Home for Christmas in July: A Mistletoe Mountain Novel

Book 1: Mistletoe Mountain

by Melissa F. Miller

Genres: Holiday Romance; Romantic Comedy; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

Welcome to Mistletoe Mountain, where the holiday cheer never ends. Even when you really, really wish it would.

Nick Jolly runs the Inn at Mistletoe Mountain, a quaint Vermont town that celebrates Christmas all year round. The town even holds a Christmas in July festival every summer to keep the holiday spirit flowing. Usually, Nick lives up to his name, but this year, he’s recently widowed and embracing his inner Scrooge. It’s his first Christmas in July without Carol, and he wants nothing to do with any of it. Nick leaves his adult daughters in charge of festivities at the inn and retreats to his fishing cabin. To grieve. Alone.

Noelle Winters is grieving, too. The town librarian and diehard mystery lover has always found the holidays a bit lonely. She’s especially melancholy this year because she’s mourning the loss of her holiday-loving best friend, Carol. So when she stumbles across an envelope that contains a Mistletoe Mountain map and head-scratching clues, she jumps at the chance to distract herself with a scavenger hunt.

At first, the hunt seems like harmless fun, but Noelle quickly suspects she’s not the only one searching. When she turns up at the fishing cabin, frightened she’s being followed, Nick reels in his line and joins her in her quest.

As Nick and Noelle work together to decode the cryptic, holiday-themed puzzle, threatening messages and sabotaged clues pile up. What began as an innocent game takes a sinister turn. And as the danger mounts, the pair’s long-buried feelings for each other spark to life.

Will Nick and Noelle survive to solve the puzzle and save Christmas (in July)? And is Mistletoe Mountain’s festive magic strong enough to return the sparkle to Nick’s eye and give Noelle the gift of love?

One way or another, there’ll be fireworks on the mountain this Christmas in July.

This heartwarming holiday rom-com mystery features a closed-door, second-chance romance loaded with crackling chemistry, gripping suspense, and small-town shenanigans. Home for Christmas in July can be read as a standalone.

Release date: July 25, 2024

Publisher: Brown Street Books

Print pages: 260

Sample

Chapter 1

Noelle

Monday

 

Joshua Morgenthal brandishes the glazed cinnamon roll at me as if it were a knife. The menace in his eyes is real, but the effect is undercut by the thin layer of frosting coating his whiskered chin. I lock eyes with him and inhale deeply, keeping my right palm outstretched.

“Mr. Morgenthal, hand over the pastry.” I use my sternest librarian voice.

He shakes his head violently, sending a spray of crumbs spewing onto the colorful carpet. 

“You’ve already had one Christmas roll,” I point out. “And I specifically heard your husband tell you not to have any more sweets before he left.”

I could hardly have missed it. Ryan’s clear voice cut through the hushed library like a bell when he shouted the warning over his shoulder from the memoir and biography section on his way to the exit. The Mistletoe Mountain Public Library is usually a hive of activity—we’re not one of those quiet libraries with the ‘no talking’ signs. But since the majority of the patrons this morning have their mouths stuffed with sweet rolls, we could be mistaken for one. I’ll have piles of sticky, frosting-covered books to wipe down before closing.

I chide myself for the silent complaint. I shouldn’t be so grouchy—or Grinchy. It is Christmas, after all. Well, Christmas in July, to be completely accurate. But in this town, there’s no functional difference.

Mr. Morgenthal’s gaze darts away from mine. He scans the lobby wildly as if searching for an escape route. At least he isn’t going to bother denying the truth. Good call, what with the evidence all over his chin and the front of his shirt, not to mention the floor. When his bright brown eyes return to my face, he gives me a soulful look.

“Ah, come on, Noelle. Can’t you look the other way? Let an old man have some sweetness in his drab, bitter life, why don’t you?” He sticks out his glazed lip in a pout.

In point of fact, I was looking the other way when he grabbed the pastry. He waited until Roxie, the delivery driver, dropped off a big box of new mystery releases. Then he pounced. While I was focused on the latest book in the Maisy Farley mystery series, he slyly helped himself to another Christmas roll.

