Page 15 of Home for Christmas in July

At exactly noon, Holly pushes back her chair and brushes the crumbs from her fingers. “All right, are we ready to tackle the attic?”

The rest of us rise more slowly, reluctant to leave the easy camaraderie of the table.

“I’ll walk you out,” Merry offers, turning to me.

“No, no. I’ll help you bring the decorations down. I used to help your mom with this every year, you know.”

Sadness falls over the room like a heavy blanket at the mention of Carol. Anger flares in my chest at Nick. He shouldn’t have left his daughters to do this without him—cousins or no cousins.

But Holly lifts her chin, sets her mouth in a thin, determined line and says, “That’d be great. You probably know where things go even better than we do.”

I probably do, I think, as we file through the grand parlorand sitting room to the sweeping spiral staircase and then down the long second floor hall, past eight bedroom doors that will all be decorated with wreaths. At the end of the hall, a second, slightly less grand staircase leads to the attic.

We mount the stairs and I push the door open. Stuffy, hot air hits me in the face. Beads of sweat pop out on my forehead as Holly beelines toward the row of shelves along the wall that holds the summer Christmas decorations.

The Jollys fan out and start grabbing boxes, passing them assembly-line style toward their cousins near the stairs. Merry hands me a box and I scan the label. Carol’s distinctive handwriting is like a blow to my heart.

“Your nutcrackers are in here.”

Merry gives me a sad smile. “Some of them.”

Carol adored nutcrackers. Her delight turned out to be her downfall once everyone in town realized her obsession. After a few years, she had dozens and dozens of nutcrackers—enough to take on any Rat King and his army. She graciously displayed every single one during the Christmas in July open house. But she held back a handful of especially meaningful ones to put out in the family’s private living quarters. This is the box I clutch. It’s labeled ‘Family Nutcrackers.’

“This one goes to your family room,” I tell them. “Should I take it down?”

“Might as well,” Holly says over her shoulder. “Just plop it in the family room. We’ll decorate in there once the guest areas are done.”

I gingerly carry the carton downstairs and through the kitchen to the wing at the back of the house where the Jollyfamily has a space apart from their paying guests. The girls have enough on their plate with all the decorating in the front of the building, so I decide to at least get started in here by setting up the nutcrackers. I remove the lid and gently dig through the box.

The very first nutcracker I see is the Nancy Drew nutcracker I got for Carol the year Merry was born. The girl detective wears a festive holiday dress and peers through a magnifying glass. I place it on top of the bookcase and pull out the next box. An Old World Saint Nicholas with a merry smile goes on the shelf next to Nancy Drew.

I’m reaching for a classic toy soldier when my eye snags on a thick linen envelope nestled between a pair of clear boxes. I draw it out from the storage container and blink down at my name.Please deliver to Noelle Wintersis typed on the front of the envelope. And it does appear to betyped.With a typewriter. The letters are raised. I rub my thumb over them and frown.

Holly appears in the doorway. “Hey, thanks for getting started setting these up.”

I glance up at her. “Of course.”

“What’s that?” She gestures toward the envelope.

“I don’t know. It was in the box.”

I pass it to her. She draws her eyebrows together. “How’d this get in there? Who’s it from?”

“Your mom?” I suggest.

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. Mom was in the hospital in Burlington when we packed up this room. Dad called and asked us to take care of it before he brought her home. We had to take down the Christmas tree and put awaythe decorations to make room for the … hospital bed.” She clears her throat.

I choke back tears. When Carol realized she only had weeks left, she insisted on having hospice care at home. She wanted to die in the place she loved surrounded by the people she loved.

Holly’s right. I remember. This room wasn’t decorated when Carol came home. The last time I saw her—the day she asked me if I still had feelings for her husband—I was perched on the edge of a narrow bed in this very room, pressing a cold cloth against her fevered forehead.

“Noelle, do you still care for him?” Carol’s voice was thin and raspy.

I was confused. “Who?”

“Nick.”

She no sooner got his name out than her frail frame was wracked by a fit of violent, shuddering coughs. When she collapsed back against the pillow, I picked up her water glass with shaking hands and guided the straw to her lips.

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