Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

Noelle

Thursday

I wake 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 . Leaving that thought 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 in the garden. He snips some chives, dill, sage, and parsley and drops the herbs into the basket.

"Before we go to Santa's Cellar, there's another spot we should check first. It has a perfect view of the swans." He grins up at me and a shock of hair falls over his eyes. He pushes it away with the back of his hand and the skin around his eyes crinkles in the sunlight.

"Really?"

"You know the waterfall?"

"Sure."

"Back behind it, there's a rock outcropping with a big, flat rock. Lots of people use it as a picnic spot."

I search my memory. "I remember. I mean, I haven't been up there in years and years. But when I was a girl, I used to play up there." Then I frown. "It doesn't have a view of the lake, though."

"Probably not back then," he agrees. "But before they opened the wine bar, the owners had to clear some trees to get their equipment in. They took down a copse of invasive buckthorn trees. After the work was done, they planted blueberry bushes. So now there's a perfect view of just a slice of the lake. I know for a fact that you can see the swans from there."

Any worry I had that today would be awkward slips away as the thrill of the hunt overtakes me. We head back inside, and I help Nick prepare breakfast—not that he needs my help. It's clear that, over the quarter century of running the inn, he's developed culinary skills that far outpace mine. I've been known to call a spoonful of peanut butter scooped from the jar a perfectly reasonable breakfast. So, this savory homemade deliciousness leaves me swooning.

We make quick work of cleaning the kitchen, and he fills two stainless steel canteens with water while I dig around in his daughters' shared closet for a pair of hiking boots that fit. We're out the door before the day heats up.

The hike up to the waterfall is rocky, but the rise is gradual. A third of the way up, I feel eyes on my back and freeze. Nick's a half-step ahead of me.

"Nick," I whisper-hiss his name. "There's someone in the bushes."

He turns slowly and scans the vegetation. Then a smile breaks across his mouth, and he gestures for me to step up to join him. When I do, he points to the left. "Look."

A white-tailed doe peers out at us from the leaves, her wide eyes unblinking. Two fawns stand behind her like a pair of statues.

"Oh," I breathe.

The mama deer watches us with caution as we continue on our way up the hill. Around the bend, the rush of water over rocks announces that we've nearly reached the waterfall. We move on, winding past and above the white falls until we come to the outcropping.

He turns back to me. "You go first. I'll spot you."

I'm a decent hiker, but I have a mild fear of heights. I wonder if he remembers.

A moment later, he removes all doubt. "Just in case you get dizzy like you did when we were on the terrace at the top of the Arc de Triomphe."

Yeah, he remembers. Although in fairness, my vertigo all those years in Paris was probably due in equal parts to the surveying the city from a height of fifty meters and my heightened emotion at the realization that when the weekend was over, so was our whirlwind romance. I remember staring out at the lights and being overcome with sadness.

Now, I shake my head, dislodging the memory, and muster up a smile. "It's not that high, but thanks."

As I sidle by, my arm brushes against his. A frisson of electricity jolts through me at the contact. I hurry past him, take a deep breath, and gain a foothold in the rocks.

We scrabble up the rock face without any drama—except for the internal drama caused by the fact that I'm acutely aware of Nick two feet behind me with a perfect view of my butt. I take a moment to silently thank Griselda for her obsession with lunges and squats in her Booty Boot Camp. I may have cursed her at the time, but I'm grateful now. And not just because it makes the hike easier.

I reach the top of the outcropping and hoist myself up onto the flat rock in an inelegant, but effective, floppy fish motion. I settle myself on the surface, shrug out of the light daypack Nick lent me, and reach for my water bottle while he pulls himself up beside me. I pretend not to notice his lat muscles straining against the back of his thin tee-shirt as he boosts himself onto the rock in an explosion of power.

"Show off," I pant, sucking down water.

He snickers. "I owe it all to Grizzy's Lumber-Jacked program. Well, that and chopping wood for the inn. Functional fitness for the win." He twists off his canteen's cap and guzzles a long swig of water. Then he gestures to the vista of the valley below. "As promised, there's the lake. "

I nod. Far below, Snow Lake shimmers in the sun. Several white swans glide gracefully over the water's surface. Then I scan the mountaintop. "This could be the spot. But where would someone hide a note here?"

