Page 5 of Home for Christmas in July

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

“Dad, you didn’t!” Merry 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 itoff. 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, ourrealChristmas 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.”

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