“Nice try. The roll. Now.” I fist my left hand on my hip for emphasis. 

We stare at each other. I really don’t want to have to wrest the treat from his hand by force, but we both know I will if I have to. The seconds tick by. I ignore an itch on my nose. Finally, our dramatic standoff ends when he snorts in disgust and slaps the thing into my palm, sticky side down.

“Thank you,” I say, adding lots of sugar to my voice to make up for depriving him of the real thing.

I get a grunt in return.

As I wrap the roll in a festive red napkin, then use a green one to work on my gunked-up hand, I give him a bemused look. “Were you trying to have a hypoglycemic episode?” 

“No.” He glares at me.

The whole town knows Mr. Morgenthal has diabetes. The whole town knows just about everything about everyone. Sweet Merry’s, the bakery food truck, even has a sugar-free confection named for him.

“Why don’t you have Ryan take you for a Josh’s Jelly Roll after lunch?” I suggest.

He fake gags. “No way. Merry’s making chocolate sponge this week.” 

“For the Jule-logs?”

He nods and wrinkles his nose. “I don’t like the chocolate ones so much.”

“You have my sympathies. But I still don’t want you going into insulin shock in my library.”

“Oh, it’s your library, is it? And here I am laboring under the impression that this is a public library, paid for by my tax dollars. Anyway, I’m just trying to get into character.”

“Into character for what?” I search my memory. I don’t think he’s in the cast of Mountainside Players’ production of It’s A Wonderful Life, but to be honest, I haven’t been paying much attention. I’m not feeling very Christmassy this year.

“Didn’t you hear? I’m playing Santa at the festival next weekend.”

I give him a bewildered look. “You’re July Santa?”

He chuckles. “Tell me about it. Who ever heard of a Jewish Santa? Ryan thinks I should say ‘oy, oy, oy’ instead of ‘ho, ho, ho.’”

“I shake my head, still confused. “No, you’ll make a fabulous Santa. But why isn’t Nick Jolly doing it? Nick always plays Santa at the Christmas in July festival. It’s a tradition. He’s Santa, and ….”

As I trail off, he nods sadly. “Without Carol to play Mrs. Claus, I guess he doesn’t want to do it this year.”

My stomach twists and I start shaking as if I’m the one who’s been mainlining sugar. I haven’t thought about it, I realize with a guilty flush of heat in my cheeks. Nick’s wife died last August. This will be his first Christmas in July without her. Even though he made it through the real Christmas last winter, this one’s probably going to hit him harder. 

I know it’s hitting me harder. Carol Jolly was my best friend—had been ever since middle school, when she was still Carol Booker and thought the Christmas in July festival was the corniest, cringiest event in a town full of corny, cringy events. This isn’t the most surprising take, given that we were eleven. But she maintained her healthy disdain for the summer Christmas festivities throughout high school and most of college.

Her views shifted radically, though, when she and Nick bought the Inn at Mistletoe Mountain right after they got married. She threw herself into the holidays, and they took on their roles as Mr. and Mrs. Claus even though they were only in their early twenties. This year, Christmas in July isn’t going to be the same without Carol’s open house, her famous ice cream snowman cakes, and her warm, lilting laughter. Nothing’s the same without Carol.

I squeeze my eyes shut to hold back the tears that threaten to fall and feel a rough hand close over mine.

“It’s okay to miss her,” Mr. Morgenthal says in a gentle voice. “We all do.”

I open my eyes and manage a wobbly smile. “I’m fine,” I lie. 

“You don’t have to be, you know.”

His empathy threatens to push me right over the edge. If I don’t get a grip, I’m going to end up sobbing at the circulation desk. He either senses weakness or is trying to distract me from my grief because he reaches right over the desk and snatches the napkin-wrapped roll. Then he trots toward the front door with surprising speed and agility.

I sprint around the desk and race after him, yelling for him to stop in the name of blood sugar.

* * *

By the time I dodge a mother and son checking out the display of seed packets from our heirloom seed library and race outside, Mr. Morgenthal’s halfway down the street.

“I’m calling Ryan!” I shout.

