Christmas in Snow Valley

by Cindy Roland Anderson

  I tried to become the Sugar Plum Fairy. A being of sugar and sweetness and beauty and magic. Lighter, lighter, float through the air, I repeated in my mind as I did a series of leaps and spinning twirls.

  Then I saw him.

  Sitting in the audience. Right in front of my parents, sister, and brother, Sam.

  The man. From the cemetery.

  A tiny whimper sounded in my throat.

  Second row, stage right, crisp white shirt, suit coat, red tie, legs crossed sticking out into the aisle seat due to their long length.

  No, it couldn’t be that same guy. He was too uptight, too perfect and suave and—and crisp in his starched white shirt. He wasn’t the type to come to a ballet, was he? Wasn’t he more of an opera person?

  Maybe it was someone who just looked like him. But this dude was staring at me. Intensely.

  I tried to catch his eyes in the dimness, just to determine if I was seeing things, but the stage lights were too bright. I blinked during my final spins, seeing the four lights against the back of my lids. This was my moment, the choreography I’d been so proud to add to the basic routine that was usually not that difficult—and wobbled. Nooooooooo!!! My mind screamed. Hold it! Hold it! I ordered.

  I tried to do the final grand battement and slide my right leg into the concluding Sugar Plum Fairy bow, head lifted, a smile on my lips for the audience. But my crown began to wobble, my legs still stiff with the strange coldness I’d suffered all day. My crazy torment was too much of a distraction—with that stranger watching me.

  I fell. Crashed to the stage. My ankle burned.

  Gasps filled the hall.

  I was so stunned I couldn’t even breathe, couldn’t move.

  I’d become one of the wooden marionettes at Stage Left staring at me in horror. The other dancers glanced at each other, not knowing what to do.

  I fought against a torrent of tears.

  Me, the Snow Valley professional dancer, fell. To the floor. At an amateur performance.

  I’d never live this down. How could I ever publicly dance again? My reputation was ruined, perhaps my entire career. There was no doubt in my mind that my New Orleans dance company would hear about this and replace me.

  I lifted my head, tried to rise as gracefully as possible with a sore ankle—to an auditorium of absolute silence. There was supposed to be thunderous applause, not this horror of quiet.

  I wanted to get on the next bus out of town and never return to Snow Valley again in my entire, miserable life.

  The idea of coming home had been a colossal mistake from the moment I’d finally broken down and told my mother over the telephone, “Okay, already. I’ll come home for Christmas.”

  Summoning the tiny scrap of dignity I had left, I bowed again to a fragile, stuttering, smatter of applause.

  Then I hobbled off the stage like a zombie, certain I would never dance again in my entire life.

  Chapter Four

  WITHIN MOMENTS, A CROWD SURROUNDED ME.

  The stage hands gaped, the little girls with the flowers of baskets blinked in wonder at me, the prima ballerina on the floor, rubbing my ankle, my glittering crown askew. Except I wasn’t actually a prima ballerina. Not by a long shot.

  I closed my eyes, mortification washing over me like a tidal wave. I was only a member of the ballet corps who’d finally received her first actual pay raise two months ago. Secretly pleased to dance a solo at the small town production of The Nutcracker. Although I’d never admit it.

  Strong male hands gently wrapped around my ankle, gently pressing my muscles and tendons to inspect any injury.

  When my chin came up, I stared into broken glass blue eyes. The guy from the cemetery was kneeling right next to me.

  He must have jumped over the edge of the stage.

  “What are you doing here?” I snapped. “You’re not allowed backstage. Security!” I called, forgetting that the most security we had in Snow Valley was the janitor who was probably catching a nap before he had to clean up after the show.

  Even though the other dancers and stage hands had created a huge circle around me, they suddenly stepped back as though the guy in the long wool coat had magic powers.

  “I’m a doctor,” he said with a simple shrug of his shoulders. “Well, I should amend that. I almost became a doctor, but I quit after my second year of medical school. Now I’m a—”

  I put up a hand to interrupt. “Spare me the resume. But just for your information, my falling is all your fault.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “My fault?” he echoed.

