Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Nick

N oelle's stricken expression stays with me all morning, keeping me company on my circuit through town running the errands necessary to keep the inn going. Her horrified reaction was outsized, I tell myself, trying to eradicate the hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I pull into the parking lot at the mill. It's just a party, I insist, as I back the truck into a spot near the door, hop out, and lower the tailgate. My inner monologue isn't working to dislodge the image of her bright green eyes filling with tears.

When I walk into the small retail shop attached to Marino and Sons Millworks, the tangy scent of baking bread fills my nostrils, and my stomach growls appreciatively .

"Morning, Nick," the flour-dusted young guy behind the counter says.

"Morning, Enzo."

The youngest of the Marino brothers wipes his hands on his apron and heads to the cash register. "We already pulled your order. Want me to give you a hand loading it?"

I almost say no, but I've got a twinge in my back from sleeping poorly and this kid's half my age. I feel ancient. I bet Josh Morgenthal could beat me in a foot race.

"Sure, that'd be great."

He rings up the purchases. "Your total comes to one hundred and fifty dollars."

I blink, and peel a third fifty from the roll of bills I already have out of my pocket. "Did your dad raise his prices?" A fifty percent increase is steep. I might need to start sourcing my flour from another supplier.

He cocks his head, puzzled. "No. The wholesale rate's the same as always. Fifty bucks for a fifty-pound bag."

I give him a confused look back. "I only ordered two."

"Ah, sure. But Merry called and said to add another bag. She needs it for the gingerbread houses. You know, for the open house."

My gut twists. I haven't gotten around to telling the girls that the open house is canceled. My daughters are going to make Noelle's reaction look mild.

"Oh. Right." I hand him the cash, and he studies me.

He looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn't. Instead, he holds out a receipt. I pocket it while he walks around to the front of the counter and stoops beside three large bags of flour waiting on a pallet. He hefts the top two bags onto his shoulder, and I grab the last one and follow him outside. We pile the sacks in the truck bed, then I close up the gate.

"Thanks for the help." I offer him a handshake.

"No problem." He pumps my hand and turns as if to leave, then turns back. "Is it true you're not playing Santa Claus this summer?"

The note of betrayal in his voice catches me off guard. Enzo's in his twenties. He hasn't stood in line to see Summer Santa in at least a dozen years, probably longer.

The sun's behind him, so I shade my eyes with my hand while I answer. "Yeah, not this summer."

"But—"

"Josh Morgenthal's going to stand in for me. He'll do a great job."

"But, he's not Santa. You're Santa."

I raise an eyebrow, but before I can break the news to him, he gives a sheepish laugh. "I didn't mean that how it sounded. It's just … I can't remember a time when you didn't play Santa. You've been Santa my entire life. You're an institution, Nick. Our bookkeeper's daughter has been working on a note for you for two weeks. You remember Angelica?"

The name conjures up a shy five-year-old with long dark curls and big eyes. "Sure. Cute kid."

He frowns. "She's gonna know Mr. Morgenthal's not the real Santa."

I scratch my neck. "Look, Enzo. This is a bad year for me with … everything. Josh'll be a perfectly serviceable Santa. And if Angelica notices that he's not me, just explain that the re al Santa is extremely busy. Tell her he always has one of his helpers attend the summer festival."

"I guess." He's unconvinced. "Well, see you at the open house then."

I open my mouth, then I think better of it and snap it closed. He looks so dejected, I don't have the heart to break the news that the open house is canceled. Not now, at least.

He gives me a half-hearted wave and heads back inside.

As I put the truck in gear, Noelle's voice rings in my ears, telling me the open house is more than a tradition.

"Crud," I growl aloud.

I'm going to have to get out in front of this and let my daughters know there's not going to be an open house this year before they hear it from someone else.

I'm too late. I know it the instant I set foot in the kitchen. My three daughters sit at the big oak table, lined up by age—Holly, Ivy, and then Merry—wearing matching scowls.

"Uh-oh. What's the matter?" I figure playing dumb is my best option.

Holly isn't having it. She points a finger at me and uses her lawyer voice. "Is it true that you told Noelle Winters the summer open house is canceled?"

"Yes, but?—"

Merry jumps in. "How could you?"

"Girls, you have to understand. I don't have?—"

"Did you or did you not bow out of playing Summer Santa?" Holly demands .

I have the irrational urge to plead the Fifth. "Well?—"

"Dad, you didn't!" Merry springs to her feet.

Quiet Ivy, who hasn't said a word, gapes at me, her mouth open and her eyes wide. And something inside me breaks. I drop into a chair across the table from them.

"I can't do it this year. I don't have it in me to be jolly and cheerful." Not while my heart is cracked in two, I add silently.

My confession diffuses their anger. The air changes, and Holly reaches over the table to squeeze my hand.

"Oh, Dad."

"I'm sorry you had to find out from Noelle. I should have told you."

Ivy agrees. "Yes, you should have. But we understand how hard this is for you. It's hard for all of us."

"Let us help you," Merry says, dropping into her seat again. "Don't back out of everything. Mom wouldn't want that."

"She'd hate it," Ivy informs me.

I study my daughters. Aside from their annoying habit of interrupting me, they're pretty great. Take-charge Holly, gentle Ivy, and bubbly Merry. Despite, or maybe because of, their disparate personalities, they're close, really close. They always have been. They're there for me and for each other. And when Carol was dying last summer, they were there for her.

"Do you think we can't handle the open house without Mom?" Holly wants to know. "Because we can. Besides, people will be happy to help if we ask them to. Noelle already offered."

I shake my head and have to clear my throat before I can speak. "No, of course not. I'm sure you're capable of pulling it off. The three of you can do anything you put your minds to. And Noelle told me the same thing about helping. But it's not the work that's daunting. It's facing Christmas in July without your mom."

One by one their gazes slide away from my face, and I know they're remembering our family summer Christmases. When you run the biggest inn in a town named Mistletoe Mountain, December is your busy season. The inn is booked solid from mid-November through early January, and every day is filled to bursting with seasonal activities, special meals, and themed crafts and games. As a result, in the Jolly family, our real Christmas celebration has always happened in July when the Mistletoe Mountain madness is slightly less all-consuming.

Somehow, through the hazy pain of missing Carol, I managed to forget that my daughters have a lifetime of summer Christmas memories. Of course, they're upset that I've canceled the holiday. The very reason why it's so painful to me is why it's so important to them. I'm a flipping moron.

Ivy speaks first. "Dad, please. We need to do this. For Mom, and for ourselves."

I swallow around the blasted lump in my throat. "Okay, do it. Have the open house, but I can't be a part of the prep work." My voice is gruff to my own ears.

They exchange careful looks and Ivy pours me a glass of ice water from the pitcher on the counter.

"Thanks," I tell her as she hands it to me.

"Are you sure?" Holly presses.

I take a long sip before answering. "I'm sure. Call Noelle. But leave me out of it. "

"We don't need to call Noelle," Merry chirps. "We already called Aunt MJ."

I spew water and ice all over the table and sputter, "You what? Why? "

My sister, Mary Jane Field, is, to put it mildly, an agent of chaos. The girls start giggling, and Merry grabs a dish towel to wipe up the water.

"Relax, Dad. Aunt MJ isn't coming here."

"Whew, okay. You scared me there for a minute."

"Clearly," Holly says, arching an eyebrow.

They have no idea what a hot mess MJ can be. Her heart's in the right place. I think. But she leaves a trail of destruction and criminal charges in her wake.

"Is she even out of prison?" I ask.

"Yes, she and Uncle Bart were both released early for good behavior."

"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.

"She ran a 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.

" And they 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.