He glances over his shoulder and gives me a playful salute before he jaywalks across High Street, cackling as he goes. I skid to a stop and catch my breath to make good on my threat. I fish my phone out of the pocket of my dress and pull up Ryan’s contact information. After I leave a voicemail tattling on his sugar fiend of husband, I wheel around to head back into the library and bump directly into a wall at full speed. Who put a wall in the middle of the sidewalk? As I bounce back from the impact, my brain catches up with my body and I realize I’ve just smacked into a broad, muscular chest covered in soft brushed cotton, not a wall.

“Did you just get outrun by an octogenarian?” a familiar voice asks in amusement.

I look up to see Nick Jolly’s full lips curving  into a broad smile, and I can sense he’s holding back laughter—barely.

My face heats as I defend my athleticism or lack thereof. “One, Josh isn’t an octogenarian. He’s only seventy-eight. Two, he’s faster than he looks. And three, he has the advantage of a sugar rush.”

“If you say so.”

I study his face. The hint of his smile lingers, but his gold-flecked hazel eyes are dull, devoid of their usual twinkle. My heart squeezes to see him this way.

“Hey…,” I begin. Then I falter. I don’t know what to say to him.

While I cast about for a way to bring up Carol, his loss, the summer Christmas festival—all of it—he asks, “Was it one of Merry’s rolls that got Josh in trouble?”

“Um, yeah, it was.”

He beams again, this time with fatherly pride. “She’s a helluva baker.” The smile wars with the sadness that radiates off him.

“She is.” I could leave it at that, and maybe I should. But I don’t. I swallow hard and add, “She gets it from her mom.”

Carol loved to bake. Her creations weren’t as fancy as Merry’s are, but every cake, cookie, and pie she made was infused with warmth and emotion. She used to joke that a pinch of love was the secret ingredient in all her recipes. At least I thought it was a joke then. Now, I think she was on to something.

Nick’s face tightens and the muscle in his left cheek twitches. “She does.”

It’s not even noon, but the July day promises to be a warm one. Nowhere near warm enough, though, to account for how sweaty I am as a result of this encounter. I should go. I’ve left the circulation desk unattended, which is less than ideal. And I’ve clearly upset him by mentioning Carol.

But, for some reason, instead of mumbling a goodbye, I say, “Josh told me he’s filling in for you as Santa. Why?”

His expression shutters. He scans the street, looking for an escape. I can give him one. I mean, I am supposed to be inside, checking out materials and saving diabetics from themselves. But I don’t take the easy way out. I owe Carol at least that much. So I watch his face and wait.

Finally, his shoulders slump and he sighs. “Noe.”

I don’t flinch at the old nickname, though I want to. He’s the only one who’s ever called me that. “What?”

“I can’t. I can’t do it. I miss her so much.” He scrubs a hand over his face, and my heart seizes.

I reach out and wrap my hand around his upper arm. “I know,” I whisper.

“You don’t,” he rasps. “You can’t imagine.”

“I don’t have to imagine. She was my best friend, long before she even met you. I do know. I miss her every day.”

“It’s not the same.”

He’s right, of course. It’s not. It’s so much worse. Not because I think the way I loved my friend is remotely the same as the love the two of them shared, but because, at the very end, I lied to her. I can’t say any of this to him, though.

It takes me several seconds to wrangle my emotions under some semblance of control. He stares at me, his gaze curious and steady, while I focus on my breath and try to hold back the tears that once again are building behind my eyes.

“Do you need help with the open house?” I finally manage, chickening out from saying anything more meaningful.

He swallows and shakes his head. “We’re not having one.”

“What do you mean you’re not having one?”

The Inn at Mistletoe Mountain has been hosting an open house to kick off the Christmas in July festival for as long as I can remember. Since before Nick and Carol took it over.

“It’s canceled this year.”

I gape at him. “You can’t just cancel it. I’m happy to lend a hand if you need help.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t want a house full of people. Not this year.”

Abdicating the role of Santa is bad enough. He can't get rid of the open house, too. The summer open house was, hands down, Carol’s absolute favorite holiday event. My mind spins as I try to find the words to convince him not to do this. “Nick, it’s a tradition, but it’s more than that this year. It’ll be a chance for the whole town to come together and celebrate Carol. Don’t take that away from folks.”

