Page 14 of Home for Christmas in July

I perch in the window seat, balance the book on my knees, and zip through the denouement and epilogue. I close the book with a satisfied flourish and head back into the kitchen.

I place the book on the table in front of Sage and whisper, “She’s all yours.”

“Perfect timing,” Merry chirps, handing me a porcelain teacup.

I take a seat at the big oak table and settle against one of the striped cushions Carol made the year she taught herself how to use the old sewing machine in the parlor. I cup my hands around the tea and inhale the fragrant steam. Mixed with the scents of bergamot, citrus, and lavender that I expect, I smell strong roasted coffee. I wrinkle my forehead and turn to my right.

“Are you drinking coffee?” I say to Holly.

“Guilty as charged,” she admits, “but I’m not the only one.”

Rosemary raises a hand. “I just can’t with the tea. I’m a coffee girl.”

“I understand,” I tell her. “After England, I entered a master’s program at the University of Bologna in Ravenna and, let me tell you, there’snothinglike a good Italian espresso.”

Rosemary’s eyes light up and she starts gushing about an authentic Italian coffee bar near her home.

“Do you go there with your homicide detective?” I ask as I reach for a cucumber and olive sandwich.

Merry laughs. “Smooth segue, Noelle.”

I shrug unapologetically. “I really am a mystery and true crime junkie. Does your husband talk about his work a lot?”

“Not often,” Rosemary says. “He doesn’t like to bring that home with him.”

“Oh.” I feel my shoulders droop.

“But … we met because I was the prime suspect in a murder investigation.”

My eyes widen. “Really?”

“Yep. I was working as a private chef for a truly nasty movie star. Someone offed her, and I had to find the real killer before the cops pinned it on me.”

“Youfound the real murderer?”

“Sure did.” She pops a mini-quiche into her mouth.

Thyme clears her throat noisily.

Rosemary shoots her a look and amends, “Fine. Technically, the police did. But I helped.”

“You did help,” Sage allows before leaning across the table to say, “I also caught a murderer.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. And so did Thyme.”

Thyme shakes her head. “Not exactly. Istoppeda murder.”

“Details, details.” Sage waves a hand.

“And don’t evenaskabout our weddings,” Rosemary says.

“Tell me everything,” I demand.

They talk over one another in a rush. One wild story after another spills from their lips while I sip my tea and nibble on the goodies.

Listening to the cousins’stories is like binge watching an entire season of a detective series. Before I know it, the grandfather clock in the parlor is chiming the hour again.

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