Chapter 3
Chapter three
Alex
At Holly's shop, I'd convinced myself I was in town only to observe, offering a few notes before moving on. When I arrived at the theater, I'd planned to keep that same professional distance.
But two hours into rehearsal, I sat in the darkened theater watching Ben work on his department store window display, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so settled in my own skin.
He moved with measured precision, adding delicate scrollwork that transformed plywood and paint into something that could have graced Fifth Avenue.
His level of craftsmanship didn't belong in community theater.
Neither did the way my pulse jumped when his forearms flexed as he lifted a particularly ornate piece into position.
The overhead lights brightened slightly, warming from white to amber. I shifted in my seat, and it creaked, sounding like contentment.
"You can come closer, you know," Ben called out without turning around. "The view's better from up here."
Heat crept up the back of my neck. "I wouldn't want to disturb your process."
"You've been mentally restaging the entire show for the past hour." He glanced back with a lopsided smile. "I saw you waving your hands, marking choreography in the air."
Before I could formulate a response, the stage door flew open. Cold air swept in along with chattering voices and the screech of winter boots on wood.
"I'm telling you, Charice, this time I've got it down." A man in an impeccably tailored alpaca coat strode in, gesturing dramatically. "I've been practicing my romantic declarations in the mirror."
The woman beside him wore scrubs decorated with prancing reindeer. Her dark eyes sparkled with amusement. "Is that why the nurses' station reported strange noises from the supply closet during your lunch break?"
"I was working on my projection!" He clutched his chest in mock offense.
"Oh, is that what we're calling it now?" She nudged him with her elbow. "Next time, warn us before you start emoting. Ellie thought someone was having a cardiac event."
Jack Frost looked nothing like the uptight high school student I remembered from a Christmas party years ago—all expensive sweaters and grand ambition.
This version wore his stylish coat with careless ease, and his smile reached his eyes.
I recognized Charice, too, though we'd never been close.
She'd been a few years ahead of me in school, always laughing, always kind to the theater kids when others weren't.
I recognized the familiar energy of pre-rehearsal ritual, but something was different here. No subtle jockeying for position and no backhanded compliments masked as concern: only warmth and terrible jokes.
Ben's quiet chuckle drew my attention back to the stage.
He'd moved on to another piece, but his eyes crinkled at the corners.
"The leads finally made it. Mrs. Brubaker runs chorus rehearsals first—gets the big ensemble numbers blocked before adding the principals. Keeps things from getting too chaotic."
"Smart." I glanced at my watch, right on schedule.
"Jack fell in love with Noel North and never looked back," Ben continued, gesturing toward where Jack was now dramatically removing his coat. "Best thing that ever happened to him. Charice has been the head nurse in the children's wing for years—keeps both of them grounded."
"Jack's father still owns half the East Coast?"
"Yeah. Fortunately, Jack's nothing like him." Ben's hands remained steady on his work. "Pretty sure he spends more time reading to kids than reviewing contracts these days."
Another blast of winter air announced Noel's arrival. He carried the famous Santa coat I remembered from my childhood, looking like he'd just rolled out of bed—flannel shirt untucked, dark hair mussed, scruffy beard framing a face that showed equal parts grief and determination.
"Sorry, I'm late." He draped the red coat over a chair with evident reverence. "Mom found another box of Dad's old performance notes."
Something in his voice struck me in the gut—genuine emotion without performance. Ben set down his tools. "Any good tips?"
"Mostly reminders to listen more than talk." Noel smiled. "And something about never promising specific presents, which would have been helpful before Shane asked for a live penguin last year."
The work lights flickered, and I heard distant laughter in the rafters. The same sound I'd heard yesterday when Ben had unconsciously carved my face into the Victorian scrollwork. That piece sat on his worktable now, and every time I looked at it, the wood seemed to glow.
As if reading my thoughts, Ben caught my eye. His hand rested on the carved piece, thumb tracing the lines of my jaw. The wood warmed visibly under his touch, and the stage lights pulsed once.
"Places for the toy department scene!" Mrs. Brubaker's voice cut through the moment. She'd traded her turquoise glasses for serious spectacles on a chain. "Jack, Charice—let's see what you've been practicing."