“Sorry, Noe.”

And then it happens. A fat teardrop leaks from my left eye. I turn and flee, running into the library. Behind me, I hear Nick calling my name, which only inspires me to pick up my pace. I dodge a pack of preschoolers trotting over to the gazebo with their music teacher to rehearse their song for the festival and run like a man trying to abscond with a frosted cinnamon roll.Chapter 2

Nick

 

Noelle’s stricken expression stays with me all morning, keeping me company on my circuit through town running the errands necessary to keep the inn going. Her horrified reaction was outsized, I tell myself, trying to eradicate the hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. I pull into the parking lot at the mill. It’s just a party, I insist, as I back the truck into a spot near the door, hop out, and lower the tailgate. My inner monologue isn’t working to dislodge the image of her bright green eyes filling with tears.

When I walk into the small retail shop attached to Marino and Sons Millworks, the tangy scent of baking bread fills my nostrils, and my stomach growl appreciatively.

“Morning, Nick,” the flour-dusted young guy behind the counter says.

“Morning, Enzo.”

The youngest of the Marino brothers wipes his hands on his apron and heads to the cash register. “We already pulled your order. Want me to give you a hand loading it?”

I almost say no, but I’ve got a twinge in my back from sleeping poorly and this kid’s half my age. I feel ancient. I bet Josh Morgenthal could beat me in a foot race.

“Sure, that’d be great.”

He rings up the purchases. “Your total comes to one hundred and fifty dollars.”

I blink, and peel a third fifty from the roll of bills I already have out of my pocket. “Did your dad raise his prices?” A fifty percent increase is steep. I might need to start sourcing my flour from another supplier.

He cocks his head, puzzled. “No. The wholesale rate’s the same as always. Fifty bucks for a fifty-pound bag.”

I give him a confused look back. “I only ordered two.”

“Ah, sure. But Merry called and said to add another bag. She needs it for the gingerbread houses. You know, for the open house.”

My gut twists. I haven’t gotten around to telling the girls that the open house is canceled. My daughters are going to make Noelle’s reaction look mild.

“Oh. Right.” I hand him the cash, and he studies me.

He looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he holds out a receipt. I pocket it while he walks around to the front of the counter and stoops beside three large bags of flour waiting on a pallet. He hefts the top two bags onto his shoulder, and I grab the last one and follow him outside. We pile the sacks in the truck bed, then I close up the gate.

“Thanks for the help.” I offer him a handshake.

“No problem.” He pumps my hand and turns as if to leave, then turns back. “Is it true you’re not not playing Santa Claus this summer?”

The note of betrayal in his voice catches me off guard. Enzo’s in his twenties. He hasn’t stood in line to see Summer Santa in at least a dozen years, probably longer.

The sun’s behind him, so I shade my eyes with my hand while I answer. “Yeah, not this summer.”

“But—”

“Josh Morgenthal’s going to stand in for me. He’ll do a great job.”

“But, he’s not Santa. You’re Santa.”

I raise an eyebrow, but before I can break the news to him, he gives a sheepish laugh.

“I didn’t mean that how it sounded. It’s just … I can’t remember a time when you didn’t play Santa. You’ve been Santa my entire life. You’re an institution, Nick. Our bookkeeper’s daughter has been working on a note for you for two weeks. You remember Angelica?”

The name conjures up a shy five-year-old with long dark curls and big eyes. “Sure. Cute kid.”

He frowns. “She’s gonna know Mr. Morgenthal’s not the real Santa.”

I scratch my neck. “Look, Enzo. This is a bad year for me with … everything. Josh’ll be a perfectly serviceable Santa. And if Angelica notices that he’s not me, just explain that the real Santa is extremely busy. Tell her he always has one of his helpers attend the summer festival.”

“I guess.” He’s unconvinced. “Well, see you at the open house then.”

I open my mouth, then I think better of it and snap it closed. He looks so dejected, I don’t have the heart to break the news that the open house is canceled. Not now, at least.

