Expression tight, Mayor Nishimura answers, “She’s been temporarily moved to the sanitation committee. But we could really use the two of you on the team.”
“We’ll see,” I say noncommittally, though my heart leaps at the prospect of pitching in around town if it involves Bree.
She smiles warmly, suggesting to me that maybe Cupid’s—er, Santa’s—bow has hit the target.
The mayor pats my arm. “Well, keep me posted. We need all the muscle and creativity we can get.” She smiles at Bree and me, then announces, “Five minutes ‘til curtain. Places, everyone!”
Derek, the director, grimaces, likely at being usurped, but the main pageant unfolds without any major or minor disasters. Joseph doesn’t yell, “Cooties!” when Mary rests her head against his shoulder. The sheep don’t suddenly lose their wool. The star above Bethlehem only flickers twice. And Bailey, bless him, stands stoically beside the manger, ears askew but tail wagging gently whenever a child pats his head.
From my spot in the wings, I watch Bree direct the children with gentle guidance. She’s found her place here, whether she realizes it or not. I just hope my ‘Encorn’ skit will help her see it if she doesn’t already.
The audience applauds as the final scene concludes and the cast takes their bows.
Nina steps forward to thank everyone for coming and announces the start of the traditional post-pageant ‘Encorn’—the humorous skits that poke good-natured fun at town events and townspeople from the past year.
My palms sweat as I wait for my cue. What if Bree hates it? What if I’m making a fool of myself? What if thirty days weren’t enough for her to see what I’ve known since college?
But then Nina’s voice rings out, “Our next skit is a special presentation from Fletch Turley, titled ‘Home for Christmas.’”
The song by the same name sounds through the PA system. I step onto the stage, blinded momentarily by the lights. The audience quiets, and I can sense Bree watching from the wings.
“This is the story,” I begin and then clear my throat, “of a hockey player and a writer who traveled back in time and found themselves on an accidental adventure on the snowy plains of Nebraska during the days of bandits and cowboys.”
Laughter ripples through the crowd, who think this is just the setup for a joke.
But as I continue, weaving humor with truth, and inspired by Bree’s historical romances as I describe raising old-time barns, missing hunting dogs, wild-grown mistletoe, and a mail-order bride mix-up, the laughter softens to something warmer. I describe the wonder of the frontier with all its faults, a house transformed into a home, and the stories told around the campfire.
“The hockey player realized,” I say, voice steady despite my racing pulse, “that what started as temporary had become the most important thing in his life. That sometimes, the best stories aren’t the ones we plan, but the ones that surprise us.”
I lock eyes with Bree, who’s stepped partially into view. She beams a smile.
Continuing, I add, “He wanted to ask the writer to stay. Not just for Christmas, but for all the chapters to come.”
Murmurs ripple through the audience as if they wonder if this is still part of the skit, but I only see her, the woman who’s rewritten my definition of home.
No longer caring who hears, I say, “I love you, Bree. I didn’t realize it then, but I’ve loved you since you first interviewed me when I said that I’d marry you someday. Turns out, it wasn’t really a joke.”
The audience gasps collectively, and then Bree steps fully onto the stage, a script in her trembling hands.
“I have a skit too,” she says, voice wavering. “It’s called ‘Merry Ever After Project: the Alien Edition.’”
Stunned, I move aside as she faces the audience. She tells her own version of our story, nested in a fictional tale of the future where aliens are commonplace and hockey is popular on an ice planet named Cobbtopia, inhabited by kindly townsfolk who subsist on corn popsicles. But the heart of it is abouthow a skeptical writer found herself living the very romance she never believed possible. How she came to see that love wasn’t just fiction, but the most real thing she’d ever experienced.
“The writer had to choose between the safety of solitude and the risk of true love. And she chose ...” Her eyes find mine. “She chose you. She chose us.”
The audience erupts in applause, but I barely hear them as I cross the stage to meet her, taking her hands in mine.
“You’re staying?” I whisper.
“I’m staying,” she confirms, tears bright in her eyes.
“Best Christmas gift ever.”
She bites her lip. “Ifyou’re serious about this. About us.”
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life. More than even hockey or hockey on a distant planet. You have quite the imagination.”
She laughs through the happy tears pooling in her eyes. “That’s saying something.”