  “You—you distracted me.” Oh my gosh, would I just shut up? All dancers had a cardinal rule—don’t get distracted by the audience—and I was acting like an amateur. “Just go away, please. I’ll be fine. I’m fine. See, no swelling? Probably just a bruise. I’ll go home and ice it and—”

  “I’d recommend an x-ray just to be on the safe side. After all, you are a dancer. You shouldn’t take risks with your health.”

  “Let me decide how hurt I might be, and what risks I’ll take, thank you very much, Mr. … Mr. ...” My cheeks burned. I couldn’t remember his name. Why couldn’t floors actually open and let you quietly disappear from the world?

  His mouth lifted in a soft smile, his white teeth perfect under the stage lights. “No Mr. Just James. James Douglas.” He glanced at my lopsided crown. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head when you went down?”

  I growled under my breath. “I’m positive!” I flapped my hands around the stage. “Go, go. I’m walking off the stage, see? Get ready for the final scene, everyone.”

  The stage manager clapped her hands and the dancers scurried to their positions for the finale.

  I was grateful the curtains had been yanked down immediately. At least the audience hadn’t been able to watch the entire production of Mr. James Whatever-His-Name-Was do his “not-doctor” thing on my ankle.

  A small cry sounded behind the black stage draperies to my left. My parents. “Are you okay?” my mother hissed, darting around the prop boys redoing the set.

  I put up a sharp hand. “Stay there, Mom! I’m fine. Just go back to your seats.”

  My dad gave me a sheepish look, holding up a red sucker. One of the many I’d seen over the years when I’d gone to his office to hang out in between dance lessons since the studio was within walking distance of the dentistry. When the kids were finished with their exams they received a sugar-free sucker. Cherry-flavored was, of course, my favorite.

  “My father’s probably more of a doctor than you are,” I said, my voice laced with sarcasm as I threw a glance toward Mr. Stranger Dude, who was still kneeling next to me like he’d become my new best friend. “Dr. Mason. Snow Valley General Practitioner of Dentistry. He’s quite adept at tending crying children with Tender Loving Care, and anesthetizing hysterical patients.”

  “I’m sure he is.” James Douglas said, lowering his face to hide a grin.

  I turned my head, purposely ignoring his amusement at my expense. As soon as my parents returned to their seats, I tried to rise. My crown toppled and James Douglas caught it in his hands. He placed a palm under my elbow to steady me and a peculiar, fizzy jolt went through me. No. No. No. I did not feel that. I did not feel anything.

  Gingerly, I maneuvered through the wings of the stage, my toe shoes clopping across the polished wooden floor. I felt as graceful as a broken swan.

  James Douglas followed, his hand still on my arm. His fingers were warm, and more gentle than any guy who had ever touched me. Even Michael, which was disconcerting.

  When I reached the stairs, I shook him off, and, abruptly turned away—as fast as I could in tightly strapped toe shoes and a tutu that held me together like a Band-Aid.

  James Douglas bumped into my stiff tulle costume and I felt a couple of pins strain. For some reason I was breathing hard. Good grief, what was wrong with me?

  “Excuse me,” I said, giving him a direct, meaningful stare. “I can walk in case you hav
en’t noticed.”

  “Oh, I’ve noticed plenty, believe me,” James said softly, laughter in his voice. “But there are dangerous stairs up ahead.”

  “Are you mocking me?”

  “Just noticing that you tend to slink away when you feel uncomfortable.”

  “I do not slink!”

  “Hmm, personally, I think you have established a habit of it. First the cemetery, and now the public stage.”

  His comment did not merit a response.

  Testing my ankle, I realized that there wasn’t much pain at all. I was far more mortified than hurt. I’d wrap my foot tonight, keep it elevated and iced, but I was probably perfectly fine.

  Just to prove my good health, I swiftly turned, forcing James Douglas to drop his hand from my arm. Lifting my arms in a circle over my head, I executed a perfect 5th position and rose to my toes on pointe. “See? No slinking. And I can become someone else—the Sugar Plum Fairy, or the Swan Princess, when I dance. I’m in perfect health.”

  “You’ve proved your pointe,” he said with a chuckle.

  I rolled my eyes, but I don’t think he saw.

  “It’s obvious, but I kind of like the real you—when you forget about the hurt persona you put on.”

