Page 229 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

“Years,” she says.

Jace swears under his breath, and it’s obvious Glenn would be in serious danger of getting that beating if he weren’t currently snoring on my couch.

“Wait,” I say. “Did you know he was coming over?”

“Yes.” She rolls her eyes. “Hence the several phone calls.”

“Then why’d you wait so long to call me?”

“Allow me some dramatic license!” she says. “I thought it would be better if we could hash it all out together, so I waited until he was close before I got in touch with you.”

“He was already here, Nicole!” I belt out in frustration.

She shrugs. “What can I say? It was our honeymoon, and we got kind of distracted at the last rest stop.” She waves at Glenn as he snuffles another snore. “Honestly, this is kind of a bummer. I was hoping to see tears. I wanted him tobeg.”

“Because he’s an asshole?”

“Because he was an asshole to you,” she says, her eyes flashing. And, God help me, she does get to see tears after all, welling in my eyes.

Her phone buzzes, and she perks up. “Damien must have finished practicing his monologue.”

This confuses me because (a) he’s in the car (?), and (b) there aren’t any Danny Zuko monologues inGrease, are there?

I say as much, and she gives me heryou’re an idiotlook. “Not in the actual play, no, but Damien doesn’t allow himself to be limited by things like ‘supposed to’ or ‘it’s not in the script.’ He’s a free spirit.”

His director probably doesn’t love that, but given Damien just sacrificed his honeymoon to help Nicole dig a grave for Glenn, I don’t feel the need to say so.

“Thank you, Nicole,” I say, pulling her into a hug. She’s all angles, and it’s obvious she is not a hugger—frankly, neither am I, under normal circumstances—but these circumstances aren’t normal, and she may have just saved me and Jace—and Dottie, for that matter—a whole lot of trouble.

Nicole lingers for a second longer than I would’ve expected, and by the time she pulls back, her disgusted look is firmly in place.

“Please don’t do that again. Ever,” she says.

“Uh-huh.” Before she can run off, I dart over to the tree and retrieve her present. “Don’t forget your wedding gift.”

She takes it. Shakes it. “This better not be a toaster oven.”

“I can attest that it’s not,” Jace says. Then, sobering, he adds, “Thank you, Nicole. For everything.” There’s emotion underlying his words, and I feel choked up by that too.

Nicole acts disaffected, but I can tell she’s pleased. There’s a certain air about her—she’s not less prickly, exactly, but she wears it proudly.

She stops in the doorway and turns back. “We’re meeting Tina at Tea of Fortune at ten a.m. on New Year’s Day. Your presence is not optional.”

Then she leaves, and I stand there holding a folder full of what is, presumably, photos of my soon-to-be ex-husband in various stages of undress with prostitutes.

Flinching, I set it on a console table.

“I know I should confirm what’s in there,” I say, “but I don’t want to open that.”

“I’ll do it,” Jace says, a firm set to his lips. And he does. His eyes look stormy as he flips through the contents. Then he pulls out what looks like a thumb drive and pockets it. “It’ll be enough to get him to stay away. She made copies, and there’s plenty of backup.”

Relief and disgust war within me, relief winning out. “Thank God.”

“I’m sorry, Mary,” he says, his voice heavy with emotion. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” I sputter. “None of this is your fault.”

“I know, but this asshole treated you and Aidan like shit, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I wanted to throw him out on his ass, but if I had—”

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