Chapter 16
Hilliard
Hilliard had never been more grateful to be cast in a comedy.
Still, there was only so much he was allowed to laugh without breaking character.
As the sidekick of a man facing one absolutely ridiculous scenario after the next, he was supposed to be cheerful and uplifting, a perfect balance to the role Monty was playing.
The second that Director Chen cut the scene, Hilliard bent forward, bracing his hands on his knees as he laughed hard.
“Some friend you are,” Monty grumbled, dusting fake snow off his chest with both hands.
“At least it didn’t go in your mouth this time,” Hilliard said, shoulders still shaking as he righted himself.
Both of them had filmed on the studio’s backlot countless times, but never in such a wintery splendor.
The ground was covered with a foamy, soapy concoction to give the illusion of fluffy, freshly-fallen snow, which was the closest they were going to get to the real thing in late June.
The row of building facades had been trussed up in swags of garland and wreaths sporting shiny baubles and big bows.
Even the trees that usually lined the paved street–the only permanent part of the entire outdoor set–were removed and replaced with decorated lamp posts.
The most amusing part was the contrast in clothing.
Hilliard was in a heavy brown coat that reached his ankles; Monty had on a thick sweater and scarf.
It was likely the first time in the three years of their friendship that Monty’s outfit was the more colorful one.
Just a few feet away behind the camera, the crew was wearing light, summery outfits to battle the Southern California sun.
“We’re going to run it one more time with the horse,” Director Chen called out from underneath the brim of her sun hat. “The last shot wasn’t as dramatic as I need it to be.”
Monty cursed under his breath as everyone moved back to first places. Hilliard offered him a sympathetic grin. His co-star was going to need a quiet evening to relax after the big scenes they’d been shooting that day. An easy dinner on the porch ought to do the trick, Hilliard decided.
Once the line of parade participants was back in order, the clapperboard snapped and Monty was frantically flipping through the papers on the clipboard he’d been handed.
“Who approved the dog sled being directly behind the baton twirlers?” he asked incredulously.
Just off camera, the dog handler sent one of the two huskies on set running forward with a baton in its mouth, followed by the twirler in her glittery blue and silver costume. The chase cut directly in front of Monty and Hilliard, both turning their heads to watch in unison.
“You did,” Hilliard said. “It was right after you–” He paused to let the stilt walker go by.
Monty was too busy looking at his clipboard again to notice.
It was timed perfectly so that he walked directly between the long stilt legs like he was passing through a garden arch.
Hilliard took a few long strides to catch up with his distracted friend.
“Right after you told the fella in the polar bear suit he was being too aggressive.”
“I had to say something,” Monty told him. “He had one of the penguins in a chokehold! This is supposed to be a wholesome family event, Tom, not a professional wrestling match.”
“A little fighting around the holidays is perfectly normal,” Hilliard said with ease. “Why, I wouldn’t even recognize Christmas Eve dinner without my Auncle Gert calling Uncle David an airhead before we’ve even sat down to eat.”
Monty looked up from his papers. “Is your Uncle David an airhead?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
They strolled past the fire truck, which was also decorated, and the group of carolers warming up their voices with over-the-top tongue trills. In between was a float with a giant papier-mache dinosaur that was meant to be entirely nonsensical but never questioned throughout the film.
“Sir! Sir!”
One of the dancing elves came barreling through the middle of the marching band members dressed like nutcrackers, knocking several of them down like bowling pins in the process.
The cymbals clashed as the musician holding them fell against the French horn player, who landed on the drummer. They’d clearly rehearsed it many times.
“What’s the matter now?” Monty asked. This particular elf showed up in several earlier scenes, always with a new catastrophe to report.
“Santa has lost his beard!”
Monty slapped a gloved palm against his forehead. Hilliard was sure he’d never seen the man do that outside of filming. It was adorable.
“Again?”
“Last time was the hat,” Hilliard pointed out.
Monty shot him a glare.
“It’s somewhere in the snow,” the elf went on, all big eyes and rosy cheeks.
“Of course it is.” Monty smacked his clipboard against Hilliard’s chest for him to hold.
The elf whirled around, ready to crash through the marching band again. Monty caught his shoulders first. They dashed across the sidewalk to where several more elves, someone dressed up as a penguin, and Santa himself were digging around in the snowdrift.
Hilliard stood by looking highly amused as Monty tossed the tails of his scarf over his shoulder and joined in the search.
What came next was the big laugh of the scene.
Monty had to stay bent at the waist as he continued looking for the elusive beard, all while taking steps toward his mark in front of a much larger pile of snow.
