Chapter 11
“I can’t drink this. It’s cement.” Frowning, Pap stirs his milkshake with his straw. It doesn’t matter if it’s eighty-five or twenty-five degrees out, if we go to McDonald’s for lunch, Pap gets a strawberry milkshake.
It’s the following Monday after the Christmas parade, and I took Pap to run errands while Mom’s at a hair appointment. Since the shop’s closed today, I’m able to get some personal stuff done. So far, I’ve taken Pap to the barber, the bank, lunch, and now … “Heading home?”
“I have one more stop.” He shifts in his seat. “The Thomas building.”
I flick him a look. “Uh, why?”
“I like this Mariah lady.” He turns up the radio. “She can really belt it out.”
“This is Kelly Clarkson.” While I think it’s weird Kelly needs people stuffed underneath her tree, I find Pap’s behavior even more bizarre.
So I mute Kelly and turn full-on investigator.
“Why the Thomas building?” Then it hits me.
“Nope. No way. If you’re trying to set me up with Fletcher, storming his place of employment isn’t exactly subtle.
We’re not repeating the junior prom fiasco. ”
“The kid took you, didn’t he?” he grumbles.
My prom date, Dax Joseph, tried to cancel because he—and his parents—couldn’t afford the tickets or his tuxedo rental.
A legit reason. But Pap and the Mavericks weren’t having it.
They went to the local pizza joint where Dax worked and left him a five-hundred-dollar tip with the caveat that he had to take me to prom …
and get a haircut. We did end up having a great time.
“But this is different. Fletcher isn’t some seventeen-year-old kid. ”
“You like him?”
“Pap, we’re going home.”
He motions with his hand. “This has got nothing to do with your love life. I’ve got an appointment and want you to be there.”
He totally misses my suspicious side-eye. “About?”
“It’s legal stuff that he can explain better than this old man.”
I blow out a breath, knowing that’s all I will get out of him.
I pull down the lane leading to the Thomas building and sigh in relief at the empty guest lot.
No other Maverick in sight. At least Pap was telling the truth.
We find a spot and exit the car, but not before Pap drops his milkshake.
I grab my stash of fast-food napkins from the glovebox and quickly sop it up.
We make our way inside. Molly Blevins, the kind secretary, welcomes us and shows us to Fletcher’s office.
As far as offices go, it’s pretty spacious, with bookshelves lining one side of the room and an espresso machine Tilly would drool over standing in the other.
Lots of fancy papers hang on the walls. Diplomas, awards, certificates.
Everything screams successful professional.
I don’t think Thomas Law Incorporated would be impressed with my Most Festive Float award.
Yep, despite old Leonard’s unintentional attempts to sabotage our chances, our White Christmas float emerged as the winner.
I may or may not have carried the plaque around all weekend until I nearly dropped grape jelly on it.
Fletcher stands from behind his enormous desk. “Thanks for coming in.” He smiles at me and nods at Pap. “Clifford, I’m assuming you told Greta everything.”
“That’s what I hire you for,” he grouches and lowers onto the seat opposite Fletcher.
“Pap, don’t be rude.” I aim an apologetic smile at Fletcher. “Ignore him. He dropped his milkshake before he came in.”
“That was five dollars. Five!”
“A tragedy,” I mutter and turn my focus to the attractive lawyer.
“So, what was Pap supposed to tell me?” No doubt about the will’s timeline stipulation.
I forgot all about it until now. When Gran’s will was read, Fletcher mentioned that one item was scheduled to be discussed at a later date in November.
I knew then what this was about—Gran’s antique ornaments and the Garrick nativity set.
She was eccentric when it came to, well, pretty much everything, but Christmas in particular.
Gran held firmly that one can NOT gift decorations and ornaments outside of the Christmas season.
So Gran decided to waste poor Fletcher’s time just to tell me I inherited her decorations that are already sitting at Pap’s house waiting for me to pick up.
Fletcher folds his hands in front of him on his desk. “Greta, before we begin, I must apologize for leading you on.”
Huh? Leading me on? Not the opening I expected. Especially with Pap sitting beside me. Yeah, maybe Fletcher was on the touchy side at the gala, but I chalked that up to him being an attentive date. This could get weird. “Um, what?”
“I let you believe I’m the Silver Creek Secret Santa.”
My brow lowers. “Aren’t you?”
He gives a slow shake of the head. “No, I only act on behalf of the true philanthropist.”
“Who?” I try to think of any rich people I know. A handsome firefighter flashes in my mind. “Wait. Is it Leo?” I pitch forward. “Is he the Secret Santa?”
