Chapter 12
Some say that Silver Creek has an unspoken bylaw stating that the Christmas season begins in early November and is in full swing by midmonth, regardless of when Thanksgiving falls.
This year, Turkey Day lies only a couple of days before December.
So even though Frank Sinatra has been crooning “Let it Snow” over Main Street’s PA system for the past three weeks, Silver Creek residents properly carve out twenty-four hours to be grateful.
Thanksgiving night at the Carlton house is always chaos.
The Mavericks, having celebrated earlier with their families, come over for dessert and cards.
No surprise there. Though the holiday looks different this year, I’ve promised myself I won’t be sad about missing Gran, if only for Pap’s sake.
From my earliest memories, she’d always been here for this day.
It’s weird without her. I make it through our small family dinner, mostly because of my latest festive distraction.
This morning, I found the perfect candidate for my inaugural term as the Silver Creek Secret Santa.
Mr. Henry Sawyer has been caring for his terminally ill father.
In his letter, he requested a heated sunroom because his father always wanted one added onto his home.
Mr. Sawyer went into great detail about how the sunroom would give his dad something to look forward to.
I understood where Mr. Sawyer was coming from.
When I was caregiving, I would’ve done anything to make Gran happy, anything to give her something to live for.
I’m glad I have the candidate selected because I can focus on running the store. Though now, I must concentrate on not dropping the pumpkin pies I’m currently holding while Mom’s in the kitchen making homemade whipped cream.
I’m arranging the dishes on the buffet table as voices sound from the foyer, marking the entrance of more Mavericks. Except … one distinct timbre has me abandoning the dessert station.
I peek into the hall to find Leo Mathis wiping his boots off the mat.
Beside him, old Leonard is tugging off his trapper hat that has seen one too many winters.
Wait. Did Leonard invite him? I don’t understand, since the Mavericks never invite outsiders, but the current of heat pulsing through me is as unexpected as Leo’s presence.
Leonard spots me first. “This fella decided to join us.” He claps Leo’s shoulder.
Leo’s gaze collides with mine. It takes several heartbeats to adjust to seeing this man in my childhood home.
His hunter green sweater paired with nice-fitting jeans really works for him.
So glad I put effort into my appearance today, but then I remember I’m currently wearing a faded apron that says, “Hot Stuff Coming Through.”
Leonard keeps talking, completely unaware of my wardrobe regret. “After our success at the Christmas parade, the Leo Bros are ready for another gig.”
I laugh. “Leo Bros?” I nod at the younger Leo, who seems to take in stride what sounds like being recruited for a geriatric boy band. “And we have plenty of food. We’re always happy to have extra company.” Especially one under the age of seventy who talks about things other than bowel movements.
Leo turns his beanie in his hand, a shy smile in place. “I didn’t mean to crash your party.” He leans closer and whispers, “Leonard told me you invited me.”
My stomach dips. That’s why he came? Because he thought I wanted him here? Before I can respond, Leonard waves him off.
“Greta never turns away a man at her door.” Leonard’s insinuation has Leo arching a brow.
“Not true.” I take Leonard’s scarf and consider stuffing it in his big mouth. “Go join the other card junkies in the den.”
Leonard frowns. “Card junkies?”
“Would you rather I call you what Gran did?” I ask sweetly, taking his hat and coat.
“Iris Carlton was a great woman with not-so-great nicknames.”
“She was perfection, and you know it.” I pat his jowly cheek. “And I suggest you be nice to me, because lately I’ve been in the habit of carrying on her traditions.”
“You inherited her crazy,” the older man harumphs and shuffles into the other room with all the Mavericks.
“Now I’m curious.” Leo stuffs his beanie in his pocket and unzips his coat. “I’m guessing she didn’t call them the Mavericks.”
“No, the Aceholes.”
I’m not prepared for Leo’s hearty laugh, but it helps warm the drafty spaces in my soul that have been left vacant since Gran’s passing.
His amusement fades into something more tender. “I wish I had met her.”
“Me too.” Those two words left my lips with a husky delivery that did nothing to hide my emotion.
Needing to lighten the mood for my sanity, I ask, “How long has this bromance between you and Leonard been going on?” I take his jacket.
Catching notes of his cologne and resisting the urge to bury my face in the collar, I move toward the hall closest.
“He’s been texting me since Light-Up Night. He got my number from your phone.”
I whirl toward him. “He did not.” I plugged Leo’s number into my cell the day we decorated the store.
