Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

Noelle

M y cheeks are wet. I wipe away my tears with a shaking hand, take a shuddering breath, and read Carol's letter for a second time.

Noelle, ma belle,

I'm so sorry. Sorry that I'm dead and I can't tell you this in person. And sorry that I upset you by asking if you have feelings for Nick.

You do, you know. Well, you don't know, now, when I'm writing this. But maybe by the time you read this, you'll have clued in. In case you haven't, allow me to point it out: You and Nick have a connection. This isn't about your college romance. Or maybe, in part, it is. But you share more than that. You share ME, you doofus.

Don't you see that if you're together, it's not a betrayal of me or what Nick and I had? It's the opposite. Through your love for each other, you'll keep my love and my light alive.

Am I saying that if you don't get with Mistletoe Mountain's most eligible widower, really, you'll have killed me, not the cancer? Yes. No, just kidding. But I am saying that you and Nick belong together. I tried to guide you to this realization through the scavenger hunt. Did it work? And was it fun?

I had fun coming up with the clues for you. It brought back so many memories of so many Christmases in July, of us when we were girls (I'd forgotten all about the letterboxing fad!), of taking my girls to the festivals together. Of so much.

I wish we could have elevenses again. I'd give anything to sit with you in my kitchen, drinking tea, gabbing, and laughing until our sides hurt. But we can't, and that sucks eggnog.

That's what your last clue is about. When the ghost of Jacob Marley warns Scrooge that "no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused," you know what he's saying, right? When you get to the end, Noelle, you don't want to have regret for chances you didn't take. Believe me, as much as I hate that I'm dying, I don't have regrets. I know I used my time on this earth the way I wanted to .

I want you to have this same certainty someday (in the distant, distant future). You used to seize every opportunity, take every chance, and chase every dream. You moved to two different countries, alone. You started a masters' program in a language you don't speak! That Noelle would not be scared to open her heart—especially not to someone who will take the care with it that Nick will.

Let him in. For me. If it doesn't work out (which it totally will), move on, and let someone else in.

Don't make me drag myself around your cottage in chains moaning at you like you're Ebenezer Scrooge. I have better things to do in my afterlife.

Love,

Carol

At some point during my second read-through, my tears turn to laughter. It's as if Carol is sitting across from me, eating scones and telling me how it is. And my heart, which was so heavy, is light. Full, but light.

I look up to see Nick watching me.

"You okay?" His voice is husky.

I nod. "I am. Are you?"

"I'm good. Carol, she's something else."

A smile blooms on my lips. "Yes, she is."

He jerks his chin. "What's in the box? Did the letter say?"

I blink. "No, it didn't."

I forgot all about the box. I stand up, pull it toward me, and remove the lid. Several sheets of green tissue paper are wrapped around the contents of the box. I unfold the thin paper and lift out a red, short-sleeved, A-line vintage cocktail dress with a white shawl collar and two rows of white buttons on the bodice. I hold it up and meet Nick's eye.

"This is Carol's summer Mrs. Claus dress," I say slowly.

"I think it's yours now. If you want it."

Mine?

I blink and break eye contact. I look down at the dress in my hands and spot a note tucked into one of the pockets. I pluck it out and read it aloud.

Noelle, Nick's going to need a Mrs. Claus for the Christmas in July festival. It's easy: wear the dress, smile at the kids, and hand out the candy canes. ~ Carol

He guffaws. Then his face grows serious. He pushes back his chair and stands up, facing me. "Will you do it?"

Dickens' admonition—and Carol's—runs through my mind. I almost have to, don't I? Take this chance, seize this opportunity?

"If the dress fits, I'll do it," I say.

He grins widely. Without thinking, I stretch up on my tiptoes and drop a kiss on the corner of his upper lip. He takes the dress from me, gently returns it to the box, and covers my mouth with deep, searching kisses.

More kissing? I could get used to this. I picture a life where there's just so much kissing. Kissing over breakfast frittatas, at red lights, while walking a dog that we don't have but could get, during fiercely competitive Scrabble games that I will obviously win. My mind spins out a future while my mouth responds eagerly to Nick's need. I wrap my arms around his neck and lace my fingers together behind his head.

He comes up for air. "Carol was right."

I give him a look. "Duh. Carol was always right."

He laughs, then dives back into his thorough exploration of my mouth. I pull him closer. He can't be close enough to satisfy me. As his tongue dances with mine, his hands skim my waist, and then he brushes his fingers across the sliver of bare skin between the top of my yoga pants and the hem of my shirt. A delicious shiver runs through me.

He growls low in his throat and moves his lips to my neck. I press into him and?—

The door flies open. "Noelle? Is that your blue hatchback parked in the alley?"

Marley Jacobs peers at us with a mixture of curiosity, amusement, and concern as we jump apart.

I smooth my hair and straighten my shirt. "Yeah. I know it's parked illegally. We're done here, I think, so I'll?—"

She holds up a hand. "I just caught someone breaking into it."

