Chapter 5
Very few in this town are aware of the Silver Creek Secret Santa’s identity, but everyone, I repeat everyone, knows that Fletcher Thomas is the area’s most eligible single.
If Silver Creek ever hosted their own small-town version of The Bachelor , the line for contestants would stretch into the next county.
Of course, the man shows up at The Memory Bank when I look my absolute worst. I grab the napkin I stuffed in my pocket earlier and angle away to wipe my chin as I chew like a mad woman.
In my panic, I bite my tongue and my eyes water.
The world is against me. However, Fletcher is accustomed to my awkwardness. So today’s just a new episode of the latest season regarding my socially weird self in public settings.
I clear my throat. “Hey there, Fletcher. I didn’t hear the bells.” I motion toward the door.
“I came in when another customer left.”
My mom. She could’ve given me a warning text that the town’s hottest single was here.
Speaking of texts, my phone buzzes.
Tilly again.
Tilly
He’s in YOUR STORE!!!!
Not exactly helpful, but I appreciate her excessive use of punctuation. Because this is a four-exclamation-points situation.
On top of Fletcher being wealthy and handsome, he’s genuinely a nice guy. His family owns a large law firm, and his ancestors helped establish Silver Creek. For being a man of means, he does the whole nine-to-five workday thing.
“Sorry about my”—I wave at my mouth, drawing his attention to my lips.
Not my intention, but it’s better than the ketchup smear on my wrist—“little mishap. I totally thought I was alone. I usually don’t eat like a crazed beast in front of customers.
I keep that secret between me and my waffle fries.
” As usual, oversharing does not curb my embarrassment.
He laughs, and I notice how his bright blue eyes pair well with his sandy blond hair. “I love a girl who attacks her food with no mercy. My only complaint is you didn’t offer to share. Waffle fries are my weakness.”
I smile at his remark because our shared love of cholesterol-inducing food is the only area in which we’re compatible.
Thanks to many exchanges where my social ineptness was on full display in his immediate presence, I have zero chance with him.
Still, I can’t help but become a tad swoony-eyed in his presence.
He glances around, most likely to ensure we’re alone. “Just wanted to verbally confirm you’re still good with having a Silver Creek Secret Santa mailbox.”
“Um, yeah. I’ll place it on the counter like always.”
“Great. I’ll have the box sent over tomorrow morning.
” Those who want to nominate an individual or family to the community’s own Secret Santa can send their letters to a P.O.
Box or send an email. I love the many options allowing anyone to participate.
And if people don’t have access to email or a stamp, they can place a letter here at The Memory Bank or Brewtiful Grounds, the local café. “Is our agreement still okay with you?”
“You mean, I still can’t auction off your identity to the highest bidder? I’m not sure, Fletcher, I’ve been getting some pretty interesting offers. Adelaide Springfield offered me the knife she said was used in the Lincoln assassination if I leak the name.”
His brow lowers. “But Lincoln was shot.”
“Yeah, I didn’t say it was the actual weapon. It just happened to be her con of the week. So now you see what I have to deal with to keep this secret.”
This pulls a laugh from him. “I appreciate your sacrifice.”
Sacrifice? I wasn’t the one giving out thousands to the community.
Last year, he granted the wish of a military family whose basement flooded while the dad was deployed.
Not only did Fletcher pay for the cleanup, restoration, and the glow-up of the space, he somehow managed to bring the dad home so the family could be together for Christmas. “What you’re doing is really generous.”
He gives another smile, but this one lacks … something. I bet he gets tired of people complimenting him left and right. “I’ll have the box collected the day before Thanksgiving. That will give residents about three weeks to submit their nominations.”
“That works.”
“Great. Are you, by any chance, running in the Turkey Trot this Sunday?” His family’s law firm sponsors the yearly event, and all the proceeds go toward charity.
Because, of course, it does. Fletcher Thomas can do no wrong.
Well, except for his tie choice. It’s synthetic material and really lacks drape.
Since it’s him, I can easily believe a loved one gave him that tie, and he knows it’s cheap, yet wears it anyway.
As for the marathon. “Uh, no. I don’t run unless someone’s chasing me.
Even then, it’s debatable. I’m in charge of snack distribution at the aid station.
That’s more my skillset.” I glance over, and he’s watching me.
I must still have ketchup on my face. I subtly swipe at my chin again.
Which reminds me. “I promise I don’t have the same vigor for granola bars as I do fries.
Those marathon snacks are safe around me. ”
“I’m counting on you, Greta,” he says in a mock seriousness that amps up his charm. He leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Just be sure to hold back the one with chocolate chips for me.”
And if there isn’t one of that flavor, I’ll be sure to swing by the store and grab it for him. “You have my word. The only thing that makes granola bearable is chocolate.”
“Agreed.” He dips his chin. “By the way, I never said I was the Silver Creek Secret Santa.”
“You never denied it, either.”
Another full smile and he was gone.
Whoever coined the term “Turkey Trot” must’ve been hurling spitballs at the whiteboard during life science class.
“A trot is technically a pattern of limb movement reserved for four-legged animals. Like a horse,” I explain to Tilly who doesn’t seem interested in my monologue.
“Turkeys have two legs. Only two. They are not equipped to trot.”
She adjusts her marathon number and rolls her eyes. “But trot sounds better.”
“So alliteration goes before anatomical accuracy?” I realize the irony of using alliteration to prove my point, but I digress.
