Page 34 of About Last Christmas
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.
Dear Greta,
I address you from the grave. Ha! How’s that for a dramatic opening line? Okay, I’ll stop with the theatrics, but it’s not every day I can communicate a message fromthe afterlife. There I go again. Truthfully, as I write this, you’re making me a salad downstairs—I hope you put pecans in it. I love when you put pecans in my salad. But if you don’t, I won’t complain because you’ve been such a dear.
I can’t express how grateful I am for all the love you’ve shown to us. I’ve seen your selflessness in how you daily cared for me and your Pap. You could’ve left. But you stayed. You gave of yourself for nothing in return.
This is why you’re the perfect fit for this, my sweet Greta. By now you’ve heard that I am (was) the Silver Creek Secret Santa. (Don’t get mad at Fletcher Thomas. I practically made him be the face of this and what a face it is. Do you think he looks like a young Marlon Brando or is that just me?)
It may seem high-handed that I stipulated a timeline for this “reveal” in my will, but you and I love Christmas so much. I know you’re ready for this undertaking.
I’m passing this festive mantle on to you. I want you to carry on the tradition. Our souls may be separated, but we share the same heart. I know you, Greta. Your spirit is never soaring unless you’re lifting up someone else. Here’s your chance to live a little and bless somebody this season.
I ask that, this year, you give someone the best Christmas.
On top of this duty, please remember to keep your Pap in line. If you haven’t found it yet, he keeps a stash of York Peppermint Patties in a Pringles can hidden in an old boot. I love you, sweet girl. Just know you always made me proud.
Gran
