Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

Noelle

I rush back to the library, practically bouncing. Farah's disappointment at the lack of cake is more than made up for by the excitement of the scavenger hunt.

"That's fire! What's the first clue?"

I hand her the small envelope and she scans the message. Even though I've already memorized it, I read it aloud over her shoulder: "Your first clue isn't difficult. The land of the sweets has many treats. Go to the place where you'll find a strong one."

"The land of the sweets?"

"Act II of The Nutcracker . All the different dances." I start ticking them off. I should know them by heart—from the ages of five through twelve, I danced in the Mistletoe Youth Ballet's annual performance, and have watched from the audience for even longer. "There's hot chocolate, marzipan, tea cakes …" Then it hits me, and I snap my fingers. "Arabian. The Arabian dance is coffee. Coffee can be strong."

"Unless you get it at the Snowflake Cafe," Farah says with a giggle.

It's true. Delphina's drink creations tend to be sweet concoctions, bordering on desserts. But I know for a fact she stocks a locally roasted Arabica bean blend to accommodate her best friend.

"Hmm. Maybe I'll stop over there after we close."

"Go now!"

"Farah, I've already left you alone for too long."

"Go now," she repeats, insistent. "You've been so sad and quiet lately. You need to do something fun."

I shoot her a sidelong look before I answer. It's true I've been more subdued than usual, but I don't love that she can tell I'm struggling.

"If you're sure."

She gives me a two-handed shove. "I'm positive."

"I won't be long," I promise. And then I'm running out of the library yet again.

I cross High Street, zip around the corner, and head down Silver Bell Lane to the Snowflake Cafe. The lunchtime rush has passed and the late afternoon regulars haven't yet shown up for their pick-me-ups. I push open the door, and the jingle bells overhead ring loudly in the empty cafe. Delphina's behind the counter, stocking a glass jar with cake pops that I recognize as Merry's handiwork.

"Hi, Ms. Winters."

Despite the fact that Delphina is an adult, a business owner, and a member of my book club, she insists on calling me Ms. Winters. I get it. She's known me since she was reading board books on her mother's lap and wondering aloud if I lived at the library.

"Hey, Delphina. You really can call me Noelle," I remind her.

"Sorry. It's a habit," she says, sliding several chocolate reindeer pops in alongside the peppermint-candy-coated vanilla pops. "What can I get you, Noelle ? "

I scan the chalked menu that hangs on the wall behind her. "I'll have a shakerato, please. A small one."

The absolute last thing I need right now is a caffeine kick. I'm already buzzing with excited energy, but I can't resist a good chilled shakerato on a hot afternoon. And Delphina happens to make one of the best I've ever had. It's borderline magical, taking me back to the sultry summer I spent in Ravenna—one of the few pleasant memories of that period of my life.

She pours a shot of espresso and leaves it to cool on the counter while she dumps a cup of ice and a few teaspoons of brown sugar into a cocktail shaker. Then she adds the espresso and shakes the tumbler vigorously for a full minute. While she strains the drink into a glass, I unfold the map and spread it out on the counter.

She hands me my beverage and leans over to take a look. "Cool map. Where'd you get it?"

I'm too busy savoring the sweet, airy crema that tops the drink to answer. "Mmm, heavenly."

"Thanks. The map?"

"I helped Holly and the gang bring the decorations down from the attic. There was an envelope with my name on it tucked in with Carol's nutcrackers."

She grins at the mention of the nutcracker collection, then gives in to her curiosity. "What was in it?"

"This map and a note labeled Clue No. 1." I reach across the map and hand her the clue before she asks to see it.

She scans it and then looks up at me. "It's a reference to The Nutcracker , right?"

"Right."

"Okay. So the Sugar Plum Fairy has all the treats dance for Clara and the prince. Which one is strong?" She taps her lips in thought.

"The Arabian coffee dance," I tell her.

"Oh." Her eyes widen. "Oooh."

"You still get that Arabica blend for Holly, right?"

She nods. "Yeah. It's a little strong for my taste. I just used it in your espresso."

"Where do you order it from?"

"Stonebridge Roasters. All my beans are locally roasted. I just got a fresh delivery yesterday, " she tells me proudly.

"Was there a message or package for me?" I ask, feeling stupid.

"No, sorry. It was just a regular order. Twenty pounds of beans and an invoice." Then a thoughtful look crosses her face. "Stay right there!"

She disappears behind the swinging door into the back of the shop, and I sip my drink.

A moment later, she returns, clutching an envelope and wearing a triumphant expression. "Look! "

She hands me another tiny envelope. This one's labeled Clue No. 2.

"When did you get this?"

