Читать книгу Christmas At The Café: Christmas at the Gingerbread Café / Chocolate Dreams at the Gingerbread Cafe / Christmas Wedding at the Gingerbread Café / Wish Upon a Christmas Cake - Rebecca Raisin, Darcie Boleyn - Страница 25

Chapter One

“Good morning, pretty ladies. I come bearing gifts on this picture-perfect spring day,” Damon says mock-formally, and bows. He steps through the doorway of the Gingerbread Café, brandishing an almighty postal tube like a sword. My heartbeat quickens at the sight of him. His wavy hair is lit by the sunshine behind casting a golden glow over him, like a spotlight.

My only employee, CeeCee, fluffs her curls, before giving him a great big launch hug that nearly knocks him off his feet and makes him groan with delight. She’s a big bundle of southern exuberance, and is more like a friend and mother-figure to me.

“And pray tell, what is it?” she asks, pointing to the plain white packaging.

“Well, it’s not a shrilling turkey, let’s just say that.” He winks.

I smile and glance over at the cash register where the God-awful bright yellow shrilling turkey he gave me at Christmas sits, like a mascot.

Damon walks to me and lands a soft kiss on my cheek. Woozy, that’s how I feel when he’s near me. I go jelly-legged and google-eyed, not my best look. It’s so easy to get lost staring at his face, his lips. I fight the urge to launch myself at him too. Who knew love could feel like this? A dreamy, intoxicating, passion-fest.

“Go on, open it,” he says.

Taking the proffered tube, I shake it gently. “Any guesses, Cee?”

“Can’t rightly say.” She smirks, and fiddles with her long pearly necklace.

“Oh, so you were in on this surprise?”

Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head. “No idea what you talking about.”

“No?” I say, amused. “You look a picture of innocence, Cee.” I upend the tube and prise out the contents. A roll of shiny bronze foil flashes under the lighting. Unwrapping a length, I see tiny brown gingerbread men with cute button noses and licorice-colored eyes smile up at me. “You two!” I say, not managing to stop the silly jump-clap dance I do when I’m excited. Under each gingerbread man it says in elegant miniature cursive: Easter at the Gingerbread Café.

“We thought your chocolate eggs would look mighty nice wrapped up in personalized foil,” Damon says, grinning. “And CeeCee suggested incorporating the gingerbread men.”

“This is going to be the prettiest chocolate Ashford has ever seen!” I immediately want to wrap up an egg to see what they’ll look like. It makes me giddy to think how far we’ve come. When I first opened the café, it was just me, a tray of gingerbread men, and a never-ending pot of percolated coffee.

We have big plans for Easter this year. We set to work, just over a month ago, making all sorts of chocolate eggs, from simple oval shapes, to large bunnies with long ears. The range was so popular we tried making other sorts of chocolates, like ganache-filled truffles, chocolate ginger fudge, and chocolate candied oranges, anything we could, to see if they’d work and there was a market for it. Not all of it’s fancy; mostly it’s just good quality sweets baked from scratch.

Sarah from the corner bookshop suggested we hold a chocolate festival over Easter. She thought it would be a great way to draw some new faces into Ashford. It’s such a small community and the last year has been tough for so many of the local businesses.

We had an impromptu meeting with the owners of the shops along our street, and decided a chocolate festival would be the perfect excuse to celebrate Easter, and give all our shops a boost. We’ve advertised in all the surrounding towns, and the response so far has been overwhelming. Out-of-towners have already begun to visit Ashford. Some come purely to stick their noses in, others to stock up on books, or hardware, not knowing Ashford has everything you need if you just look hard enough.

All the shopkeepers are excited to show their wares in the best light. Sarah has a famous author dropping by to do a reading at her bookshop. Damon has cheese-making classes and a cooking demo planned. The local hardware shop is involved; they’re going to do a sixty-minute session on how to build a basic cubby house for kids. Someone’s roped in a band to play folk music throughout the day. And the chocolate festival will be set up in the middle of the main road, so people can go between tables sampling chocolate in all its glorious forms, before heading into shops for the activities.

Sarah has been a driving force, helping print pamphlets and distributing them. She’s set up a Facebook page to help garner interest. Needless to say, she pops over most days to see what we’re concocting. We ply her full of chocolaty goodness, and watch her face for a reaction. Ginger is still a prominent fixture in some of our recipes, but it’s been fun molding, and sculpting chocolate into submission.

