Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

SWEET TREATS AND A BITTER PHONE CALL

Jack

H olly shows me around the guest cottage with the nervous energy of a big cat— a panther or maybe a jaguar.

“Here’s the kitchen,” she says, as if the appliances and cabinets didn’t give it away.

“Living room,” she gestures to the room anchored by a sofa that looks too short for her to sleep on. We’ll have to revisit this plan.

She continues, pacing through the room. “There’s a beautiful view of the mountains from the chair by the window.” Her tone is as clipped as her steps.

She waves an arm toward a closed door. “Bedroom and shower.”

“Great,” I say. “Perfect. But forget what your dad said. You take the bed.”

“No, really, it’s my job.”

I shake my head. “I’m pretty sure housing clients isn’t a lawyer’s responsibility.”

She laughs, “True. Except that, in this case, it was either put you up or leave you in jail. And I do have a duty not to let you cool your heels in county lockup for a month.”

A month. I still can’t believe I’m stuck here for a month.

“But beyond that,” she continues, “I’m the daughter of an innkeeper. I was raised from the time I could crawl to extend hospitality to guests. It’s in my DNA. And there’s no way I’m letting you sleep on the couch.”

“And I’m not taking the only bed,” I insist.

We lock eyes.

She breaks the standoff with a sigh. “We’ll fight about it later. I need to go into the office for a few hours and prepare a client file for you.”

I look around the cottage, decorated within an inch of its life to look like a sweet gingerbread house. “Do I have to stay here or am I allowed to walk around town without you as an escort?”

She catches her full lower lip between her teeth. “Good question. The order doesn’t say you’re under house arrest, but I should ask the judge to clarify the terms. I’ll call his chambers on my way to my office.”

“I didn’t mean to add more work to your plate.”

“Listen. This part is my job. Don’t worry about it.” She grabs her keys from the counter and heads toward the door. “I’ll be back in two or three hours, max. For now, just hang out. Watch a movie or read a book. There’s food in the fridge. Or you could take a hot shower and wash the jail off of you.”

This last idea holds some appeal.

“I’ll be fine,” I assure her.

She leaves and I watch from the window over the sink as she pulls out of her parking spot. Then I rummage through my backpack for my cell phone to make a call I know I need to make but definitely don’t want to.

I groan, run my hands through my hair, and drop the phone on the counter. I’ll shower first. Then make the call.

Before I’ve taken two steps toward the bedroom, there’s a knock at the door. Is Holly back already? I look through the window to see a curvy woman with a mess of dark curly hair and a wide grin standing on the porch. Her arms are full.

I open the door.

“Hi,” she chirps. “I’m Merry, the youngest Jolly daughter. And you must be Jack.”

“I am, in fact. Come on in.”

“I’d shake your hand, but—,” she gestures with her arms, which are full of tumblers and white pastry bags. “Sweet Merry’s” is stamped on the sides of the bags under a drawing of a food truck decorated for the holidays.

I hold out my hands to take some of the items and she gestures toward the tumblers with her chin. “You could grab the coffees.”

I do as directed. She follows me in and kicks the door closed behind her. Then she dumps the bags on the kitchen island and starts pawing through them while I stand there holding the tumblers.

She procures a silver platter from a drawer set in the island and starts arranging the goodies on it. “The pink travel mug is yours. Apparently Officer Ned returned it to Delphina after …” she trails off.

“He arrested me on the sidewalk.” I finish for her.

She shakes her head. “Sorry about him. Ned’s a bit intense. Anyway, Delphina made you a fresh drink. It’s still hot. And whatever it is, it smells amazing.”

“Gingerbread latte with candy cane foam.”

Her eyes widen. “Yum, great choice. That one’s heavenly—I call it dessert in a mug.”

Her enthusiasm is infectious.

“I only had a sip, but that sounds right.”

“Drink up!” she insists.

I set the light blue tumbler on the island. “Is this one yours?”

“No, it’s a peace offering for Holly.”

