“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 haven’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.
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.
I shook my head, thinking of all the other corps ballet dancers in the New Orleans troupe, and our true rival, Sierra Armstrong, who had just been promoted to prima ballerina at the tender age of twenty-four, while I was almost twenty-two and nowhere near that good.
“You were beautiful, Jessica,” my mother said. “But your crown was having a bit of trouble. Didn’t you have enough pins with you? I could have helped you do your hair and makeup. I don’t understand why you won’t ask me to help.”
I didn’t answer, just gave her a faint smile, aware of eyes on me. Aware—suddenly—of how tired I was. Now that I wasn’t dancing, and wasn’t under the stage lights I was turning cold again. But not cold enough to get hot chocolate with James Douglas.
Which suddenly made me remember how cold Michael’s hands were as he lay in the coffin during the viewing at the church when I held them and said goodbye. Except that I was still saying goodbye three years later. I couldn’t seem to let him go. Because I’d promised to love him forever.
Dad leaned in to drop a kiss on the top of my still sticky-with-hairspray bun. “I thought you were spectacular.”
I tried not to blush in front of James Douglas’s watchful gaze. “Oh, Dad, you always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
I widened my eyes. “A wobbly crown and a weak ankle made for an embarrassing performance.”
“Au contraire,” he objected, launching into the tiny bit of French he liked to brag that he knew. Which amounted, in reality, to about ten words.
“Doctor Mason,” my mother chided. “Please no French attempts tonight.”
My father shrugged at her admonition, and gave me a one-armed squeeze. “Going to New Orleans has been a good experience, I think,” he whispered in my ear. “Your dancing has made leaps and bounds. You’re truly a professional. I am proud of you. Not many dancers get that far. To support yourself in the arts is a huge achievement .”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Not bad,” Sam told me, punching my arm and scoping out the theater foyer. “Where’s the refreshments?” he asked.
My mother took several deep breaths, then instructed her son, “Ballet performances do not provide “refreshments.” Those are almost exclusively for church functions and baby showers.”
“Bummer. Can we get something to eat then?”
“Try not to make it so obvious that you’re in high school, Sam,” I advised him.
He made a show of groaning, but he knew I was teasing.
My mother went on. “No time for ice cream. Did you hear about the terrible accident just outside of town? A multiple car pile-up.”
“That must have happened right after I got to the theater.”
“I was so grateful you missed it, Jessica. It was slow getting through, a line of cars for a mile on both sides. It’s a good thing we left early or we would have missed the first act. Unfortunately, I got a phone call just as we were parking that Joyce was in one of those cars. It was too dark to tell by the time we came upon the scene. I want to stop by the hospital on our way home to see her.”
For all her annoying ticks and habits, my mother was a good friend and neighbor. Joyce Hopkins was one of her oldest friends.
“How bad is it?” I asked. “How is she?”
“I talked to Harold and he said just a sprained wrist and some bruises. Thank goodness nobody was critically injured.”
“I wish I could have been there to help,” James Douglas murmured. “I hadn’t even heard about the accident until now, Mrs. Mason.” There was a dark look of concern in his eyes. He was a stranger in town, but he appeared deeply concerned. As though the people were long-time friends of his.
“Please call me Marilee,” she told him with a wave of her hand. “Oh, there’s Catherine now.”
I glanced up and saw my older sister coming up the aisle.
“I didn’t know you were in town already,” I said as she gave me a quick hug.
“Barely made it for Act II. Terrible accident on the highway.” After she embraced our parents and Sam, I noticed her eyeing James Douglas with interest, her eyebrows quite elevated. I elbowed her and she glared at me, hissing. “We’ll talk later, little sister.”
“Can’t wait,” I said under my breath.
“You mean you came straight to the theater after the drive from Helena?” my mother asked Catherin
e.
“I had to drop off the girls at a sitter because Dave is working nights at the plant and then with the accident . . . But I saw your solo, Jessica—you were beautiful.”
I made a face. “You’re being too kind about the Most Embarrassing Moment of my life. When’s Dave coming?”
“Monday. The girls really wanted him to take them to the Night Before Christmas story and hot chocolate on Monday night, but he won’t get here in time.”
My mother beamed stiffly. “He’s still going to take them to the Polar Express, correct? Your dad already got tickets.”
“Of course,” Catherine said with a touch of annoyance. “That’s not until Wednesday.”
“Don’t forget the tickets at the office, Joe,” my mother said to my father.
“They’re in my desk drawer at home already, Marilee.” Dad rubbed his hands together. “Let’s go get dinner. Best part of dance recital night.”
My sister Catherine stared at him aghast. “This wasn’t a recital, Dad.”
“Oh, Jessica knows what I meant.”
I gave him a weak smile. “Don’t worry about it, Dad. Let’s just go. I’m exhausted and want to get off my feet.”
That’s when I remembered that James Douglas, Pastor Dude, was still standing behind me. Watching our embarrassing family conversation.
My mother quickly introduced Catherine to him.
“Welcome to the world of Snow Valley, Mr. Douglas.”
“You can all call me James.”
“No Jim?” Catherine said with a teasing tone.
“My parents had this thing about calling me James, but I’ll answer to anything, actually. So just lay it on me.”
“You’re quickly becoming Pastor Dude in my head,” Sam said with a teenage boy laugh.
“You know, guys,” I said, trying not to grit my teeth. “I’m too tired to drive anywhere for food or ice cream if the weather is so bad and there was an accident . . . besides, it’s already so late . . .”
Risking It All for Love (A Christmas in Snow Valley Romance) Page 3