The Maverick had my phone during the parade because he was supposed to connect the Bluetooth to the karaoke machine.
We all know what happened there, but what I did not know was that the old codger was browsing my contact list.
A smile curves Leo’s perfect lips. “He says I’m listed as Mr. February .”
I fumble the hanger, dropping the jackets onto the rug. Why can’t I ever have a Hot Girl moment? Instead, I’m in my Unhinged Cringe era. Sadly, I don’t think I’ve peaked yet. Well, there’s something to look forward to.
Leo sweeps the coats from the floor and gently hands them over.
I hang them in the closet and say over my shoulder. “So … you are in the calendar? Like for real?” I realize my tone’s half-scandalized, half-accusation and completely high-pitched.
His head tilts. “Why wouldn’t I be? It’s for a good cause.”
I shut the closet door and lean against it. “I, uh, didn’t think you’d go for that kind of thing.”
“Interesting.” He flattens his palm on the wall, right above my shoulder, and leans on that outstretched arm. His smile builds into a wicked grin. “What exactly do you think the calendar’s about, Greta Carlton?”
Fire climbs my spine, and his proximity is making my head swim. “The chief made me think it’s … you know, one of those.”
“Mmm.” He shakes his head, and his face dips closer. “I’m still not seeing it.” His voice pitches low. “Just how are you picturing me?”
That’s enough of that. I playfully push his arm away. “Shut up.”
He chuckles. “Only curious where your imagination was going.”
With a roll of my eyes, I lead him down the hall and pause at the archway to the den.
It’s at this moment, reality hits. This place isn’t Leo-proof.
I’m at once shy and feeling awkward all over.
Beside me stands Remington Orileo Mathis from a prestigious family.
The man’s probably used to butlers serving him food, chandeliers winking at him, and dishes trimmed in gold leaf.
We have red Solo cups that have Sharpied names on them.
The names are necessary because once Pap accidentally drank Bruce’s Sprite spiked with Metamucil.
The hall bathroom has never been the same.
Point is, this scene no doubt looks ridiculous.
In the den, four card tables are draped with Gran’s kitsch tablecloths and decked with paper plates.
Around these card tables are eleven old guys in various shades of flannel.
Leo leans over and whispers, “Seems I’m not in dress code.”
I huff a laugh. “Neither am I.”
“No, you’re cuter.” He tugs one of my apron strings, bringing me closer to him.
Pap catches this exchange, and his eyes narrow. I brace myself for a rude comment, but instead, he waves me over. “Greta, come settle a dispute.”
I don’t budge an inch. “If this is about whether Gremlins is considered a Christmas movie, we’ve been over this. I’m not about to take another anonymous vote.”
Pap’s shoulders lower. “Denny rigged it.”
Denny, the quietest of the golden guys, smiles slyly and continues scratching answers onto a crossword puzzle.
I face Leo and lower my voice. “You sure you’re prepared for this?” I feel like any second now I’m going to hear “The Greta Carlton Show is filmed before a live audience.”
Because—between the outdated decor and the antics of the golden guys—Leo no doubt thinks he stepped into an ’80s sitcom. All we’re missing is the laugh track. Though I’m sure Leonard could locate one fairly quickly.
I gesture toward the Mavericks. “I hope noise and inappropriate jokes told by old men won’t spoil your pumpkin pie.” Then I think to ask, “You already ate dinner, right?”
He shrugs. “There was leftover Domino’s at the station.”
I gasp. “Today is not the day for leftovers.” While I love carbs in every form, I can’t allow this.
With a raised finger, I signal Leo to wait and address the Mavericks.
“Okay, gentlemen, the pies are on the buffet. Mom’s almost done with the topping.
Then you can help yourselves.” I turn to Leo. “You. Follow me.”
He chuckles. “I like when you’re bossy.”
I don’t think it’s me being bossy as much as it is an impulse. A reflex. A need pops up, and I feel it’s my duty to step in. I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember. “We have an extra guest,” I call to Mom as we enter the kitchen.
She’s scooping out the whipped cream into serving dishes, not glancing up. “Did Professor bring a date? He mentioned last week that he had the hots for the deli lady at Thatcher’s Market.”
Love and lunchmeat. I don’t even want to know. “You remember Leo Mathis from the parade?”
Leo respectfully says hello, even as Mom’s grin widens.
“Delighted you came!” There is so much inflection in her voice that she’s practically singing.
He smiles. “Thank you for having me.”