Page 61 of Home for Christmas in July

“Dante was livid. The next day, he came into the archives and cornered me. He pushed me against the wall, got right in my face, and spat on me. He warned me that I wouldn’t like what happened if I said another negative word about him. I was freaking out. I realized I wasn’t going to survive two years in a small program with this guy whether he was myadvisor or not. He had it out for me after that, professionally. But he was also infatuated or obsessed or something. He told people we were dating. And I was afraid to correct him, you know?”

I nod my understanding and manage not to say anything.

“By the time I got Carol’s letter asking me to be her maid of honor, I’d already decided to drop out of the program. I figured I’d come home for your wedding, regroup, and then get my master’s in London or somewhere here. The University of Washington in Seattle has a great program, and I knew people there.”

She pauses and clears her throat. Her gaze drops to her lap. Pain radiates off her in waves. I can’t take it, so I pull her toward me and wrap an arm around her shoulder, stroking her damp hair with my other hand.

She fills her lungs with air and continues. “I didn’t tell anyone my plan. I knew it would set him off.

But I started packing. What I didn’t know was that he’d been spying on me. When he saw the boxes through my bedroom window, he broke into my apartment and … uh … pleasured himself all over my comforter.”

I snarl, and she presses her palm against my chest. “Please just let me get this out. I freaked. I called the police, which was my second mistake. They completely blew me off. They said there was no proof it was him.” She raises her head to look at me with tears shining in her eyes. “The one officer told me I should beflattered.That it was a compliment.”

I’m seconds away from exploding, but I hold it together.

She goes on, “Then it got worse. I don’t know how he did it, but after that, Dante somehow got his hands on mypassport. I was keeping it on me at all times. But one afternoon, I opened my bag and it was missing from the zippered pocket where I’d been keeping it. In its place, there was a note:ti ucciderò, puttana.I’ll kill you, whore. I knew it was him, and I knew nobody would believe me. He was very popular in the department, and I was some random American. I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

Her shoulders shake, and I rub her back and make soothing noises while she sobs. After a minute, she wipes her tears and says, “I was in the ladies’ room having what I now know was a panic attack. The door opened and this woman, Marta, walked in. She was another international graduate student, from Poland. Her English wasn’t great, and my Polish is nonexistent. The handful of times we did speak, it was in Italian, so I didn’t really know her. But she saved my life. I was sitting on the floor with my back against the wall, hyperventilating. She didn’t even look at me. She crouched beside me and placed my passport on the floor. Then, washed her hands, and walked out of the bathroom without saying a word.”

Her heart is thumping wildly. I can feel it against my chest.

“I opened the window and crawled out onto the ledge. Thank heavens I was only on the second floor. I jumped to the ground, walked to the train station and caught the first train to the airport. Then I emptied my bank account and bought a one-way ticket home leaving the next day. I slept in the terminal. Tried to sleep, anyway. I was still half-convinced Dante would find me and drag me back to Ravenna. But he didn’t. I came home and never left. The end.”

She pulls herself up and gives me a crooked smile. “Any questions.”

“Just one. How can you think any of this is your fault?”

She shakes her head. “I handled it all wrong. I didn’t understand how disturbed he was, how much danger I was in. I should have?—”

I press my finger against her parted lips to still them. “No. I’m not going to let you blame yourself for any bit of this. It kills me that you’ve spent twenty-plus years beating yourself up over this piece of human garbage. Not one minute more, do you understand?”

She stares at me for a moment. Then she nods, and those green eyes fill again. I thumb a tear away from her eye and drop a gentle kiss in its place.

“You’re safe now, Noelle. This isn’t Ravenna. This is Mistletoe Mountain, and Dante Bianchi’s about to learn the difference.”

CHAPTER 25

Noelle

Iexpect to be wrung out and tired after telling Nick the whole miserable story about Dante, but to my surprise, it’s the opposite. Sharing my shameful secret feels like slipping off a heavy backpack after a long hike. I feel lighter and freer. I am exhausted, though. Also, ravenous and ready to shovel mac-and-cheese into my face with wild abandon.

As we walk from the guest cottage to the main house, Nick grabs my hand. I lace my fingers through his and take a deep breath to inhale the sweet jumble of scents from the flower garden. The fire pit and patio are aglow under string lights, and fireflies wink off and on in the trees. Clusters of guests mill around with beers and cocktails. Nick greets everyone in our path with a cheerful word and a handshake. He remembersnames and hometowns, and several regulars offer him hugs and condolences. I can feel their curiosity as they look me over, but Nick makes no move to introduce me, and, for that, I’m grateful. Let them wonder. I just want toeat.

When we walk into the kitchen, I expect him to drop my hand, but he pulls me closer. I give him a sidelong look.

“You’re not planning to tell your daughters we’re … whatever we are … tonight, are you?” I whisper.

“Why not? They’re adults.”

“It’s a family holiday,” I counter.

“You’re basically family,” he shoots back.

“We don’t even know what weare,” I point out. “And there’s the small matter of the guy running around town threatening to kill me. Maybe this announcement could wait until, say, next week?”

“Nah.”

I’m about to argue further, when Merry bustles into the room and shoos us into the family dining room. The table is set, wine and water are poured, and the biggest casserole dish I’ve ever seen rests on a tile tray, steam rising from a perfectly browned mountain of macaroni and cheese. An even bigger salad bowl holds a green salad.

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