Page 35 of About Last Christmas
P.S. Always Believe
I sit frozen, letting her words embed in my soul. I don’t know how long I linger in the hall, but I numbly rejoin the men. True to his word, a steaming cup of espresso awaits me on his desk. I reclaim my seat, fully aware of the lone tear rolling down my cheek.
Fletcher offers me a tissue, his eyes holding notes of compassion and expectancy.
I should say something. Anything. “I really hope I put pecans in her salad.”
Pap looks at me, the grooves in his forehead deepening.
“Here.” I hand him the letter and glance at Fletcher. “I should be angry at you.”
The young lawyer places a hand on his chest, his expression one of innocence.
“All this time. I thought it was you.” A soft laugh escapes me. “And it was her.”
“And now it’s you?” Fletcher’s tone is hopeful.
“How can I refuse anything she asks?” Something I no doubt believe my crafty grandmother knew. I glance at Pap. He’s engrossed in the letter. Probably feeling close to her once againas I had. Reading her words, I could hear the soft lilt of her voice, almost smell her lavender hand cream.
“She knew about the candy,” Pap murmurs under his breath in a gruff but affectionate tone. “Of course, she knew.” He all but presses the letter to his heart, and I melt a bit. Their marriage was one of devotion built upon friendship.
I want that.
“So what do ya say, Greta?” Pap hands me back the letter, his fingers a little unsteady. “Are you going to carry on your Gran’s wishes?”
Twenty minutes ago, I thought I was only inheriting Gran’s Christmas decorations. Never would I have believed Gran was bestowing some massive community tradition upon me. I turn to Pap. “I’m shocked you kept the secret for this long. You’re the man who always let me guess my birthday presents.”
“It was self-preservation,” he protests. “She threatened bodily harm if I told anyone.”
I shake my head, not believing him. But I’m sure Gran convinced him one way or another to keep silent. She always got her way. It seems she still will. “Fine. I’ll do this.”
“Fletcher.” Pap climbs to his feet and holds out an age-spotted hand. “May I have the Cranial Claus Couture?”
“Thewhat?” I watch as Fletcher leaves his post at his desk and retrieves something from a cabinet.
Pap shuffles to stand before me. “On this day—” He stops his speech to glare at Fletcher. “You missed your cue, kid.”
“Clifford, I don’t think?—”
“Hum,” he gruffly commands.
After a lengthy sigh, Fletcher starts humming … “Here Comes Santa Claus.”
What. Is. Happening?
Pap clears his throat and begins again. “On this day in the year of our Lord, we celebrate a momentous occasion. Withthis Cranial Claus Couture.” He wiggles his fingers, and Fletcher drops into Pap’s hands a …
“Santa hat from the dollar store?” The tag’s still on it.
“Shh. It’s your ordination. Show some respect, child.”
I hear Fletcher chuckle behind me, and Pap levels him with a look he only reserves for those cheating at Hearts.
“Today, I crown you, Greta Jane Carlton, the official Silver Creek Secret Santa.” He holds the hat just above my head. “Do you so solemnly swear to uphold the integrity of this revered position?”
“Uh, I think so.” It’s difficult to take this seriously when the plastic tag keeps smacking me in the right eye.
He smooths the hat over my head and, I kid you not, shakes a jingle bell.
