Page 33 of About Last Christmas
“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, ourWhite Christmasfloat 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? LikemyGran?”
“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 …”
