Backstage Romance: An Austen-Inspired Romantic Comedy Box Set Gigi Blume (fantasy books to read .txt) 📖

Georgia was frozen. Her winter coat and boots were more fashionable than practical. Which would have been fine in New York. And pointless in Los Angeles. I wondered how warm it was there. A frigid 72 degrees? I could have been poolside drinking an iced tea at this very moment if our plane hadn’t been detoured. I wouldn’t have been robbed of all my stuff. My clothes, my money, my laptop.

But I’d be alone.

With Georgia, none of those things mattered. What would I have, really? A few measly possessions and a cheap Hollywood news story I felt sleazy about. There was no way I could do it now. As soon as I could charge my phone I’d call my friend and tell him the deal was off.

And what about Georgia? She was right. I was a walking disaster. Charlie Brown to the power of ten. There was no way she’d ever consider a guy like me. She belonged in her beautiful life sipping champagne and getting massages—or however the rich and famous spend their time. Not freezing on a rural road with the likes of me.

Somehow I’d get her home. I didn’t know how, but I vowed to do whatever it took. A silent prayer left my heart.

Please, help me get her home safely.

Not three seconds later an old Winnebago rambled up the road from seemingly out of nowhere. It wasn’t going fast, but passed us before coming to a stop a few hundred feet ahead. It stood there for a couple of seconds and then lurched into reverse, the tires slugging through the thick snow.

At first I thought it might hit us, the way the driver swerved and fishtailed and Georgia and I ran off the road. But then the RV straightened its trajectory and skidded to a stop right before reaching us.

The rear door opened and a warm light shone from the inside. There was some chatter and then a young woman leaned out waving us over.

“Come on before you freeze.”

As we approached, and her silhouette gave way to reveal her face, we saw that she was that nun who Teresa was talking to earlier.

Georgia and I didn’t know what to say so we climbed into the RV.

“I’m Sister Patty.” She hugged us, which we were used to by now. As she closed the door behind us, an acoustic guitar rang a chord and all dozen nuns inside the RV sang a short welcome song to the tune of Kumbaya.

Welcome in, my friends, welcome in.

Oh, friends, welcome in.

Then Sister Patty went around introducing the other Sisters. I couldn’t remember all their names, so no doubt Georgia was secretly assigning classical composer monikers to them all. The one with the guitar was easy to remember. Her name was Paula.

“I’m Wyatt and this is Georgia.” I made a little bow not sure of the correct protocol for greeting a Winnebago full of nuns. “And this here’s Reeses.”

We found an empty spot to sit and the RV heaved with a jerk. A few skids of the tires screeched beneath us, then a pitch forward, jolting us in our seats and we were on our way. I let Reeses roam about and he became the center of attention. Rock star status.

“Are you going to the cafe?” Sister Patty asked Georgia.

“Yes.”

She smiled. “We’re going there, too.”

Then Sister Edna, the older one Teresa was talking to, asked, “What made you two decide to walk back to town in this weather? Did something happen to your car?”

“You could say that,” I said with an ironic tone.

Something in her face, and in all those faces actually, told me they really wanted to know. So Georgia and I gave them the truncated version of our story from the beginning, taking turns telling them of our adventures. It was eerie how we finished each other’s sentences.

Sister Edna listened intently and smiled sweetly when we got to the part where we helped serve the turkey dinner.

“And so you found your way to Bethlehem. Like Mary and Joseph.”

“Yeah. And there’s no room at the inn,” I joked.

Georgia elbowed me reproachfully.

“Well, these things have a way of working out,” said Sister Edna. “There’s no such thing as a coincidence.”

“Only a God-incidence,” added Sister Patty.

The RV lumbered on, going extra slow. Whoever was driving was being extra careful. Reeses was in belly rub heaven, and the cheerful women seemed more than happy to dole out all the attention his little doggie heart desired. They certainly didn’t fit the penguin suit stereotype I was used to. Most of them were in their twenties and thirties—young and fresh-faced. And all of them were full of laughter.

So, partly because I felt some instant connection with these ladies, and partly because of my burning curiosity, I said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look like nuns.”

Sister Edna raised a brow. “Because we don’t have the traditional habit?”

Georgia face-palmed. “Wyatt!”

“It’s okay,” said Sister Patty. “We get asked this all the time.”

“What’s a habit?” I asked. “The black and white veil thing?

“You’ve probably seen pictures of Mother Teresa,” said Sister Patty. “Her order wears blue stripes. Some orders wear black and white. Some wear brown. We wear something a little more simple.”

“A habit is more of a promise to God than an article of clothing,” explained Sister Edna. “Our order was founded during the time of the Nazis. The Sisters then couldn’t wear a traditional habit because of persecution and threat of arrest. And so we wear a habit of fidelity, of joy, of love. A habit of caring for each other and for the community.”

That explained the inner glow these women had.

Georgia smiled. “I like that.”

“Me too,” said Sister Patty. “That’s what called me to serve.”

“We’re here!” the driver called out. She had light brown hair and extremely rosy cheeks. She skidded the Winnebago to a stop and put it in park, waving at us through the rear view mirror.

“That’s Sister Ruth,” said Patty. “Come on. Let’s get some hot apple cider.”

The party was