Page 11 of Home for Christmas in July

“Waters are coming. I’ll bring them out with the fries.”

“Cheers,” Noelle says in a low voice.

I don’t think either one of us feels like clinking glasses. I’m consumed with curiosity about what Carol asked her, but she’s right. It’s not my place to know.

“I regret not being honest with her, Nick. If I had, I wouldn’t have ghosted her because I felt guilty.”

Her voice trembles, and the anguish in her eyes drains the anger from my body. I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine.

“Death’s hard, Noe. Grieving’s hard. I should know, I almost deprived my daughters of the open house. And that would have been the wrong thing to do.”

She manages a wan smile and sips her wine. “I’m glad you changed your mind.”

“I didn’t really have a choice after you called and told them.”

“Sorry,” she interrupts with a sheepish shrug that makes it clear she’s not one bit sorry.

I go on. “They reached out to my nieces, and, well, you saw them. Combined, they’re a force to be reckoned with. They’ll have no problem running the show.”

“It’s good you’ve got so much help.”

I shake my head. “I’m going to go to my fishing cabin for the rest of the week.”

She gives me a disappointed look. “Nick, you can’t hide from this.”

She’s one to talk. Didn’t she just admit she hid from Carol when she was dying? I want to shoot back. I take a long swig of the cold beer instead.

“No one’s going to miss me with all that activity. Besides, I haven’t been to the cabin yet this summer. I need to air it out and chase the spiders away. Don’t worry, I’ll show up when all the work is done—like a blister.”

She twists her mouth but doesn’t argue.

Tammy’s back. Noelle slides her hand free as an enormous tray of french fries covered in gravy and cheese curds thunks down on the middle of the table. A barback trails behind her with two sweating glasses of ice water. He slides them onto a pair of cardboard coasters on the table.

“Bon appetit,” Tammy says over her shoulder, walking away.

A guy playing pool pauses his game to feed money into the jukebox and a loud rock anthem blares. I watch as Noelle pops a smothered fry into her mouth and marvel at the fact that I’m sitting across a table from her.

Noelle Winters is the whole reason I came to Mistletoe Mountain in the first place. I never would have met Carol if I hadn’t fallen for Noelle in London almost thirty years ago.

We were college juniors, both doing internships the summer before our senior year. She was working with the archivists at the British Library. I was interning at Claridge’s, the famous hotel, as part of my hospitality management major. MJ and her husband had just bought the Resort at the Sea, and the plan was for me to get some hands-on experience before I graduated, then go to work for my older sister and Bart.

I met Noelle at the launderette around the corner from the flat I was subletting. She was parked on a folding chair reading Sherlock Holmes while her clothes dried. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a fist full of change for the machine. As I sorted through the quarters looking for the distinctive heptagon shape of the fifty-pence pieces I needed,she closed her book, crossed the room, and offered me a handful of the coins.

“Here. I’m almost done.”

I looked up, fell into those green eyes, and didn’t come up for air all summer. We’d meet after work for takeaway curries, cheap wine, and long walks through narrow cobblestone streets steeped in history and drama. We were broke, starry-eyed, and in love. I was, at least.

But when it came time to return to the States for our senior year, she didn’t. The library offered her a position and helped her transfer to Oxford for her final year with a promise to hook her up with the prestigious Bodleian Library traineeship after that. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, too good to pass up. I understood. Of course, I did.

We scraped up the money to take the Chunnel to Paris for our last weekend before I flew back home. It was crowded, noisy, and pure romance. I snapped a picture of her on the Pont au Double bridge over the Seine. She’s standing with Notre Dame behind her, the wind lifting her long, red hair from her shoulders, her smile wide, and her arms thrown open as if she was giving the entire City of Lights a hug.

And that was that.

Maybe in today’s world we’d keep in touch. But in a time before texts, video chats, and social media, we didn’t. Email wasn’t even really a thing yet. We wrote a few airmail letters, had one obscenely expensive phone call, and then fizzled. I tucked away the memory of the green-eyed redhead who loved Agatha Christie, puzzles, and maple syrup over her ice cream and moved on.

As my graduation approached, I started looking for a job in the tourist industry. MJ and Bart were still getting the Resort by the Sea off the ground, and it was slow going. MJ was pregnant with Rosemary, and money was tight. We agreed I’d get some more industry experience under my belt before they brought me onboard. Remembering the stories Noelle used to tell about her holiday wonderland of a hometown, I sent a resume to the Inn at Mistletoe Mountain on a whim.

The proprietor called and offered me a job managing the inn over the phone. After fifty-seven Vermont winters, he and his wife were ready to pack it up and retire to Florida. We agreed to a one-year trial, then, if we both wanted to proceed, I’d buy the inn from him.

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