I take a long swallow of my sweet concoction as she goes on with a snort.

“Black coffee. Nothing but the unadulterated bean, as Holly would say.” She shakes her head. “Just between us, I’m not even sure my sister likes desserts, but she at least pretends to for my sake.”

“Oh, come on. Everybody likes dessert.” To prove the point, I grab a cookie dotted with dried cherries and dark chocolate chunks and polish it off with two big bites. “Mmmm.”

Her already broad grin widens even further. “I like you, Jack Bell. By the way, where is Holly? I didn’t see her car.”

“She headed into her office for a few hours.”

“Of course she did. Well, please let her know that dinner’s going to be early tonight. We’re eating at five and then heading to the Christmas tree lighting.”

“I don’t think your sister wants to go,” I inform her gravely.

She waves a hand. “She’ll come around. Despite what she thinks, locking herself away with a pile of books and pretending it’s not the holidays isn’t going to help her get over it any faster.”

“Get over what?”

She opens her mouth, reconsiders, then clamps it shut dramatically. “Nothing. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t,” I point out.

Her face softens. “It’s not my story to tell. Let’s just say, Holly isn’t really feeling the holiday spirit this year.”

“I get that much. I’m wondering why.”

She evades the question, bubbly as ever. “I need to get back. Enjoy your ‘pressert,’ and I’ll see you at dinner.”

She flits out the door and heads down the path. I half expect to see bluebirds alighting on her shoulders as she traipses toward the back to the inn.

I remove the lid from my Snowflake Cafe travel tumbler and inhale the sweet spicy aroma of the drink. I take another gulp before I select a chocolate marshmallow brownie from the array Merry left, sinking my teeth into the gooey goodness.

After fortifying myself with caffeine and sugar, I’m ready to get it over with. I pick up my phone, open my contacts, and am faced with a choice: I can call Roger or Sam. Who better to break this news to? My evil stepfather or my disapproving brother? When I put it like that, it’s a no-brainer.

I jab Sam’s contact icon.

He picks up on the fourth ring, right before the call rolls to voicemail. “Where the devil are you, Jack?”

“Hello to you, too, Sam. I’m in Mistletoe Mountain, Vermont.”

“Vermont? I haven’t heard from you since … Maryland?”

“Right. Maryland. I called your office a couple times, but Janey said you were in London, and with the time difference …”

“Yeah, just got back. Still adjusting.”

“What’s in London?” I sit on the couch, lean back, and stretch my legs out in front of me.

“That producer who reached out a few months ago. He’s on location, and I flew there to see if we could hammer out a deal face-to-face.”

“And?”

“And he wants to see how the trust shakes out.”

The flatness in his voice is a reminder that what he really means is the producer wants to see how I shake out. We sit in silence for a few seconds, then Sam relents.

“So how’s Mistletoe Mountain? Sounds like something straight out of a Hallmark movie.”

I chuckle. “From what I’ve seen it is. Loads of holiday cheer, but I did run into a wrinkle.”

My brother sighs. “Did you let your passport expire? I guess you aren’t going to Canada.”

“Nope, I renewed it before I started the trip.”

“Out of money?” he guesses again.

Almost, I think.

“No.” I clear my throat. “There was ... a misunderstanding with the local authorities.”

“Did you wreck? Were you speeding?”

“Stop guessing. You’re not going to guess it.”

“You robbed a bank.”

“What?!”

“You said I wouldn’t be able to guess. Just thinking outside the box.”

“I put a couple books in a little free library.”

“I would hope so. That’s why you’re on this boondoggle. So?”

“So, apparently the owner of this little free library doesn’t like people giving or taking books without a formal invitation.”

Sam falls silent. Then, he says. “Is that not the point of a little free library?”

“It is,” I confirm. “Try telling that to Mrs. Vicky Swanson. She called the cops. I’ve been charged with unlawful trespass.”

He guffaws. “That’s hilarious, bro.”

“Yeah, it would be. If the DA wasn’t taking it seriously.”

