Chapter 6 Evan
Evan
“Your what?”
Holly's staring at me like I just announced I can juggle chainsaws. Which, fair. I don't exactly advertise my childhood dance training.
“We're definitely coming back to that,” she says. “But first—did you just offer to be in my niece's Nutcracker?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Because watching you stressed makes me want to fix things. Because Marie's debut matters to you, which means it matters.
“Because you need help,” I say. “And I want to be the person who helps you.”
She's studying me with the expression she gets when she's trying to figure out if a vendor's quote is reasonable. Calculating. Skeptical.
“Okay, but there has to be a catch.”
Here we go.
“Not a catch,” I say. “More of a ... mutual arrangement.”
Her eyebrows go up. “I'm listening.”
I set down my water glass, choosing my words. “You need someone for the Nutcracker this weekend. I need—” How do I phrase this? “My mother is relentless about setting me up. The PR team wants me to bring dates to foundation events. It's exhausting.”
“So you're proposing what, just to be clear?”
“I'll be your party scene parent this weekend. In exchange, you come to two events with me next week. The board dinner on Tuesday. The gala Thursday—you're already coming to that, but now as my date.”
“One weekend of community dance recitals for two black-tie events?”
“In exchange for saving your niece's debut performance,” I correct. “Which seems more valuable than standing around making small talk with board members.”
She laughs despite herself. “You despise those events, don't you?”
“I'd rather re-choreograph the Nutcracker opening myself than endure another conversation about appropriate marriage prospects.”
“Appropriate.” She catches the word, gives me a knowing look. “That word again.”
“It follows me everywhere.”
She's quiet for a moment, considering. “Okay, but how does two dates next week really solve your problem? Your mother's not going to stop matchmaking after seeing you with someone twice.”
She's right, of course. Trust Holly to see the flaw in my half-formed plan.
“Good point,” I admit. “Two dates won't convince anyone.”
“So what are you really proposing?”
I lean back. “What if we consider the next few weeks a pilot program? Through the gala. Phase one. We see if we can pull this off. If it works—”
“If it works?”
“Then we discuss phase two. Extended arrangement into the new year. I introduce you to everyone you want to know. Here's the thing about people like Evelyn Durst—networking with them is a slow burn. Holiday events aren’t enough. You need multiple touch-points, different contexts.”
Her eyes light up with understanding. “So I get connections, and you get the sustained coverage you need to actually get your mother to back off.”
“Exactly. But first we need to know if we can even do this. If we're ... compatible.”
“Compatible,” she repeats, amused. “You make it sound like a business merger.”
“Isn't it, in a way?”
She mulls this over. “Won't having a fake girlfriend cramp your style? What if you actually want to date someone?”
“I have zero interest in dating right now.” I pause. “I just need breathing room.”
“A pilot program,” she muses, shifting into event-planner mode. “So what are the success metrics?”
“We both survive the holiday events. Nobody suspects anything.”
“And we both want to continue,” she finishes. “Those are our KPIs.”
“Key performance indicators for fake dating?”
“If we're doing this like a business arrangement, we're doing it right.” She's fighting a smile. “Okay, we need rules. Boundaries.”
“Agreed. What kind of rules?”
She starts pacing. “Physical contact—what's appropriate? Hand-holding? Arms linking?”
“Whatever feels natural,” I say. “I don't think we need to overthink—”
“Evan. I overthink contingencies for a living. We're making rules.” She’s firm, but I can see she’s enjoying this. “Hand-holding seems safe. Your arm around my waist if we're standing together?”
“That works.”
“And we tell people ... what? That we met through work?”
“The truth. We met through the foundation, things developed naturally.”
“Things developed naturally,” she repeats. “Very romantic.”
“I can be more romantic if you think people will ask for details.”
Why am I hoping she wants me to be more romantic?
“Oh, they'll ask. Your mother will definitely ask. How long have we been dating?”
“A few weeks? Long enough to bring to events, not so long that people wonder why they haven't heard.”
