Second Chances: A Romance Writers of America Collection (Stark World 2.50)

"So I know this show's a holiday thing. Candy and fairies. And Arabian coffee?"

"Yep. Mice, sugar, princes, plums." He counted the nonsense on his fingers. He took a breath and asked, "Wher

e's Flip?"

"Sitter." Quick blink.

Was he nervous too? A thin tendril of hope worked into Jerome's chest.

Wince said, "I gotta be honest: my kid wasn't interested in tights and nuts."

Jerome caught his eye then. "Unlike you?"

Wince snorted, which made him snort. A bright bloom of pleasure behind his ribs. He hadn't laughed, not inside-laughed, in a long time. Christmas coming and Olivia had been gone three years, the scar faded smooth by now. Oh. She hadn't been able to see Keisha in a Nutcracker since right after she got diagnosed. All that time, where does it wind up?

Wince studied his face and stance, getting a read the way only he could. "You okay?"

Jerome finally exhaled and held the backstage door open. "Sure. Yeah. Long story." Olivia had heard about Wince plenty, urged him to reach out for years. What would she think? Most likely, she would've grinned and kicked his ass and told him to make a damn choice, Jerome. Ten years of soap scripts had fed her unshakeable faith in happy reunions.

Wince blinked, but he didn't press. "Well, today it's just us."

"Old times." Jerome smiled at him.

"Speak for yourself." But sure enough, he smiled, still eager as a stray dog. He held up a bouquet of orange roses. "For Keisha."

"She'll love that; only, we can't go to the dressing rooms 'til after." Jerome put a hand at the small of Wince's muscular back and steered him past the rigging.

As they snaked toward the front of house, a few dancers eyed their progress cagily. Jerome nodded at the dance captain who'd been so patient about letting Keisha watch the Coffee rehearsals.

Wince clocked the ceiling and the cyclorama. "Gah. Some setup."

Jerome smiled. Band manager. "I forgot. You're in theaters all the time."

"Well, not this high end, but yeah. Same idea." As they neared the stage, Wince craned to check out the stored set pieces. He muttered conspiratorially. "So what'd I miss?"

Jerome kept his voice low as they cut through the wings. "First half, little girl gets a nutcracker that turns into a hot soldier. He fights mice and takes her to check out junk food." Stop rushing. "For real."

"But with tutus."

Jerome shrugged. "I guess. And dance belts: don't ask. S'pretty old school."

"Nostal-gic." Wince's grin made the idea into a dirty joke.

"That's the word. So you're in time for Candyland." The ribbon of hope looped into a bow and squeezed his heart.

A heavy stage manager in black sweats corralled the corps, "In five. That's your five minutes." The stage lights pulsed bright then dark. The crew scurried for preset.

Jerome veered left behind black masking, almost to the edge of the actual stage. "Wait, Wince, c'mere."

"I don't wanna miss Keisha, man."

"Two secs." Jerome tugged him forward, holding his shoulders and standing behind him. "See?"

From where they stood, all 2,500 seats of the theater glittered at them in the dimmed house lights like a glass waiting for wine, but no one could see them. Not from before or behind. The swept stage gleamed under kaleidoscopic pastel lights, and the whole building seemed to hold its breath.

"Jesus," Wince whispered.

"Best view in the house."