Page 53 of Home for Christmas in July

That kiss. Thatkiss.It wasn’tjusta kiss. The salty-sweet taste of her mouth, the soft curves of her body, her quiet sighs of pleasure—all of it familiar and new at the same time. Kissing Noelle was a homecoming and a revelation. And I want to get back to it as soon as humanly possible.

As if to taunt me, when I reach the top of the ladder and poke my head through the opening, I spot yet another ladder mounted on the opposite wall. “Frost me,” I grumble as I pull myself up and turn around to offer Noelle a hand.

This level has small half-windows set low in the front wall. But we don’t stop to admire the view. We clamber up the second ladder and finally reach the actual bell tower. This level is open, and the breeze is a welcome addition. Noelle boosts herself to her feet and stands beside me, lifting her tangle of copper-colored hair off her nape. I consider dropping a kiss on the smooth skin on the back of her neck.

But before I can engage in any delightful distractions, she pulls out the clue and frowns at it, then looks up at me all business.

“Tell me again. What does this Zuzu character say?”

I take a moment to replay the scene in my mind. The movie was one of Carol’s favorites, so I’ve seen it dozens of times. But invariably one or more of the Jolly women is crying by the end, so sometimes Zuzu’s line is drowned out by sobs or sniffles.

“She says, ‘Teacher says every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.’ That’s the exact line of dialogue.”

We both eye the bell. She tilts her head, thinking. “The clapper is the part that strikes the bell, right?”

“Right.”

“So, that’s what makes it ring.”

She sticks her head inside the bell. So she’s one of those. There are two kinds of people in this world—people who think nothing of sticking their hand down a garbage disposal to fish out an errant fork and people who turn off the power to the unit and flip the breaker for good measure before they retrieve the fork. I’m in the latter group, and she’s making me antsy.

“Hurry up before you getyourbell rung,” I urge.

She laughs, and the sound echoes from inside the bell. But I’m not kidding. I’m just about to yank her out of there by force, when she ducks under the bell’s rim and pops up beside me, waving a small envelope in triumph.

“It was attached to the swinging arm part.”

“The axle?”

“Sure, why not?”

This envelope is labeledFinal Clue. She tears it open and scans the note, her eyes racing over the words, and then passes it to me.

I read the typed phrase aloud, “‘No space of regret canmake amends for one life’s opportunity misused.’ That doesn’t sound like a clue, but it does sound familiar.”

“It’s a quote from Dickens’A Christmas Carol.”

I hand it back to her. “I don’t get it. It’s labeled a clue, but how do we use it.”

“Let’s go get the map. Maybe it’ll give us an idea.”

We descend both ladders and both flights of stairs in silence. When we reach the narthex, she plops down on the bench.

“I thought you wanted to get the map.”

“Shh, I’m thinking.”

While she thinks, I study her face. I see the girl I loved in college in the curve of her cheek and the lift of her brow, and, of course, the glittering green of her eyes. But there’s a new-to-me woman hidden under the smattering of freckles, too. I can’t wait to get to know her.

“Hello? Earth to Nick. Did you hear me?” She’s waving her hand in front of my face.

“Sorry, no I didn’t. I was thinking about how gorgeous you are.”

She turns pink. “Oh. That’s an excellent excuse for tuning me out. Well done.”

I laugh. “Can you repeat what you said?”

“Sure. Try not to be so dazzled by my beauty that you zone out again.”

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