Page 6 of Home for Christmas in July

“Really? Well, they probably can’t cross state lines without letting their parole officer know. So, I guess we’re safe. But why on earth would you call her?”

“Because she runs a resort,” Holly counters.

“Sherana resort. Ran it right into a pile of debt secured by a dangerous loan shark and left a mess for your cousins to clean up.”

“Right,” Merry agrees. “And they did clean it up. Rosemary, Sage, and Thyme have turned the Resort by the Sea around. It’s thriving. And they manage it long distance. None of them even lives in New Jersey. Thyme keeps an eye on things from New York.”

“I had no idea. Good for them.”

“Didn’t you talk to them at all when they were here last summer?” Ivy wonders.

Last summer. The funeral. It’s a blur. A fuzzy Impressionist painting of pain and grief. My stomach churns at the memory of those dark days.

“If I did, I don’t remember,” I confess.

“Well, we did. And it was clear they have a lot of experience and some great ideas,” Merry says.

“Andthey just happen to be at the Resort by the Sea this week and next for a family reunion,” Ivy adds.

“Okay. And?” I pick up the glass and drink cautiously.

“And they jumped at the chance to help us out. Sage’s husband had already arranged tickets to some golf tournament for the guys and Uncle Bart and Aunt MJ so the sisters could spend a few days alone together. Rosemary said they’d cancel their spa getaway and come up here instead,” Holly says triumphantly.

“Great. Perfect.” So long as Tropical Storm Mary Jane doesn’t sweep through Mistletoe Mountain and destroy the whole town, this plan is fine by me. I really do love my sister—from a safe distance.

“The six of us will take care of everything,” Ivy promises. “It’ll be good for you, good for all of us. You’ll see.”

I can tell by the hope shining in my daughters’ eyes that they think this plan is going to put their broken father back together. I hate to see them disappointed, but this idea is doomed to fail. I’m beyond saving. Still, it’ll be good for them and the rest of the town to have the open house, so I muster up a smile, lean back with my glass of water, and let their conversation wash over me.

CHAPTER 3

Noelle

Tuesday

“Roll those hips,” Griselda Alexander orders. She could be talking to the entire Hoop it Up fitness class, but she’s staring directly at me. Into my soul, it seems.

“I’m trying” I grumble, catching my lip between my teeth as I concentrate on swiveling the weighted hoop around my midsection.

Rumor has it Griselda moved here to open Maple Twist Fitness after a successful career as a dancer both on Broadway and on tours for some big-name musical acts. That’s the story, but I have a growing suspicion she actually retired from the military—specifically, as a boot camp instructor. I keep this to myself. In part, because she terrifies me, and, in part, becauseshe’s a huge supporter of the library. She personally donated all the funds to cover the remodeled children’s wing last year.

“Winters, shake your booty!” she barks, putting to rest the question of whether her instructions are meant for me or everyone.

Sweat blooms on my forehead as several sets of eyes shift from the mirrored wall to me, watching with open interest my efforts to shake my booty. Someone in the back row titters, and I grit my teeth. I’m about to concede defeat, roll my hoop off the floor, and hang it on one of the pegs on the wall when I glimpse Nick through the studio’s front window.

He’s on the other side of the street, sprinting and casting wild backward glances over his shoulder as if he’s being chased. He waits for a break in traffic, then bolts across the street and bursts through the doors into the studio. He screeches to a halt in the doorway, panting hard.

Griselda glares at him. “Class started ten minutes ago, Jolly.” Then she points at me. “Move over and make room for him.”

“Sorry.” He maneuvers through the sea of gyrating bodies, grabs a hoop, and squeezes into the spot I’ve made next to me.

“I didn’t know you take this class,” I say out of the side of my mouth as he steps into the hoop.

“I don’t,” he whispers back. “I prefer the pole dancing class.”

I snicker, and he gives me a confused look.

“Oh. You’re serious.”

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