“And what if—” She pauses. “What if one of your fancy board members falls in love with me?”
“Are you planning to run away with one of my board members?”
“I'm just saying, we should have a contingency plan.”
She runs through more scenarios. “What if we drink too much eggnog and decide to elope?”
Now I'm fully smiling. “Are you planning to elope with me?”
“Eggnog makes people do crazy things.”
“Okay, no eloping unless we can both pass a sobriety test.”
“Deal. Including reciting the alphabet backwards,” she says.
“While tap dancing.”
She stifles a laugh. “Getting ridiculous now.”
“You started it with elopement.”
“True,” she says. As she looks at me, I see curiosity mixed with the first hint of trust. “So, phase one through the gala. Assess our KPIs. If we both want to continue, negotiate phase two?”
“Exactly.”
“This is insane,” she says.
“Completely insane.”
“But it could work.”
“It could work,” I agree.
She picks up her phone. “I should call Emma back. Let her know I found someone.”
“Should I be nervous about meeting your family?”
“Oh, absolutely. They’ll have so many questions. They’ll assume we're dating for real.”
“Will that be a problem?”
“No, I guess not. But it means my mom's going to try to feed you. My dad's going to interrogate you about your intentions. Emma's going to corner me in the kitchen and demand details I don't have yet.”
“Hmm, yet?”
“You know what I mean,” she says. “Details about the arrangement.”
Right. The arrangement. That's what this is.
She lifts her phone to her ear. “Emma? Yeah, I found someone. He's—yes, he's qualified. We'll be there for tech rehearsal.” She's trying not to laugh. “No, you cannot tell Mom yet. Emma. Emma. Fine. Yes. Okay. See you tomorrow.”
She ends the call and looks at me. I can see the relief on her face.
“Tech rehearsal is tomorrow afternoon. Show's at seven-thirty. We should leave in the morning to be safe.”
“Let me drive us.”
She looks up, surprised. “You don't have to—”
“I know. But it makes sense. We're going to the same place, and you've been stressed all afternoon. Let me drive.”
She considers this for a moment. “Okay. You'll need a place to stay, of course.”
“I'll have Taylor find me something.”
“Evan.” She gives me a look. “I'm a planner and I know the town. I’ll have Taylor call Pinewood Inn and ask for Louise. She'll tell her they're booked for the festival, but Taylor should mention my name and ask about the Fairview Cabin.”
"You have an in?"
"Louise forgets that cabin exists—it's off their main property. But it's perfect, and you'll have privacy."
“Of course, I should have known you’d know what to do. So, we’re all set, then?”
“Almost.” She stands, stretching her arms across her body. “We won't have much time to rehearse tomorrow. I should walk you through the party scene now.”
I blink. “Now?”
“Right now. We have the space, we have the music on my phone.” She's already pulling it out. “Come on—let’s clear some chairs.”
“You want to rehearse The Nutcracker. In my office.”
“Do you have a better plan?”
I stand and start moving chairs. “Let's do it.”
She grins and starts the music.
“Wait, so Elsbeth smuggled Gene Kelly movies into your house?”
Holly's been asking about the tap dance comment, and I've been deflecting. But we're trapped in this car together for twenty miles, and she's relentless.
“She didn't smuggle them. She just ... didn't mention them to my parents.”
“That's smuggling.” She shifts in her seat to face me more directly. “How many are we talking? Like, one or two?”
“All of them.”
“All of them?”
“Every Gene Kelly film. Every Fred Astaire film. If it had tap dancing in it, Elsbeth found it.”
I can still remember sitting in the library with her, the TV volume turned low so my father wouldn't hear from his study.
“She'd sit with me and point out the rhythms, the patterns,” Holly said.
“And then you'd perform them in your living room.”
“How did you—”
“Because of course you did. Seven-year-old Evan definitely practiced the routines.” She's grinning now. “Please tell me there's video evidence somewhere.”
“God, no. But my parents did see some of the performances. I'd drag them in to watch. They'd sit on the couch looking ... politely bemused.”