He gives me a half-hearted wave and heads back inside.

As I put the truck in gear, Noelle’s voice rings in my ears, telling me the open house is more than a tradition.

“Crud,” I growl aloud.

I’m going to have to get out in front of this and let my daughters know there’s not going to be an open house this year before they hear it from someone else.

 

* * *

I’m too late. I know it the instant I set foot in the kitchen. My three daughters sit at the big oak table, lined up by age—Holly, Ivy, and then Merry—wearing matching scowls.

“Uh-oh. What’s the matter?” I figure playing dumb is my best option.

Holly isn’t having it. She points a finger at me and uses her lawyer voice. “Is it true that you told Noelle Winters the summer open house is canceled?”

“Yes, but—”

Merry jumps in. “How could you?”

“Girls, you have to understand. I don’t have—”

“Did you or did you not bow out of playing Summer Santa?” Holly demands.

I have the irrational urge to plead the Fifth. “Well—”

“Dad, you didn’t!” Marry springs to her feet.

Quiet Ivy, who hasn’t said a word, gapes at me, her mouth open and her eyes wide. And something inside me breaks. I drop into a chair across the table from them.

“I can’t do it this year. I don’t have it in me to be jolly and cheerful.” Not while my heart is cracked in two, I add silently.

My confession diffuses their anger. The air changes and Holly reaches over the table to squeeze my hand.

“Oh, Dad.”

“I’m sorry you had to find out from Noelle. I should have told you.”

Ivy agrees. “Yes, you should have. But we understand how hard this is for you. It’s hard for all of us.”

“Let us help you,” Merry says, dropping into her seat again. “Don’t back out of everything. Mom wouldn’t want that.”

“She’d hate it,” Ivy informs me.

I study my daughters. Aside from their annoying habit of interrupting me, they’re pretty great. Take-charge Holly, gentle Ivy, and bubbly Merry. Despite, or maybe because of their disparate personalities, they’re close, really close—they always have been. They’re there for me and for each other. And when Carol was dying last summer, they were there for her.

“Do you think we can’t handle the open house without Mom?” Holly wants to know. “Because we can. Besides, people will be happy to help if we ask them to. Noelle already offered.”

I shake my head and have to clear my throat before I can speak. “No, of course not. I’m sure you’re capable of pulling it off. The three of you can do anything you put your minds to. And Noelle told me the same thing about helping. But it’s not the work that’s daunting. It’s facing Christmas in July without your mom.”

One by one their gazes slide away from my face, and I know they’re remembering our family summer Christmases. When you run the biggest inn in a town named Mistletoe Mountain, December is your busy season. The inn is booked solid from mid-November through early January, and every day is filled to bursting with seasonal activities, special meals, and themed crafts and games. As a result, in the Jolly family, our real Christmas celebration has always happened in July when the Mistletoe Mountain madness is slightly less all-consuming. Somehow, through the hazy pain of missing Carol, I managed to forget that my daughters have a lifetime of summer Christmas memories. Of course, they’re upset that I’ve canceled the holiday. The very reason why it’s so painful to me is why it’s so important to them. I’m a flipping moron.

Ivy speaks first. “Dad, please. We need to do this. For Mom, and for ourselves.”

I swallow around the blasted lump in my throat. “Okay, do it. Have the open house, but I can’t be a part of the prep work.” My voice is gruff to my own ears.

They exchange careful looks and Ivy pours me a glass of ice water from the pitcher on the counter.

“Thanks,” I tell her as she hands it to me.

“Are you sure?” Holly presses.

I take a long sip before answering. “I’m sure. Call Noelle. But leave me out of it.”

“We don’t need to call Noelle,” Merry chirps. “We already called Aunt MJ.”

I spew water and ice all over the table and sputter, “You what? Why?”

My sister, Mary Jane Field, is—to put it mildly—an agent of chaos. The girls start giggling, and Merry grabs a dish towel to wipe up the water.

“Relax, Dad. Aunt MJ isn’t coming here.”

“Whew, okay. You scared me there for a minute.”

“Clearly,” Holly says, arching an eyebrow.