Damon lets out a long whistle, hauling my mind away from chocolate and back to him. He holds a finger up. “One more thing,” he says, and runs to the doorway to retrieve another package. It’s an odd shape and is wrapped haphazardly in newspaper.

As usual I forget to be delicate but figure it’s only newspaper as I tear it to shreds to see what’s underneath.

“How do you do it?” I pretend to be dazed with wonder. “I’m going to have the best collection of…ugly going round!” I smile as I press a small button to switch it on. An evil-eyed bunny rabbit starts hopping maniacally across the silver bench, singing out of tune about hot cross buns. Laughter barrels out of us as we watch the demented toy.

“I think this may trump the shrilling turkey!” CeeCee hoots.

“You, my friend, just started another war.” I sidle up to Damon, and hug him loosely around his hips. “You know that, right?” My lips twitch with the urge to kiss him.

He drapes his arm over me and lands a kiss on the top of my head. “A war on…unique seasonal collectibles? That so? Well, before I leave you to attend to the customers who, by the looks, are waiting patiently on my stoop, there’s one thing you should know — seems there’s a teeny tiny fault with the hopping bunnies. The salesperson was basically giving them away. I mean, I just had to buy it at that bargain-basement price…”

I give him a playful shove. “Get on with it, what’s the fault?”

“It seems Peter Rabbit here doesn’t have an off switch. He can keep that joyful noise up all day long.”

“Joyful noise? That what you call it?” CeeCee says. “Sounds more like this bunny got his foot caught in a rabbit trap to me.”

“You can thank me later,” he says, edging towards the door while I pretend to lob the rabbit at him.

We watch him stride across the street; as usual our eyes are glued to his butt, which looks all sorts of perfect under a pair of tight denim jeans. His shirt lifts in the breeze and I see the tanned, smooth skin of his lower back. The memory of running my hand along his naked body makes me shiver. I shake the thought away, not wanting to look like some kind of love-struck idiot, my mouth hanging open, ogling him from the window. I pull myself together and gaze over at CeeCee, who’s uncharacteristically lost for words, staring at him too.

“Hmm, that fine-looking thing sure do know how to please a woman,” CeeCee says, as if she’s in a daze and we giggle. Every time she brings Damon into a conversation she calls him ‘that fine-looking thing’ which always reduces us to laughter.

“Yes, ma’am, he sure does,” I say sarcastically, holding my hands over my ears. “But I’ve got a bad feeling this bunny rabbit is about to have a tragic accident.”

She smirks. “It’s funny, I thought the very same thing.” CeeCee picks it up and studies the underside. “There must be an off switch. Surely he was only playin’.”

The cordless phone trills, making us jump. “I’ll take it in the office so I can hear. It’s probably that fine-looking thing calling to gloat,” I say, jogging to the back of the café to the small office.

Still smiling, I answer, “The Gingerbread Café, Lil speaking.” And wait for Damon’s velvety voice to talk back.

“Lily-Ella, it’s me.” It’s a velvety voice all right, but it’s not Damon’s. The way Joel rolls the Ls of my full name takes me back to my old life. Closing my eyes, I picture him, his thick black hair pushed back from his face while he rakes his fingers through it, a subconscious mannerism. I stiffen; it’s been months since we talked. And two years since we divorced. I make my voice businesslike. “How are you, Joel?”

“I’ve been better.” He lets out a short hollow laugh.

“So you got the boxes I sent?” The detritus of Joel’s life with me had been stashed around my house, things I stopped seeing because they’d been there for an age, but Damon noticed as soon as he moved in a few weeks back. A baseball glove in the hall closet, old clothes in the spare room, used car parts in the shed. Goes to show just how quick Joel upped and left. Damon didn’t say a word about it but I could see a shadow of doubt cross his face as he kept stumbling across Joel’s things so I decided it was high time I de-cluttered my old life.

“Yeah, I got them. None of it means anything ’cept the photos. Spent a whole night staring at them.”

“Don’t talk like that. They’re just pictures. Nothing more.”

I’d sent Joel half of our wedding pictures with the boxes, because it meant something back then, and there’s no point pretending it didn’t happen. When I divvied them up, I spent some time looking through them too, but all I felt was a sort of sadness that those two bright-eyed lovers staring back at me weren’t so suited after all.

He sighs. “Look, Lil, I know I made all kinds of mistakes, but I’m a changed man. Totally different from the one who left…”

“Stop, Joel. That sounds like a line.”

CeeCee calls out, “Well, is it Damon? Tell him I think I’ve figured out a way to stop it. Can’t barely hear it from the depths of the chest freezer…” Her cackle follows me into the office.

