Page 30 of Home for Christmas in July

“Good night, Nick,” I croak. Then I run into the cabin.

CHAPTER 12

Nick

Isit, stunned, as Noelle flees the porch for the safety of the guest room. I almostkissedher. Twice, actually. What the hell am I doing? I haven’t felt a sliver of sexual attraction or interest in the eleven months since Carol died. Until now. Now, the evidence is undeniable. I polish off the wine and wait for my heart rate to return to normal before I go inside and dick around in the kitchen, wiping down already clean counters and setting up the coffeemaker to brew in the morning.

Out of tasks, but still too amped up to sleep, I pad out to the living room to listen to music. When we bought the cabin, the previous owners left behind an old vinyl record player. At first, Carol and I viewed it mostly as a curiosity. Turns out,though, there’s something meditative about the ritual of putting on a pair of over-the-ear headphones and tethering myself to the player physically. It’s immersive. I don’t scroll my phone. I’m not distracted. I can connect to the music in a way that I don’t when I’m streaming something on my playlist. I could use to focus on something other than Noelle’s rosebud lips right about now.

I flip through the handful of albums picked up at garage sales and used record stores over the years. It’s a slim, eclectic collection based mainly on availability, with one exception. I slip it from its sleeve, a record by blues legend Buddy Guy, lift the record player’s lid, and gently ease the disc onto the turntable. I put the arm down, settle the headphones over my ears, and sit back in my chair, my legs stretched out in front of me. Then I tip my head back, closing my eyes and letting the mournful melody wash over me.

Memories of the time Carol and I went to see Buddy play in Chicago surge to mind. It was our tenth anniversary, a rare trip without our girls. The song changes, and I’m watching the sun set over London with Noelle tucked into my side while James Taylor croons from a nearby boombox. Carol. Noelle. Carol. Noelle. Their faces flip back and forth in my mind as memories from London and memories from my decades of marriage swirl together. I scrub my hands over my face and groan.

Guilt bubbles up. I almost kissed her. If she hadn’t pulled back, I wouldn’t have stopped, and I don’t know what to make of that. Would that have been a betrayal? But in the next instant, I imagine Carol rolling her eyes at that notion. She never asked about my relationship with Noelle, never actedintimidated or threatened when Noelle moved back to town. She was delighted to have her friend back in her life. My wife didn’t have jealousy as a personality trait. She was confident in the fact that I loved her. She was right to be confident, because I did—I loved Carol completely and utterly. And I’ll always love her.

And Noelle Winters was my first love. She may be ancient history. But she’s still in my bones, in my blood. That’s not a betrayal, it’s an artifact. Still, I lean forward and turn the music up in a fruitless attempt to drive out the image of Noelle staring up at me, her green eyes sparking in the dark, her pulse fluttering in her throat. It felt right to want to kiss her. It felt inevitable.

The A side of the album ends, and I’m tired enough to turn it off rather than flip it over. I go to the hall bathroom to brush my teeth and splash some water on my face. On my way past Noelle’s room, I notice the light coming from under the door and pause. I could knock and make sure she has blankets and pillows. But the air in the cabin is still charged, electrified, and I don’t trust myself.

I force myself to walk past her door to my room and then I lay awake, my heart racing, acutely aware that she’s just feet away on the other side of the thin wall. And I’m transported across an ocean, through the decades, to another room with thin walls. A stuffy, unair-conditioned flat on a sultry summer night. Noelle’s head is thrown back and her throat exposed—she’s vulnerable, open, trusting. I groan and flop onto my side. I need to get her out of my mind.

“Hotels.”

It’s an old trick, better than counting sheep. I pick acategory and run through the alphabet, naming hotels and resorts for each letter until I quiet my thoughts. I make it all the way to the Regency before my eyelids grow heavy and my breathing slows. Now I just need to make it through the night without dreaming about her.

CHAPTER 13

Noelle

Thursday

Iwake to the soft sunlight slanting through the blinds, the chirping of songbirds, and the glorious, unmistakable smell of coffee brewing. After a quick trip to the bathroom to run my fingers through my hair and brush my teeth with the toothbrush I found in a package under the sink, I pull the borrowed hoodie over my head and follow my nose to the kitchen and the source of caffeine.

“Morning, sunshine,” Nick says casually.

He leans against the counter with a red, hand-thrown ‘Mr. Claus’ mug to his lips and a pair of loose sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He places his coffee on the counter and reaches behind him to pull the coordinating green ‘Mrs. Claus’ mug down from the hook over the sink. As he stretches, his t-shirt rides up to reveal taut, tanned abs. I manage to pull my gaze away from the display before he catches me looking.

He fills the mug with coffee and presses it into my eager hands.

I inhale the aromatic steam and sigh a deeply contented sigh. “Ah, thanks.”

“Did you sleep okay?”

Sure, except for all the sex dreams. Leavingthatthought unexpressed, I chirp, “Like a log.”

“Good, then you should have plenty of energy for this morning’s activity.”

My brain zings back to my dreams, and my face warms. “What activity is that?” I squeak.

He gives me a curious look. “The scavenger hunt.”

I drag my mind out of the gutter. “Right. The scavenger hunt. I guess we should check the outdoor setting area at the restaurant. That has a partial view of the lake.”

He bobs his head. “Maybe. Come help me cut the herbs for the frittata, and I’ll tell you what I was thinking.”

He grabs a basket and a pair of shears from a shelf near the door, and I trail him out to the porch, cupping my hands around the oversized mug. The early morning air is cool but the promise of heat shimmers just under the surface.Just like us.I really, really need to stop having these thoughts.

He leads the way to a raised box herb garden that I’m sure was laid out to be tidy but is now riotous and in full July bloom. Fragrant mint spills over the edges and purple lavender sways in the breeze. He hands me the basket, and I place my coffee mug on the retaining wall. We both crouch inthe garden. He snips some chives, dill, sage, and parsley and drops the herbs into the basket.

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