Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Alex
"Sorry!" he called over his shoulder. "Aunt Holly said it couldn't wait."
Mrs. Brubaker's distinctive handwriting left no room for misinterpretation.
I leaned against the doorframe, watching him disappear into the pre-dawn darkness.
Six nights left until Christmas Eve. Six nights until the show.
Yesterday I'd driven Noel to the clinic, helped him get settled, and played the supportive community member.
Then I'd spent the rest of the evening hiding in my grandmother's house, ignoring two calls from Ben and one from Holly, telling myself I needed time to process.
The truth was more straightforward and more cowardly: I knew what they wanted to ask me, and I wasn't ready to answer.
Two hours later, pulse racing, I pressed my hand against the theater's stage door.
The iconic red Santa suit hanging in Noel's dressing room had haunted my dreams all night.
I'd arrived hours before the meeting, telling myself I wanted to check on set pieces.
The real reason was harder to admit—I needed to see Ben before facing everyone else's expectations.
A rhythmic scraping sound drew me toward his workshop. I told myself I'd peek in, then retreat to somewhere less complicated. It didn't turn out to be that easy. The sight of him bent over his workbench stopped me cold.
He was restoring what looked like a Victorian rocking horse, his movements precise and gentle as he stripped away decades of worn varnish. Wood shavings dusted his hair and worn flannel shirt. His expression captivated me—complete absorption in bringing something beautiful back to life.
"You can come in." He gestured with one hand without looking up. "Unless you're planning to hover in doorways all morning."
"I didn't want to disturb your concentration."
"You won't." He tested the rocker's motion, frowning at a slight catch. "Though I'm surprised to see you here at all after yesterday."
The gentle rebuke landed. "I should have called you back."
"Yeah." He kept working, his voice neutral. "You should have."
I stepped closer and inspected the rocking horse, desperate for safer ground. Despite its wear, the craftsmanship was exquisite—hand-carved mane, glass eyes that caught the light, and delicate scrollwork on the saddle. "This is museum quality. Where did you find it?"
"Hospital storage. It's been gathering dust since the 1970s when they renovated the children's ward." His hands never stopped working as he spoke. "I've been meaning to restore it for months. Seems more urgent now."
The question of Noel's replacement hung unspoken between us.
I focused on the toy instead, trailing my fingers over the smooth wood of its neck.
"My grandmother had one like this in her parlor.
She never let me ride it—said it was too fragile—but I used to imagine it coming alive at night, like in those old stories. "
Ben's hands stopped. "Sometimes imagination is more powerful than reality." He turned his head toward me. "Like believing in Santa Claus."
"Don't." I stepped back from the rocking horse. "I know what everyone wants, but I'm not the right person. I'm not Noel, and I'm definitely not his father."
Ben reached for a finer grade of sandpaper. "Nobody's asking you to be either of them." The subtle rasp of his work punctuated his words. "Though you seem determined to reject something you haven't even considered."
"I'm a dancer, not a—"
"Not a what?" His tone stayed gentle but firm. "Not someone who understands how to connect with an audience? Not someone who knows how to tell stories through movement and presence?"
I turned away, focusing on a chisel lying askew on his workbench. "I should go. I've got—"
"There's a production meeting at nine." Ben reached past me to straighten the tool, his arm brushing mine. "We need to figure out how to handle this situation. You could at least listen before deciding you're not interested."
"I haven't decided anything."
"No?" He kept arranging his tools with methodical precision. "Then stay. Help us figure this out. Unless you're planning to disappear again?"
"That's not fair."
"Then prove me wrong." He wiped his hands on a shop cloth. "Two hours. That's all I'm asking."
I glanced at my watch—7:15. The weight of Ben's quiet challenge pressed against my practiced defenses. "Fine. Two hours. But I'm not promising anything."
Those two hours crawled by while Ben worked on the rocking horse, and I pretended to review the stage blocking.
My thoughts kept drifting to the Santa suit hanging in Noel's dressing room—and to Marcus, the quiet boy with the IV pole who'd told everyone at the hospital that Santa was coming to see him.
At precisely nine, voices drifted in from the theater proper. Mrs. Brubaker's distinctive alto carried down the hallway, followed by Holly's chiming bracelets.
"Time to face the music." Ben set his tools down carefully. "In this case, it might be 'Santa Claus is Coming to Town.'"