“Well, it’s coming from my heart, Lil,” Joel says, in a slightly offended tone.

“You did this, Joel. You made your choice, and it wasn’t me.”

Two years I pined for him after he walked out. Just after he managed to lose our house, and his car yard in one of his get-rich-quick schemes. He took a gamble with our finances and lost without breathing a word of it to me until it was too late. I struggled to keep the Gingerbread Café going, and held on through some truly bad times. But he didn’t care; our home was taken by the bank, and we were forced to rent a tiny cottage. He walked away without a backward glance, right into the arms of another woman. To think I waited for him for two years ready to forgive. I was a damn fool, and I’m sure as hell not going to make that mistake again.

“Look, baby, I know you’re with some other guy—”

“That’s none of your business!”

“So our history doesn’t count for anything? You can’t honestly say it wasn’t one helluva marriage before things went…pear-shaped.”

The saccharine timbre of his voice reminds me that he can’t be trusted. He’s a salesman through and through. CeeCee says he could sell fire to Satan if you gave him half a chance. “Pear-shaped? Is that what you call it?” It’s impossible to keep the sarcasm from my voice. “And you’re right, it was one helluva marriage, emphasis on the hell. I have to go.”

“Lil, can we meet? There’s something I really need to discuss with you.”

Exasperated, I exhale down the line. “I think we’ve discussed everything.”

“I’m out at Old Lou’s…”

I groan inwardly. Old Lou owns a big property on the outskirts of Ashford. It looks more like a junk yard than a place where someone lives. I lower my voice, “How long have you been here?”

“A couple of days. I was planning to go check out that new shop in town; you know the one, sells small goods…”

Damon’s shop. There’s an abrasiveness to Joel’s voice; he obviously knows all the details of my new relationship. I pinch the bridge of my nose as my head begins to ache. I wonder what he’s scheming in that great big melon head of his. One thing I know for sure is that it’s never black and white when it comes to Joel.

Maybe I can nip this in the bud before it blooms into trouble. “Stay away from that shop. I’ll give you ten minutes tonight, and that’s it, Joel. And you’re right, I am with someone else, so if it’s about reconciliation forget it.” I end the call so he can’t respond.

Worry gnaws at me. What’s he up to?

“Sugar plum?” CeeCee yells. “Are we doing these eggs or not?”

“Coming!” I put the phone back in the cradle on the desk and pray he doesn’t call again.

Heading back to CeeCee, I see she’s laid the bench with everything we need to make Paschal eggs. Real eggs that we’re going to drain and dye in a rainbow of colors so the children of Ashford can paint them at the chocolate festival.

“What’d he say?” She smirks up at me. “Did you tell him the bunny is suffering a severe case of frostbite?”

I grin in spite of myself when I hear the muffled drone of the bunny from the square chest freezer, winding down as if its battery is almost flat. “It wasn’t Damon. It was someone…about a catering job. Just a quote.” The lie catches in the back of my throat. I look away so she doesn’t notice my hesitation.

“Another one? You two are surely making it big in the catering world.”

Damon and I joined forces at Christmas time to cater parties outside Ashford. I was catering alone before but was missing out on the bigger jobs because I couldn’t do it by myself. With Damon’s help, we’ve managed to spread our wings further afield, and have secured lots of corporate events in the bigger towns that border Ashford, Connecticut. Our town, while pleasant to live in, doesn’t have much of a call for canapés, or any of the fancy dishes we make to order. Luckily we don’t have anything booked until after the festival, otherwise I don’t know how we’d manage.

“So,” I say, hoping to distract CeeCee from asking for more details about the phone call. “Who’s doing what here?” I gaze down at the huge bowl of eggs and wonder how long it’s going to take us to drain them all.

“I’m not one to beg off, Lil, but I picture how those eggs came to be and I can’t imagine myself puckerin’ up to blow the contents out. You get my drift?”

“Cee! Now I’m picturing the chicken laying the egg. That’s just plain gross!” I look at her, bemused, and slightly queasy at the thought.

“Mind, I washed ’em good. You’ll be OK.” Her lips wobble and a second later she doubles over; her big-bellied southern haw rings out, making it damn near impossible not to join in.

