Twenty-One. The Plot Dickens
Twenty-One
THE PLOT DICKENS
Just like in Powell Park, my nephew, Henry, has been cast in the role of Tiny Tim in the community theater’s production of A Christmas Carol .
Unlike in Powell Park, this production is going to be high-quality, at least going by Henry’s costume: a little tweed suit with short pants and a tiny crutch on which he’s hobbling around my parents’ living room.
He’s missing his cap, which my mom’s taken to repair a small rip in the seam.
“Aunt Jill, will you run my lines with me?” Henry bounds up, waving a script at me.
I’ve been petting Alfredo, imagining what comes next as part of Corey’s request to try again.
But every time I replay Corey taking my hands in his, a flash of Grant hungrily pulling me on top of him replaces the thought, and I stop breathing.
In other words, it’s a very awkward moment to have Henry staring at me in full Tiny Tim regalia.
But running lines with him will give me something to think about besides the disastrous grocery store outing with Grant this morning.
I’m guessing we’re going to wing it at the finals four days from now because we don’t seem to be on speaking terms and I can’t imagine either of us breaking the ice to make a plan.
“Okay,” I say, checking the script pages Henry’s handed me. “I’m Scrooge. ‘I don’t care that it’s Christmas Day. Where’s your father?’”
Henry as Tim says, with a perfect British accent, “I promise, Mr. Scrooge—Father will be to the office shortly after we have our Christmas puddings. Would you like one?”
“I’ve got a better idea. How about a Christmas goose?” I read from the scene where a reformed Scrooge surprises the Cratchit family.
“Mr. Scrooge!”
Alice dashes into the room. “Henry, Mommy says you should have something to eat before we leave.”
Henry hops onto the arm of the couch and gives me a sweet kiss. “Thank you, Aunt Jill.” I give him a big hug that Alice joins and watch as they bound toward the kitchen.
My brother saunters in, stopping Henry to adjust his Tiny Tim bow tie. “Okay, go see Mom.”
“He’s really good,” I say.
Brian beams proudly. “He really is.” Then he perches on the edge of Dad’s recliner like he’s interviewing me and asks, “So, how’s the baking life going?”
Sullen. Tense. Fraught with lust and baggage , I think, remembering how Grant and I were this morning.
“A piece of cake” is what I say, with a wink. Brian laughs heartily at my bad joke.
Mom comes in, waving Henry’s hat. “I fixed that little tear, and it’s as good as new!”
Henry traipses in after her, nibbling on a PB it fills me with melancholy. How could you go from knowing someone better than you knew anyone to feeling like complete strangers?
A Christmas Carol Sweetville-style far exceeds my expectations.
Maybe because my expectations were to see the show in Powell Park.
There, the venue would have been the Powell Park Community Center, a multipurpose and utilitarian space for youth sports, senior citizen activities, and Mommy and Me classes.
But here, Henry will perform at the Sweetville Players Performing Arts Center.
It has a beautiful ivory-brick facade with intricate designs—comedy and tragedy masks, Renaissance actors, pens and pianos—carved beneath its canopy and underlit, giving the building an air of gravitas.
While Henry has very little to do in his first scene, he collects plenty of coos as he hobbles onto the stage on his crutch, adoringly asking Mr. Scrooge what he might like for Christmas this year.
By the time we see him again during Scrooge’s visit to Christmas Present, poor Tiny Tim gives the aura of a frail munchkin as he insists his mother take the last of his porridge.
“Wow, the Method acting paid off,” I say to Rachel as we head to the lobby for intermission.
The lobby is full of the excited chatter of people who are loving the show and by no means want to see their kid or loved one and get the hell out of there (which is what I’d been expecting of the show in Powell Park).
I peer around, looking for Allie or Corey, but I’m almost bowled over when instead I see Grant.
He’s by himself with his back to me, but he’s standing not far from the ladies’ room. Is he waiting for Fiona? I decide I don’t want to know. If he is, I led him right to her when I rebuffed him.
“I’m just going to get a little fresh air,” I tell my family.
Then I sneak out to the front of the theater, where snow is falling in glistening crystals.
Each one catches the light cast off by the theater’s marquee, and the effect is magical.
And a little sad. It’s the kind of thing you want to see with someone you love next to you.
“Jill.” Grant’s voice startles me, arriving as it does when I’m thinking about love.
I gulp, bracing myself to see Grant standing behind me with Fiona.
I know he said he didn’t want her, but I did just reject him.
Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe that’s okay, because I’m going to make things work with Corey, and back in the real world, both Grant and I will be with people who are better for us than we were for each other.
But when I turn, he’s standing on his own. He looks gorgeous in a navy jacket and jeans, a camel-colored scarf loose around his neck.
“Hi,” I say. Then, before I can stop myself, “Are you here alone?”
Grant looks to his left and his right. “It would seem that way.” He stares at me. “Are you?”
I nod, then shake my head. “Whole family came.”
“For Henry, huh? Wow.” Grant whistles. “He’s good. A lot bigger than I remember, too.”
He scans the horizon, clocking the snow as it drifts down and dusts the street. “My dad wanted to come, but he’s having an off night, so I’m here alone.”
The mention of his dad is my opportunity to ask what’s been bugging me. “Your dad. My parents were saying that the inn is having a rough go of it. Is that true?”
Grant kicks the ground with the tip of his dress shoe. He nods. “Yeah. It’s not just lately that we don’t have guests. The place isn’t doing so well,” he says. “There’ve been buyers sniffing around, and part of me thinks he should take the money and enjoy himself. But you know how stubborn he is.”
I laugh. Grant’s dad is the kind of guy who will never admit if he needs help. I once saw him kick a heavy box across the bar, grunting all the way, instead of asking someone to carry it for him. “Yeah, I love that about him.”
Grant smiles, but only halfway. “Me, too. And I love the inn. He wants to get it on the historical register because you get some protections and we could keep it afloat and maybe find a way to resuscitate the business.”
“I had no idea it was in trouble,” I say.
“Well, how could you have?” Grant reaches a hand out to catch some falling snow in his palm. He watches it melt before tilting his eyes up to mine. “We haven’t exactly been in touch.”
The word “touch” sends a liquid heat through my body.
We’re staring at each other with a need so thick I’m having trouble breathing. But the spell is broken when the bells to let us know intermission is ending chime three times. “We’d better go back inside,” I say.
“Yeah.” Grant breaks away from our moment and holds the door for me. As I pass through back into the theater, he adds, “My dad misses you.” His smile is sad.
“I miss him,” I say.
We split off, our seats evidently on opposite sides of the theater, but just as I’m about to slip back inside, Grant calls across the lobby. “You should come visit him. You’d make his whole Christmas.”
“I’ll try,” I say.
By the end of the show, I decide that if Scrooge can change his whole life, I can suck up my pride to pay Louis Heath a visit.