Page 90 of Not Home Alone

“Merry Christmas, Merrily,” he says, and it sounds like I love you, Merrily, to me, anyway. He doesn’t put his hands on my waist. He takes my face in his hands and leans down to kiss me on the mouth. It’s not a get a room-pah kind of kiss for show, but it’s sweet and sincere and so loving. Then he surprises me by hugging me so tight. I hug him back.

It’s already perfect. And then he whispers in my ear, so only I can hear, “This is real, Tucker. It’s real.”

I can hear the murmurs from the audience. The awwws. The quiet squeals of “oh my god!”

This is why I really love live theater. Sometimes, you go up on a line, and the show must go on, and you laugh about it later. Occasionally, someone makes a bad choice, someone gets humiliated, and lives are changed for years thereafter. Sometimes, with a little theater magic, mixed with small-town Christmas magic, a little hot sex, and a lot of real talk between adults who’ve finally stopped behaving like children—a moment between two people is witnessed by an auditorium full of loved ones, neighbors, strangers, and everyone’s life is changed in some way.

The Narrator says her final lines: “Well. That was nice.” She looks over at us. She looks over at the audience. “And that was that.” She closes the script. “Merry Christmas, everyone.”

Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker finale plays from the speakers.

Grant and I are still hugging in the spotlight when it’s blackout and the music fades.

We’re still hugging when the cheering erupts from the audience and the lights come up for curtain call. The entire cast and crew come out, some of them carrying the shadow puppets. We get a rousing standing ovation. We all take a bow; the Mouse King takes three separate bows, what the hell, he’s earned it. Candy Cane Girl stands perfectly still and finally waves at her family before exiting the stage.

I can see my dad, Connie, Joanne, Erica, Missy, and Buck Newman in the audience. I clock Robert Moody, who’s stuck around to applaud before ducking out to get to his car before everyone else leaves. He gives me and Grant a polite nod before walking out.

Grant gives my hand a squeeze before we exit the stage.

There’s no rush like this, walking off stage after a performance. Except maybe falling in love. Walking off stage after a performance with the man you’ve fallen in love with? I don’t believe it gets any better than that.

Well…

Falling in love and getting to live in the same town as your person would be nice.

But if Grant is going to live in New York for his dad’s sake, then I want his dad to know what kind of man his son really is.

I turn back and walk down the stage steps onto the gym floor, calling out to Mr. Moody as he heads for the exit. Twice. Other people look around. Grant’s father stops in his tracks without turning to me.

“What are you doing?” I hear Grant behind me.

I signal to my family that I’ll see them backstage as I catch up with Grant’s father. “Mr. Moody?” I tap him on the shoulder. “Sir. Hi. Merrily Tucker.”

He nods, eyes darting around the perimeter. “I know who you are, hello. I enjoyed the performance,” he says hesitantly, as if he’s being cornered—because he is. “Very creative. Nice surprise to see my son up there on stage again.”

“I was pretty surprised too,” I tell him. “Can I speak with you for a minute?” I gesture for him to follow me. “There’s an empty classroom just down the hall out here.”

“Merrily…” Grant catches up with me. “What’s going on?”

“I just want to have a word with your father.” I wave to people and thank them for coming as I pass them by. “Right this way, real quick.”

I lead the two Moody men to a small classroom just outside the inner doors to the auditorium. Turning on the lights, we all squint because they’re so bright. Grant shuts the door behind us.

“Are you still coming to the house for a talk?” Robert asks his son.

“It feels like the talk is going to happen here…” Grant says. “So I guess we’ll let Merrily say what she wants to say first.”

“Sir,” I begin, pacing back and forth. I may not be as good at spontaneous singing as Grant is, but nobody can dish out an impromptu monologue like I can. “I think you should know that your son Grant has been secretly keeping the ski resort and the winery afloat for years. Years!” I ignore the fact that Grant is scrunching his face and rubbing his temples, and I continue, “That’s right. Did you never question how it was possible that his apathetic half brother and sister managed to keep from running their businesses into the ground? It was Grant! Wyatt Finch would secretly let him know when Todd or Ava were screwing something up, and Grant took care of it. From New York. While he also had a full-time job. And he didn’t want anyone to know!”

I can see from Robert Moody’s expression that he had no idea, or maybe he had some idea, but he didn’t really know.

I continue pacing while I point to Grant with both hands, but I can’t look at him while I say this next part. “This man right here has spent years of his life cultivating a reputation that keeps his family and this town from expecting anything real from him. Meanwhile, he’s been the secret backbone of your company—why? Because the only thing scarier than being responsible for something is being attached to it. I understand that. Your youngest son wore the mask of a trust fund playboy asshole so nobody would get to see the real Grant Moody beneath it and reject him.” I walk over to Grant and wrap my arm around him. “Well, I had the privilege of seeing the real Grant Moody. He is a good man. A man of honor. The love of my life, probably. He loves Holly Grove, and he’s leaving it to save it. I just thought you should know that.”

“Is that true?” Mr. Moody asks his son, looking and sounding humbled.

“It is. Except that last part.” Grant puts his arm around me and kisses the top of my head. “Thanks, babe. If you’re done, I need to have a word with my dad too.”

“I’m done.” I curtsy to Robert Moody, immediately wishing I hadn’t. “Thank you for your time and attention to this matter.” Mic drop. “You want me to leave the room?” I ask Grant.