Backstage Romance: An Austen-Inspired Romantic Comedy Box Set by Gigi Blume (ebook reader with highlighter txt) 📕

was frozen to the bone from the walk. Those things inside my Converse All Stars? They weren’t feet anymore. They were the most unpleasant popsicles in the universe.

Georgia, who’d planned her wardrobe better than me, was rosy-cheeked and fresh. She could have been on one of those York Peppermint Patty commercials. The cloud from her mouth when she breathed seemed to turn to crystal before floating away to frost nearby windowpanes. Or evergreen trees. Or perhaps turn into gleaming castles of ice with silvery spires jutting heavenward.

Clearly, I put too much thought into Georgia’s minty breath.

I carried Reeses in his bag so his little paws wouldn’t freeze. I’d given him my scarf. He was living the good life.

The church was an old converted barn, renovated to accommodate a fairly large congregation. It was enormous. There were different doors off the main sanctuary, most likely leading to meeting rooms, childcare, or offices. As we entered, a group of teens rushed past us, laden with robes of various colors, plaster wings, and glittery headpieces. A woman with a clipboard worked in the far corner wrangling small children and several others mulled around chatting or getting ready for the performance.

“I guess we’re a little early,” said Georgia, looking around.

“It would seem so. I’m just waiting for my feet to thaw out.”

She tsked at me. “You don’t own a pair of boots, do you?”

I admitted that I did not. I liked my converse.

A door swung open and a pretty woman in her forties rushed through wearing an apron. She had an air of authority about her—the way she carried herself maybe, or perhaps how heads turned as she entered the room.

“Has anyone seen Tom and Denise?” she called out.

Someone shouted back they had the flu. Or was it they had to glue? Could have been either. There was too much activity going on to hear well.

The woman in the apron slumped a little, pressing her temple before clapping eyes on us. She came over.

“Oh thank goodness. Are you two here to serve?”

She gave us each a hug. “I’ve never seen a turn out like this in all the years we’ve been running the soup kitchen. I think it’s because word got out someone donated all that turkey.”

Georgia instinctively clutched her coat in the area of her stomach. “Did you say turkey?”

“Isn’t that wonderful? We are blessed beyond measure. But we’re swamped in there. You...did come to volunteer, right?”

“Yes,” Georgia blurted. “Absolutely. That’s why we’re here.”

The woman pressed her heart and smiled sweetly. Then, as she ushered us to the kitchen, she introduced herself. “I’m Teresa, by the way. I’ll get you set up.”

She found a couple of aprons and handed them over. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

Georgia introduced us, including Reeses, and said we were just passing through. She didn’t get into the crazy details. Teresa would hardly believe it anyway.

Before I knew what was happening, they were chatting like besties, giggling about how Georgia drowned in the large apron. How cute her earrings were. Exchanging make-up hacks.

I excused myself to set Reeses up with a bowl of water. I don’t think the ladies noticed my absence. A pot-bellied man called me over and tossed a hairnet at me.

“You’ll be on mashed potatoes.”

He pointed a carving knife toward the buffet and hunched back over the turkey. I could tell he was serious about slicing. They don’t give that job to just anybody.

I took my spot behind the serving line flanked by two elderly women. A box of latex gloves was passed along which both the ladies refused to use.

“I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty,” one of them said as she tossed the box to the next guy. I was pretty sure the gloves weren’t for her benefit but who was I to say?

I got to work dolloping spoonfuls of mashed potatoes while the granny next to me smothered them in gravy with a drippy splat. After a few minutes we’d developed a well-timed system.

Scoop, splat. Scoop, splat.

At one point we were in rhythm with the Christmas music. The lady on the other side of me was in her own world, singing and bopping out while on green bean duty.

Hordes of people came through the line. Teresa wasn’t kidding. But the community there for the free holiday dinner was different from the usual crowd I’d seen go into New York soup kitchens. These were families, farmers, working folk. And they were ever grateful.

I caught a glimpse of Georgia passing out dinner rolls with a generous portion of smiles. She was resplendent. A couple of teen boys held up the line because they didn’t want to part from her.

Move it along, boys.

Scoop, splat. Scoop, splat.

In the end we went through eight trays of spuds. I heard somebody estimate about two hundred people came through. Even so, there was plenty left over for the volunteers. Who knows where all that food came from? It was like the loaves and fishes.

Later, when Georgia pushed her plate away and tugged to stretch her waistband I nudged her with my shoulder and gave her an I told you so look.

“I think we can safely say this qualifies as a Christmas miracle.”

She just laughed.

Teresa joined us soon after with a plate of cookies to share apologizing because the good ones were the first to go. We couldn’t eat another bite anyway. She thanked us for the seventy-ninth time.

“Believe me, the pleasure was all ours,” I assured her.

She clasped her hands over ours. “Are you staying for the Living Nativity?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Georgia said, grinning adorably. “I hear A.J. hits it out of the park with his shepherd boy performance.”

Teresa’s eyebrows shot up. “You know A.J. Tucker?”

“Not exactly.” Georgia explained how we’d met the grandmother in town and that’s what brought us here.

“And the commercial,” I added. “Don’t forget about that.”

Georgia cast her eyes to the ceiling. She still wasn’t convinced the signal could have gotten that far.

“The commercial was my husband’s idea,” said Teresa.

I grinned at