Chapter 14 - Ben
Chapter fourteen
Ben
Jack had finally stopped treating romance like a contract negotiation, and Charice's warmth balanced his dramatic flourishes the way it always did—on stage and off.
The ensemble moved like they'd been dancing together for years, not weeks.
Even Mrs. Brubaker had stopped clutching her clipboard quite so desperately during scene transitions.
Alex was riveting.
I leaned against the back wall, watching him discuss a technical cue with our teenage light board operator.
His Santa suit needed final adjustments, but the role itself fit him now.
The calculated Broadway gestures I'd noticed in those first rehearsals had softened into something more honest. When he demonstrated how Kris Kringle should react to Susan's first hint of belief, the young tech's face lit up with understanding.
I crossed to the dressing room a few minutes later to check the padding beneath his Santa coat. His shoulders were tense through the velvet fabric.
"Too tight?" I asked.
"No, it's fine." Alex's hand drifted toward his phone on the dressing room table before he caught himself. "Pre-show jitters."
The phone buzzed. His fingers twitched, but he didn't reach for it. I focused on straightening his collar while he wrestled with whatever—or whoever—wanted his attention.
"The beard sits better when you relax your jaw."
"We could both benefit from relaxing a bit." Alex's eyes met mine in the mirror. "I saw you with Ryan yesterday, holding that chisel so tight your knuckles went white."
"That's because Ryan has the subtlety of a sledgehammer. I was protecting my tools."
Alex laughed, loosening some of the tension. He turned to check his reflection, and I saw how naturally he'd grown into the role. The beard no longer looked like a costume piece—it had become part of him.
"Speaking of opinions—" He adjusted the hat's angle. "Charlie asked if Santa could help him practice his lines before the full run-through. Apparently, Toast isn't giving useful feedback anymore."
"Imagine that. A dog is an inadequate acting coach."
"Shocking, I know. Though to be fair—"
Alex's phone buzzed again. I spotted the Broadway director's name on the screen before he flipped it face down.
Before I could say anything, Holly's distinctive knock rattled the stage door.
"Special delivery for our Santa!" She bustled in, trailing the scent of peppermint, pressing a steaming mug into Alex's hands. "A blend for steady nerves and clear paths."
She gave me one of her meaningful looks. "You know, reindeer have excellent instincts about people. They sense who truly belongs in their herd."
"Holly..."
"Oh, don't mind me." She adjusted her glasses. "Though I did notice our festival visitors seemed particularly drawn to certain people yesterday. Almost like they recognized something familiar."
Alex's attention sharpened. "Like the Blitzen family?"
"Five minutes to places!" Mrs. Brubaker's voice carried through the halls.
"Saved by the bell," I muttered.
"For now." Holly winked and swept out, leaving behind the scent of herbs and too many unspoken implications.
Alex drained his tea and squared his shoulders. "Ready to watch me fumble through Act One?"
"You haven't fumbled anything in days." I reached for his hand. "You've stopped playing Santa. You've become him."
"Don't let my agent hear you say that." His attempt at humor fell flat as his phone buzzed again.
I released his hand. "You should probably check those messages."
"Later."
The next hour unfolded like a masterclass in transformation. Alex navigated the department store scene with ease, his interactions with the child actors now completely natural.
When little Sophie forgot her line about wanting a real family for Christmas, he didn't feed her the words. Instead, he leaned forward in his oversized chair and adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses.
"Sometimes," he told her gently, "the hardest wishes are the most important ones to say out loud."
Sophie's face brightened. "I want a mom who looks at me the way Mrs. Walker looks at Susan."
It wasn't the scripted line, but it held more truth. Jack, waiting for his cue as the skeptical store manager, turned away and pressed his hand to his eyes.
The parade scene followed, its intricate choreography finally clicking into place.
Alex had suggested having the ensemble move in waves rather than all at once, creating the illusion of a much larger crowd.
Now, watching the high school dancers weave between the more experienced performers, I saw how right he'd been.
During a break, Alex helped Charlie practice his pivotal scene. I watched from the wings as he knelt to the boy's level.
"Remember what we talked about? It's not about the words. It's about sharing something real."
Charlie nodded solemnly. "Like when you helped me tell Toast about being scared?"
"Exactly like that. The audience is just friends you haven't met yet."
Alex looked up. His eyes found mine across the crowded stage, and for a moment his director's mask slipped. I saw exhaustion underneath. Fear. And something else—something that looked like hope asking permission to exist.