  “Who made you Snow Valley’s psychiatrist?”

  “Pastor John.”

  “You lie,” I accused him.

  He shook his head. “I took an oath of honesty.”

  “As a doctor? I thought it was the Hippocratic Oath.”

  “No. As a pastor.”

  I blinked. “Pardon me, I thought you said “pastor,” as in minister, preacher, reverend, etc.”

  He laughed, and his voice was rich and deep, sending chills down my legs and into my toes. Don’t look at me like that with those gorgeous crystal blue eyes.

  His head inclined toward mine. He was broad shouldered, but slim, and tall. Taller than Michael. Taller than any other guy in the ballet troupe, or any guy who’d tried to take me out—and then disappeared when I ignored their phone calls. I refused to be interested in a guy who was so tall. So built. Oh my gosh, where were these traitorous thoughts coming from? Maybe I did bump my head when I fell, and now I was having memory loss.

  He ran a hand through thick, dark brown hair, curling a bit over his ears. In the cemetery his hair was dusted with flakes of snow. Why did I remember that?

  “Actually, I am a pastor.”

  “You’re—you’re—you don’t look anything like a pastor, or even a church-going guy.”

  He choked down a grin. “And what do church-going guys look like?”

  I blushed a furious red. “Um, you know, pompous, spiritual, self-righteous. Not with—” I bit off the words and dug my fingernails into my palms as a distraction from sticking my toe shoe in my mouth.

  Was I actually going to say I’d never seen a pastor with biceps and a rugged tan? A guy who looked more like he should be climbing a mountain or playing rugby?

  He lifted those wide shoulders and shrugged. “We’re just lost sheep like everyone else, trying to find the way back to God, and helping anyone we can along the path.”

  “You probably memorized that from pastor school.”

  He laughed. “I probably did. Subconsciously.”

  “But I thought you said you were a doctor.”

  “I got half way through medical school and wasn’t feeling the pull—or the love—for medicine, any longer. But I wanted to feel useful. To have my life mean something. And then my Uncle John said he was going to retire in a few years, and that’s when I knew what I truly wanted to do with my life.”

  “You mean life in a small town where nothing happens, and it’s as boring as a stick?” I heard the outrage in my own voice.

  “I’ve discovered that Snow Valley has a pretty mean Sugar Plum Fairy.”

  “Don’t change the subject,” I said flippantly.

  “Well, I don’t exactly look at small towns as boring as a stick.”

  “Okay, boring as toothpaste. Or watching a snail move to a new shell. After high school I couldn’t wait to get out of here.”

  “I heard that. But I don’t think you left town because you were bored.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “And what gossipy old biddies did you hear that from?”

  He shook his head, but his eyebrows lifted in a teasing gesture. “Not revealing my sources. But the initials are P.J.”

  I growled in my throat. The Finale was past time to start and I still hadn’t decided if I was going to show up for the very end at my cue. The tall, dark and much-too handsome for his own good doctor-turned-pastor stuck a hand under my elbow and helped me limp down the narrow, dark staircase. I spent that minute focusing superbly hard on ignoring the tingles shooting through me from his warm fingers.

  As we reached the door in the dark recesses of the stairwell, he asked, “Where did you go when you left town? I’m curious.”

  “Somewhere completely different from Montana. And ranchers. New Orleans.”

  “Aah, good choice. I did my undergrad at LSU in Lafayette, Louisiana.”

  “I think you’re trying to suck up to me now.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “You could always ask my sister. Third Row, Seat 11.”

  “Wait just a minute. You said Uncle John. You mean Pastor John?”

  “The one and only.”

  I sucked in my breath. “No. Way.” Then I chewed on my lower lip, wanting to run away again. Except I was in toe shoes. And a crunchy tutu with sparkling sequins.

  “Sh! Sh!” the urgent whispers came from the back stage corners and the director’s assistant darted forward, silently waving her hands for everyone to be silent.

  The curtains began to rise again on the final act.

  “You know,” I said slowly. “If I can do three turns on pointe then I should go back up for the Finale.”

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  I nodded, holding a finger to my lips to tell him to be quiet. The curtains were rising again.

