“For what?” Reese inclines his head toward me as if curious as to what I’m going to say.
The look in his eyes strikes a chord in me, vibrating my pulse like a piano string. It takes me a moment to find my voice, a rarity. “For staying. For already making this Christmas feel real, special instead of ...” I gesture vaguely, trying to encompass my entire complicated life in one motion. “Whatever my life has become.”
Reese’s evergreen eyes hold mine, and for a moment, the game room with its glitter and glue and chattering families fades away. It’s just him and me and this moment that feels suspended in time, like a snowflake caught on a windowpane.
“There’s snow place I’d rather be,” he says, and despite the terrible pun—or maybe because of it—I feel warm all over and flooded with something that feels dangerously like hope.
CHAPTER 6
REESE
The candy cane hunt turns out to be more competitive than I expected. Rebecca is absolutely ruthless, darting between potted poinsettias and diving behind garland-draped columns like she’s starring in Die Hard—yes, it’s a Christmas movie.
Pookie trots along behind her, the Sleigh Queen sweater jingling with every step.
“Found one!” Rebecca triumphantly holds up a striped candy cane from behind a nutcracker statue that’s taller than she is.
“That’s seventeen for you, three for me,” I say, counting my pathetic collection.
“Not my fault you’re slow, Goofs.”
I shake my head, but I’m grinning. Watching her so carefree, laughing, and completely absorbed in hunting candy canes is a far cry from the exhausted woman who opened her hotel room door this morning in yesterday’s sparkly gown.
After the hunt, we join the other guests in decorating ornaments for the grand tree in the lobby, topped with a glowing, shining star. I’m attempting to paint a snowflake on a glass ball.
Rebecca was helping a little girl and struts over to me, inspecting my work. Smiling and shaking her head, she leans over, her hair tickling my cheek and making me dizzy with her warm, melted chocolate scent. “That looks more like a mutant ghost spider than a snowflake.”
I chuckle because she’s not wrong. “It’s abstract.”
“It has Halloween vibes and in case it wasn’t obvious, we’ve moved on to Christmas.” She sweeps her arm grandly at our surroundings.
I respond to her gentle teasing with a dry laugh. “Har har.” But I take a look at her ornament depicting a perfect winter scene with tiny trees and falling snow. It’s perfect. Like her.
Nudging me over on the bench, she says, “Here, let me help.”
She covers my hand with hers, holding the brush steady and guiding it in smooth motions. I forget how to breathe for a second. I glance at her profile and the freckles scattered across her nose that no amount of stage makeup has ever quite covered as she smooths the lines of the snowflake.
Focus on the ornament, Marchiano.
But no. All I can think about is Rebecca and how beautiful she is and not just as the famous singer everyone sees. In the hours since I knocked on her door early this morning, it’s like she’s forgotten that she’s a star and remembered who she is. A down-to-earth woman who has talent but who doesn’t take her diva dog—or fame—too seriously.
Right now, she embodies what it means to be beautiful inside and out.
I can’t get enough, but I know better. She’s my best friend’s sister. I hang these thoughts and our decorations on the towering tree—tucking mine toward the back.
While Rebecca steps aside and admires our work, Noella herds everyone together for a group photo, where Hollis waits with a camera.
“Everyone in front of the tree!”
A couple dozen people shuffle into position. While we squeeze in with the other guests, Rebecca sticks to my side. I noticed that as soon as the camera came out, she seemed to shrink. Her eyes dimming. It’s like the very idea of being in the spotlight exhausts her.
I’m not exactly sure what her life has been like on stage, but the way she straightens her shoulders tells me she’s bracing herself for a performance. There’s a heaviness as she draws a breath before pitching her mouth upward. The way she tilts her head at a “just so” angle makes me think she’s wearing a mask. I want to pull her close and tell her that no one is watching except me.
But I can’t do that. Instead, I find her hand and twine my fingers through hers. She doesn’t pull away. Her fingers curl into mine, yet soften, like she’s holding fast and relaxing at the same time. Her chest eases on a breath, like this is the first time she’s truly relaxed in a long time.
The smile she flashes dazzles.
But it’s the real one. The smile I remember from when we were growing up and she’d play a perfect tune on the piano.
