Free Secret Santa by Cynthia Reese Page B

around at this time of the year? We tried to apply for some grants, but most of the application windows are closed and all the funds are exhausted.”
    A tingle went up Charli’s spine. Was it pure coincidence that the clinic needed the amount of money in that safe deposit box? And that suddenly the clinic’s main patron was no longer available?
    “Who was the donor?” she asked again.
    Louredes turned to sag against the counter, then shook her head and shoved her hands in the too-tight pockets of her scrubs. “It doesn’t matter. He can’t help now. A lot of the community will be happy to see us go. Neil Bailey says he could paper his bathroom with all the letters to the editor complaining about what a source of trouble we are to this town. I’m glad he doesn’t publish them all. He publishes enough, that’s for sure. It’s not your problem—and could you please not advertise that we’re closing?”
    Charli nodded. “I won’t breathe a word. If I can help you, I will. You’ve made me a true believer— today has made me a true believer.”
    “You sound like your father. Dr. Prescott was a good man.” Louredes’s voice was husky.
    This new revelation surprised Charli yet again. Who was this man? When she was younger, all she’d ever heard from her dad about migrant workers were complaints.
    “He volunteered here?” she asked.
    Louredes’s gaze slid sideways and her knuckles whitened as she gripped her hands together so tightly the joints made that awful cracking sound that never failed to unnerve Charli. “Some. He was our medical director. And...he saw a lot of the local Hispanic community at his office. After hours.”
    Charli recalled the notebooks with their inked patient notes. Before she’d left the office, she’d flipped through some of the other notebooks and bundled them up to take with her.
    The later notebooks had been filled with entries detailing simple illnesses, cold and flu patients, not TB deaths. What she’d seen today had mirrored her father’s notes. She needed to read them. Tonight.
    Charli was even more convinced that she didn’t know her father at all. Which was sad. Because if this had been the man he was, well, she really would have liked to have been his partner.
    And the hundred thousand dollars? Maybe he’d intended for it to go to save this clinic.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    N EIL RAISED HIS FIST to knock on Charli’s door and hesitated. She’d just come in. Maybe she’d been held up at work, and if that were the case, she probably wouldn’t want company.
    He’d looked for her at the cantata rehearsal and hadn’t seen her. Maybe he owed her an apology for siccing Flora on her—even if it had been in the best of intentions.
    If we’re honest here, Bailey, you just want to see her again.
    He banished thoughts of silky blond hair and china-blue eyes that shone with fierce determination. To make sure she’s okay, he amended, and swore he would believe the lie he told himself.
    That bit of housekeeping attended to, he knocked on the door.
    It took Charli a moment to answer. When she did, she opened it a scant two inches, enough to see who it was.
    “Oh! Neil!” The door opened wider, then she closed it back a little. Still, that was definitely a smile—a small one, but still a smile.
    Wow. Not the reaction I was expecting—I figured she’d be all “Beat it, Bailey.”
    But she wasn’t. At least part of her seemed pleased to see him. However, he could detect some hesitation in her face.
    “Is this a good time?” Neil asked. “Because I can always, you know, come back another time.”
    “Oh, no, no, come in. Just...give me a minute. I have to...”
    She shut the door before she told him what it was she had to do. Had he caught her in her jammies? It was only eight, but doctors had weird hours, after all.
    He heard a series of bumps and chair squeaks. Didn’t sound as though she was yanking on anything over Hello Kitty pj’s—or whatever she wore to bed.
    Stop