My passenger side window is smashed in. Glass covers the seat and the console. While I survey the damage, Marley and Nick stand a few feet away near the rear door of her office building, arguing in hushed tones over whether they should call the police.

"It's the first night of Summer Christmas," Marley is saying. "Yes, of course, report it. She'll probably have to for her insurance, anyway. But the cops are going to have their hands full with visitors succumbing to elevation sickness and driving their expensive cars into dry creek beds because our road signs were designed as some sort of inside joke. Besides, I didn't get a good look at the guy's face before he ran off." I know what's coming next before she says it. "And he was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. I wouldn't be able to pick him out of a crowd, let alone a lineup."

Nick mutters a response that includes the word ‘stalker' while I try to breathe. I'm suddenly hot and dizzy. I lean forward, grabbing the window frame to steady myself.

"Hey, careful, you're gonna cut yourself." Nick sprints to me and gently moves me back a step. "Besides, there might be fingerprints. You shouldn't touch."

At least I think that's what he says. It's hard to hear him through the buzzing in my ears. I sway in his arms.

"Light-headed … eat something … dizzy, hot …." I'm trying hard to make sense and full sentences, but I can't.

Marley springs into action and runs up beside us. "Give me your keys."

I reach my shaky hand into my pocket, dig out the keys, and drop them into her palm.

"I'll pull it into my lot. Nick, take her inside. There's a jug of apple cider in my kitchenette. She probably has low blood sugar and the shock and stress are making it worse. Noelle, you drink some cider. Sip it slowly. Go."

Nick scoops me up, and I interlace my fingers behind his neck and let my head loll back against his chest. He carries me in his arms as he runs for the door. It would be romantic if I weren't somehow simultaneously sweating and shivering. He kicks the door open with his foot and deposits me on the couch in Marley's waiting room. There's a light blanket folded neatly over the back of the sofa, and he drapes it over my shoulders.

"I'm going to get the cider. Don't move." He drops a kiss on the crown of my head and runs toward the back of the office.

As promised, he's right back. He presses a coffee mug that reads ‘A Good Lawyer Knows the Law, A Great Lawyer Knows the Judge' into my hands.

"Take a sip," he urges, crouching in front of me and watching me with worried eyes.

I raise the mug to my lips and let the cold, crisp sweetness run down my throat. He reaches for the mug and rests it on the side table. "That's enough for now."

I nod and swallow. "Thank you."

He shakes his head. "Don't you thank me. I'm going to spend the rest of my life taking care of you."

I manage a weak laugh. "Carol's letter said I'm supposed to take care of you. "

He grins and the skin around his eyes crinkles sexily. "I guess we'll have to take care of each other then."

I swear I could swim in his hazel eyes. I reach for the cider and take another small drink.

"I'm starting to feel human again," I tell him.

He opens his mouth to answer just as Marley bangs through her own front door, eyes blazing. She locks the door. Then she pulls the shades over the window in the door and the big glass window behind the couch.

I give Nick a wide-eyed look. He shakes his head. Of course, he doesn't know anything more than I do. But his mouth is a firm, hard line.

Marley cocks her head and gives me a close look. "The color's back in your face. Good. Let's go to my office."

She carries the mug of cider and Nick insists on carrying me, even though I'm sure I can walk without any problem at this point. But if the man wants to carry me around like I'm Cleopatra, who am I to argue?

Once we're all settled in Marley's light, airy office, she wastes no time. She slaps a sheet of paper on the desk. "This was in the footwell wrapped around a rock. Presumably, the rock used to smash the window."

I stare down at the angry, scrawled words, and my heart palpitates. My mouth goes dry and my throat tightens. This is my worst nightmare, a nightmare that's dogged me for twenty-seven years, and it's come to life. I reach for the cider and take a long gulp.

Nick frowns at the message. "What does ti ucciderò, puttana mean?" he asks, butchering the Italian.

Marley gives me another piercing look. "It's a threat."

I clear my throat and choke out an answer, "Literally translated, it means ‘I will kill you, whore.'"

My words hang on the air, heavy and malevolent.

Then Nick growls, "This isn't just some creep messing with your scavenger hunt. Clearly, this guy is disturbed and possibly dangerous."

Marley nods. "My thinking about involving the authorities has evolved." She stops herself, then goes on, "That's lawyer for I was wrong. You need to call the cops. And I'll reach out to the District Attorney's Office. "

"No DA," I say instantly.

She frowns. "You're aware Nick's daughter works for the DA, right?"

"Right, and that's why we're not involving the DA. I don't want Holly anywhere near this guy. We can call the sheriff, for all the good it'll do. But no DA."

Something about my tone tips Nick off. "You just figured out who it is, didn't you?"

I nod, staring at the note. I take a shaky breath, then another. When I trust myself to speak, I say, "I did. His name is Dante Bianchi. And I don't know how he found me." I jab my finger down on the paper. "But this isn't an idle threat. He means it."