Chapter 10 #2
The guy across the room with the muscles rippling under his t-shirt, and the way he easily lifts an entire sheet of plywood by himself and hammers it into the manger frame with confident accuracy, has zero effect on me.
No-el way.
That’s not much better. Why am I thinking of Christmas puns? It definitely can’t have anything to do with the dumb dad jokes Fletch insists on telling me each day.
Be present, Bree.
Tee hee. Oh my goodness. Who am I becoming?
Nina and I are seated in the plush seats several rows back from the stage, discussing the ‘Encorn’ skits she has so far and the gaps she needs to fill, when a pasty man with artfully sculpted hair faces us and coolly leans on the chairs behind him.
Looking at me, he says, “Nina, we need your opinion on the angel costumes.”
“No problem. I’m very particular about the wings,” she answers.
His gaze lingers on me. “And you must be Bree. I’m Derek, the director. Nina told me all about your writing talents.” He extends his hand for me to shake, but instead of the normal greeting, he kisses the top of it and says, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
My smile wavers and the busy sounds of hammering and set building fall disturbingly silent.
“We’re so lucky you volunteered,” Derek continues, holding my hand a beat too long.
“Sure. Glad to help while I’m here.” I snatch my hand back from his slug-like touch.
“If there’s anything I can do to make this experience more enjoyable for you, just let me know.”
Nina’s eyes bulge.
“I’m fine, but thank you,” I respond, shrinking back.
His smile is practiced, a bit sly. “Perhaps we could discuss your vision for the ‘Encorn’ skits over coffee sometime? I have some thoughts about the emotional arc of the second act and the climax.”
Before I can respond, a familiar voice bellows from the stage and gets closer. “Sugar Plum, how’s the script coming?”
Everyone in the room turns in Fletch’s direction.
He appears with sawdust in his hair and a casual possessiveness in his stance. He slides an arm around my waist and drops a kiss on my temple, his gesture so natural that even I almost believe it.
Nina gawks.
Truth be told, I could play a convincing role on the stage, given the way I lean into him, relieved that he came to my rescue. Not that I couldn’t have handled Derek, but I have less than zero interest in the pageant director.
I’m not like the feisty female leads that I write about. At least not today.
Towering over the guy, Fletch looks him up and down. “I expect this to be an outstanding performance, given Nina’s skills and my wife’s expertise.”
“Derek, this is my husband, Fletch.” An awkward beat follows as I clear my throat, but then I can’t help but be surprised by how easily the word husband rolled off my tongue.
Derek’s expression shifts. “Husband? I didn’t realize you were married.”
“Newlyweds,” Fletch explains with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, at least when he’s looking at Derek, but grows when he turns to me.
“No ring,” Derek observes.
Fletch’s arm tightens almost imperceptibly around me. “We’re working on that.”
My traitorous body lingers against him and melts at his side like an icicle on a sunny day.
Fiddlesticks and fruitcake!
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of script revisions and set construction.
I find myself repeatedly distracted by Fletch, watching him as he patiently teaches a group of children how to paint backdrops, listening to his easy laughter, and noticing the gentle way he lifts the smallest kids to reach high spots.
He’s good with them—genuinely interested in their chatter, never dismissive or condescending. It’s a side of him I hadn’t expected. Nothing like my parents, who adhered to the adage, “Children should be seen and not heard.”
“Your husband is a natural with the kids,” Nina observes, following my gaze.
“This is all your fault, you know.”
She giggles. “What? That you haven’t stopped grinning since you saw him over there with a hammer in hand and a tool belt slung around his waist.”
She’s got me there and my rosy cheeks reveal as much. “He’s just not what I expected from the guy I knew in college.”
“And one of the town’s star hockey players.”
“We’re only a few days in. I’m sure it’ll blow up in a spectacular dumpster fire of tinsel and—”
Nina levels me with a look. “Don’t you dare self-sabotage.” Which is another way to say not to work myself into a third-act corner that I won’t be able to write my way out of.
Then she bounces in her seat, struck with inspiration and eager to get back to work on the ‘Encorn’ skits that the actors and townspeople perform after the pageant.
They’re typically comical skits about Cobbiton, its citizens, and the holiday season.
Meanwhile, I’m thinking about the length and width of Fletch’s palm, how solid it felt on my hip, and how I fit so perfectly under his arm.
Later, during the drive home, he seems relaxed, pleased with himself. “I think the manger scenery is coming along nicely. How’s the script for the ‘Encorn’ part?”
“Nina is happy with the revisions.”
“And Derek? Was he happy too?” There’s an edge to his tone that catches my attention.
“Jealous, Mr. Turley?”
“Just playing my part, Mrs. Turley.” His eyes remain fixed on the road, but I catch the hint of tension in his jaw.
I’m not sure how to respond to that, so I change the subject. “The kids seemed to like you.”
His expression softens. “They’re great. Honest, you know? No pretenses.”
“Yeah,” I agree softly. If only I had so much clarity.
Back at his house—our house, I remind myself—we take the dog for a short walk in the moonlight. The night is clear and cold, our breath forming clouds in the frosty air. Dickens trots happily between us, already looking healthier than when we found him.
“He’s adapting well,” Fletch observes as we watch the dog investigate a particularly fascinating shrub festooned with net lighting in twinkling colors.
“He doesn’t seem too traumatized by his abandonment,” I agree.
“Dogs live in the present. They don’t overthink the past or worry about the future.”
I give him a sidelong glance.
“Some of us could learn from them.” He bumps my shoulder gently with his. “To live more in the moment, that is.”
I recall my terrible pun from earlier.
Good grief and garland!
I’m not living in the past when my life was less messy and I met my deadlines. Nor am I counting down the days until this is over. Well, maybe a little. Not like those wooden Christmas countdown displays they sell at the market. So what is happening to me?
Back inside, Fletch spoils Dickens with treats and belly rubs while I make hot chocolate.
When I was a little kid riding my bike home from the library at dusk, I’d notice scenes like this unfolding through the windows of people’s houses. It would fill me with longing. But for once, I’m on the inside.
It’s risky, this feeling. It isn’t real. It can’t be.
Later, after Fletch has gone to bed, I return to my laptop. The words flow more easily than they have in months as I incorporate new insights into my character’s perspective.
Lorna, my mail-order bride, is beginning to view her husband as more than just a means to an end—she’s seeing him as a person, complex and surprising … and handsome too.
Losing track of time, I realize I’ve repeatedly written fiction, fiction, fiction, as if I need to remind my subconscious to remember that my reality isn’t a book and Fletch isn’t my future.