Page 61 of About Last Christmas
At first glance, the Mathis mansion lives up to the town gossip, at least in terms of extravagance. The high-vaulted entryway tempts me to say something loud to check if my voice echoes. But mostly, I’m thinking the recessed lights must be a pain to change. Not everyone needs extension ladders to switch out a lightbulb.
My boots click against the marble flooring as I follow Leo farther into the foyer. I unbutton my coat, hoping I picked the right outfit. I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard to impress, especially since this wasn’t a date. On the other hand, I didn’t want to appear as if I didn’t put in any effort. My mood called for a red sweater dress and black leggings. I swept up the left side of my hair with a vintage comb from the 1940s, a past birthday gift from Gran and Pap.
Leo takes my coat and scarf and hangs them in a closet. A grand staircase is before us, its wrought-iron balustrade making a bolder statement than the one inGone with the Wind.
He glances at his phone, then pockets it. “The food should be here in about twenty minutes. I thought DoorDash would be good. That way we can get to work.” He nods at the folder I’m holding.
“Sure.” I’m standing too stiff, too wooden, like some overgrown nutcracker. Okay, deep breaths. Get the focus off me. “Can you give a quick tour? I need to verify if the rumors are true.”
His mouth takes on an amused twist. “Ah, the Mathis lore. Enlighten me, ’cause I only know of the suspected dungeon with a tunnel leading to an underground crypt.”
“Wait, you’re saying that’s a myth?”
He laughs. “Sorry. No skeletons or torture devices here.”
I snap my fingers in an “oh, darn” gesture. “Bowling alley made with the wooden slats from JFK’s bedroom?”
“No bowling alley.”
And the best for last. “A gallery full of sconces salvaged from the Titanic?”
Another shake of the head.
“Well, I better be going then.” I playfully turn toward the door, and that’s when I spot it. “Leo?” I say in a hushed tone.
“What’s wrong?” His hand’s at my elbow, and he’s glancing about as if I’d encountered a giant spider.
“Your hall side table.” I walk tentatively toward it.
He’s stuck to my side. “What about it?”
I inhale and brush a hand reverently over the rosewood top. “Do you know this is a Meeks?” I tamp down the urge to hug the pedestal table from the 1840s. It’s stunningly preserved.
The corners of his mouth tip up. “I did not. Is that good?”
I gape at him. “The J. and J.W. Meeks company is like the Tiffany’s of the furniture world.”
“Got it.” He gives a brisk nod. “So you’re saying I shouldn’t toss my keys on it anymore.”
“No!” I swirl around and move between him and the table, as if protecting the gem. “Reform your ways, Leo Mathis.”
He chuckles. “I think you might like to roam around the rest of the house. It’s filled with this kind of crap”—he retreats a step at my glare—“I mean, treasure. Have at it, Greta.” And he turns me loose.
It’s like an antique scavenger hunt plus a vintage wonderland as I explore the rooms. A Herman Miller chest of drawers. A Drexel Heritage buffet. A Baccarat vase? Are you kidding me? “This is like a museum,” I say to him on our way up the steps. Seriously, Leo has a better inventory than I do, and he had absolutely no idea. I try not to be jealous.
“I spend more time up here.” He opens a door to a personal gym that puts my weightlifting equipment to shame.
“Wow. Impressive.” Not as impressive as the Baccarat vase, but I emphasize my words to placate him. He seems proud of this space.
“I thought you’d like this setup. Seeing that you love to strength train.”
Ha! Good one. I don’t contradict him, but apparently my face alerts him to the falseness of his words.
He raises a brow. “You do like to train, right? You have all the equipment.”
He would think that, since he interrupted my morning workout the other day. I lower onto a weight bench. “Yeah, but it’s not for me.”
“That’s not your gear?”