Then Charlie tugged his sleeve with a question, and Alex's attention returned to the boy.
I slipped away to my workshop before he could see what his expression had done to me.
The familiar motions of sanding gave my hands something to do while my thoughts raced. I picked up a piece of trim that was already smooth enough and worked it anyway, the rasp of sandpaper drowning out the sound of rehearsal continuing without me.
He kept getting calls from his old director. They had to be about the touring production that could take him away from everything we'd started building.
Holly found me twenty minutes later. Instead of her usual dramatic entrance, she closed the door quietly behind her.
"That poor wood is crying uncle." She settled onto my workbench. "Though I suspect you're not thinking about furniture."
I set the sandpaper down. "What if it's not enough? What can I offer compared to what he's trained for his whole life?"
"The Alex who arrived here in Italian leather during a snowstorm might have jumped at Broadway's call.
" She picked up a curl of wood shaving, letting it spiral through her fingers.
"But this Alex—the one who carved his first healing mark without being taught, and who knows exactly what to say to scared children?
" She let the shaving fall. "He's listening to different music now. "
"You can't know that."
"No." She was quiet for a moment. "But I can know what it costs to let someone choose. To build something worth staying for and then watch them decide."
Something flickered across her face—old grief, quickly mastered. I'd known Holly my whole life, but I'd never asked about the man in the photograph she kept in her back office. The one with kind eyes and sawdust in his hair, standing in front of a workshop that wasn't in Yuletide Valley.
"The most powerful magic isn't about keeping people from leaving," she said. "It's about creating something worth staying for."
She pulled a small cloth bag from her pocket and pressed it into my palm. Winter sage and something sharper—starflower, maybe. The herbs radiated warmth.
"Trust him, Ben. Trust what you're building together."
"I'm trying."
She smiled. "I know you are."
The door clicked shut, and the workshop was empty without her.
The rest of the rehearsal passed in fragments. I kept finding excuses to watch Alex. He reached out to hold my hand during scene changes. Each time our fingers touched, I thought about that look he'd given me across the stage.
That night, alone in my workshop, the building settled into its familiar sounds—the tick of cooling wood, distant hum of the theater's old heating system, and somewhere outside, the soft chime of bells from the reindeer barn.
I'd grown up falling asleep to those bells. They sounded different. Expectant.
I returned to the children's ward sleigh. My hands moved over the wood automatically, carving healing marks until my fingers ached. Each curve captured a wish: courage for Marcus, comfort for the kids who couldn't go home for Christmas, and hope for whatever came next.
When I finally stopped, I realized I'd been working on a separate piece without noticing.
It was a small rectangle of cherry—the same wood I'd used for Alex's grandmother's music box.
I was carving familiar patterns. The safe harbor mark.
The hope symbol. And threaded between them, something new, a mark I didn't recognize, though my hands seemed to know it.
I traced the unfamiliar symbol with my thumb.
As I set the piece aside, I wasn't sure I'd ever have the courage to give it to Alex.
I opened Johan's journal to the page I'd read a hundred times. Some gifts are also callings, he'd written. The magic knows where it belongs.
Alex had carved the signal for safe harbor without being taught. He'd known the marks for healing as if they'd been waiting inside him all along.
That had to mean something.
I picked up the cherry rectangle again. The unfamiliar mark pulsed faintly in the lamplight—or maybe that was only my tired eyes.
I wrapped the block in a scrap of soft cloth and tucked it into my jacket pocket, where it rested warm against my chest.
Outside, the reindeer bells chimed once, clear and questioning.
I returned to the sleigh with steadier hands. This time, the marks flowed together with purpose rather than anxiety—courage intertwined with healing, hope wrapped around strength.
Movement caught my eye. Through the workshop window, one of the festival reindeer stood watching. Its breath frosted the glass. As I stared, it stamped three quick times, then two slow—the exact rhythm I'd noticed when Alex first held the marking tools.
I pressed my palm to the cold glass. The reindeer held my gaze for a long moment, then turned and walked back toward the barn. Not fleeing, returning to where it belonged, trusting I would do the same.
I worked until dawn painted the snow in silver and rose.
In a few hours, Alex would arrive at the theater. His phone would probably buzz with another call from New York. He'd answer it or he wouldn't. He'd stay or he wouldn't.
I couldn't control any of it.
I set down my tools and let the weight of the truth sit in my chest. Then, I got up to make coffee, because the day was starting whether I was ready or not, and a significant part of faith is simply showing up and doing the work anyway.