A Cliché Christmas by Nicole Deese Read Free Book Online Page A

theater key from the school secretary—the same secretary who had both unlocked and relocked the door for us last night after auditions. Apparently, there was only one key, and Mrs. Harper was its guardian, even though it was technically owned by a real estate broker. I had a feeling I was going to have to sign my life—and future generations’ lives—away in order to get it, too.
    “It’s community theater, Cara, not Broadway. The cast is mostly made up of high school students.”
    “Oo h . . . like Glee ? Any hot music teachers?” she asked.
    No, only hot shop teachers.
    “Not quite. How were your classes today?”
    “Great. You’ll never believe who signed up. You know that blond from that one movie with the shark in Hawai i . . . ”
    And with that, Cara was lost in her own little world of Hollywood stardom. The number of actors and actresses who came into her yoga studio was obscene. I laughed at her creative descriptions as I passed the post office and the secondhand bookstore.
    “ . . . and then I was like, ‘no bleeping way!’ and she was like, ‘yes bleeping way’—”
    “Hey, Cara—I gotta go. I’ll text you tonight, okay?”
    “Cool. Just don’t die in an avalanche walking to the high school, okay?”
    “Cara, you really need to read up on the Northwest, sweetie.”
    I ended the call and peeked through the large picture window of Sullivan’s Bookstore but was surprised to see that old, crotchety Mr. Sullivan was not the one behind the counter. I loved the store, but the foul mood of Mr. Sullivan usually kept me away. On the glass door was a cheery sign that read “Sunshine Books.” I smiled, remembering Nan’s words to me. “Allow yourself to see with fresh eyes, Georgia.”
    “Good afternoon, may I help you find something?” the woman at the counter asked.
    My lips twitched into a grin, and I was momentarily shocked at the difference one attitude can have on an atmosphere. The knife of Nan’s words kept twisting.
    “No, thanks. Just wanted to browse for a few minutes,” I said before doing a double take. “Mrs. Brown?”
    Her head shot up again from the open book on her lap. “Georgia? Oh, I’m so happy you came in today! I was hoping to run into you.”
    My high school guidance counselor embraced me so tightly I nearly coughed. “I heard what you’re doing for the Harts, and I think it’s wonderful.”
    “When did you buy this store, Mrs. Brown?”
    She laughed. “I’m retired now, no need for formalities. Please call me Violet. Let’s se e . . . It’s been about three years ago now.”
    “Well, it looks great.”
    We chatted for a few minutes more, catching up on the last seven years, including my notorious Hallmark movies, with which she seemed well acquainted.
    As I strolled through the store, touching the spines of dozens of books, I thought of Nan. She had planted a love of reading in me many years ago.
    There were so many stories, plots, dreams, and visions enclosed in this tiny space. So many hours of toilsome labor. After browsing through the mystery and romance sections, I came to a small shelf labeled “Classics.”
    I stopped abruptly.
    “No way,” I whispered.
    I carefully lifted the pale-blue leather-bound copy of Little Women from the shelf and found my eyes misting up for a second time that day. This was Nan’s favorite book—mine, too. It was the first chapter book she’d ever read to me. It’s what inspired me to become such an avid reader and writer. Nan always said that I was her Jo March.
    How I had longed for a family like the Marches.
    Ironically, I didn’t long for a daddy nearly as much as I longed for sister s . . . and for a mom who enjoyed being a mother.
    I flipped to the back, reading one of my favorite passages—though I’d almost committed it to memory like so many other passages in this book. Laurie (Teddy), who’d loved Jo as a child, shows up and surprises her by announcing he’s married Amy, Jo’s sister.
    I