Читать книгу Christmas Wishes Part 3 - Diana Palmer - Страница 44
ОглавлениеThe next day I’m up early. Tiptoeing to the bathroom, I wash up, and rummage through the bag of make-up samples Missy gave me. Tossing aside the scarlet reds, and eye-popping oranges, I finally settle on a pink lipstick. It’s still two shades brighter than what I’d pick, but I guess that’s Missy’s way of compromising. I apply foundation, which instantly makes my skin prickle. I figure the damage is done so lash on the mascara hoping I don’t look like a clown. With two swipes my lipstick is on.
Sighing at my pink-lipped reflection, I amble to my wardrobe, careful not to wake Damon. Jeans, jeans, jeans, baggy tees, sweats. Golly, I had no idea my collection was so limited. The joys of being able to hide under an apron most days has had a severe effect on my apparel.
Nothing I have is even remotely stylish. I don’t let this stop me from pulling out the bulk of my clothes in the hope I’ll find some forgotten twin set or a fancy woolen wrap dress. I know things will be hectic at the café and I won’t have time to come home and get changed before dinner with the soon-to-be in-laws tonight. As I step over the pile of clothes I’ve dropped to the floor it dawns on me how stupid I’m being. The way I dress probably won’t make an iota of difference to Olivia. And why the hell do I care anyway?
With a grin, I pull out my favorite Christmas sweater, a Kermit-green knit that announces: This girl believes in Santa! With the token chubby Father Christmas embroidered to the fabric. So I won’t win any prizes for my fashion sense, but if you can’t wear an ugly Christmas sweater and not smile, then there’s something wrong. I pull on my jeans, and head to the dresser to pick out a set of Christmas earrings.
The kitschiest, brightest outfit I own will do just fine today. Plus, it cheers up our customers, and I have a few local children that stop by daily and have a giggle over what I’m wearing. We make them welcome, and sit them near the fire with some Santa coloring-in pictures and a cup of warm cocoa.
The phone shrills from the depths of the lounge. I race out to find it, wondering who’d call so early. Damon still sleeps in the bed, his soft snores following me out of the room.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Child, what’s with all the secrets? Just because I’ve been away does not mean you have a right to keep me out of the loop!”
And here we go. “Mamma, what’re you talking about? We only just went through the wedding stuff a few days ago!”
She huffs. “And you neglected to mention Damon’s folks are in town! You know your daddy and I need to meet them…”
Oh, golly. “Geez, Mamma, they arrived late the other night. It was news to me too. How on earth did you find out already?”
“None of your beeswax.”
“So it was Rosaleen, I take it?” You have to give it to her: Rosaleen would make a fine detective.
Mamma sighs all dramatically down the line. “And so what if it was? At least someone’s telling me what I need to know!”
“I’m probably the best one to ask, though, Mamma. Not Rosaleen.”
“Lil, are you getting jittery? Is that what this is?”
Mamma’s the second person to suggest I’m a bundle of nerves. I take a deep breath and silently count to ten. What is it about weddings that send everyone a little mad? “I’m not jittery, Mamma. I’m just busy. So how about you and Dad come and meet the Guthries at the café for supper?”
I picture my mother at the other end of the phone. Her dark blond hair falling in soft short curls around her face. She’ll be wearing the usual sweat suits and sneakers, as though she can achieve so much more if she dresses as if she’s going to the gym. She’s been power-walking over to my house every few days, with her pencil behind her ear, ready to take notes for the wedding. Even a blizzard won’t stop her from marching here. She’s the softest person around though, truly wears her heart on her sleeve.
A tut drags me back to the phone. “You’re expecting me to have supper with the Guthries…” she pauses “…and you tell me this now?”
It seems we all feel a mite uncomfortable around the distinguished Guthrie family. “Yeah, Mamma, why? You’ve got plenty of time between now and then.”
Another drawn-out Mamma sigh wangles its way down the line. “Fine. But I do have quite a big wedding list to conquer, you know.”
“Like what?”
She pauses, which I know means trouble.
“Out with it! What?”
“Now, honey…”
I groan. “Don’t you honey me…what are you up to?”
“Don’t think I can’t tell by your tone that you’re not open to this.”
“This sounds ominous…”
“Just hear me out. Your cousin Jeremiah—”
“No!”
“That’s not hearing me out!”
“Mamma, he is not coming to the wedding. Absolutely not!”
I can almost hear her mind tick while she thinks of a response that will convince me. My older cousin, Jeremiah, got himself so intoxicated before my first wedding that when I walked down the aisle he hummed the theme song for Jaws at the top of his voice. It didn’t end there. I wanted to strangle his scrawny neck before the night was out.