“So what, you have to pay a fine? I’ll wire you the cash. The story’ll be worth however much it costs.”

“You don’t get it, Sam. I had an arraignment this morning. My lawyer got me out, but I had to surrender my passport. And I have to stay in town until the first week of January for my trial. If I’m found guilty, I could face up to a year in prison.”

All the mirth is gone from his voice. “A year in prison for donating books?”

“It’s unbelievable, right?”

He’s not listening.

“Roger’s gonna hit the ceiling.”

“That’s why we’re not going to tell him,” I say.

“And how’s that going to work? How am I supposed to explain a month-long absence over the holidays? You’re supposed to fly back from Montreal, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. But, luckily, since the irresponsible, ne’er-do-well shoe fits me so well, just tell him I met a girl. He’ll believe that.”

“That could work,” Sam muses. Then his voice sharpens with suspicion. “ Did you meet a girl?”

“No,” I protest. “Well, yes. But no.”

“Yes, but no? You know what, never mind. We need to get you a lawyer.”

“I told you, I have one. The girl is a public defender.”

“Jack, if you’re really facing potential jail time, you need a good lawyer. I’ll make some calls.”

Sam is such a snob. I feel compelled to defend Holly. “Believe me, she’s good, and she knows how to push the DA’s buttons. There’s some kind of history there.”

“A history? That’s not good.”

“I think it’s more upsetting to him than her. I don’t know the whole story yet, but since the judge said my choices were to spend the month in county lockup or have her take custody of me, I’ll have plenty of time to ask.”

“Wait, you’re staying with this woman?”

“I know, it’s ludicrous. But, her family owns an inn and?—”

“Oh, so you’re staying at the inn.”

“Well, the inn’s booked.”

“Staying in the manger?”

“Heh, I made that joke, too. She didn’t think it was funny.”

“A lawyer without a sense of humor. Go figure. So if the inn is booked and you’re not staying at her place, where are you staying?”

“There’s a guest cottage behind the inn. The judge said it would be inappropriate for me to stay at Holly’s apartment, but apparently, it’s completely appropriate for the two of us to stay in this cottage. I guess because the Jollys are such upstanding members of the community or something.”

“The Jollys?”

“Her family.”

“Wait, wait. Your lawyer’s name is Holly Jolly?”

I listen as Sam roars with laughter for at least a solid minute.

He starts to talk again, then stops himself. “I can’t breathe. Hang on.”

After a moment, I ask, “Have you pulled yourself together yet?”

I can almost see him wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes, sitting at his polished desk in his three-piece suit, despite the fact that I’ve explained multiple times that nobody under the age of fifty wears a vest.

“I’m good now. Whew, Holly Jolly. You’re the best, Jack. Also the worst.”

“Thanks,” I say dryly. “So can you run interference with Roger or what?”

“Yeah—and the board. Luckily I have plenty of practice cleaning up your messes.”

“You’re welcome,” I deadpan.

He snorts.

“Seriously, though. Thanks, Sam.”

“Don’t mention it. You’ve got to stay out of trouble, though.”

“I have been staying out of trouble.”

“And yet, you managed to get yourself arrested.”

“Bite me. This isn’t my fault.”

His voice turns serious. “Whether it’s your fault or not, if this hits the national press, it’s going to be a disaster. Especially after your stunt at the funeral.”

I tamp down the urge to shoot back. There’s no point in rehashing the same argument for the billionth time.

“I know,” I say in an effort to stave off the rest of the lecture. It doesn’t work.

“Your heart’s in the right place, Jack, but sometimes your brain?—”

“Gotta run,” I say brusquely, ending the call before he can reprise the refrain I’ve been hearing my entire life.

Jack, the flaky good-hearted one. Jack, the one who stumbles into trouble like a bumbling fool. Jack, the irresponsible, good-time guy. Jack, the impulsive one who acts before he thinks.

This road trip is supposed to show that I can be responsible, that I have substance, and that I can be trusted with important things. And, somehow, I’ve mucked it up. Story of my life.