“No. Remington Mathis is not. Truth is”—he glances at Pap, who’s studying his fingers like hangnails are works of art—“your grandmother was.”
“What?” I grip the sides of my chair. “Gran? Like my Gran?”
“Yes.”
“Iris Carlton? The one who was weirdly thrifty? Who’d regift greeting cards by cutting them up and regluing them?
” I once got a card for my seventeenth birthday that read, “Thinking of You During this Time. Congratulations on Your Retirement of Sweet 16!” So yeah, this is beyond anything I can reasonably believe.
“Are you telling me she’s the one who has donated thousands these past years? ”
His smile’s too tame to match my crazy. “Yes. She’s faithfully served the community.”
“I don’t understand.” I catch Pap shifting again, and I level my gaze on him. “Did you know about this?”
He clears his throat. “Yes, I did.”
“But how?” My gaze toggles between the men. “She doesn’t have that kind of money.”
Fletcher slides a paper toward me. “Actually …”
I pick up what looks like an account sheet, register all the zeros, and promptly fumble the paper. Trying to catch it, I knock over a wire mesh container of pencils. “Sorry!” I nearly fall out of my chair reaching for the scattered pencils rolling everywhere.
“Perfectly all right.” Fletcher comes from around his desk. “I know this is a surprise.”
A surprise is learning that your cycle started while you’re wearing a white pleated skirt. A surprise is biting into your favorite takeout and finding a hair. No, this is a shock. I help Fletcher pick up the remaining pencils and slide back into my seat.
I look at the paper again. “So this is her?—”
“Her assets. Yes.” He reclaims his chair, but not before moving the pencils slightly out of my reach. “After her passing, you received the building on Main Street, and everything else went to your grandfather, who is now …” He looks intently at Pap.
My sneaky grandfather picks up on Fletcher’s cue. “I’m giving everything to you. Your Gran wants you to carry on”—he waves a hand—“the Silver Creek Secret Santa tradition.”
Me? Someone needs to pull the brakes on the wacky train.
“Hold on. Back up. How did Gran get all this?” I shake the paper with all the zeros.
“We never lived extravagantly.” Gran reused her tea bags until her morning cup was just brown water.
She mended my clothes until I learned how to do so myself.
They’d bought me my Highlander, which was super cheap, because it was once totaled and had a reconstructed title. That does not scream wealthy woman!
“Apparently”—Fletcher’s voice lowers as if he’s about to say something controversial—“your great-grandfather was a shrewd businessman.”
Pap scoffs. “He was a dirty swindler. Cheated half of Silver Creek out of their money to stuff his own pockets. Never knew such a crook.”
Fletcher looks to me, then to him. “Nothing was proven.”
“Because the man knew loopholes. But my Iris had a good heart.” He runs his thumb over his wedding band. “She didn’t want his money when he passed. She never saw it as hers, so she gave it back to the community he stole from.”
I think this is all some weird hoax until I see his glassy eyes. I settle back in my chair. “That’s how the Secret Santa thing began?”
Pap clears his throat and folds his hands in his lap, regaining composure. “Yup.”
“And I’m to carry on this legacy?” I think back on all the good the Silver Creek Secret Santa had done over the years. Gran was behind it all. How can my heart ache and swell at the same time?
“She trusts you,” Pap says as if that explains everything.
“Here.” Fletcher meets my gaze and holds out an envelope. “This might help.”
It’s a letter. I notice my name in Gran’s handwriting.
My breath catches, and I reach for it slowly, not wanting to bobble this like I had the account sheet.
Because this—this!—is a true gift. I’m shaking.
I can’t help it. But I don’t really care.
I want to pore over this letter, though not with two men staring at me.
I gently tuck the letter between my hands and move to the door.
Only it’s a closet. “Fletcher, what did you do with the door?” I turn and realize I moved to the opposite side of the room.
“Oh, there it is. You two …” I point at them.
“I’m going to read this letter in private, and maybe I’ll return.
No guarantees. You both have been hiding this from me, which is uncool.
But, Fletcher, one of those frothy drinks from that fancy espresso machine might induce me. ”
He grins. “You got it. I’ll make it extra sweet.”
“For your safety, you better.” I don’t always threaten kind and handsome lawyers, but I feel really stupid that I never knew this. I escape into the hall and search for a secluded spot. I end up sitting on a bench outside another office.
Treating this letter as if it were one of my precious antiques, I gently ease open the envelope and slide the paper out.