“He’s changed…he’s more…together now.” She uses a beseeching tone that she knows will guilt me into agreeing. “And, Lord, think of your Aunt May. She’s been through the wringer with poor Jeremiah. It would be uncharitable not to invite them.”
“Mamma, are you serious? How do we know he’s not going to act the same?”
“Lil, please.”
I think back to the one-man wedding wrecker. Jeremiah groped my bridesmaids, interrupted the speeches, knocked the two-tier wedding cake to the floor — not before splattering the groomsmen who sat next to it. His grand finale, though, was the worst. He lit up a bunch of fireworks he’d stolen from God knows where, which unfortunately went off before he had time to get away, resulting in his tight black curls setting alight. He looked like Lucifer himself.
“He’s sorry. He wants you to know that. You know his hair grew back grey — surely he’s paid enough!”
I’m truly bamboozled. Shaking my head at my mother’s attempts to cajole me, I glance outside, to see snow falling heavily. Another cold and wintry day, the kind that favors snuggling in front of a fire with a hot cup of cocoa.
“Mamma. I just want it to be perfect. If he’s there I’m going to worry about what he’ll be up to…”
She exhales a huge breath. “Honey, weddings and funerals are family time. Let’s just be grateful it’s a wedding and not the alternative.”
I shake my head at my mamma’s reasoning. There’s no way she’s going to give in, I just know it. The guest list is swelling at the seams, and thinking practically we really can only fit a certain number at Guillaume’s. But how can I say yes to Olivia, and not to Mamma?
“Lil, I admit his behavior could have been better—”
“Better!”
“Hear me out, Lil. But that was a long time ago…we’re all different than we were back then. You’d be the first to say everyone deserves a second chance.”
She’s done it — her much-practiced mother guilt. “Fine, Mamma, but if he does one crazy thing, just one, you have to make him leave.”
“Deal.”
I sigh.
“And also, Jeremiah is-bringing-his-family.” She scrambles the words so fast it takes me a moment to decode them.
“What? No! What family?”
“He’s seeing a lovely lady with six kids…”
“Mamma!”
“OK, OK, I’ll tell them to get a sitter. Now I’ll see you tonight at the café. I don’t know how I’m meant to get everything done in time. There are the ribbons for the chairs I need to pick up, they’ll need ironing—”
“What ribbons? For which chairs?” Exasperation edges into my voice.
“For the reception — Guillaume said it was OK. Though I did have to say it was Cee’s idea… Anyway, never you mind, Lil. I know you’re busy at the café. I’m fine-tuning, that’s all.”
“OK…” I say warily.
“You’ve gone and thrown a spanner in the works by telling me about supper so late…” Her voice trails off as she says almost to herself, “I’ll have to leave the wishing well until tomorrow…”
I don’t bother asking what the bejesus a wishing well is for. I know she’s worrying about the Guthries and what they’ll make of her and Daddy so I say softly, “OK, Mamma, and they’re just people like any other, so don’t go feeling you have to act differently.”
“I know that, sheesh, Lily-Ella. See you soon.” And with that she hangs up the phone, no doubt about to burst into the bedroom and galvanize my slumbering father. I smile, suddenly feeling all warm and fuzzy that my parents are finally home. Like everything with my mamma, she’d planned a cruise, and a world trip to follow, with military precision. Just under a year they’d traveled the globe, and at one point I thought they may never return. I’ve always been close to my parents and I missed them more than I cared to mention when they were away.
Ambling back to the bedroom, I peek past the door and see Damon slowly rousing. “Hey, pretty lady,” he says, and pats the bed next to him. Butterflies swarm in my belly. I don’t know how a man can wake up and look so downright sexy. His wavy hair is mussed from sleep, he has pillow crinkles on one cheek, and somehow it all adds up to an invitation back to bed. Not that we had a whole lot of sleep…
Without a second thought, I pull back the covers and hug the warmth of his body. He weaves a hand behind me, and pulls me close. “We’ll be late,” I say.
He shrugs. “It’ll be worth it.”
I laugh, my mind focused on the man in front of me. “It sure will.”
When I arrive at the Gingerbread Café CeeCee’s standing behind the silver prep bench rolling out pastry as if her life depends on it. She’s muttering to herself and shaking her head.
“Talking to your invisible friends again?” I joke as I unwind my woolen scarf, a favorite of mine that CeeCee knitted for me years ago. I hang my parka on the coat rack, and stand with my back to the fire, jiggling my legs when the heat sears.
“You’ve gone and caught me having an argument with this here pastry. I was a million miles away on account of it not complying with me.” Dusting her hands on her apron, she walks to me and pecks me on the cheek. “You look…” Her lip wobbles, and she turns away. Next second she’s slapping her knees and doubles over laughing.