"Not helping."
The main theater felt cavernous, with only five people clustered around the front row. Jack paced between seats while Charice perched on the edge of the stage. Holly had claimed an aisle seat, her patchwork skirt pooling around her feet.
"Alex!" Mrs. Brubaker smiled broadly. "We were hoping you'd come."
I tried to fade into the shadows, but Ben's solid presence at my shoulder propelled me forward. "How's Noel doing?"
"Frustrated but fine." Charice uncrossed her arms. "He needs to stay off the leg completely for the next few days. He'll likely still be on crutches Christmas Eve, which means he can't do the physical blocking for Santa's scenes."
"We've talked through options," Mrs. Brubaker continued. "Canceling would devastate the hospital children's wing—they depend on this fundraiser. And we can't postpone so close to the holiday."
My throat tightened. "There must be other options. Other people."
"We've been through the list," Jack said, slipping into lawyer mode. "Frank Morrison has the beard for it, but he freezes up around children. Exposed himself during the Easter egg hunt."
"He fainted," Charice corrected. "He didn't expose himself."
"Same thing." Jack waved a hand. "Dave Jensen would be perfect except he's Jewish and feels weird about it—his words. The Hendricks twins insisted on playing Santa as a duo, and we still haven't figured out the logistics of that."
"Or the theology," Holly murmured.
"And Mayor Thompson—"
"Campaign speech," everyone said in unison.
"The man brought a podium to the Halloween parade," Charice added. "He gave a fifteen-minute stump speech about candy corn."
Despite everything, I laughed. The tension in my shoulders eased slightly.
"So you see the problem," Mrs. Brubaker said, but her eyes were warm. "We need someone who already knows the show. Someone the cast trusts. Someone who's already connected with those kids."
"As you did with Marcus," Ben said quietly beside me. "When you taught him to dance with his IV pole."
The memory surfaced—Marcus's face lighting up when he realized he could move and be part of the show despite the tubes and the exhaustion.
"That was different," I said, but my voice lacked conviction.
"Was it?" Holly leaned forward. "He's been telling everyone at the hospital that Santa is coming to see him. He's counting the days."
I thought of Marcus clutching that dog-eared script, barely speaking when he'd arrived at the theater. He had a breakthrough when he mirrored my movements. I remembered the sound of his laugh echoing through the space.
"I appreciate what you're trying to do." I stood and began to back away from the group. "But I'm not the right choice. I'm due back in New York soon—"
"For what?" Ben's voice was edgy. "Ice skating with Jared? Your sublet doesn't end until February. Your agent told you to take time off." He stepped closer, not letting me retreat. "Alex, you've got every excuse lined up except a real reason to leave."
The stage door creaked open.
Everyone turned. Noel stood in the doorway, balanced on crutches, his face pale with pain he tried to hide. He wore the red scarf his father wore every year after Christmas.
"Noel!" Charice was on her feet immediately. "You're supposed to be resting. The doctor said—"
"I know what the doctor said." He made his way slowly down the aisle, each step careful and deliberate. "But I needed to be here for this."
I watched him approach, guilt and admiration warring in my chest. He'd come all this way, clearly in pain, to add his voice to the pressure campaign. I braced myself for the emotional appeal.
When he reached the group, he didn't look at the others. He looked directly at me.
"I'm not here to guilt you into this," he said quietly. "I know that's what you're thinking."
I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it.
"I'm here because—" He paused, adjusting his grip on the crutches. "Because I remember what it felt like to step into my father's role. Everyone expected me to be him. To do it exactly like he did." His jaw tightened. "I had to figure out that wasn't the point."
The others were silent. This wasn't part of any script.
"My father had his version of Santa," Noel continued. "I have mine. They're different, and that's okay. That's how traditions stay alive—they grow." He held my gaze. "Maybe the suit's been waiting for your version. Maybe that's why the valley brought you home."
I couldn't speak.
"I'm not asking you to be me," he said. "I'm asking you to be yourself. That's what the children need. That's what Marcus needs." He smiled slightly. "That's what the theater needs too. Holly told me the building woke up the minute you started directing."
The house lights flickered once, as if in agreement.
"Just think about it," Noel said. "Really think. Not about whether you can do it perfectly. About whether you're willing to try."