They have no idea what a hot mess MJ can be. Her heart’s in the right place. I think. But she leaves a trail of destruction and criminal charges in her wake.

“Is she even out of prison?” I ask.

“Yes, she and Uncle Bart were both released early for good behavior.”

“Really? Well, they probably can’t cross state lines without letting their parole agent know. So, I guess we’re safe. But why on earth would you call her?”

“Because she runs a resort,” Holly counters.

“She ran a resort. Ran it right into the a pile of debt secured by a dangerous loan shark and left a big old mess for your cousins to clean up.”

“Right,” Merry agrees. “And they did clean it up. Rosemary, Sage, and Thyme have turned the Resort by the Sea around. It’s thriving. And they manage it long-distance. None of them even lives in New Jersey. Thyme keeps an eye on things from New York.”

“I had no idea. Good for them.”

“Didn’t you talk to them at all when they were here last summer?” Ivy wonders.

Last summer. The funeral. It’s a blur. A fuzzy Impressionist painting of pain and grief. My stomach churns at the memory of those dark days.

“If I did, I don’t remember,” I confess.

“Well, we did. And it was clear then they have a lot of experience and some great ideas,” Merry says.

“And they just happen to be at the Resort by the Sea this week and next for a family reunion,” Ivy adds.

“Okay. And?” I pick up the glass and drink cautiously.

“And they jumped at the chance to help us out. Sage’s husband had already arranged tickets to some golf tournament for the guys and Uncle Bart and Aunt MJ, so the sisters could spend a few days alone together. Rosemary said they’d cancel their spa getaway and come up here instead,” Holly says triumphantly.

“Great. Perfect.” So long as Tropical Storm Mary Jane doesn’t sweep through Mistletoe Mountain and destroy the whole town, this plan is fine by me. I really do love my sister—from a safe distance.

“The six of us will take care of everything,” Ivy promises. “It’ll be good for you—good for all of us. You’ll see.”

I can tell by the hope shining in my daughters’ eyes that they think this plan of theirs is going to put their broken father back together. I hate to see them disappointed, but this idea is doomed to fail. I’m beyond saving. Still, it’ll be good for them and the rest of the town to have the open house, so I muster up a smile, lean back with my glass of water, and let their chatter wash over me.Chapter 3

Noelle

Tuesday

 

“Roll those hips,” Griselda Alexander orders. She could be talking to the entire Hoop it Up fitness class, but she’s staring directly at me. Into my soul, it seems.

“I’m trying” I grumble, catching my lip between my teeth as I concentrate on swiveling the weighted hoop around my midsection.

Rumor has it Griselda moved here to open Maple Twist Fitness after a successful career as a dancer both on Broadway and on tours for some big-name musical acts. That’s the story, but I have a growing suspicion she actually retired from the military—specifically, as a boot camp instructor. I keep this to myself—in part, because she terrifies me, and, in part, because she’s a huge supporter of the library. She personally donated all the funds to cover the remodeled children’s wing last year.

“Winters, shake that booty!” she barks, putting to rest the question of whether her instructions are meant for me or everyone.

Sweat blooms on my forehead as several sets of eyes shift from the mirrored wall to me, watching with open interest my efforts to shake my booty. Someone in the back row titters, and I grit my teeth. I’m about to concede defeat, roll my hoop off the floor, and hang it on one of the pegs on the wall when I glimpse Nick through the studio’s front window.

He’s on the other side of the street sprinting and casting wild backward glances over his shoulder as if he’s being chased. He waits for a break in traffic, then bolts across the street and bursts through the doors into the studio. He screeches to a halt in the doorway, panting hard.

Griselda glares at him. “Class started ten minutes ago, Jolly.” Then she points at me. “Move over and make room for him.”

“Sorry.” He maneuvers through the sea of gyrating bodies, grabs a hoop, and squeezes into the spot I’ve made next to me.

“I didn’t know you take this class,” I say out of the side of my mouth as he steps into the hoop.

“I don’t,” he whispers back. “I prefer the pole dancing class.”

I snicker, and he gives me a confused look.

“Oh. You’re serious.”

“It’s a great workout. You should try it.”