Jack bounded onto the stage with puppy-like enthusiasm. "Ready to be swept off your feet, mon cheri?"
Charice adjusted her script. "Ready to catch you when you trip over your own feet, maybe."
"That was one time!"
"It was three times. In the same rehearsal."
"Your radiant beauty distracted me."
She snorted. "More like your own reflection in the store window."
Despite their technical flaws, their genuine affection made me lean forward. They had brilliant stage chemistry. Jack took each line further over the top until they both dissolved into laughter.
"Cut!" Mrs. Brubaker tried to sound stern. "Jack, maybe dial back the passion about ten percent?"
"But how else will I convey the depths of my feels?"
"Your what?" Charice dissolved into fresh giggles.
"My feels! Sam in pediatrics says it all the time."
"Sam is seven."
"And clearly very wise for his age."
An involuntary smile tugged at my lips. No one here was marking performances for critique or waiting to step into someone else's role. They were merely... playing.
Then it happened.
A metallic clang as one of Ben's window pieces slipped, threatening to take out several others in a domino effect.
Ben moved fast, but he wasn't going to make it.
Years of dance training kicked in. I launched from my seat, sliding across the stage, catching the falling piece while Ben steadied the main structure. We froze—his arm braced above mine, and my back pressed against his chest, both of us breathing hard.
The stage lights flared bright as sunlight before settling into a warm, golden glow.
"Nice catch." His voice rumbled through me. "Dancer?"
"Technically still a dancer." I managed to keep my voice steady despite our bodies touching and the warmth spreading from every point of contact. "I'm only taking a break."
"Some break." His breath stirred my hair. "That was a perfect stage slide."
I stepped back, trying to regain my professional distance, but I was quickly failing.
"The mounting bracket needs reinforcement." I pointed to where metal met wood, desperate for something practical to focus on. "The vibration from scene changes will work it loose again."
"Show me?"
Before I could retreat to a safe distance, we were deep in discussion about weight distribution and sight lines. Ben's knowledge of structural engineering complemented my understanding of stage movement perfectly. When he smiled, that dimple appeared.
A crash from the parade scene saved me. The cast had attempted a complex crossing pattern, which turned into a traffic jam of colliding bodies.
"If you offset the timing—" The words escaped before I could stop them. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"No, please." Mrs. Brubaker waved me forward. "What were you going to say?"
Every eye in the theater focused on me. My breath caught. What if I froze? What if the panic that had destroyed me in front of the Phantom casting directors came roaring back here, in front of these people?
Ben's presence at my shoulder steadied me. "You were saying about the timing?"
I took a breath. The theater's warmth wrapped around me like my grandmother's arms. "If you stagger the entrances in groups of three, each new group can fill the spaces left by the previous one. Like waves instead of a flood."
"Show us?" one of the teenagers asked.
My body answered before my mind could object. "Like this—first group establishes the pattern, second group mirrors but offsets, third group fills the gaps..."
They followed easily. Within minutes, the chaotic crowd transformed into flowing movement. When they reran it, several kids added their own flourishes.
"That's it!" The joy in my voice surprised me. "Use your instincts. The audience should feel the excitement building."
Only when the cast cheered did I realize I was grinning. I'd directed a full number without freezing or panic stealing my breath.
During the break, I retreated to the prop table, trying to process what I'd just done. The familiar scents of greasepaint and sawdust threatened to overwhelm me with memories both beautiful and painful.
"I can't do it."
A small voice drew my attention. A boy—maybe eight—stood with Noel near the stage door, clutching his script like a shield.
"What's worrying you, Charlie?" Noel crouched to the boy's level.
"My line. It's too many words." Charlie's shoulders hunched. "Everyone will laugh."
"Hey, you know what? I get nervous, too. Even Santa gets stage fright sometimes."
Charlie's eyes widened. "Really?"
"Really. Want to know a secret?" The boy nodded vigorously. "Being brave doesn't mean you're not afraid. It means doing something even though it scares you."
The words hit me square in the chest. I'd been afraid yesterday. Terrified, actually, but I'd done it anyway, and the world hadn't ended.
I turned to leave but knocked over a prop nutcracker. Charlie jumped at the noise.
"Sorry." I steadied it. "I was just—"