Page 21 of Home for Christmas in July

She shrugs. “I was busy. We were short-handed, so I tossed it in a drawer in the kitchen to deal with later. And then I forgot all about it.”

“I don’t suppose Gray told you who gave it to him?”

“I didn’t ask. Like I said, I was busy. He was busy, too.”

She watches as I carefully open the second envelope and scan the text. I read it aloud:‘Well done, you. Here’s Clue Number 2.It’s the seventh day of Christmas. What do you do?’

We frown at each other over the paper.

“The seventh day of Christmas,” she mutters.

We both start singing softly.

I get there first. “Seven swans a-swimming.”

“Seven swans a-swimming,” she repeats slowly.

The bell over the front door jangles loudly. I turn around to see who’s come in, but nobody’s there. The door swings back and forth. My eyes shift to the table in the corner wherethe local newspaper lies open, held down by a mismatched latte mug and saucer.

“Was someone in here when I came in? I didn’t see anybody.”

She jerks her chin toward the corner table. “There was a guy. He’s probably in town for the festival. He ordered a peppermint latte and a snowball cookie, then camped out in the corner by the door with a copy of theMistletoe Press.”

I would have testified under oath that the coffeehouse was empty when I walked through the door. “How’d I miss him?”

“He wasn’t very noticeable. He was really quiet. To be honest. I kind of forgot he was there.” Her eyes widen. “He was wearing a hat and pair of big sunglasses. Maybe he didn’t want to be noticed—or recognized. He could be famous, like an actor or a rock star avoiding the paparazzi.”

I refrain from pointing out that Mistletoe Mountain has no paparazzi, and the rich and famous give us even wider berth. “Maybe.”

I’m more interested in the newest clue than some almost certainly not famous random guy reading the weekly newspaper. “Seven swans a-swimming.” I muse.

“Swans. Maybe they mean the Swansons.”

I give her a look. I hope not. The Swansons live in a rambling red brick house at the edge of town. Vicky Swanson is one of my least favorite library patrons. She once asked me where the complaint box was. I directed her toward the suggestions box and she dedicated herself to stuffing it full of petty grievances until I relocated it to the recycling bin. I can’t imagine the Swansons have the next clue. And if they do, I don’t want it.

“Mr. Swanson’s okay,” she counters.

“I guess,” I say without enthusiasm. “Let’s come back to the Swansons. What else could it mean? Swimming could be a reference to the community pool. Maybe I’ll head over there.”

“Oh, not today,” she says. “There’s a swim meet with the team from the valley. The pool’s closed to the public.”

I drain my glass and slide it across the counter. “I should probably get back to the library anyway. Wherever the clue is, it’ll still be there in the morning. Thanks for your help.”

“Of course. It’s fun.”

I’m almost to the door when she calls after me. “Ms. Winters? I mean, Noelle?”

I turn back.

“How did Holly and her sisters seem this morning?”

I consider my answer. “They’re doing okay. I think having the open house to focus on is good for them. It’ll help them organize their memories of their mom, around something happy. And I’m glad their cousins are there.”

She hesitates, then says, “Mr. Jolly isn’t helping?”

“No, he went up to the fishing cabin.”

“He could use a friend to get him through this.”

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