Ben folded into the chair nearest the stove. I sank beside him, and the leather adjusted to support my bruised spine.
Our knees almost touched. I was acutely aware of the space between us—small enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Tea first," Holly announced, measuring leaves that seemed to glow faintly. "For bruised dignity and other ailments."
Mrs. Brubaker perched on a stool. "Alex, dear, I heard about your grandmother. I'm so sorry."
Her words landed hard. "Thanks. It's been rough."
"She came to every production after you left," Ben said quietly. "Always sat front row. Always had notes for me about the set design." The candles nearest him burned brighter. "Good notes, too."
I had to look away, blinking hard.
Holly pressed a steaming cup into my hands. "Chamomile for calm, lavender for peace, rose hips for heart-healing, and a touch of cedar bark for grounding."
"Is that why I smell like I live in a sawmill?" Ben asked, deadpan.
Holly swatted his shoulder. "You smell like cedar because you've been refinishing box seats for three weeks straight, you ridiculous man."
"Fair point." He glanced at me.
The tea touched my lips, and comfort surged through my veins. My shoulders relaxed. The grief sitting on my lungs shifted, just enough to let me breathe.
"What's in this?"
"Things that help," Holly said mysteriously. "The valley provides."
Mrs. Brubaker accepted her cup. "Speaking of the valley—Alex, I think you arriving tonight might be more than a mere coincidence."
"I'm just passing through."
"The valley has a way of keeping what it needs," Holly said. "Especially during the Twelve Nights."
"The Twelve Nights?"
Ben shifted, drawing my attention to how his flannel stretched across his chest. "The twelve nights before Christmas, when theveil between hope and reality gets thin. When magic works best." He spoke as if he were describing weather patterns.
"Sandra Martinez was supposed to direct our Christmas play," Mrs. Brubaker continued. "But she broke her leg last week. We're in rather a bind."
"We have the rights toMiracle on 34th Street—The Musical," Holly added. "Special permission. They have a soft spot for towns where miracles still happen."
"Wait. Those rights are nearly impossible to get—"
"Holly has her ways," Ben said, that dimple flashing. "Usually involving homemade jam."
"Lavender-honey preserves," Holly confided. "Works every time."
Despite everything, I laughed.
"The blocking for 'Plastic Alligator' alone requires someone who understands musical theater," Mrs. Brubaker said gently. "The valley brought you here for a reason."
"You'd need the crowd scenes organic but controlled," I said before I could stop myself. "And the parade has to build momentum without overwhelming the transition. Then there's Susan's emotional arc from cynicism to belief—"
I stopped. They were staring.
"See?" Ben leaned forward, closing most of the space between us. "You already know the show inside and out."
"I understudied ensemble roles. Years ago." I wrapped my hands around the cup, trying not to notice how his gaze had dropped to my mouth again. "That doesn't mean—"