  Pastor John’s nephew found me a chair and, using hand signals, forced me to sit in it while we watched Clara in her sleigh and the other dancers.

  I was painfully aware of his presence as I perched on the edge of the seat. I could smell his cologne: woodsy and musky. Feel the touch of his wool coat when it brushed my arm. I closed my eyes as I massaged my ankle and tried not to let the man distract me. He was too tall. He was too young to be a pastor and too old for me. For crying out loud, he was a pastor—and I’d given up religion for Lent two years ago.

  When it came time for the Sugar Plum Fairy curtain call, I stood and lightly danced to the lights at center stage. The other dancers were a sea of costumes and blurred faces. A reprise of the tinkling Sugar

  Plum Fairy music blasted across the auditorium. Instantly, I shot straight up on one toe, neck erect, smile plastered, and performed a small series of pirouettes. Then I curtsied to the applause, seeing the audience rise to their feet.

  It was certainly not a standing ovation performance, but for Snow Valley I guess it was. My lips began to hurt from smiling. I suddenly spotted Michael’s parents and younger sister in the audience. Michael was so obviously missing from their side it made my throat burn. You will not get sick, or cry, or run off this stage, I told myself sternly.

  The performance was finished. I’d done my town duty. My obligation to my parents, my local ballet teachers—over.

  The deep green curtains fell for the last time, and I suddenly realized I was holding a bouquet of flowers, standing next to Clara with her bouquet. Traditional gifts for the stars at the end of a performance.

  The curtains brushed the floor and the relieved dancers burst into chatter, prop people running around with brooms to clean the floor. On the other side of the curtain I could hear the audience rising from their seats, a roar of conversation muted by the heavy stage curtains.

  I suddenly sneezed at the carnations, and my crown toppled again because I’d lost my hair pins.

&n
bsp; Two large palms caught the jeweled crown before it hit the floor.

  Pastor John Junior smiled. I gave him a limp smile in return.

  “So,” he said, looking at me with those annoyingly perfect blue crystal ones of his. “You don’t strike me as a rancher type girl, either.”

  He was still thinking of that line I’d given him fifteen minutes ago?

  “More of a rebel. A retired Goth. Maybe a gypsy girl who listens to the siren’s call and answers.”

  “Now I’d swear you were trying to channel Hemingway, or some hip poet.”

  “I heard he liked hot cocoa with whipped cream—and a shot of whiskey. Can I take you out for some to celebrate?”

  “Right.” I let out a laugh, almost snorting and embarrassing myself. “You are so full of it.”

  “Just channeling Hemingway. Perhaps a cuppa British Earl Gray is more to your liking, mademoiselle?”

  “Please tell me you are not for real.”

  James Douglas patted his arms. “Are you saying you’re dreaming?”

  “Stop! Stop! Okay, already. Hot chocolate. Orange blossom tea. Diet Dr. Pepper. The Drive-in down Main? Whatever you want.”

  He didn’t say another word. Just smiled, and when he did, his face lit up with a warm, peaceful glow. His teeth and lips were much too perfect. My heart stuttered. Like a hiccup. I blamed it on the fall.

  I found myself slowly shaking my head, trying to remember Michael’s face, his smile, his laughter. But I couldn’t. It was as if time was erasing him. I couldn’t forget him. I didn’t want to forget him. I wasn’t supposed to forget him.

  What was happening to me?

  Chapter Five

  AS IT TURNED OUT, PASTOR JOHN’S nephew and I didn’t have our cuppa or cocoa, or anything after the performance. Which Pastor Dude may not have intended anyway, so I was silly to make any sort of assumptions.

  After I changed into street clothes, scrubbed the makeup off my face until it was pink, and wrapped a scarf around my neck—my seventeen-year-old brother was dutifully giving me the weather report of a balmy eighteen degrees Fahrenheit at ten p.m.—I was swarmed by my parents raving about how much they had enjoyed the ballet; my neighbor Mrs. Guthrie praising my dancing while she made gushy cooing noises; and my dance teacher Madame Thomas telling me how proud she was of my accomplishments. “I always knew you had talent,” she beamed. I was the first of her dancers to go on to join a professional ballet company. Which, for a small town, was an accomplishment.