"I'd forgotten all about it. It was months ago—after last Christmas in July. But it was still hot. So August, maybe? Gray showed up with my delivery from Stonebridge Roasters. This envelope was taped to the invoice. I asked him about it, and he said he'd been asked to deliver it to me. He said at some point someone would come in asking for it and I should give it to them. I guess that's you."

"You didn't open it?" My tone oozes disbelief because there's no way I could have left an envelope labeled ‘clue' sitting around unopened almost a year. My curiosity would drive me straight up the wall.

She shrugs. "I was busy. We were short-handed, so I tossed it in a drawer in the kitchen to deal with later. And then I forgot all about it."

"I don't suppose Gray told you who gave it to him?"

"I didn't ask. Like I said, I was busy. He was busy, too."

She watches as I carefully open the second envelope and scan the text. I read it aloud: ‘Well done, you. Here's Clue Number 2. It's the seventh day of Christmas. What do you do?'

We frown at each other over the paper.

"The seventh day of Christmas," she mutters.

We both start singing softly.

I get there first. "Seven swans a-swimming."

"Seven swans a-swimming," she repeats slowly.

The bell over the front door jangles loudly. I turn around to see who's come in, but nobody's there. The door swings back and forth. My eyes shift to the table in the corner where the local newspaper lies open, held down by a mismatched latte mug and saucer.

"Was someone in here when I came in? I didn't see anybody."

She jerks her chin toward the corner table. "There was a guy. He's probably in town for the festival. He ordered a peppermint latte and a snowball cookie, then camped out in the corner by the door with a copy of the Mistletoe Press . "

I would have testified under oath that the coffeehouse was empty when I walked through the door. "How'd I miss him?"

"He wasn't very noticeable. He was really quiet. To be honest. I kind of forgot he was there." Her eyes widen. "He was wearing a hat and pair of big sunglasses. Maybe he didn't want to be noticed—or recognized. He could be famous, like an actor or a rock star avoiding the paparazzi."

I refrain from pointing out that Mistletoe Mountain has no paparazzi, and the rich and famous give us even wider berth. "Maybe."

I'm more interested in the newest clue than some almost certainly not famous random guy reading the weekly newspaper. "Seven swans a-swimming." I muse.

"Swans. Maybe they mean the Swansons."

I give her a look. I hope not. The Swansons live in a rambling red brick house at the edge of town. Vicky Swanson is one of my least favorite library patrons. She once asked me where the complaint box was. I directed her toward the suggestions box and she dedicated herself to stuffing it full of petty grievances until I relocated it to the recycling bin. I can't imagine the Swansons have the next clue. And if they do, I don't want it .

"Mr. Swanson's okay," she counters.

"I guess," I say without enthusiasm. "Let's come back to the Swansons. What else could it mean? Swimming could be a reference to the community pool. Maybe I'll head over there."

"Oh, not today," she says. "There's a swim meet with the team from the valley. The pool's closed to the public."

I drain my glass and slide it across the counter. "I should probably get back to the library anyway. Wherever the clue is, it'll still be there in the morning. Thanks for your help."

"Of course. It's fun."

I'm almost to the door when she calls after me. "Ms. Winters? I mean, Noelle?"

I turn back.

"How did Holly and her sisters seem this morning?"

I consider my answer. "They're doing okay. I think having the open house to focus on is good for them. It'll help them organize their memories of their mom, around something happy. And I'm glad their cousins are there."

She hesitates, then says, "Mr. Jolly isn't helping?"

"No, he went up to the fishing cabin."

"He could use a friend to get him through this."

"He has loads of friends."

"Yeah, but you know what I mean. Not just a friend, someone who loved Mrs. Jolly as much as he did. Someone like you."

The words are a punch to my gut. I open my mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a whoosh of air.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. You know how I am. As my mom likes to say, I don't believe in unexpressed thoughts. "

I manage a gentle laugh. "It's okay, Delphina. I understand."

She's still shaking her head at herself, red-faced, when I step outside.

I take my time walking back to the library. The decorations are going up all along the square, glinting and glittering in the afternoon sun. The air crackles with excitement and anticipation as the festival weekend draws closer. In a few more days, the town will be packed with couples, families, and groups of friends basking in the summer holiday magic. I hate to think of Nick all alone in his cabin on the other side of Snow Lake.

The lake. Of course. The lake.

The lake is down the hill from the wine bar, where there's a cute covered deck so patrons can sit and sip their vino while they watch the white swans glide across the surface of the water. Several years ago, an eccentric resident willed the town a herd? No, flock? Lamentation. The word emerges from the depths of my overstuffed librarian brain. Mr. Johansen left a lamentation of downy white swans to the town when he passed away and they've been swanning around in Snow Lake ever since.

I don't know if there are seven of them, but I am sure that's where I'll find my next clue.