Yeah, right. I’ll be lucky if Griselda doesn’t bust me back down to the beginners’ Bollywood dance class, given my insufficient undulating skills. I can’t imagine making any moves that would pass muster while hanging upside down from a pole. I am curious to see Nick doing it, though. My cheeks heat at the thought and I hurriedly clear my throat.

“So why are you here?”

“Hiding.”

Before I can ask who he’s hiding from, Griselda frowns and jabs her finger toward our corner.

“Move your hips, not your lips.”

I smother a giggle, and Nick covers his laugh with a cough.

I grit my teeth and flail my way through the remaining thirty-five minutes of class, acutely aware of Nick standing to my left. When class is over, I’m prepared to flee, but Nick stretches his hands out. “Give me your hoop. I’ll return it for you.”

“Thanks.”

His fingers brush against mine as I hand him the hula hoop, and electricity sparks between us. I tell myself it’s static because I have dry skin and not his effect on me. Still, I loiter in the hallway, putting my shoes on in slow motion so I can say a proper goodbye to him and take another crack at trying to convince him to celebrate summer Christmas.

While I’m waiting, Griselda sashays over to me with a wide smile. It’s wild how much nicer she is outside of class.

“Hey, I want to let you know I’m having a large package sent to the library.”

Why wouldn’t she have it delivered here—or to her house? I give her a curious look and then shrug. “Okay. Do you need me to bring it over for you?”

“No, no, it’s for you. Well, for the library. I was reading an article that said pretend play is so important for young children, and they’re not getting enough of it now with all the screens. So, I ordered a set of puppets and a puppet theater stage for the children’s wing.”

“Oh, that’s great. Kids love puppets.”

“They do, right?”

“They do,” I assure her. “It’s really thoughtful, and I’m sure it’ll get a lot of use. Thanks.”

She waves a hand. “Don’t mention it.”

Just then, Nick returns from the equipment corner, wiping the sweat from his neck with a towel. “Another great class, Grizzy,” he tells her.

“Grizzy?” I manage to suppress my laugh.

She turns to me. “You know, he could help with your hip thrusts.”

“What?” I choke.

“Nick. He could show you how to get your hips thrusting. He’s good at that.”

“Thanks,” I say weakly, hoping that the floor will open up a hole to swallow me.

No such luck. But for an instant, I think it swallowed Nick because he drops flat on his belly. Griselda and I exchange a bewildered look.

“Nick, are you—?”

“Shh.” As he shushes me, he army crawls on his elbows out of view of the window.

Noise out on the sidewalk catches my attention, and I turn to see Nick’s daughters and three other young women laughing and talking as they walk down the street. They stop directly in front of the fitness studio’s front door, and Merry gestures toward the sign.

“Are you hiding from your daughters?” I ask Nick’s departing back.

He doesn’t answer and rolls into a storage closet that’s door is ajar. He eases the door shut behind him and Griselda shakes her head. She’s as confused as I am.

The door opens, and the women troop inside.

“Griselda,” Holly says, “I want you to meet my cousins. This is Rosemary, Sage, and Thyme Field.”

“What, no Parsley?” The fitness instructor cracks, and I can tell by the women’s faces that it’s not the first or even thousandth time they’ve heard that joke.

“Parsley’s the cat,” the blonde says. “I’m Rosemary.”

“This is Griselda Alexander,” Holly continues. “She’s the town’s fantastic fitness diva.”

Griselda smiles and doesn’t bother to be humble. “How nice that your cousins are visiting.”

“Yeah, they’re here to help with the Christmas in July open house. We had to stop in because Thyme is a yoga and Pilates instructor and personal trainer in New York City.”

Griselda eyes the willowy brunette who Holly’s pointing to. Judging by her expression, she’s giving Thyme a quick professional assessment. “Where did you train?”

“Oh, I was a psychology major in college, and I read this study about how yoga and meditation can help so much with stress. So I took a yoga class, mainly out of curiosity. I loved it, so after a while, I got my instructor’s certificate.  Just for fun, really. Then, I was spending so much time in the studio, that I started taking Pilates, and one thing led to another.”

