Page 16 of A Perfect Christmas Romance (Kringle, Texas #8)

“Yes, sir. I am,” she said.

“Good, because the job comes with a substantial bump in salary.”

Well, that was nice. “Thank you for your confidence in me. I won’t let you down.”

“I’m confident in your abilities. You’ll start your new role after the New Year. Until then, have a wonderful holiday.”

“I appreciate that, sir, you too.”

“Dad!”

They turned to see Billy Lawerence trotting toward them.

“I’ll let you talk to your son.” Liv nodded and headed back to the party to oversee the cleanup.

Excitement lent spring to her steps. A promotion and a huge raise. A grin split across her face. She reached in her pocket for her phone to blast her good news to family and friends, but the first person she thought to call was Nick.

* * *

The rain drummed against the roof of Nick’s car and spilled down the windshield as he pulled into Matilda Merris’s driveway.

One shot to nail this interview. This morning, his boss made things crystal clear—no Marty Merris exoneration story, no permanent position at the network.

Nick exhaled, stuck his hand in his pocket, and rubbed his thumb against the smooth surface of the snowman ornament in his coat pocket. He found it last night when he unpacked the Christmas ornaments to decorate his tree.

He’d kept the grinning snowman after all these years. Liv gifted him the ornament when they were dating, and he’d forgotten about it until he opened the box and memories tumbled out.

With a frustrated snort, Nick shoved the ornament deeper into his pocket and grabbed his tablet notebook. He pushed open the vehicle’s door and braced himself, the chilly rain slicing through the night air.

He popped open his umbrella and jogged up the porch steps. He knocked on the door, hoping his stubbornness would pay off. For a long moment, nothing happened.

Maybe she wasn’t home, dang it. He paused, uncertain what to do next, and then, grunting, he turned to go.

The door creaked open.

He swiveled back.

Matilda’s sharp gaze swept over him and for a heartbeat, she stared, her expression unreadable. “You again.”

He held up the card she’d given him and pinned on a “please don’t slam the door on me’ smile. “You did give me your address at the art show. I hoped that was an invitation.”

Matilda studied him and curled her fingers around the edge of the door. Her weight shifted, and she moistened her lips. Subtle, but there—a hesitation. He had a chance.

“You could have called first.”

“I was afraid you’d refuse me.”

She nodded. “I would have.”

Nick leaned in just enough to hold eye contact without crowding her space. “I understand you’ve declined all interviews, but…” He took a breath. “I think you do want to talk. Maybe you’ve been waiting for the right person.”

Matilda’s eyes narrowed —here comes the door slam —but then she glanced at the rain pouring down behind him.

“You’re getting soaked standing there,” she said, her tone gruff.

Nick’s pulse jumped— hope . “So let’s talk inside.”

Her mouth twitched. “We don’t need to talk.”

“You sure about that? You did open the door.”

Matilda let out a measured breath and tapper her fingernails against the doorframe. “This isn’t a story you want, kid. Trust me.”

“I think it is.” Nick softened his tone, sensing the moment might tip either way. “Look, I don’t care about the headlines or rehashing old scandals. Please tell me about your experience .”

She scowled. “Why would you care about me?”

“Marty wasn’t just some name in a newspaper. He was your father. You dealt with the fallout. Tell me your experience and the impact on your art.”

The persuasive line was his entry, and it was true. He did want to know about Matilda.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and tension rippled through her jaw. In her stillness, he sensed the gears turning within her. Then she shook her head as if talking herself out of something.

“No interviews.”

Should he press? Secure his job? Or leave the woman in peace?

Guilt nibbled. In the past, he’d used people’s stories to advance his career.

“You’ve held on to this for fifty years, Matilda. Don’t you want someone to get it right?”

Her expression flickered—just for a second. A trace of something crossed her face, too quick to name. Regret, maybe. Or longing.

“Everyone thinks they know what happened,” Nick said. “They don’t. But you do. Set the record start.”

Matilda’s sharp blue eyes tried to peer into his soul, to decipher his character. “Why?”

Nick didn’t flinch. “Because I want the truth—whether it’s comfortable or not.”

Another pause. Nick held his breath and waited.

Finally, Matilda gave a reluctant nod. “All right.” She stepped back. “Come in.”

Relief flooded Nick. The warmth of the house enveloped him, along with the scent of wood smoke from the fireplace. He followed her into the living room, where the fire crackled in the hearth, throwing soft shadows across the artwork on the walls.

“Coffee?” she asked.

“Sure.”

