Page 27 of Home for Christmas in July

“So, what’s one thing you’re grateful for?”

His voice is husky. “That’s easy. I’m grateful that you agreed to stay. Sometimes, I think the loneliest part of my day is eating dinner by myself.”

I blink at the raw honesty. “I can see that. I’m used to eating alone. To be honest, I like it. To me, there’s nothing better than enjoying a good meal with a good book. But for years and years, you’ve had someone to talk to, to share those meals with.”

“What are you grateful for?” he counters.

I don’t have to think about it. “The scavenger hunt. Ihaven’t been feeling super festive lately. And that’s hard when the entire town is in Christmas in July mode. But having an activity to focus on is lifting my spirits. Whoever planned this couldn’t have timed it better.”

I spear a tomato. After I chew and swallow, I say, “What’s one thing you regret about your day?”

He pauses with a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth and his expression tightens. “Not catching that bastard out there.” He gestures at the outdoors through the floor-to-ceiling window.

Somehow, I forgot all about the watcher in the woods. Until now. I track the motion of his fork and turn to look out the window. The light has almost completely faded now. The lake glints silver in the distance. The trees gather in the shadows. Somewhere, a whip-poor-will chants his name. I shiver and look away fast. When I turn back to the table, he’s watching me. His hazel eyes bore into me, like he’s peering into my soul or something.

“What’s your regret?”

I shovel some food into my mouth to buy time. He waits, patiently holding my gaze.

I exhale. “Regrets? I have a few. Not all from today, though.”

“Any from today?”

I drink and think. “I regret wearing a skirt and sweater set,” I answer lightly.

He cocks his head. “Why? It’s a cute outfit. Very library lady.”

“That’s my vibe,” I agree. “It’s not really ideal for scavengerhunting, though. And definitely not my outfit of choice for an impromptu sleepover.”

He dismisses the concern with a wave of his hand. “There’s a drawer full of what the Jolly women call ‘cabin clothes’ in the bedroom. T-shirts, sweatpants, hoodies. You’ll have your pick of comfies.”

“Fuzzy socks to sleep in?” I can’t sleep when my feet are cold. It’s a thing.

“Almost certainly,” he tells me in a mock-serious voice.

We finish our meal in companionable silence. Then we carry the dishes over to the sink. I wash, and he dries. And again, it feels like choreography. Like something we’ve been doing for ages. I consider whether maybe this is an old pattern from a million years ago, from London. And then I remember that I never once turned on the oven in my flat because I used it for sweater storage. No, the Nick and Noelle of the late nineties were anything but domestic.

I must giggle because he turns to me with a curious smile. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Just remembering my flat in London and its startling lack of closet space.”

His grin widens. “I remember. You used your pantry as a linen closet and, if I’m not mistaken, your oven was your sweater drawer. That feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

In part, I realize with a start, because we never talk about it. For more than two decades, when Nick, Carol, and I reminisced together, she and I told stories from our girlhood, he and she told stories about the early days of their relationship, and he and I told no stories. Shared no memories. Is thatabsence—the lack of shared history—what made Carol think I still had feelings for him?

He folds the dishtowel with a snap, drawing me out of my thoughts.

“Clean up’s all done. Why don’t we finish this bottle under the stars?” He picks up the chianti and the glasses and jerks his chin toward the back porch.

“Sure. I’ll change into cabin clothes and meet you out there.”

He opens the sliding glass door and steps outside, and I hurry down the hallway to the Jolly sisters’ shared room. I feel around, patting the paneling on the wall just inside the door until my hand connects with the light switch. I flick it on and blink as my eyes adjust.

Two sets of bunk beds are pushed up against the side walls and a long low dresser anchors the far wall under the windows. I pull open the top drawer and dig out a pair of yoga pants that look like they might fit and a soft blue t-shirt that must be Holly’s. It’s emblazoned with the logo for her law school’s ‘Ambulance Chaser’ 10K. I shed my librarian attire, step into the buttery pants, and yank the tee over my head. I let out an appreciative sigh as my comfort increases approximately ten thousand percent. I’d pay a small fortune to ditch my bra, too, but it feels inappropriate to go braless in this particular situation. So the girls remain captive in their underwire prison. Still, it’s a vast improvement. I stack my discarded clothes in a neat pile and pad out to the hall, my bare feet slapping the floorboards.

I slidethe kitchen door open and join Nick at the cedar table built into one corner of the porch. The exterior lights are off, but the glow from the light over the kitchen sink spills out in a diffuse halo. He pushes my glass toward me. I settle onto the bench beside him and inhale deeply. The warm air carries the sweet scent of wildflowers and the soft chanting of the birds. Fireflies twinkle in the meadow behind the house.

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