He presses his lips together as if wanting to say something more, but in the end, he only nods.
“I’ll make some calls and see what I can find.”
“Should I leave my number?”
I shake my head a little too rapidly. “Just come back sometime next week.”
He catches my meaning with a softened smile. I don’t want his contact info. It’s for the best. The less I know about him, the easier I can put everything behind me.
Now if only I can close the door on my guilt.
I had the rest of the morning to recover from Leo’s unexpected appearance. Thankfully, the foot traffic had been slow. I contacted Jared, and he’s going to check his inventory for the Atlantic Mold ceramic tree and get back to me.
As for the nativity set, I’ve called several places with no luck. Like me, they don’t have any more clue where to find one. Leo might need to abandon the idea or pray for a Christmas miracle. I glance at the silver mailbox on the counter that Fletcher sent over. Maybe I should’ve encouraged Leo to write to the Silver Creek Secret Santa. Though I’m not sure Fletcher could grant that wish. Vallerton pieces are scarce and elusive, kind of like my Christmas spirit. My attention drifts outside, and my gaze snags on the strings of lights swooping between the streetlamps. When did those go up? The shop across from mine already hasits windows decorated. All these festive details have escaped my notice. Or I’ve been subconsciously blinded to them. Sometime between last year and now, I’ve developed Christmas cataracts.
It’s nearing lunchtime. I always get philosophical on an empty stomach. I move to lock the front door for my thirty-minute break, but Fletcher’s already entering.
He strides right toward me. “Hey, Greta. How’s it going?”
I’m starving and have to pee. “Good. What brings you?—”
“Would you like to go with me to the Firefighters’ Charity Gala? I’m the keynote speaker, and my date just backed out.”
It takes me a second to register his rushed invitation. “Oh, Fletcher.” I shoo him away. “Come back through that door and try again.”
“Why? What did I do?”
“You don’t ask a girl on a date by saying she’s replacing another girl. You should know this. No woman likes to know she’s the second option.” Unless she’s Tilly. Tilly’s pretty proud of her fourth runner-up status.
He winces. “That was a pretty bad approach.”
“Not exactly awful but kinda close.”
“Okay. How about this?” He stands taller. “Greta Carlton, I came here today with the sole intention of asking you to be my date to the gala. I promise you no marathon running is involved and, while I doubt there will be waffle fries, you can stuff your face with overpriced hors d’oeuvres.”
I huff a laugh. “Better.” Though I should do a solid for my best friend and urge him to ask her. Tilly would look better on Fletcher’s arm than I would. Oh wait. She can’t. She’s working the event. Brewtiful Grounds is in charge of drinks and desserts.
He flashes a smile that would weaken the knees of most women. “It’s next Wednesday, and I’d be honored if you’d go with me.”
That’s two days before Light-Up Night, and I haven’t gotten my float done. At all. But if I go with Fletcher, I score free dinner and get to wear a fancy dress. Since Gran passed, I’ve managed to have two looks. One, slightly disheveled enough to remain invisible to society. Two, overly disheveled to where people would drop coins in my coffee cup. I used to have confidence and put in more of an effort. If only just for me and my undernourished morale. I lost that piece of me and want it back.
Moreover, I need out of this mental rut I’ve been stuck in. My gaze roams the shop, so familiar, so … safe. Yes, this place has been my haven, but it’s also become my hideout. The world is spinning around me, and I’m huddled behind my counter, too nervous to step outside. Maybe Fletcher’s invitation is my sign to join the land of the living again. “I accept.”
He grins. “Good. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
CHAPTER 7
Mom might stubbornly adhereto her newly adopted catchphrase, “Leave it to me. I have it all taken care of,” but I’m not cruel enough to abandon her on the Mavericks’ card night. It’s a fixture here at the Carlton house, like the drippy kitchen faucet and the midnight-blue shag carpet Pap swears will come back in style. Pap adored Gran, but even she couldn’t nudge him out of his stubborn ways. Much to Gran’s grief, their house never boasted a three-leaf table in their dining room, but four strategically placed card tables surrounded by plush seating.
The very tableau now before me.
“Why’d you throw that ace, partner?” Leonard slaps a hand over his chest as if the sight of an ace of diamonds gives him instant heartburn. Maybe it does.
“Because I had to,” Pap answers with a growl.
“No table talk.” Bruce’s severe gaze toggles between Leonard and Pap. “If you two can’t handle your tricks, then bow out.”
Such is an evening with the Mavericks. They may be grumpy, loud, and sport an embarrassing amount of Western wear, but I love them dearly. Growing up, I always had a built-in cheering section. Like the time Leonard brought a foghorn to thechildren’s church Christmas pageant. I hated being in front of crowds, even then. I was the Star of Bethlehem with zero lines or solos, but I felt on top of the world when I stood through all four verses of “Joy to the World” without puking. Mom missed the program, but at the time of my bow, the Mavericks gave me a standing ovation, punctuated with the unloading of Leonard’s entire foghorn can. Such devotion followed me throughout the years, and so I will forever tolerate the ever-present smell of menthol cream and tubs of Metamucil in the cabinet.
