Page 49 of About Last Christmas
“Amazing.” The corners of his mouth lift into an incredulous smile. “How could you tell? It looked like the picture I’ve got on my phone.”
“The hallmark was all wrong. The stamped letters on a real Vallerton piece are farther apart.” I shake my head. “It’s a sad, sad world when people make impostor baby Jesuses.”
“You, Greta Carlton, just saved me a thousand bucks. How about I start repaying my debt with dinner? Besides, I still owe you from last night.” He put in his offer smoothly, but my mind’s hung up on the fact that Leo would’ve bought that fake had I not been here. This brings me back to my initial deal. Will he go for it?
Leo unlocks his truck, but I’m rooted to the sidewalk. A knot puckers between his brows. “You okay?”
“Can we, maybe, walk for a bit?” I gesture toward Haviland’s Main Street. Jeff’s antique store is at the very end of the line of shops.
“Sure.” He pockets his keys and rejoins my side. He takes the outside spot, closest to the street. While there’s hardly any traffic, my romantic soul applauds this little protective gesture.
I brush off the remaining specks of annoyance from my exchange with the jerky shop owner and breathe in the moment, emptying my thoughts of everything but the scene spreading before me. “This”—I motion to the brightly lit surroundings—“has my heart. There’s something about Christmas and small towns.” While I’m partial to Silver Creek, this main street is charming. Speakers, attached to the iron streetlamps, are softly playing instrumental Christmas songs. The storefronts are aglow with seasonal splendor. The busyness, so attached to the holidays, doesn’t exist here. A peace and stillness that whispers of bygone seasons hangs in the air. “Sometimes I feel like I was born in the wrong era.”
His hand brushes mine. “I like you in this one.”
I glance at him as the interplay of light and shadow flits across his face. “My tastes don’t match my generation’s. Probably because I was raised by my grandparents. I’d rather watch an Audrey Hepburn movie than scroll through social media.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
I shrug, uncertain what to say.
He pauses beside a bench nestled between a barber shop and toy store. “I never got to ask you the other night.” The same intensity that made my chest squeeze in Pap’s kitchen darkens his eyes.
My breath turns shallow. “Yes?”
“At the parade, I overheard your friend apologizing about leaving you alone on the fifteenth.”
Oh. That. “Yeah. She’s going to New York. She felt bad about canceling our plans.” I offer the less-emotional version, but Leo’s not having it.
“She mentioned the fifteenth. Does she know about last Christmas?” His gaze holds mine, then inches slowly over my face. He’s fully focused on me, and I can’t even enjoy his attention because he’s digging into a moment I wish to forget. “The fifteenth was the night of our missed date.”
“It was.” I glance away. “But that’s not what she meant.”
A car goes past. The song over the speakers switches to “Jingle Bells.” And Leo is waiting patiently for me to continue, but I don’t know if I can.
He steps closer. “You can tell me.” A breeze pulls a lock of hair across my cheek, and he knuckles it back.
I nearly slide my eyes closed at his touch. “The fifteenth is the night that Gran died. Tilly was apologizing for missing the first anniversary of her passing.”
Leo pales. “You mean, your Gran passed the same night I didn’t show?”
“Yeah.” My bottom lip trembles, and I sink my teeth into it. This was painful, but maybe I need to voice it. Maybe talking will drain its strength. Or feed it. I don’t know. “She woke from her nap and called for me. But she slipped back into sleep and then was … gone.”
“You didn’t get to say goodbye.”
“No.”
Before I can draw another shaky breath, Leo pulls me to him, wrapping strong arms around me. He buries his face in my hair and murmurs, “I’m sorry, Greta. You missed it all, and then I never showed. I can’t begin to say how awful I feel.”
This embrace isn’t sensual or even romantic, but it provides the warmth my bleak heart needs. “Thank you.” I angle back, peering up at him and savoring the comfort of his touch. “It’snot your fault though. It’s just one of those things.” The notes of misery in his gaze make me press into him more. “This past year wasn’t easy, but I’m learning more about her. Things I never understood before.”
“Like?”
Here I go. “Did you believe in Santa when you were little?”
He’s quiet for a handful of pulse-pounding seconds. No doubt from my abrupt switch in conversation. “I honestly can’t remember. I think I did when I was really young.” He releases me but remains close.
“I got made fun of in second grade because I told some girls at recess what I wanted from Santa. I came home crying and begged Gran to tell me the truth—if he existed or not. Do you know what she said?”
