Page 33 of Home for Christmas in July

I remove the lid and shake out an age-yellowed logbook, a dried-up red ink pad, a rubber stamp in the shape of a snowflake, and a linen envelope labeledClue No. 3.

CHAPTER 14

Nick

The third clue sends us into town. We return all the other stuff to the army green plastic container, even though I sincerely doubt kids still letterbox, then haul our butts back down the mountain. I may or may not let Noelle go ahead of me so I can enjoy the view of the butt she’s hauling during the journey to the fishing cabin. We agree to take her car into town. Since I’m supposed to be hiding out at the cabin, I don’t exactly want my pickup truck to be spotted.

As she drives, I re-read the clue:This clue’s got a twist. But don’t you think she gets the better end of the deal? After all, her hair will grow back. His pocket watch is gone forever.

“O. Henry, right?”

She nods. “Right, ‘The Gift of the Magi.’ It’s gotta be.”

“Are you thinking the library? Or the maybe the bookstore?”

She taps a finger against her lip, thinking. “Maybe, if the clue is the book itself. But the clue focuses on the gifts the couple exchanged. So it could be the hair salon or the barber shop.”

“Or Alpine Jewelers,” I suggest.

She twists in her seat and flashes me a bright smile. “You’re a genius! I’ll bet it is the jewelry store. It seems like Xander carries one of everything in that place.”

Both sides of High Street are completely parked up—not surprising, given that the festival’s official opening is tomorrow. Our little town is filling up. Noelle bypasses the paid parking garage and zips down the alley to the lot behind the library. We leave her car in the reserved director’s spot, which I’m frankly surprised is open. Everyone in town knows she rarely uses the perk. Her cottage is just a short walk from the library, so I figured we’d find some time-pressed patron illegally parked in the spot. But apparently, Mistletoe Mountain had a soft spot for its feisty, friendly library director.

By unspoken agreement, we hoof it down the cobblestone alley instead of maneuvering through the pedestrian traffic on High Street. When we reach the courtyard behind the pair of historic townhouses that are home to Alpine Jewelers and the North Pole Social Club, she lifts the latch on the wrought-iron gate. We cross the yard, slip through the narrow passage on the side of the building, and dodge the flow of foot traffic to enter the shop.

The little jewelry store is bustling, so we kill some time checking out the displays while Xander Michaelson, whosefamily has owned the shop since the beginning of time, helps a giggly young couple looking at rings and then waits on a man who’s picking up his repaired watch. Finally, it’s just us and, and he turns to us.

“Nick, Noelle, what can I do for you folks?”

“It’s your party,” I tell Noelle under my breath. “You take the lead.”

She steps forward. “Hi, Xander. This might sound like an odd request, but do you have a platinum pocket watch chain and a set of jeweled hair combs?”

His eyes twinkle behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Are the Mountainside Players doing a reading of ‘The Gift of the Magi’ this weekend?”

“No. But you’re on the right track.” She turns to me. “Show him the note.”

I hand over the little envelope as requested, and she continues, “Nick and I are doing a scavenger hunt, and this was our last clue.”

He scans the note, and a slow smile spreads over his face. “I wondered when someone would be in for this. I don’t always have pocket watch chains or ornate hair combs in stock. But I do keep a display set in the window. They’re not for sale. Just a fun nod to the story.”

He gestures toward the front display case. Somehow in the twenty minutes we spent cooling our heels, neither of us noticed it.

“And you’ve been expecting someone to ask about it?”

Noelle’s voice is warm and friendly. But her tapping foot gives her away, at least to me. Xander is a methodical, serenely unhurried individual who devotes his full attentionto each customer, each task, and each conversation with the focus of a Zen master. Neither speed nor succinct answers is his strength.

“Oh, yes.” He pauses to think. Her toe taps faster. “Hmm, it must have been right around this time. No, wait. That’s not right. It was justafterChristmas in July. Perhaps early August? Definitely before the fall festivities began. I could check my diary and see if I made a note of the precise date.”

“No need,” I assure him, giving Noelle a cautious look.

For all his tranquility, Xander lacks an instinct for self-preservation. If he doesn’t hurry this story along, Noelle’s going to shake it out of him.

He continues, “One morning, I unlocked the door to find that someone had slipped a note through the mail slot.”

“A note,” she repeats, her face flushing with excitement.

I used to know how to bring that color into her face.The stray thought comes out of nowhere. I shove it back into its box and try to focus on the conversation.

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