Page 22 of Home for Christmas in July

“He has loads of friends.”

“Yeah, but you know what I mean. Not just a friend, someone who loved Mrs. Jolly as much as he did. Someone like you.”

The words are a punch to my gut. I open my mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a whoosh of air.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You know how I am. As my mom likes to say, I don’t believe in unexpressed thoughts.”

I manage a gentle laugh. “It’s okay, Delphina. I understand.”

She’s still shaking her head at herself, red-faced, when I step outside.

I take my time walking back to the library. The decorations are going up all along the square, glinting and glittering in the afternoon sun. The air crackles with excitement and anticipation as the festival weekend draws closer. In a few more days, the town will be packed with couples, families, and groups of friends basking in the summer holiday magic. I hate to think of Nick all alone in his cabin on the other side of Snow Lake.

The lake. Of course. The lake.

The lake is down the hill from the wine bar, where there’s a cute covered deck so patrons can sit and sip their vino while they watch the white swans glide across the surface of the water. Several years ago, an eccentric resident willed the town a herd? No, flock? Lamentation. The word emerges from the depths of my overstuffed librarian brain. Mr. Johansen left a lamentation of downy white swans to the town when he passed away and they’ve been swanning around in Snow Lake ever since.

I don’t know if there are seven of them, but Iamsure that’s where I’ll find my next clue.

CHAPTER 8

Nick

Isit on the dock with a frosty mug of lemonade as I watch the swans glide across the surface of the lake. By the time I dropped off Enrique and got settled in the cabin, I’d missed lunch and my stomach let me know it. So I fried up some eggs and potatoes, ate, and cleaned the kitchen. At that point, I figured I might as well wait till tomorrow to fish.

The truth is, as everyone in the Jolly family well knows, I don’t actually enjoy fishing. I hate the smell of the bait, recoil at the thought of putting it on the hook, and turn faintly green when I catch an actual fish. Don’t even get me started on cleaning them.

What I love is the meditative part of it. The silence, the early morning chill, the sitting on the water and waiting. Isuppose I could simply row out to the middle of the lake and float around in the boat for a while. And truth be told, on more than one occasion, I’ve not bothered to bait my hooks. Unsurprisingly, I caught nothing, and, equally unsurprisingly, those were some of my favorite ‘fishing’ expeditions.

Then there was the time I caught that line of silverbacks. Once, when I wasn’t paying attention, Carol reached under the surface of the water and strung a six-pack of beer on my hook. When I felt the heavy tug, I started reeling it in. The girls, just little things then, jumped up and down on the bank, squealing and cheering. When I hoisted my catch—six cans of Frost Mountain Maple Ale—with a triumphant grin, Carol doubled over with laughter. I smile at the memory now even though it makes my chest hurt.

Fish or no fish, I need this reprieve from the bustle back at the inn as the girls and their cousins decorate, bake, and plan the events for the guests who’ll start pouring in the day after tomorrow. Some of the returning visitors have stayed with us for ten, twelve, or more years. I’ll go back to help with the actual open house on Friday. It would be unfair not to. But I want this time, this peace, to prepare for the gaiety, the joy, and the emptiness where Carol should be.

I kick off my trail shoes and plunge my feet into the cold water. Even on the hottest day in July, the glacial lake is bracing and invigorating. My splashing disturbs a nearby frog. He belches out a reproachful croak.

“Sorry, buddy.”

He ribbits in response. I study the long grass near the bank until I spy him, hunkered down in the silty mud. Then my gaze drifts up the hill where I can just see the top of the skilodge’s stacked stone chimney. The break-in is stuck in the back of my mind, poking at me, prodding me. Like a piece of cornsilk wedged between my teeth or a pebble in my shoe.

My attention shifts to the rumble of a far-off car’s engine. I squint across the lake as a cloud of dust rises up on the road that leads to the gazebo at the edge of the wine bar’s property. I strain to make out the color or model of the car, but it’s too far away. The car stops and the silhouetted figure of a woman wearing a long flowing skirt gets out and hurries to the covered deck. She squats and runs her hand along the underside of a bench.

Odd. And in light of the break-in at the lodge, suspicious. It’s unlikely, but not impossible, that whatever this woman is up to is related to the break-in at the lodge. If, say, someone’s using the lodge as a drug drop or other nefarious intent, they might also be passing messages at the gazebo. The tradeoff when a town, even a sleepy one, doesn’t have a functional police force is that everyone’s responsible for public safety. So I drain my glass and head back to the cabin to grab my binoculars. As I jog up the hill, it strikes me that I’m acting like the amateur sleuths in those books Noelle and my daughters consume like candy.

Still, I run into the cabin and grab the binoculars from the hook by the door. As I make my way down the driveway, I press the lenses to my eyes. But before I can focus on the woman, an unholy crashing reverberates in the woods to my right. I freeze, listening. If it’s an animal, it’s a big one. Maybe a moose or a deer. We don’t see many bears here, but it could be a black bear. Or, I realize with a chill, it could be the most dangerous animal of all, the one that walks on two legs. But ifit’s a person stomping around in the woods, they’re making no effort at stealth.

I drop the binoculars. They dangle from the strap, banging against my chest, as I creep toward the treeline following the sounds of someone or something thrashing through the woods. They’re headed toward the lake. I tell myself that lots of people use these woods. There are hiking and mountain biking trails. And a wildflower meadow that leads to the waterfall is a popular picnicking spot. It could be anybody. This is undeniably true. But it doesn’t stop me from plunging through the trees into the woods, the woman at the gazebo forgotten.

CHAPTER 9

Noelle

Idebate waiting until morning to drive up to the lake to search for the second clue. But when I close up the library for the evening, there’s still some daylight left. And, if I’m being honest, this scavenger hunt’s the most fun I’ve had in months.

While some people might suggest dragging it out to savor it, I’m too excited for such restraint. Or, as Farah succinctly puts it, I have no chill. So as soon as I lock up the library, I race-walk back to my cottage on Poinsettia Way, slide behind the wheel of my little hatchback, and zip over to Santa’s Cellar.

The sun hangs low over the purple mountains, its golden glow lighting the water like a flame, by the time I park near the lakeside gazebo. It’s pretty and peaceful now. But once thesun dips behind the peaks, it’ll get dark fast. And there are no lights on the road back to town. I didn’t think to bring a flashlight, either. So I hurry across the gravel lot and search the undersides of the whitewashed benches for an envelope.

As I’m running my hand along the third of five benches, the circling swans out on the lake glide by, and I pause to watch their graceful choreography for a moment. I’m about to turn back to the task at hand, when a glint of light across the lake catches my eye.

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