Griselda meets this pat explanation with an arched eyebrow. “Really? You fell into a career as a personal trainer?”

The middle sister, Sage, pipes up. “Well, Thyme’s leaving out the part where our parents owed a loan shark a half-million dollars, put up the family business as collateral, and skipped town. So the three of us had to find a way to make a lot of money, fast. Thyme dropped out and started working as a personal fitness instructor for a very famous media mogul. Like, you’d know her name.”

Thyme gives her sister a look before chirping, “Anyway, this studio looks like so much fun. My cousins were telling me you offer loads of unusual classes. I’d love to do one while we’re in town if I have time.”

Holly and Rosemary say in unison, “We won’t.”

I peg Rosemary as the eldest sister of the cousins.

“We’re going to be very busy,” Holly explains.

Merry frowns. “I think Thyme knows how much goes into event planning, Holly. I mean, she is a hospitality professional.”

Ivy turns to us, “Thyme basically runs the Resort by the Sea, the inn their parents handed over to them. The resort’s in New Jersey, so she oversees things from Manhattan.”

“That’s convenient,” I say.

“Oh my goodness,” Ivy’s eyes go wide. “We didn’t introduce you. I’m so sorry. This is Noelle Winters. She’s our town librarian. And she was Mom’s best friend.” At the mention of Carol, everyone’s smile dims a bit.

“She’s good friends with Dad, too,” Merry adds.

While I’m wondering exactly what she means by that, Griselda starts yapping.

“Yes, she and your father were just—”

Before Griselda can dime Nick out for hiding in the closet, I bring my tennis shoe-clad foot down on her bare one.

“Ouch! Winters!” she barks.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Griselda. I’m such a klutz.” I fake a sheepish smile.

“Tell me something new,” she grumbles.

I ignore that and turn back to the visitors. “I’m so glad you’re here to help your cousins.” Then I glance at Holly, Ivy, and Merry. “My offer stands—if you need anything, please let me know.”

“We will,” Holly promises. “But, between the six of us, we should have it covered.”

Ivy jumps in. “Oh, but you should come over to the inn for afternoon tea one day this week, Noelle. Rosemary’s husband is a homicide detective in Los Angeles. We know how you love murder mysteries. She could probably tell you some wild stories.”

My eyes light up. “Really?”

Sage laughs. “Not just Rosie. We’ve all been involved in some … crime dramas.”

The Field sisters exchange knowing looks.

“Oooh, I’m intrigued.”

“That settles it. Come over for tea tomorrow morning,” Merry says.

“It’s a date.”

The women say their goodbyes to Griselda and sweep back outside in a cloud of chatter.

The closet door creaks open and Nick peeks through the opening.

“The coast is clear,” I tell him.

He steps out into the hallway and blinks at the light. “Thanks.”

“Why are you hiding from your daughters?”

“It’s a long story. Why don’t I’ll tell you over a beverage?  You want to join us, Grizzy?”

“Appreciate the offer. But I can’t. My Rump Shaker class starts in twenty minutes.”

“Thanks again for the puppets,” I tell her. 

“Don’t mention it. Remember, Noelle, you have to gyrate!”

Nick holds the door open for me, and Griselda’s shout follows us out onto the pavement.

“Coffee?” I propose.

He considers, then shakes his head. “No, the girls will probably pop into the Snowflake so their cousins can meet Delphina. Why don’t we go to Santa’s Cellar?”

Nope. No way am I having drinks with my dead best friend’s husband at the romantic wine bar where he proposed to her. Sure, that was well over a quarter century ago, but it still feels wrong.

“Rudy’s is closer,” I say.

It is closer. But so are the Tipsy Turnip and the North Pole Social Club—they’re right on the town square while Rudy’s Roadhouse is on the very edge of town, just barely walkable. But unlike the others, Rudy’s is also known for its rowdy crowd and a distinctly unromantic atmosphere. Think sticky floors and an alt-rock playlist rather than votive candles and soft instrumental music.

He quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. After a moment, he shrugs. “Sure, okay. Rudy’s it is.”

We cross the street and head down the hill to the roadhouse.