"Too late. I caught him practicing his 'Dance of the Quarterly Earnings Report' yesterday."
The warmth in Ben's voice when he talked about our ragtag theater family wrapped around me like a familiar blanket. He stood and offered his hand. "Ready to show this town what real stage presence looks like?"
I let him pull me up, swaying slightly as our bodies aligned. "Not really, but I'll try anyway."
"That's all anyone's asking." His thumb brushed across my knuckles. "And Alex? Thank you for telling me. About the audition. I know that wasn't easy."
I had to look away from the understanding in his eyes, blinking hard. "We should get out there before Mrs. Brubaker sends a search party."
The run-through could have been better. My "Ho Ho Ho" still needed work, and I fumbled the timing during the Macy's parade scene. Despite my little flubs, the cast rallied in ways I didn't expect.
Charice mouthed "You've got this" from stage left during my entrance.
"That's the spirit!" Mrs. Brubaker called from the house when I screwed up a line and laughed at myself. "Santa needs a sense of humor."
Even the teenage stagehands, usually absorbed in their phones between cues, watched with encouraging smiles. Every time I felt myself slipping, I found Ben's eyes in the wings. His quiet presence steadied me in a way no Broadway director ever had.
In the front row, Noel sat with his crutches propped against the seat beside him, watching his replacement with an expression I couldn't quite read. Marcus had come too—I spotted his IV pole near the aisle, his small face intent on the stage. Three nights until the real performance. Three nights to get this right for him.
During the department store scene, one of the child actors dropped her prop teddy bear. Instead of breaking character, I knelt and turned it into a moment—Santa ensuring all toys were cared for. The other children's natural reaction made the scene feel real.
"Now that's the Santa we need," Holly whispered to Noel.
Charlie's scene nearly broke me—in the best way.
When he stepped into the pool of light at center stage, the usual rustling and whispers from the house fell silent. All our practice sessions crystallized in that moment. His unmistakable voice carried across the theater, full of wonder as he asked Santa about Christmas wishes.
"But how do you know what's in people's hearts?"
It wasn't a line from a script anymore. There was genuine curiosity in his voice, the kind that made Santa feel like more than a role.
My response came from somewhere deep inside. "Sometimes we just have to believe in the magic of being seen for who we really are."
Charlie's face lit up with understanding that went beyond his years. We weren't actors anymore. We were two people sharing a moment of pure belief.
After the scene, he threw his arms around my waist. I knelt to his level, my Santa beard tickling his cheek. "That was amazing, Charlie. You nailed it."
He beamed. "I pretended I was telling Toast, like you said. And then..." He paused, searching for words. "Then it didn't feel like pretending anymore."
"Yeah. That's the whole secret, isn't it? When it stops being pretend." I squeezed his shoulder. "Toast would be very proud, and so am I."
From the front row, Marcus watched with wide eyes. He gave me a slight wave—the same gesture I'd taught him when we'd created choreography around his IV pole. I waved back, and his entire face transformed.
When the final scene wrapped, the cast's applause was genuine rather than polite. Jack launched into an absurdly dramatic bow while Charice tried to wrestle him offstage.
The crowd thinned slowly—cast members gathering their coats, saying goodbye, and making plans for tomorrow's rehearsal. I helped Mrs. Brubaker stack scripts and then moved toward the workshop without consciously deciding to. Ben was already there, door propped open, lamp casting warm light into the hallway.
He glanced up when I appeared in the doorway. "Thought you might end up here."
"Thought I might too."
The familiar scents of wood shavings and beeswax settled around me as I stepped inside. He puttered at his workbench,putting tools away and sharpening a chisel with methodical strokes. The rhythmic scrape of metal against stone filled the comfortable silence.
I watched him move—the economy of motion and the quiet competence. He kept sneaking glances at me when he thought I wasn't looking, his eyes soft in the lamplight. The half-finished toys he'd been restoring for the hospital lined the shelves: wooden trains with hand-painted details, a rocking horse awaiting new runners, and a miniature sleigh that made me think of Holly's hints about the Blitzen family. Each piece waited patiently for his attention, the way the town itself seemed to wait for Christmas morning.
"Ready to wrap it up?" A small smile tugged at my lips.
Ben set his chisel down and crossed to where I sat on the worn leather couch. His steps were slow and deliberate until he stood right in front of me. He reached out and cupped my cheek. "Just appreciating the view. You were incredible today."
