Page 2 of Home for Christmas in July

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 thesummer 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 her famous snowman ice cream 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 timeI 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 a 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, Iamsupposed 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.”

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