For the first time ever the Gingerbread Café is flourishing. We’ve had extra money to invest in more supplies and let our creativity loose. Our window display is a show-stopper, crafted to look like a magical forest. We have trees made with fluffy green cotton candy and dark chocolate trunks. We’ve set up a bed of burnished hay made from toffee-like spun sugar where our chocolate bunnies nest. And tiny yellow chicks, made from fondant icing, are ‘hatching’ out of white chocolate eggs. The intricate display has drawn in kids and adults alike, the heady smell of molten chocolate has worked wonders on passers-by, who can’t help but wander in and see what we’re up to.

Semi-composed from the thought of tasting raw egg yolk, I glance back at Cee, who’s moved away and is slapping her hand on the bench every time laughter gets the better of her. “Is this going to continue?” I say, arching my eyebrows. “Every time I put my lips on an egg?” I’m supposed to poke a hole in each end of the egg and blow down so the liquid spills out. Now she’s got me picturing the origins of the egg, and it’s kind of disgusting. CeeCee certainly has a way of lightening my mood, and I chortle along with her.

I scrutinize the egg up close and she shrieks; her brown skin is almost purple from laughter; she’s gasping for breath and gripping her belly. “OK…OK, I’m nearly done.” She glances back at the eggs, and manages to hold in her merriment as tears stream from her eyes. “Glory be, I’m too old for this.”

“Oh, yeah? If you don’t stop I’m going to make you suck eggs.”

“Suck eggs! You meant to be blowing!” This starts us off again. “It’s a wonder we get any work done with this kinda carry on!” CeeCee manages, before her guffaw carries to the street where a few people walking past stop to gawp at us, with quizzical expressions.

We manage to control ourselves enough to set to work. CeeCee fills up a saucepan with warm water and adds a dash of vinegar and a hefty squirt of red food coloring, ready to dye the eggshells.

I pierce the first egg and glance over at Cee. She sputters into her hand and walks away, her shoulders shaking. “I can’t watch. I just can’t!”

By the time she wanders back I’ve done five eggs. “Only ninety-five to go.” I wipe my forehead in exaggeration.

CeeCee takes the empty shells, and gently drops them in the pot of scarlet water. She stirs softly so they dye evenly before taking them out to dry in an empty egg carton.

We work quietly, and my mind drifts back to Joel. He hasn’t been back to Ashford since we split; it seems odd he’d come back now. I wonder if he’s going to try and make trouble for me, but most of all I worry about what Damon will make of it. Joel can be pigheaded — if he sets his mind to something he usually figures a way to get it. I can’t help feeling anxious he’s back and clearly with some kind of agenda.

I curse under my breath as I break an egg. My jittery hands are no match for the delicate shell, and I end up holding a yolky mess.

“Don’t think that’s how you’re goin’ to get out of doing them, Lil,” CeeCee jokes.

“Got to admit it’s much faster,” I reply as I use paper towels to wipe away the goo. A breeze wafts in, making the pages of our magazines flutter on the tables. The glorious floral-scented spring air pulls people from their homes like magic after winter finally packed up and left for another year. It won’t be long before we’re inundated with customers who want to idle away the morning soaking up the soft sun from the comfort of an outside table. Earlier this morning CeeCee made a batch of buttermilk pies, which bake nice and slow in the oven. The occasional burst of vanilla essence floats outside, tempting people to stop in and ask how long they’ll be.

“Cherry blossom…” CeeCee’s voice is soft with concentration “…can you pass me the blue dye?”

“Sure, give me a sec.” I stand over the bin and shake the rest of the gooey egg off my hands. “Blue, and what comes next?”

“That little bottle of sunshine right there.” She points to the yellow dye, her face lit up.

I break another egg and this time my curse rings out.

“Glory be, sugar plum, you sure do got butterfingers today. You want me to have a go?”

“No. It’s OK, I’ll go slower.” Damn Joel. I’m worried. I don’t want him to cast a pall of ugliness over my new life. And what else can he be here for, except to make trouble?

“Mmm hmm,” she says distractedly as she spoons an egg out of the pot and rests it next to the others in the carton. She stares straight at me and says, “What’s botherin’ you? You suddenly got the clumsies. It ain’t like you to make mistakes no matter how finicky the job is.”

Moving to the sink to wash my hands, I laugh her off. “It’s nothing, Cee.”

CeeCee doesn’t pry into it again and I’m grateful my back is turned so she doesn’t try to stare me down. I confess all when she does that and she knows it. We don’t usually keep secrets from each other. But for now, it’s better if she doesn’t know Joel’s back. She’d probably drive out to Old Lou’s and holler at him something fierce. There’s no love lost between those two. CeeCee is protective of me, like a mother hen, and for that reason, I won’t tell her about Joel just yet.