Chapter 24
FLETCH
The community center buzzes with last-minute pageant preparations.
Children in costumes dart between harried parents, set pieces wobble as they’re moved into place, and the air is filled with clouds of hairspray and excitement.
In the midst of it all, I adjust Bailey’s donkey ears, whispering reassurances to our suddenly stage-shy pooch.
“You’re a natural performer,” I tell him, scratching under his chin.
He tilts his head.
“Just imagine everyone in their underwear.”
“Is that what you do when you play hockey?” Bree appears beside me, looking beautiful in a dark green dress that brings out the amber flecks in her eyes.
My smile is irrepressible. “Absolutely not. Those guys are ugly enough with clothes on.”
She laughs, but I notice the tension in her shoulders, the way she keeps glancing at the script in her hands. Is she anxious about the pageant, or about what comes after?
I, for one, cannot stop thinking about the days after Christmas as our deadline looms. The obvious thing to do would simply be to talk about it, but I’m afraid it might burst the bubble we’re in. Shake up the snow globe too much and ruin everything.
“Are you merry and bright over there?” I ask.
“Just reviewing my lines for the skit.”
“Mine too,” I admit, patting my pocket where my own script sits folded and refolded, the creases deep from constant review.
Mayor Nishimura bustles over with a clipboard clutched to her chest before we can say more. “There’s our power couple!”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say.
“The pageant is sold out! I haven’t seen the town this excited since we got that stoplight on Main Street.”
Bree shifts uncomfortably, whether because, having lived in the big city, Cobbiton isn’t her first choice of places to call home or for another reason I’m afraid to think about.
The mayor leans in conspiratorially. “I hope you two are planning to stick around long term. We have the New Year’s Bash, the Happy Hockey Days event, and of course, the CAC has openings for help with the Valentine’s Day Sweethearts Skate—pending Leah’s discussion with the town board.”
Juniper, Mikey’s wife, appears and asks, “What happened to Nancy? I thought she was in charge of the Cobbiton Activities Commission.”
“Nancy Linderberg?” Bree says.
Expression tight, Mayor Nishimura answers, “She’s been temporarily moved to the sanitation committee. But we could really use the two of you on the team.”
“We’ll see,” I say noncommittally, though my heart leaps at the prospect of pitching in around town if it involves Bree.
She smiles warmly, suggesting to me that maybe Cupid’s—er, Santa’s—bow has hit the target.
The mayor pats my arm. “Well, keep me posted. We need all the muscle and creativity we can get.” She smiles at Bree and me, then announces, “Five minutes ‘til curtain. Places, everyone!”
Derek, the director, grimaces, likely at being usurped, but the main pageant unfolds without any major or minor disasters.
Joseph doesn’t yell, “Cooties!” when Mary rests her head against his shoulder.
The sheep don’t suddenly lose their wool.
The star above Bethlehem only flickers twice.
And Bailey, bless him, stands stoically beside the manger, ears askew but tail wagging gently whenever a child pats his head.
From my spot in the wings, I watch Bree direct the children with gentle guidance. She’s found her place here, whether she realizes it or not. I just hope my ‘Encorn’ skit will help her see it if she doesn’t already.
The audience applauds as the final scene concludes and the cast takes their bows.
Nina steps forward to thank everyone for coming and announces the start of the traditional post-pageant ‘Encorn’—the humorous skits that poke good-natured fun at town events and townspeople from the past year.
My palms sweat as I wait for my cue. What if Bree hates it? What if I’m making a fool of myself? What if thirty days weren’t enough for her to see what I’ve known since college?
But then Nina’s voice rings out, “Our next skit is a special presentation from Fletch Turley, titled ‘Home for Christmas.’”
The song by the same name sounds through the PA system. I step onto the stage, blinded momentarily by the lights. The audience quiets, and I can sense Bree watching from the wings.
“This is the story,” I begin and then clear my throat, “of a hockey player and a writer who traveled back in time and found themselves on an accidental adventure on the snowy plains of Nebraska during the days of bandits and cowboys.”
Laughter ripples through the crowd, who think this is just the setup for a joke.
But as I continue, weaving humor with truth, and inspired by Bree’s historical romances as I describe raising old-time barns, missing hunting dogs, wild-grown mistletoe, and a mail-order bride mix-up, the laughter softens to something warmer.
I describe the wonder of the frontier with all its faults, a house transformed into a home, and the stories told around the campfire.