I’ve just brewed a fresh pot,” she said. “I do that when I work late at night to keep me going. Have a seat and I’ll be right back.”

She disappeared.

He stood with his hands clasped behind his back studying her paintings that lined the wall, all featured baseball in some capacity juxtaposed with other unexpected elements.

A few minutes later, she returned, carrying a tray with two mugs of steaming coffee, cream, sugar and a plate of Christmas cookies.

Matilda settled the tray on the coffee table and eased down into an armchair next to the fireplace. Nick sat across from her, setting his tablet notebook on his lap, keeping it closed for now.

"Now," she said, handing him a mug and taking one for herself. “What about my father?"

Nick gave her the whole spiel about the museum directors refusing to accept Jack Gallagher’s collection of Marty Merris memorabilia. He had a feeling no one conned this woman, and he didn't try.

“Hmm,” she said. “I see now why your and your girlfriend came to my art show.”

Nick didn't correct her about Liv. Was she his girlfriend?

No, she was more than that. He'd had girlfriends since eighth grade, but Liv was so special he was scared to define their relationship with such a bland term.

He didn't want to think of life without her, but what if he committed himself and failed?

What if their feelings changed the way his parents' had?

He realized Matilda was looking at him oddly, waiting for him to say something. He'd lost the thread of their conversation, the first time that had ever happened during an interview.

"You want to know why my father did it, don't you?"

He nodded. He wasn't going to pressure her, not even if it meant going back to his boss empty—handed, but he was hoping to hear the whole truth behind the scandal.

He let Matilda tell the story her own way without interruption. She talked a long time, as though she'd bottled up her father's tragic story for so long it was a relief to let the words flow.

"The press condemned my father. They weren't interested in the truth," she said. "He refused to be interviewed ever again, even when he was old. After he died, I vowed never to let some vulture trample on his memory. Now that I'm old myself, maybe it's time to vindicate him."

Nick only vaguely noticed the early darkness of winter that cast gloom over the room as Matilda told him a story of mobsters who threatened Marty's family if he didn't agree to throw the game.

"It was all about gambling," Matilda said, "but my father never doubted they'd kill my mother and me."

"He took the bribe?" Nick felt he had to ask, but he couldn't help hoping Marty Merris was worthy of his daughter's devotion.

She was quiet for so long, he didn't think she'd answer.

"He did," she said at last. "You want proof, of course. Wait here."

She flicked on a light over the stairs and went down, disappearing for so long Nick was afraid something had happened to her. He waited impatiently until she came back.

"Here." She put a battered tin pail that had originally held peanut butter in front of him. "Open it."

The cover was rusty, and he struggled to get it off. A bundle wrapped in yellowed newsprint was inside.

He took it out and slowly unwrapped it, the old newspaper flaking off at his touch. It was money, lots of old bills secured by a rubber band that had rotted into hard, dark fragments.

"Is this the bribe?" he asked.

"Yes, my father never spent a penny of it, not even when he couldn't get any job except picking fruit in season."

Nick realized what a bad time this was to be a reporter without a photographer. Matilda had been so reluctant to see him that he hadn't wanted to put her off by arriving with one in tow.

"I'll need pictures of this," he said.

"Yes, I have a camera," Matilda said matter-of-factly.

He started to explain that it would have to be a professional photo, but she cut him off.

"I'm a professional photographer besides being a painter,” she said wryly. "When you're on your own, you pick up a lot of skills. My wildlife photography paid for this house. I'll take your pictures."

She shot over two dozen shots, even letting him take a few of her with the money. He left Matilda Merris with the best story of his career, photographs to back it up and the feeling he'd made a new friend.

For once he wasn't in a rush to write up what he'd learned. Marty's story had been on hold for nearly seventy years. He wanted to give it his very best efforts.

Nick leaned forward, elbows on his knees, her revelation pressing down on him. “You’ve lived with the truth and kept it to yourself all these years.”

Matilda gave a bitter laugh. “That was my life.”

The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks into the grate. Nick ran a hand over his face, his thoughts swirling. He believed clearing Marty’s name would grant him a once-in-a-lifetime story, but now...

“Why tell me?” he asked.

Matilda studied him. “You remind me of him and his relentless drive for an elusive goal.”

“Why now?”

She locked eyes with him. “I need for you to understand something. Don’t waste your energy on the dead, Mr. Matheson, time is a precious commodity. Don’t squander it. People are the only thing that counts. Make the most of your time on this earth and never, ever forget those who truly love you.’