Page 5 of The Grump Who Stole Christmas
“Wait, you’re Chris’s daughter?” he asked.
“Yes. You know my dad?”
“Everyone knows your dad.”
It was true. In Salt Sprints, home of the legendary Salt Sprints Christmas Jamboree, Chris Kringle was somewhat of a celebrity.
“Well, if you know him, then you know he recently had an accident. I’m here to evaluate his condition and assess the situation.”
“Evaluate and assess, huh.”
There it was again. That tone of his that made me feel like he was either mocking me or figuring out the closest mental health institution to take me to.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said, his gaze on the road ahead of us. “Just that most folks from here would simply say you were visiting your pop.”
“Yes, well, I’m doing that too. And evaluating and assessing.”
“Got it.”
I turned to look at him but couldn’t really get a read on his expression. Probably because hair covered, like, eighty percent of his face. I could see cheekbones, though, prominent ones.
He didn’t look familiar, though. A man his age, which I’m guessing was pretty close to mine, I would have known him if he had grown up in Salt Springs.
“So you live in Salt Springs?”
“I do.”
“But you’re not from here or we would have met at some point.”
“Correct. But I have heard about you. From your dad. He thinks you’re pretty cool.”
I couldn’t help but smile. My father has always been my biggest fan. “See? He doesn’t think I’m crazy.”
“Well, fathers can be blind to their children’s faults.”
I scowled at him but he didn’t see it as he was making a turn onto the small road that would lead to the inn, which was just on the outskirts of what we called downtown, but was really one main street of store fronts, a town square, and houses that made up Salt Springs.
The road inclined pretty steeply but the car did manage it in the snow. After a minute, I saw a flash of the Kringle shingle in the headlights that announced the turnoff into the inn. The road forked here, one leading to the inn, the other to our house. I guess I wasn’t too surprised Paul knew that the right turnoff lead to the house. It was no secret where my dad lived.
We bumped over the dirt driveway until we came to a stop in front of the main house.
Home. Never changing. Ever fixed in my mind.
Except, was it my imagination, or did it feel like the house was a little more weathered looking than usual? It was probably just the dark, the snow covering, and my lousy mood.
“Well, thank you,” I said as I got out of the car. He was already out and opening the back door to get my suitcase. “I’m sure this is not what you planned for your night either.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Kristen,” I corrected him. “And this time I am introducing myself.”
“Paul,” he reminded me as we climbed the stairs of the stoop to the front door of the house. An overhang protected the porch from the snow so it was mostly clear. The outside light was on because my dad knew I was due home tonight. I hoped he hadn’t waited up for me. He needed his rest to heal.
“Nice to meet you,” Paul said as he stretched out his hand.
My lips twisted in a half smile as I took his hand and shook it. “Why don’t I believe that?”