“I don’t understand why you’re in such a weird mood over the marathon name.” She looks to the left, and her dark ponytail swishes over her shoulder. “Ah, now I know.”
I point to the turtledoves display that is backward, mind you, and fold my arms. “That has nothing to do with it.”
Tilly’s not buying what I’m feebly selling. “So the fact that this aid station is literally beside the place you got ghosted last year has nothing to do with you picking apart a yearly tradition you haven’t objected to before now?”
“I feel that the name can give children the wrong ideas about turkeys. I’m passionate about education.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Ugh. Why does she have to nitpick my psyche? “All right. Fine. I’m not happy about staring at the spot that was such an ugly memory.” For so many reasons.
She links her arm through mine in sisterly solidarity. “Think you’ll see him again?”
I shrug. “Probably not. I’m not even sure he exists.
” Silver Creek has about 6500 residents, which is a decent number for being considered a small town.
I’ve never once run into him over this past year.
Though I don’t go very many places, so that could be on me.
The major point in my argument is that no one has heard of him.
I asked around if anyone knew a Leo who worked for the town, and the resounding answer was no.
“I wish I never went that night.” I start pulling the bottled water from the packaging and lining them up on the table.
“Maybe he had a good reason.” This isn’t the first time she has offered this counter.
“Yeah. But it’s more than that.”
She nods in understanding, then flicks a glance at the turtledoves. “Twenty bucks says you’ll fix it by the time the race is over.”
I blow out a breath. “Mom did that. She didn’t know which way to face it apparently.” She offered to arrange everything regarding Light-Up Night and Gran’s display. This was one area where I held zero resistance. “I’m gonna leave it.”
Her brows spike. “Really?” But then her face morphs into shock. “Fletcher. The Fletcher is approaching. Don’t look,” she panic-whispers. “Code Fourth Runner-Up.”
“Ugh, no.”
She puts her hands together in a begging pose. “Come on, please?” Code Fourth Runner-Up is her signal for me to reference her pageant era. Tilly was titled fourth runner-up in the Miss Ohio contest three years ago. I’m her designated hype girl.
Silver Creek Secret Santa, aka Fletcher Thomas, approaches. He’s wearing weather-appropriate running gear and looks like he could be on some kind of protein supplement ad. He smiles at me. “Hey, Greta. Got any waffle fries for me?” He says this like we have our own inside joke.
“Sadly, I do not. But it’s cute that you think I would share such a treasure with you.”
He laughs. Tilly nearly chokes. As I said, zero chance with this man. So he gets my full snark. “But as promised.” I pick up a chocolate chip granola bar and wrinkle my nose at it. “There’s probably one morsel of chocolate per gazillion granola flakes, but it’s all I got.”
He nods in approval. “Just keep it back for me, if you don’t mind. I’ll swing by after the race.”
Tilly nudges me but hits a rib, and I almost squeak. “You remember, Matilda Davies, from Brewtiful Grounds?”
He shifts his focus to my pretty bestie, and she is in full pageant mode—perfect posture, wide grin. If she spouts off something about world peace, I’m out. He extends his hand. “I met you the other day, right?”
She dips her chin in this demure expression. She really is brilliant. “I made your peppermint macchiato.”
I pat her shoulder. “She has a knack for remembering people’s coffee orders and for placing fourth runner-up in the Miss Ohio pageant.” Not my most brilliant of transitions, evidenced by Fletcher’s rapid blinking.
He quickly recovers and offers a friendly smile. “I see, uh, congratulations.”
Tilly’s grin widens. “Oh, it’s nothing. Greta just likes to brag on me.”
“Yep!” I’m gonna throttle her.
“Sounds like Greta is a great person to have as a friend.” His warm tone is sweet. “Well, I better sprint.” Then he realizes what he says. “That wasn’t supposed to be a pun about the race, but?—”
I laugh. “Just run with it.”
“Nice follow-up.” He winks at me. “See you later.”
Tilly turns to me after he leaves. “Uh, I think the rich Santa is into you.”
“No.” I nod at one of the Mavericks who is heading up the Silver Striders age division. “I’m not Fletcher’s type.”
“And you know this …?”
I’m not going into the humiliating incidents that marked me as a weirdo forever in Fletcher’s estimation.
“I’m just not.” I glance at the street clock, ignoring the familiar pang.
“Besides, I’m not going to fall for that again.
The last time I thought someone was into me, it turned into a disaster. ”
I left it at that.
That evening found me at my design table in my apartment, trying to put together ideas for the Light-Up Night parade, but my brain doesn’t want to focus.
The marathon was counted a success, raising thousands of dollars for charity.
Fletcher did return to my station for his granola bar, but everyone seemed to be vying for his attention.
Our conversation lasted about two minutes before the mayor claimed him.
And that was all. I didn’t detect anything beyond a friendly demeanor.
I glance down at my blank drawing tablet.
This year’s theme for the parade is Classic Christmas Movies, and each float is to represent an iconic film.
This is right up my alley, but my heart’s not in it.
I should claim Home Alone and just stay home …
alone. I flick a glance at the picture frames above my table.
I set them beside my designing pad for inspiration.
They’re photos of places I’ve visited, like when we went to Germany when I was a kid.
And also pictures of people I love. Tilly and me at our high school graduation.
Gran and Pap. My eyes glue to the picture of Gran and me.
It was the last selfie of us I found on my phone.
I took it when we put up our tree while watching her favorite movie.
And just like that, I have my float.
In honor of Gran this year, The Memory Bank float will be decked out like White Christmas .