Clean Getaway

Chapter 1: The Christmas Card Problem

The photograph on Gary Phelps's refrigerator showed a handsome family of four standing in front of a professionally decorated Christmas tree. The father wore a cable-knit sweater that suggested both warmth and fiscal responsibility. The mother's smile radiated the kind of contentment usually reserved for pharmaceutical commercials. The two children—a boy of approximately ten and a teenage girl—displayed the wholesome attractiveness of models who would one day sell you dental insurance.

None of these people were related to Gary Phelps.

None of these people had ever met Gary Phelps.

Gary had purchased this photograph, along with fourteen others spanning a decade and a half, from various stock photo websites. Each December, he selected a new image, printed it on premium cardstock, and mailed it to his grandmother Mildred in Palm Beach with an update on his fictional family's fictional accomplishments.

The deception had started innocently enough. Fifteen years ago, fresh from a divorce that had left him with a studio apartment and a persistent eye twitch, Gary had panicked when Grandmother Mildred called to ask about his holiday plans. She'd sounded so disappointed when he mentioned spending Christmas alone that he'd improvised.

"Actually, I've met someone," he'd heard himself say. "Her name is... Sandra."

Sandra had become pregnant by the following Christmas. Then came little Madison. Then Tyler. Gary had watched his fake family grow through carefully curated stock photography, always selecting images generic enough to be plausible but attractive enough to make Grandmother Mildred proud.

The system had worked beautifully for nearly two decades. Grandmother Mildred lived in Florida. Gary lived in Connecticut. The geographic buffer made verification impossible and visits impractical. His grandmother had never questioned the arrangement, and Gary had never examined too closely why a ninety-year-old woman with declining health might not push harder for face-to-face contact with her only son's only child.

Now, standing in his kitchen on a Tuesday evening in late June, Gary stared at the letter that had arrived that afternoon and felt the familiar eye twitch return with enthusiasm.

The letter was handwritten on Mildred's personal stationery—the expensive cream-colored paper with her initials embossed in gold. Her penmanship remained remarkably steady for a woman approaching her ninth decade.

"Dearest Gary," the letter began. "As you know, I will be celebrating my 90th birthday on Saturday, June 28th. I have decided to mark this milestone by gathering all of my grandchildren and their families at the estate for a long weekend of celebration."

Gary's eye twitched.

"I have also decided that this is the appropriate time to settle the matter of my estate. As you know, your grandfather left me quite comfortable, and I have been blessed with good fortune in my investments over the years."

Twitch. Twitch.

"I will be observing all of my grandchildren and their families during this visit. Whichever family demonstrates the closest bonds and warmest relationships will receive the entirety of my estate upon my passing. I want my legacy to support a family that truly values connection over material wealth."

Gary read the last sentence three times, trying to find an interpretation that didn't spell his complete financial and familial ruin.

"I so look forward to finally meeting Sandra and the children. Your cousin Randall has already confirmed his attendance with his wife and their three boys. Please respond by Thursday to confirm. With love, Grandmother."

Gary sat down heavily on his kitchen chair. The math was simple and devastating. Today was Tuesday. The celebration began Friday evening. That gave him approximately seventy-two hours to produce a wife named Sandra, a teenage daughter named Madison, and a son named Tyler.

He briefly considered confessing. He imagined calling his grandmother, now, and explaining that he'd been lying to her for fifteen years about the most fundamental aspects of his existence. He imagined her face—or rather, the face he remembered from his childhood, because he hadn't actually seen her in person since his grandfather's funeral eight years ago.

He imagined his cousin Randall's face when he learned the truth. Randall, who had spent every Christmas at the estate. Randall, who had married his college sweetheart and produced three sons in quick succession, as if manufacturing heirs for exactly this scenario. Randall, who had once told Gary at Grandfather's funeral that he was "surprised the black sheep bothered to show up."

The inheritance was substantial. Grandmother Mildred's "quite comfortable" situation involved a beachfront estate, a investment portfolio that had survived multiple market crashes, and a collection of jewelry that had been featured in actual magazines. Gary had never expected to inherit any of it—Randall had always been the obvious favorite—but the thought of losing it because he couldn't produce a family he'd invented was somehow worse than never having a chance at all.

Gary looked at the stock photo family on his refrigerator. The father's sweater suddenly seemed to mock him.

He needed a wife. He needed two children. He needed them by Friday.

He needed a miracle.

Or, failing that, he needed actors.