She took up her spot by the camera and yelled, “Action!”
Monty whirled on the elf character. “What do you mean the baritone has laryngitis?”
The elf gave a little squeak. “I mean that he doesn’t have a voice right now, sir.”
“I know what laryngitis means. I want to know why it had to happen to my baritone.”
“I just had a thought,” Hilliard said.
“No,” Monty said curtly, flipping through his clipboard.
“What if–”
“No.”
“–you sang the baritone part?”
Monty looked up at the sky as if praying for patience.
“Oooh!” the elf squealed. “Are you a baritone, sir?”
“He has a lovely singing voice,” Hilliard supplied. “Like butter.”
Monty took a deep breath and let it out noisily. “Absolutely not. I cannot possibly organize this train wreck of a parade, play the triangle for the marching band, walk the fireman’s dalmatian, keep an eye on that trick wheel on the snow globe float, deliver these to the mayor’s office before the parade starts, and sing with the carolers. It can’t be done.”
“I can take those to the mayor’s office,” Hilliard said.
Monty glared. “You’re a big help.”
“Can I tell the carolers that you’ll be?—”
“Yes, yes,” Monty told the elf.
“Don’t look so glum,” Hilliard said, patting Monty’s shoulder. “You’ll look ravishing in a waistcoat.”
Monty did a double take at Hilliard before smacking his forehead. “Nuts!”
“Cut!” Director Chen yelled. “Good work, gentlemen. Take fifteen while we set up for the next shot.”
Monty nodded and handed the clipboard off to the props manager. It had been a few days since he and Hilliard had tussled playfully in the fake snow, a few days since he had mentioned taking Hilliard to see real snow. His friend’s face had held an expression of wistfulness in that moment and Monty hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it ever since. He’d been trying to come up with ways to bring that expression back so he could analyze it further.
He put his hands on his waist and bent backwards a little. “What are Christmases in Charleston like?”
“Muggy.”
Monty wrinkled his nose. “That does not sound nice.”
Hilliard chuckled. “You get used to it.”
“So I’m guessing there’s no steaming hot cocoa or chestnuts roasting on a fire or?—”
“Do people really do that? I thought that was just in songs.”
“Of course we do that! I love hot cocoa.”
“I meant the chestnuts. We had cocoa in Charleston.”
“Oh sure, a hot beverage on a muggy Christmas morning sounds magical.”