“Politely bemused?”
“They thought I'd grow out of it. A phase. Like collecting rocks or being obsessed with dinosaurs.” I grip the steering wheel tighter. “I didn't grow out of it.”
“What happened?”
“Boarding school. I was twelve. Right before I left, my father sat me down and explained that certain interests weren't appropriate to bring with me. That the other boys wouldn't understand. That I needed to focus on things that mattered—academics, sports that would look good on applications.”
“He told you to stop dancing,” she said.
“He told me to leave it behind. Be practical.” I can still hear his voice, measured and reasonable. Like he was giving me good advice instead of taking something away. “So I did. Joined the lacrosse team instead.”
“And became the most graceful player on the field.”
“Even though it was never my thing,” I finish.
Holly considers this. When I glance at her, her expression is so kind I feel a lump in my throat.
“That's awful,” she says. “That they made you choose.”
“It was practical.”
“It was cruel.”
The word surprises me. Cruel. I've never thought of it that way. Hearing her take my side against the narrative I was fed feels like a small, necessary earthquake.
“Dance wasn't going to help me run the foundation someday,” I say.
“But it made you happy.”
“Being happy wasn't the point.”
She's still looking at me, and I can feel the weight of it. Like she's seeing something I didn't mean to show her.
“For what it's worth,” she says, “I would have loved to see seven-year-old you performing Gene Kelly routines in your living room.”
“I'm sure it was more enthusiastic than technically sound.”
“That's the best kind of performance.”
There's a beat of comfortable silence. The highway narrows, exit signs appearing more frequently now.
“Did Elsbeth stay with your family?” Holly asks. “After you left for school?”
“She did. Through college. My parents traveled a lot—still do—and they needed someone at the house even when I was gone most of the year.” I hadn't thought about this in years, but now it's clear. “I think they kept her on so they wouldn't have to be home during my school breaks.”
“Evan.”
“It's fine. It meant I got to see her. And when I was home,” I trail off, not sure I want to admit this part.
“You still danced with her.”
How does she know that?
“Sometimes. When my parents were out. Elsbeth would put on the old movies and we'd go through the routines. She never forgot a single step.” I can picture her in the library, counting beats, demonstrating footwork even though she was in her sixties by then.
“She said it was good for me. That I shouldn't lose it completely.”
“She was right.”
“Maybe. But I did lose it. After college, after business school, after I started at the foundation full-time. I haven't danced in years. Haven't even thought about it until—”
“Until yesterday when you needed an excuse to help me?”
“Until yesterday,” I agree.
The GPS interrupts: “In one mile, take the exit toward Pinewood Falls.”
“Almost here,” I say, glancing at her. “Are you ready to be my fake girlfriend?”
She laughs. “Are YOU ready? You're the one about to meet my entire family.”
“How bad can it be?”
“You've asked that before. You're going to regret it.”
“Noted.” I take the exit, and now we're on smaller roads. Trees instead of buildings. “So what's the move? Do I need to practice looking besotted?”
“Please don't practice anything. Just be yourself.”
“The version of me that watches Gene Kelly movies or the version that runs board meetings?”
“The version that offered to help a stressed event planner save her niece's debut.” There’s no teasing in her voice now. “That version's pretty good.”
I don't know what to say to that, so I focus on driving.
The town is what I pictured—small, charming, the kind of place where everyone knows everyone.
There's a town square with a massive tree already strung with lights.
Storefronts decorated for the holidays. People walking around with shopping bags and coffee cups.
“That's the bakery,” Holly points to a corner shop with “Bennett's” in gold lettering. “My parents' place. We'll probably end up there later whether we want to or not.”
This is the most aggressively charming town I've ever seen. I can picture young Holly here, reorganizing the holiday festival before she was old enough to spell “logistics.” She left this for the city. I'm starting to understand why her family thinks she'll come back.
“Okay,” Holly says. “Let's get you settled in your cabin, and then—” She grins. “It's showtime.”