“The hockey player realized,” I say, voice steady despite my racing pulse, “that what started as temporary had become the most important thing in his life. That sometimes, the best stories aren’t the ones we plan, but the ones that surprise us.”
I lock eyes with Bree, who’s stepped partially into view. She beams a smile.
Continuing, I add, “He wanted to ask the writer to stay. Not just for Christmas, but for all the chapters to come.”
Murmurs ripple through the audience as if they wonder if this is still part of the skit, but I only see her, the woman who’s rewritten my definition of home.
No longer caring who hears, I say, “I love you, Bree. I didn’t realize it then, but I’ve loved you since you first interviewed me when I said that I’d marry you someday. Turns out, it wasn’t really a joke.”
The audience gasps collectively, and then Bree steps fully onto the stage, a script in her trembling hands.
“I have a skit too,” she says, voice wavering. “It’s called ‘Merry Ever After Project: the Alien Edition.’”
Stunned, I move aside as she faces the audience.
She tells her own version of our story, nested in a fictional tale of the future where aliens are commonplace and hockey is popular on an ice planet named Cobbtopia, inhabited by kindly townsfolk who subsist on corn popsicles.
But the heart of it is about how a skeptical writer found herself living the very romance she never believed possible.
How she came to see that love wasn’t just fiction, but the most real thing she’d ever experienced.
“The writer had to choose between the safety of solitude and the risk of true love. And she chose ...” Her eyes find mine. “She chose you. She chose us.”
The audience erupts in applause, but I barely hear them as I cross the stage to meet her, taking her hands in mine.
“You’re staying?” I whisper.
“I’m staying,” she confirms, tears bright in her eyes.
“Best Christmas gift ever.”
She bites her lip. “If you’re serious about this. About us.”
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life. More than even hockey or hockey on a distant planet. You have quite the imagination.”
She laughs through the happy tears pooling in her eyes. “That’s saying something.”
Later, after the curtain falls and the congratulations fade, we walk home, hand in hand, through the softly falling snow with Bailey padding ahead, still wearing one donkey ear.
Bree says, “We have a lot to figure out. My writing schedule, your hockey travel ...”
“We’ll make it work,” I promise.
She squeezes my hand. “I can’t believe we both planned surprise skits.”
“Great minds think alike.” I pull her closer.
“Or in our case, great hearts.”
Soft, winter moonlight catches in her hair, tinting the loose strands into threads of silver.
I’m not thinking all the way down the road just yet to when we have gray hair, but this woman is my future.
She’s the center of my life, my world—past, present, and all the days ahead, here on earth or extraterrestrial.
“You have a look,” She teases a grin as if she knows what I’m thinking about—us.
“Can you blame me?” I step closer, drawn to her chocolate scent.
Her eyes turn heavy, lashes brushing her cheeks as I gently swipe my thumb across her jawbone, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath my touch.
I couldn’t imagine it before, wouldn’t allow myself to dream, but she’s mine now and I get to touch her, hold her, laugh with her, and do life with her.
Lifting Bree’s chin, her gaze finds mine. I lean down until our foreheads touch and our noses brush together.
Her palms press against my chest, resting over my heart.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask, unable to keep a smile out of my voice.
“That depends. What are you thinking about?”
“You know what’s on my mind.”
“Do I?” She taps her finger against her lips.
Her lips.
“Hmm. Let’s see. Hockey? Your Christmas presents? Aliens?”
We both chuckle.
“You, of course.”
As if those are the magic words, our mouths meet and we’re kissing.
It’s slow and deliberate. A savoring of the soft give and take. We’re not in a rush, experiencing the presence, the patience, and the truth of the matter—we have all our lives to do this, to be together.
She pushes up onto her toes, pressing closer. I sling my arms around her waist as she knots her fingers in my hair.
The kiss deepens and when I’ve completely lost track of my thoughts, the only thing that draws me out of how wonderful and perfect this is, is when Bree lets out a contented sigh like everything is right in the world.
It is now.
I lift her slightly off the ground and she frames my face in her palms, steadying the kiss as we melt together once more.
I could kiss her for hours like this, days, lifetimes, learning the shape of her mouth, the curl of her smile, the little catch in her breath when I press my palm to the small of her back.
There’s no urgency anymore, no fear that this might be the last time.
Just the steady certainty that together is exactly where we’re meant to be.