Christmas In the Footlights (Yuletide Valley #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Alex

The evening train shuddered to a stop in Yuletide Valley, brakes squealing against frozen rails. I gripped my leather weekender, heart hammering.

Fifteen years of Broadway had taught me about dramatic timing—the buildup, the reveal, and the audience reaction. Unfortunately, this wasn't a performance. This was a surrender.

"End of the line," the conductor announced. "Yuletide Valley, where it's Christmas every day of the year." He winked. "And if you're lucky, the magic finds you too."

At eighteen, getting out of Yuletide Valley had dominated every waking thought.

Now here I was at thirty-three, creeping back with a closet full of chorus costumes and a spectacular meltdown on my resume.

Three panic attacks during Phantom callbacks.

That's what it took to end a career—well, that and eight months of unprocessed grief.

The moment I stepped onto the platform, warmth washed over me despite the falling snow. Not train heat. It was something more profound. It sank into my bones and whispered home.

The town square teemed with tourists, their laughter floating up while snowflakes drifted down in patterns too perfect to be natural. The massive Christmas tree's lights pulsed gently with the carolers' songs. I ducked my head, praying for invisibility.

I'd forgotten how alive my hometown felt during the season. Like the air itself was celebrating.

Cedar Street offered a quieter route, though even there the historic buildings screamed Christmas cheer.

I tried to slip past Holly's Apothecary—one of the few shops I'd loved as a kid.

The window display hadn't changed: crystalline snowflakes holding captured starlight, herbs bundled with silver thread, and candles flickering despite being unlit.

My right foot hit the ice.

Time stopped. For one impossible heartbeat, I hung suspended, snowflakes frozen mid-fall like I'd stumbled into a snow globe. Then time snapped back, and I was falling.

"Alex? Alex Garland?"

Mrs. Brubaker's voice cut through my descent. The crack of my tailbone against the ice punctuated her query.

"Alex! Don't move—Ben, help him!"

Strong, callused hands gripped mine. Heat bloomed where our skin touched.

He pulled me to my feet, and I looked up—and up—into eyes the color of hot chocolate, flecked with gold.

Wheat-blond hair. Flannel stretched across shoulders that made my mouth go dry. The scents of cedar, pine, and cinnamon clung to him, making me want to lean forward and breathe him in.

His hands slid from my wrists to my biceps and lingered. Even through my coat, I felt the heat of his palms.

"You okay?" His voice was warm and resonant. "That looked painful."

"Just my dignity." I tried for a smile, aware of his thumbs rubbing small circles against my arms. "And possibly my tailbone."

A dimple appeared when he grinned, and desire pooled low in my stomach. "I'm Ben. Ben Blitzen."

"I remember you. You were a few years behind me in school."

"Three years behind." His gaze dropped to my mouth before meeting my eyes again. "You played Danny Zuko in Grease my freshman year. Changed my life, actually." He brushed snowflakes off my shoulder. "Guess I owe you for that."

The air between us was electric, like in a thunderstorm. A streetlight nearby flared brighter, then settled.

Holly swept past in jingling bracelets, gathering my scattered belongings. Up close, I caught the scent of herbs, wood smoke, and something wild, like a forest at midnight.

"Inside, both of you." She thrust my bag at Ben. "Mind the step—it's blessed for safe passage, but you still have to watch your feet."

They ushered me into Holly's Apothecary. Lavender, sage, chamomile, and rosemary filled the air. Bundles of dried herbs swayed as they hung from the ceiling. A woodstove crackled in a corner.

Candles flickered in enticing colors. Amethyst-tinged, rose-gold, and the pale green of new leaves.

"Sit." Holly pointed at overstuffed armchairs near the fire.

Ben folded into the chair nearest the stove. I sank beside him, and the leather adjusted to support my bruised spine.

Our knees almost touched. I was acutely aware of the space between us—small enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Tea first," Holly announced, measuring leaves that seemed to glow faintly. "For bruised dignity and other ailments."

Mrs. Brubaker perched on a stool. "Alex, dear, I heard about your grandmother. I'm so sorry."

Her words landed hard. "Thanks. It's been rough."

"She came to every production after you left," Ben said quietly. "Always sat front row. Always had notes for me about the set design." The candles nearest him burned brighter. "Good notes, too."

I had to look away, blinking hard.

Holly pressed a steaming cup into my hands. "Chamomile for calm, lavender for peace, rose hips for heart-healing, and a touch of cedar bark for grounding."

"Is that why I smell like I live in a sawmill?" Ben asked, deadpan.

Holly swatted his shoulder. "You smell like cedar because you've been refinishing box seats for three weeks straight, you ridiculous man."

"Fair point." He glanced at me.

The tea touched my lips, and comfort surged through my veins. My shoulders relaxed. The grief sitting on my lungs shifted, just enough to let me breathe.

"What's in this?"

"Things that help," Holly said mysteriously. "The valley provides."

Mrs. Brubaker accepted her cup. "Speaking of the valley—Alex, I think you arriving tonight might be more than a mere coincidence."

"I'm just passing through."

"The valley has a way of keeping what it needs," Holly said. "Especially during the Twelve Nights."

"The Twelve Nights?"

Ben shifted, drawing my attention to how his flannel stretched across his chest. "The twelve nights before Christmas, when the veil between hope and reality gets thin. When magic works best." He spoke as if he were describing weather patterns.

"Sandra Martinez was supposed to direct our Christmas play," Mrs. Brubaker continued. "But she broke her leg last week. We're in rather a bind."