He twists his mouth to the side and narrows his eyes as he surveys our surroundings, too. "It has to be somewhere protected from the elements."

"And where someone won't stumble across it accidentally."

"Hmm." He stands and makes a slow turn.

Disappointment threatens to crowd out my triumph at reaching the summit. Did we make this climb for no reason? I hold out my hand, and he pulls me to my feet. I stand beside him and take a careful look around.

"Where would I hide an envelope up here?" I wonder aloud.

He shakes his head. "I guess we can start turning over rocks."

"Yikes, no. I'm looking for a clue not a nest of timber rattlers."

"Fair point."

We stand in stymied silence staring at the rocky ground for a long moment. Then I walk to the edge of the rock and look down. The landscape dissolves into a fuzzy, long-ago memory and I whip my head around and ask, "Is there an easy way down to the blueberry bushes?"

"Sure. It's a steep footpath, but it's well-worn. You need a snack?"

"I wouldn't turn down fresh blueberries. But no, I just remembered something." My words tumble out in a rush. " Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, Mistletoe Mountain had an Elf Troop."

"A what now?"

"It was a coed scouting program. It disbanded at some point. But when I was in elementary and middle school, everyone was in the Elf Troop. And for a few years in the late eighties, letterboxing was all the rage. I know there was a letterbox under the buckthorns. I remember stamping my log there."

He gives me a blank look. "Letterboxing?"

I grin at the memory. "An outdoor treasure hunt. Think geocaching, but analog. A lot of the clues were word of mouth, and some of them were in the Mistletoe Missive . We'd search for these weatherproof boxes. When you found one, you wanted to remove it in secret so you wouldn't ruin the game for anyone else. Inside, there was an ink pad and a stamp to add to your personal logbook, along with a logbook that you would stamp with your stamp. Then you put everything back and hid the box again."

"Letterboxing, huh? Never heard of it. And everyone in town did this?"

"Everyone," I confirmed. "And I specifically remember that Carol, Rudy, and I found the letterbox buried under the buckthorn trees together. We were the third group to stamp the log." I nod toward the blueberry bushes.

"Huh. You know if the box was still there when the trees were dug up, it might have been destroyed or removed."

"Sure. But there's only one way to find out."

We each take another drink of cool water before closing up our bottles and shouldering our packs. We step off the ledge and edge our way down the steep hill, sliding through loose soil and gravel as we descend. Nick's in the lead, which turns out to be both good and bad.

It's good, because when I get too much momentum and slam into his back, hard, he breaks my fall. And it's bad, because when I crash into him, I send both of us tumbling into the tangle of blueberry bushes.

"Oof." He lands on his stomach with his head under a bush and me sprawled out over his back in a superman position.

I yelp and scrabble off him. I roll onto my back in the dirt beside him, breathing heavily.

"Sorry," I whimper when I have enough air in my lungs to speak.

Next to me, his broad shoulders shake.

"Are you okay?" I pop up and prop myself onto one elbow, worried that I hurt him. Then he flops over on his back and I can see that he's shaking with silent laughter. I smack him lightly on the chest. "You scared me!"

He grabs my wrist and holds it flat against his beating heart. "I'm just glad blueberry bushes don't have thorns."

Now we're both laughing, big whooping laughs, as we imagine getting a face full of thorns. His eyes soften, and I realize he's stroking the underside of my wrist. My throat tightens and my laughter dies. I disengage my hand and sit up.

"Come on. Let's look for the box."

He cocks his head and gives me a searching look that I pretend not to notice as I push aside the nearest bunch of branches and peer into the bushes. He squats beside me and swims his arms through the next bush. We spot the green plastic container nestled at the base of his bush at the same time. We both reach for it.

He pulls back his hand. "You do the honors."

"Thanks." I grab the strap and drag the waterproof box through the bushes.

He leans in to examine the container. "Is that a decon container?"

I nod. "Yeah, the troop bought a bunch of them from the army surplus store. They're perfect letterboxing boxes."

I remove the lid and shake out an age-yellowed logbook, a dried-up red ink pad, a rubber stamp in the shape of a snowflake, and a linen envelope labeled Clue No. 3.