There, the studio’s best horse wrangler had one white gelding with jingle bells on his bridle standing at the ready.
As soon as Monty reached the right spot with his backside turned to the camera, the trainer waved both arms and said, “Up!”
The gelding tossed his head back, working up to his trick, and then reared onto his hind legs. The elf sitting in the saddle was another skilled horseback rider that had been in most of the studio’s Westerns. She feigned surprise and held on, pretending to calm the horse.
From behind the pile of snow between them, a hidden crew member sprayed Monty with more of the snowy mixture just as the horse’s front hooves came back to the ground, covering his face and chest. At the same time, Monty grabbed the beard from where the prop runner had tucked it for him.
Hilliard stepped forward to his mark as Monty stood and turned around to face the camera so it could get a closeup shot of both of them.
Snowflakes fell from Monty’s eyelashes as he blinked several times.
It was surprisingly difficult for Hilliard to keep from brushing delicate fingertips over Monty’s face as he would’ve done if they were themselves.
“Would you look at that,” Hilliard said, taking the long, curly beard from him and holding it up to his own chin like he was wearing it. “And I thought it was reindeer who help the jolly man in red, not horses.”
Director Chen was happy with the shot and wrapped the scene.
“Come here,” Hilliard said with a soft laugh, stepping in front of Monty after handing off the clipboard and beard. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and began wiping the faux flakes away from his cheeks and chin. “Is real snow this messy?”
Monty’s brows pinched, but otherwise he stood still, letting Hilliard clean him up. “You never played in the snow as a kid?”
“Honey, I’ve only seen snow once in my life.” Growing up where he had, they were lucky to be able to wear a cute sweater around the winter holidays, let alone warm scarves or knit hats.
“You never threw a snowball?” Monty sounded personally offended by the notion.
Hilliard refused to meet Monty’s eyes at such an intimate distance, but even still, he could feel the weight of them as Monty searched his face.
“Never made a snowperson with your own clothes and rocks for eyes?” He held his arms wide, fingers splayed. “And sticks for hands?”
“Never,” Hilliard told him with a hint of regret. The thought of a young Montgomery Kincaid doing all of those things warmed his heart.
“That’s the saddest thing you’ve ever told me.”
These were the last words Hilliard heard before Monty grabbed his coat lapels and pulled.
Hilliard gasped sharply and attempted to put his arms out to catch himself, but he still landed mostly on top of Monty against the snowbank behind him, a plume of snow lifting around them.
“Montgomery!” Hilliard yelped, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees. Monty was cackling beneath him, his lithe dancer’s figure seemingly unharmed after being squashed by Hilliard’s larger one. “What are you doing?” he hissed.
Monty answered by grabbing a handful of the wet, sudsy snow and rubbing it into Hilliard’s hair.
Hilliard squawked in protest and rolled away, plopping onto his rear end.
In a surge of playfulness, he grabbed some snow of his own and threw it at the offender beside him.
Monty turned his head in time for the sad excuse of a snowball to hit the side of his face.
This dissolved into both of them smashing cupped handfuls of snow into each other’s clothes until they were breathless from equal parts laughing and tussling.
“Nothing but trouble,” Hilliard said under his breath, unable to hide his smile.
“You like it,” Monty said, proud as punch as he ran fingers through his wet hair, combing it back into place.
The truth of that statement ripped through Hilliard like an arrow.
“You’re lucky.”
They looked up to find Director Chen standing over them.
“Lucky?” Monty asked her as he sat up. His thigh pressed against Hilliard’s leg like that’s exactly where he wanted it to be.
“They almost built the form for that snowbank out of scrap lumber from the set shop,” she explained. “I told them to use sand instead.” Her mouth twitched in what might’ve been the hint of a smile. “Get up and dry off. We’re rolling on the next setup in ten.”
Monty was on his feet in seconds, hand stretched out. “Sorry I surprised you,” he said as he pulled Hilliard up, too.
“That’s all right.” Hilliard patted his hands over his coat. He could feel all the places the wet snow had soaked through to his clothes.
“Someday I’ll make it up to you.” Monty unwrapped his scarf and shook it out. “I’ll bring you home with me and you can see what a Midwestern Christmas is like.”
Hilliard froze. Monty wanted to take him home? Introduce him to his family?
“There’s only one catch, though.”
“Oh?” Hilliard asked cautiously, his magic bright as he warred between wishful thinking and trying to be realistic about such an offer.
“You’ll have to wear denim.”