"Don't let my agent hear you say that." His attempt at humor fell flat as his phone buzzed again.
I released his hand. "You should probably check those messages."
"Later."
The next hour unfolded like a masterclass in transformation. Alex navigated the department store scene with ease, his interactions with the child actors now completely natural.
When little Sophie forgot her line about wanting a real family for Christmas, he didn't feed her the words. Instead, he leaned forward in his oversized chair and adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses.
"Sometimes," he told her gently, "the hardest wishes are the most important ones to say out loud."
Sophie's face brightened. "I want a mom who looks at me the way Mrs. Walker looks at Susan."
It wasn't the scripted line, but it held more truth. Jack, waiting for his cue as the skeptical store manager, turned away and pressed his hand to his eyes.
The parade scene followed, its intricate choreography finally clicking into place. Alex had suggested having the ensemble move in waves rather than all at once, creating the illusion of a much larger crowd. Now, watching the high school dancers weave between the more experienced performers, I saw how right he'd been.
During a break, Alex helped Charlie practice his pivotal scene. I watched from the wings as he knelt to the boy's level.
"Remember what we talked about? It's not about the words. It's about sharing something real."
Charlie nodded solemnly. "Like when you helped me tell Toast about being scared?"
"Exactly like that. The audience is just friends you haven't met yet."
Alex looked up. His eyes found mine across the crowded stage, and for a moment his director's mask slipped. I saw exhaustion underneath. Fear. And something else—something that looked like hope asking permission to exist.
Then Charlie tugged his sleeve with a question, and Alex's attention returned to the boy.
I slipped away to my workshop before he could see what his expression had done to me.
The familiar motions of sanding gave my hands something to do while my thoughts raced. I picked up a piece of trim that was already smooth enough and worked it anyway, the raspof sandpaper drowning out the sound of rehearsal continuing without me.
He kept getting calls from his old director. They had to be about the touring production that could take him away from everything we'd started building.
Holly found me twenty minutes later. Instead of her usual dramatic entrance, she closed the door quietly behind her.
"That poor wood is crying uncle." She settled onto my workbench. "Though I suspect you're not thinking about furniture."
I set the sandpaper down. "What if it's not enough? What can I offer compared to what he's trained for his whole life?"
"The Alex who arrived here in Italian leather during a snowstorm might have jumped at Broadway's call." She picked up a curl of wood shaving, letting it spiral through her fingers. "But this Alex—the one who carved his first healing mark without being taught, and who knows exactly what to say to scared children?" She let the shaving fall. "He's listening to different music now."
"You can't know that."
"No." She was quiet for a moment. "But I can know what it costs to let someone choose. To build something worth staying for and then watch them decide."
Something flickered across her face—old grief, quickly mastered. I'd known Holly my whole life, but I'd never asked about the man in the photograph she kept in her back office. The one with kind eyes and sawdust in his hair, standing in front of a workshop that wasn't in Yuletide Valley.
"The most powerful magic isn't about keeping people from leaving," she said. "It's about creating something worth staying for."
She pulled a small cloth bag from her pocket and pressed it into my palm. Winter sage and something sharper—starflower, maybe. The herbs radiated warmth.
"Trust him, Ben. Trust what you're building together."
"I'm trying."
She smiled. "I know you are."
