Page 76 of A Cheesecake Christmas

We get the bills and coins gathered into a few money bags—I notice Liz discreetly tucks several back in her bag when we see we don’t need all of them—and then both Marjorie and Paul escort me to the car. He drives in his security car behind me to the bank and goes in with me as I deposit it into the festival’s account.

It takes the bank teller a while to count it all, and when she gives me the amount, my jaw drops open.

“Are you sure?”

She nods. “We’ve had two of us count it by hand and the machine will verify. But yeah. I’m sure.”

Chapter 32

Theo

The New Hedge Rec Center is teeming with people, and the noise and commotion is already giving me a headache.

I wait by the front doors, almost ready to leave and get back to my work, when I finally see him, all floppy hair and gangly arms and legs. If Marty had gone to prison, when he got back, his son would have been completely grown—well into his adulthood.

But Marty isn’t going to prison.

He’s not home yet, either. He’s still got his other apartment. The family needs some time. And Marty’s got some things to prove to the family before they feel safe to let him back in their lives. But . . . things are moving in the right direction.

I don’t bother with shaking Elijah’s hand when he walks in the doors. I only smile and then point to him as I tell the clerk at the front desk, “This is him.”

I’ve paid his entrance fee—which is part of a year’s pass for the whole family. But that’s not something I feel comfortable divulging right now. I’ll text the info for the pass to Elijah’s mom later.

Elijah’s expression clouds, as he warily glances from the front desk clerk back to me.

“My dad told me to meet you here.”

I nod and offer a smile as I ask Elijah to follow me. We walk to the basketball courts on the far side of the center.

It’s a good sign that he and his dad are speaking. At one point, Elijah, according to Marty, was refusing to speak to him. A sentiment that I remember feeling.

If my dad had ever tried to make contact, I probably would have refused it. At least I would have by the time I was a teen and my anger had solidified in my gut.

But again, I have to remember to try not to look at this through the lens of my own experiences, as much as is possible.

Marty Fleming isn’t my father. Not even close. I’m relieved I finally opened my eyes to that fact before it was too late.

“How’s the custodial position?” I ask Elijah.

“It’s good. I get to listen to my music, and I can leave as soon as I’m done. It helps that the building’s been remodeled. Everything’s pretty clean as it is.”

“It always looks good when I get in in the mornings.”

“I heard you’re the first in and the last one to leave most of the time.”

“Who told you that?” It’s true, but how would he know?

“I overheard Aria and Camilla.”

“Aria talks about me, huh?”

Aria and I haven’t seen much of each other the past couple of weeks. We’ve both been working nonstop, and we divide and conquer most of the time as far as the festival is concerned, trying to spread the love around.

We near the doors to the basketball courts and Elijah stops. “Thanks for helping my dad. A misdemeanor is a lot better than a felony. And bench probation’s a lot better than prison. My mom thinks the community service and court-ordered therapy is going to help him the most.”

I wave him off. “We can thank the prosecuting attorney for being willing to recommend all that, and the judge for accepting it.”

“No, but I heard you in the courtroom. I know what you said made a difference to the judge.”

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