Chapter 5 #2
"Places for the toy department scene, everyone! Charice, prepare yourself for romance."
"Please tell me you've retired the cash register metaphors," Charice called as she took her position. She winked at the kids, who quickly settled into the front row.
Jack pressed a hand to his chest. "I'll have you know I spent all night working on this. Prepare yourself for genuine retail passion."
He was right—something was different. Instead of his usual overwrought delivery, Jack softened as he approached Charice. When she straightened a display of toy trains, he tilted his head in wonder.
His voice was quiet but confident. "You make everything magical. The way you arrange these toys—it's like you're creating little worlds for them to live in."
Charice's usual sarcastic expression melted. "That's... kind of beautiful, Jack."
"I mean it. You see stories everywhere. Like how you've got this family of teddy bears having a picnic, and these toy soldiers standing guard over the dollhouse..."
The lights warmed around them, shifting from cool white to something closer to candlelight.
Jack and Charice moved through the scene with their usual theatrical flourishes set aside.
They were now two people finding joy in each other's company.
When Jack helped Charice rearrange the window display, their laughter was genuine.
Marcus tugged at my sleeve. "They're not acting anymore, are they?"
"No. Sometimes the best performances happen when you stop trying so hard to perform."
"Like magic?"
I glanced at him, surprised. "Yeah. It's magic."
Ben appeared at my shoulder, close enough to catch the mingled scents of cedar and coffee. "Speaking of performances, these set pieces won't paint themselves. Care to lend a hand?"
"Sure, but don't give me the crucial parts. My high school art teacher still shudders when she sees me coming."
While Jack and Charice continued rehearsing, Ben and I settled into a rhythm, working on opposite sides of a towering storefront panel. The quiet between us was comfortable rather than awkward.
"How did a Broadway veteran learn so much about stage lighting?" Ben reached up to catch a drip before it could streak the woodwork.
"Lots of downtime between scenes. I used to hang out with the tech crew while waiting for my cues. They taught me more than any dance class ever did about how theaters work."
"Like what?"
"Like how the third light on the main bar always sticks, or how to tell when the dance floor needs resealing by the way it sounds under your feet.
" The memories flowed more easily with Ben than with anyone except Jared, my best friend back in New York.
"There was this old electrician at the Winter Garden who could diagnose lighting problems by listening to the hum of the dimmers. "
Ben's brush paused. "Do you miss it?"
"Parts of it." I caught myself opening up too much and tried to redirect the conversation. "The set is amazing, by the way. Very Macy's 1947."
"Alex, you don't have to deflect with me."
Before I could figure out how to respond, Rachel commandeered center stage, Marcus's script in hand. "Okay, everyone, places! We're doing the Santa scene."
The other kids scrambled into position, dragging chairs from the prop table to create a makeshift department store. Even Marcus, still holding his IV pole, edged closer to the action.
"I'll be Kris Kringle." A boy with a missing front tooth stuffed a throw pillow under his shirt and attempted a belly laugh that came out more like a hiccup.
"That's not how Santa walks," Marcus said, his voice small but clear. "He has to be more..." He demonstrated a gentle sway, incorporating his IV pole with surprising grace.
Rachel's eyes widened. "Show us again!"
Within minutes, Marcus had become the director of the scene.
His earlier shyness disappeared as he helped position the others, suggesting ways to move that worked with their various medical equipment rather than fighting against it.
The lights followed him as he moved, brightening wherever he gestured, dimming to create shadows where the scene needed them.
"Look familiar?" Ben set his brush down and moved closer to me. "Reminds me of someone else who knows how to create choreography on the fly."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
When the kids launched into an off-key but enthusiastic rendition of "Pine Cones and Holly Berries," my breath snagged.
This was why I'd fallen in love with theater in the first place.
Not for the spotlight or the perfect technique, but for moments like this—when make-believe and reality wove together to create something transcendent.
"The pole isn't in the way," Marcus told the boy with the oxygen tank. "It's part of the dance now. You have to let it be."
I blinked hard, but Ben had already heard. He reached for my hand, where it rested on the workbench, and squeezed it gently.
"We should probably finish painting," I said. Ben hummed in agreement but didn't step back.
The last rays of winter sunlight slanted through the high windows, turning them into stained glass even though they were clear. As the rest of the cast began to gather for full rehearsal, Ben sorted his tools while I pretended to organize sheet music that was already perfectly arranged.
"Those cabinet doors in the toy shop scene still need touchups. The gold paint is uneven."
Ben glanced at the cabinet. "Could use a professional eye for detail."
"And there's that wobble in the third department store window."
"Very concerning." He moved closer. "You must have better things to do than help with set maintenance."
I focused intently on adjusting the angle of a prop telephone. "Not really. Grandma's house is too quiet, and these things go faster with two people."
"True." His shoulder brushed mine as he reached past me for a paintbrush.
We worked in the pool of light cast by the ghost light, moving around each other in our own private dance. I caught myself leaning into Ben's space more than necessary.
"Hold still. You've got some gold paint there." Ben brushed his thumb across my cheek, the touch impossibly gentle. His hand lingered, cupping my face, and I found myself tilting into his palm.
I swayed closer, drawn by the magnetic pull between us. Ben's other hand came to rest on my hip, steadying me. His eyes darkened, and his gaze dropped to my lips. The air between us shimmered with the same golden quality I'd seen during Jack and Charice's scene.
"Stay," Ben said quietly.
Somewhere in the darkness beyond the ghost light's reach, a door opened.
"Ben? You still here? I've got those hinges you—oh."
Holly's voice was cheerful and utterly unrepentant. We sprang apart like teenagers caught making out, and I slammed my hip into the workbench hard enough to scatter wood curls.
She appeared in a swirl of velvet skirts, carrying a small box.
Her bracelets chimed like bells as she moved, and the scents of cinnamon and pine needles filled the space.
"Don't let me interrupt. I'll just leave these here.
" She set the box on the sawhorse with exaggerated care.
"Ben, dear, that wood trim you ordered finally stopped sulking and agreed to proper shaping.
And Alex—" She fixed me with eyes that seemed to see straight through me.
"—your grandmother would be pleased to see you here.
She always said this theater needed you. "
Before I could respond, she'd swept back toward the stage door. The moment before she disappeared, she called over her shoulder: "Only eight nights left. Don't waste them."
The door closed, and silence rushed back in—but it was different now. Less charged, more awkward.
My voice was ragged at the edges as I spoke. "I should go. There are projects at the house I've been putting off."
"Right." Ben's voice was carefully neutral. "Thanks for all your help today."
"Any time."
I grabbed my coat and messenger bag, suddenly desperate for cold air and distance. As I pushed through the stage door into the December evening, snow had begun to fall again.
I walked home through streets that glowed in pools of illumination cast by Christmas lights, past windows that pulsed with warmth and welcome.
Inside my grandmother's house, I leaned against the closed door, breathing hard. My cheek still tingled where Ben had touched it. The Steinway sat in its corner, patient and waiting.
I crossed to it and pressed middle C. The note rang out pure and true, resonating through the empty house. In the vibration of that single note, I could almost hear my grandmother's voice: About time you came home, sweetheart. Now stop running and let yourself feel something.
The note faded.
Eight nights until Christmas.
I was in more trouble than I'd realized.