack while she performed? Or should she just assume that once she started playing she would feel better.

The idea made her stomach clench again, and she shook her head quickly, although she was alone in the dressing room.

Absolutely not. She couldn't start playing, not when there was a chance that she would end up with some kind of attack.

Maybe she really was having a heart attack.

She had heard that sometimes symptoms presented themselves differently in women than in men, and her chest really did hurt.

She only had a few more seconds to herself before the door burst in and Sasha hurried over, kneeling at her side.

"What's the matter?" Sasha asked, breathless.

"I think I might be dying. Heart attack? A stroke? I'm not sure, but I'm scared. And I feel terrible. Like Doomsday is here." That was a little dramatic, but it was the truth. She felt like she was going to die.

"Hold on. The ambulance is here now, and I have Penny bringing them back. They'll be here in a m—"

She didn't get to finish her sentence before the door burst open, without even a perfunctory knock.

Grace couldn't remember the last time someone had come into her dressing room with such disrespect, except that she'd given into the fear, and she was overwhelmed by it.

There had to be something seriously wrong, something life or death.

It was a heart attack, or some kind of fast-growing cancer, or something. There had to be something wrong.