Page 9 of Home for Christmas in July

The Field sisters exchange knowing looks.

“Oooh, I’m intrigued.”

“That settles it. Come over for tea tomorrow morning,” Merry says.

“It’s a date.”

The women say their goodbyes to Griselda and sweep back outside in a cloud of chatter.

The closet door creaks open and Nick peeks through the opening.

“The coast is clear,” I tell him.

He steps out into the hallway and blinks at the light. “Thanks.”

“Why are you hiding from your daughters?”

“It’s a long story. Why don’t I tell you over a beverage? You want to join us, Grizzy?”

“Appreciate the offer. But I can’t. My Rump Shaker class starts in twenty minutes.”

“Thanks again for the puppets,” I tell her.

“Don’t mention it. Remember, Noelle, you have to gyrate!”

Nick holds the door open for me, and Griselda’s shout follows us out onto the pavement.

“Coffee?” I propose.

He considers, then shakes his head. “No, the girls will probably pop into the Snowflake so their cousins can meet Delphina. Why don’t we go to Santa’s Cellar?”

Nope. No way am I having drinks with my dead best friend’s husband at the romantic wine bar where he proposed to her. Sure, that was well over a quarter century ago, but it still feels wrong.

“Rudy’s is closer,” I say.

Itiscloser. But so are the Tipsy Turnip and the North Pole Social Club are closer still. They’re right on the town square while Rudy’s Roadhouse is on the very edge of town, just barely walkable. But unlike the others, Rudy’s is also known for its rowdy crowd and a distinctly unromantic atmosphere. Think sticky floors and an alt-rock playlist rather than votive candles and soft instrumental music.

He quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. After a moment, he shrugs. “Sure, okay. Rudy’s it is.”

We cross the street and head down the hill to the roadhouse.

CHAPTER 4

Nick

I’m sweating by the time we reach Rudy’s. The late afternoon sun beats down on us as we traipse down the hill. I give Noelle a sidelong glance, but she doesn’t seem bothered by the heat. What was I thinking, suggesting Santa’s Cellar? Rudy’s, despite the walk, is a better choice.

I push open the door and usher her ahead of me into the cool interior, where we’re greeted by a blast of air conditioning. The dim bar is about half full with happy hour patrons and two guys camped out with a backgammon board in a corner booth. Chip and Jamal are both fellow Santas—winter Santas. Although I’ve historically handled Christmas in July duties myself, there’s a whole roster of Santa Clauses for the winter holidays. I could have asked any one of them to pinchhit next week, but Josh Morgenthal offered. And, truth be told, the Santa Claus Crew gossips worse than a pack of middle-school girls. I didn’t want word to get around the Kris Kringle whisper network. That would have only brought a steady stream of St. Nicks trying to change my mind.

So when we pass by Jamal and Chip’s table, I smile and nod a greeting but don’t stop to talk. I lead Noelle to a two-top near the kitchen.

“Is this okay?”

“Sure.” She perches on the high stool and takes the laminated menu from the holder on the table. “Share a serving of poutine?” she asks without so much as glancing at the menu.

I hide a smile. Noelle always did like french fries. “Sounds good.”

Rudy’s wife strolls over to take our order, plucking a stubby pencil from behind her ear. “Hi, Nick. Hey, Noelle.”

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