"We have the rights to Miracle on 34th Street—The Musical," Holly added. "Special permission. They have a soft spot for towns where miracles still happen."

"Wait. Those rights are nearly impossible to get—"

"Holly has her ways," Ben said, that dimple flashing. "Usually involving homemade jam."

"Lavender-honey preserves," Holly confided. "Works every time."

Despite everything, I laughed.

"The blocking for 'Plastic Alligator' alone requires someone who understands musical theater," Mrs. Brubaker said gently. "The valley brought you here for a reason."

"You'd need the crowd scenes organic but controlled," I said before I could stop myself. "And the parade has to build momentum without overwhelming the transition. Then there's Susan's emotional arc from cynicism to belief—"

I stopped. They were staring.

"See?" Ben leaned forward, closing most of the space between us. "You already know the show inside and out."

"I understudied ensemble roles. Years ago." I wrapped my hands around the cup, trying not to notice how his gaze had dropped to my mouth again. "That doesn't mean—"

"Look," Ben said quietly. "Maybe you could stop by tomorrow? Watch a run-through and share some thoughts?" He paused. "I'll be there early, working on sets. I could show you the theater renovation."

The logs popped, sending sparks in impossible colors—copper, green, deep purple. Shadows shifted across bottles on a shelf.

"Ben restored most of the original woodwork himself," Mrs. Brubaker added. "Some say the building sings now, when performances are good."

"You saw my West Side Story?" I asked Ben.

"Front row, opening night." He smiled. "You were incredible. Made me want to be part of creating those moments." He shifted, his knee brushing mine. Electricity shot up my thigh. "Sorry."

"It's fine," I managed.

"What Ben's too modest to mention," Holly said, eyes twinkling, "is that those box seats he's refinishing? The wood practically purrs under his hands now."

I tried not to think about what those hands would feel like on my skin, ignoring imagining them sliding under my shirt, rough and—

"Someone had painted over the cherry?" I asked, voice slightly strangled.

Ben grinned. "1970s orange paint. Crime against woodworking."

We exchanged smiles. The candles leaned toward us, flames stretching.

"So," Ben said, voice dropping lower. "Tomorrow? Seven AM? I make decent coffee, and the theater's warm. Generates its own heat during the season, radiating all those years of joy that soaked into the walls."

Every instinct screamed at me to refuse. Unfortunately, Ben's eyes sparkled, and the idea of spending tomorrow morning with him, watching those capable hands work—

"Only to observe," I heard myself say. "No promises."

"Perfect." His smile was like sunlight breaking through clouds. "No pressure. Just... it would be nice to have someone around who really understands this stuff."

"Don't get your hopes up too high."

"I'm a carpenter, not a dramaturg." He stood, extending a hand. When I took it, those callused fingers wrapped around mine with gentle strength, and heat raced up my arm.

I didn't let go immediately. Neither did he. We stood there, hands clasped, close enough to see freckles scattered across his nose and gold threading his irises.

"But I know good craftsmanship when I see it," he said quietly. "In sets or in performance."

Holly pressed a warm jar into my free hand as I reluctantly released Ben's. "Arnica salve. For your tailbone. Also works on bruised hearts. Rub it in clockwise, three times, and think about what you want to heal."

Mrs. Brubaker walked us to the door. "Alex, dear—we're glad you're home. This town has always been a safe place for people to be exactly who they are. That hasn't changed. The valley protects its own, especially during the Twelve Nights."

The words settled a hint of anxiety in my chest. "Thanks, Mrs. B."

Ben walked me out, carrying my bag. "I'll help carry your things to the house. These sidewalks are treacherous, and the valley's magic doesn't prevent all accidents. Only the ones that aren't meant to happen."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." He fell into step beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed. "Besides, I like talking to you. Somehow, I think I was waiting for it."

We walked in comfortable silence. The streetlights glowed warmer as we passed. Snow fell gently, considerately. Distant bells chimed.

"Can I ask what brought you back?" Ben asked. "You've got the look of someone carrying something heavy."

"I had a spectacular breakdown at an audition. Panic attacks. Couldn't get through 'Music of the Night.'" I laughed bitterly. "Turns out you can't outrun grief. It just tackles you on stage in front of fifty industry professionals."

"I'm sorry." He reached for my hand, fingers lacing through mine like they belonged there. "My mom died when I was nineteen. Took me years to realize I'd been holding my breath, waiting for the world to make sense again."

"Does it?" I asked, staring at our joined hands. "Make sense again?"

"Not the same way. But different can be okay too." He squeezed gently. "The valley has a way of showing you what you need, if you're ready."

We reached Grandma's Victorian. The gingerbread trim glowed with tiny lights pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat.

"Here you go." Ben set my bag down but didn't let go of my hand. "Railing looks good."

We stood there, snowflakes drifting around us, his hand warm in mine.

"Thanks for everything," I said.

"See you tomorrow?" He rubbed the back of my hand with his thumb, and I wondered whether he could feel my pulse racing. "Just so you know—nobody in this town will think you failed. We'll think you're human. That's allowed."

"Yes, I'll make a quick stop."

He was so close that his breath misted with mine. "See you at seven. Fair warning: Greta's cinnamon rolls are enchanted. You eat one, you'll never want to leave Yuletide Valley again."

"Enchanted rolls?"

"Everything here is, during the Twelve Nights." His smile was soft. "The valley's been waiting for you, Alex. I think maybe I have too."

Before I could process that, he squeezed my hand and turned back toward Holly's shop. He walked away, leaving tracks that glowed faintly in the moonlight.