Page 18 of Home for Christmas in July

“Should be one in the janitor’s closet.” He jerks his thumb to the left before disappearing through the swinging doors to the kitchen.

I open the skinny door that he pointed out and peer inside. A mop and bucket, vacuum, and assorted cleaning suppliesare crammed into the narrow closet, threatening to burst out at any moment. I grab the broom and dust pan and push the door closed before the rest of the equipment can spill out.

I sweep the glass into a pile and gather a warren of dust bunnies along the way. Enrique returns with a rectangular piece of cardboard and a roll of duct tape.

“Hang on,” I tell him.

I step out onto the porch and use the broom handle to knock the remaining pieces of glass from the pane. They fall inside and hit the wood floor with a tinkle. Once the square is empty, I come back inside and sweep up the remaining shards.

He tosses me the tape, then positions the cardboard over the empty pane and holds it in place. I rip off a length of the silver tape and smooth it over one edge of the cardboard, then repeat the process three more times.

We both take a step back to examine our handiwork.

“It’s better than nothing,” I decree.

He nods. “I’ll call the county when I get home. They’re good about repairs. Should have it replaced in no time.”

“Gonna call the cops, too?”

He grunts and rubs a hand over his scruff as he considers the question. Mistletoe Mountain doesn’t maintain a police force of its own. When your town runs on a year-round supply of holiday goodwill and cheer, the boys in blue are somewhat superfluous. Technically, thereisa police department, but it has a staff of zero. Dawn Min, our town manager, contracts with the county sheriff’s office for any law enforcement services we might need. But calling in the sheriff is pricey and a sure way to land on Dawn’s naughty list. She’s abig proponent of working things out amongst ourselves—for free.

He grimaces. “Dunno. Hate to do it. But none of the food in the kitchen was disturbed. More evidence that it wasn’t a bunch of kids.”

“Probably,” I agree. “Kids would have raided the snacks.”

He meets my eyes. “So what then? It wasn’t a burglary. Nothing’s missing. Someone just needed a place to sleep?”

“Could be. Maybe they got kicked out of their house. Or they could be a runaway or a fugitive from the law. It could even be someone who crossed the border from Canada illegally.” It’s close enough to walk across, but illegal border crossings are virtually nonexistent here. In truth, none of these options seems likely, but I can’t think of a better explanation.

After a beat, he sighs heavily. “I’ll leave it up to the county parks office. If they want to report it, they can. It’s their property.”

I can’t say I blame him for passing the buck. “We all done here, then?”

He walks through the quiet lodge, turning off lights, and checking locks while I empty the dustpan into the trash. I stow the broom and dustpan back in the closet, and we leave the same way we came in, locking the door behind us.

We hoof it down to my truck and toss the hammer and wrench back in my toolbox. I back out from the overhang of tree branches, kicking up a cloud of dust and gravel as I execute the tight turn from the trailhead to the unpaved road. As I drive, my mind’s on the break-in. So when Enrique clears his throat, I expect him to advance another theory.

Instead he says, “You come up here for some quiet time before all the Christmas in July festivities start?”

I give him a sidelong glance.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the open house?” he presses.

“The girls are taking care of that.”

I clock his frown in my peripheral vision. “You’re not helping?”

“My sister’s daughters came up from New Jersey,” I tell him. “Between the six of them, they have it covered.”

His frown deepens. “You and Carol, that was your biggest party of the year.”

“It was,” I agree. Emphasis on the past tense.

He falls silent, but not for long. “It’s not true about Santa, is it?”

“Josh is playing Santa this year,” I tell him. “Just needed a year off.”

My words ring hollow, but I don’t intend to elaborate. Enrique and I are friendly, not friends. We’ve had a few beers on the porch of my cabin, and a glass of bourbon every once in a while at his firepit. Sometimes we fish together. But we don’t have the kind of relationship where I’m going to delve deep into my feelings about losing my wife.

---