I survey my outfit. I’m sure she’s seen me wear this a million times over. “You got a problem with the fat man all of a sudden?” I point to the chubby Santa on my sweater.
She manages to stand upright and slowly turns to me. “Lil,” she sputters, “you killin’ me!”
Baffled, I look down at my outfit again thinking I’ve got my jeans inside out, or back to front.
“For someone who doesn’t wear make-up you surely got it spread across your face real good!”
Shoot! I rush to the mirror in the office and check my reflection. Oh, God! It looks as if someone scribbled all over my face with lipstick. This is why I don’t wear gloop. I scramble to find something to wash my face with, eventually unearthing a container of wet-wipes from the dusty recesses of the desk drawer. I swipe at the residue of make-up, including the black smears of mascara that are everywhere except my eyelashes, and curse myself for languishing in bed with Damon. We’d canoodled for a lot longer than we should have, knowing we were already late. There hadn’t been time for coffee, or even our usual curbside goodbyes.
As I return to CeeCee she’s still hawing and slapping the silver bench when laughter gets the better of her. “I don’t want to know how that happened…”
I purse my lips, and try to think of a plausible excuse. “Well, you see…”
“Don’t even try, Lil. I bet if I walked over to that fine-looking thing across the road his face would be covered in make-up too.”
My eyes widen and after a high-pitched squeal I dash out of the café, my feet slipping on the icy pavement; I run on the spot, trying not to fall. Eventually, I catch myself, and walk a little more sedately over the road. Damon’s standing in front of the coffee machine that’s the size of a small car, discussing the merits of braising lamb shanks as opposed to baking them with a group of elderly women. They’re not paying any attention to what he’s saying; instead they’re whispering behind their hands. Scrunching my eyes to a sliver, in case it helps minimize the damage, I look at Damon and see the reason for their distraction. The so-named Pink Passion lipstick is spread across Damon’s face. He looks like one of those bobble-head clowns that you drop balls down the mouth of at an amusement park.
“Damon,” I say urgently.
“Hey, Lil! This here’s my fiancée, from the Gingerbread Café.”
The ladies give me a knowing look. I wave limply and tug on Damon’s arm. “I need a quick word.”
Damon throws the ladies an apologetic glance, and leans down to whisper, “I’m in the middle of a cooking demonstration here.”
“I’ll be quick.”
He wriggles his arm free. “Lil, can’t it wait?”
“You have lipstick all over your face!” I yell a little too loudly. Everyone in the shop stops and turns to stare at Damon. “Sorry!” I say as I watch a blush creep up his cheeks, which, I must say, matches quite nicely with the Pink Passion.
“Would you excuse me, please, ladies?” he says to the women, who are outright tittering at his expense. “It seems I’ve…er…” He throws me a desperate glance.
“We er…had cupcakes for breakfast!” I holler. “With pink icing! Lots of pink icing!”
Damon breaks into a wide grin, and pulls me to him. “You, my lady, are going to ruin my reputation.”
“That’s my plan,” I whisper back.
He kisses the top of my head, and I wave to the women before making my way back to the shop.
Shivering from the cold, I dash back inside the café, and stand by the fire.
“So, pumpkin, you had pressin’ business over the road, I see?” CeeCee looks down her nose at me and continues to roll pastry dough.
Before I can respond the doorbell jingles and in walk Missy from The Sassy Salon and Sarah from The Bookshop on the Corner.
Missy click-clacks her way to me in her high-heeled boots, her big pregnant belly swathed in a bold zebra-print form-fitting coat. “We thought you must have been robbed or something!” Missy screeches. “What on earth were you running over the road like that for?”
Sarah, who’s dressed in a more sedate grey pantsuit and black coat, gives CeeCee a hug and walks quickly to join us by the fire. “Lil, oh, my God, I snorted coffee up my nose when I saw you ice-skating your way over there. I called Missy straight away and told her to stick her head out the door and take a look at you!”
Missy smacks her hands together and laughs. “Your impression of running man rooted to the spot was darn right labor-inducing!”
It’s my turn to blush. “Well…you see, we ate cupcakes…”
CeeCee trundles over with a tray of gingerbread coffees. “Oh, don’t you listen to those lies she about to sprout!” she says knowingly.
Missy guffaws and eases herself on the sofa, a hand on her back, and one on her belly.
Sarah’s eyes light up. “Do tell…”
I laugh, and know there’s no way I can get away from spilling the beans. Sure as shooting it’s going to end up on CeeCee’s Spacebook. “Darn it, no one can keep any secrets in this town!” Everyone finds a spot to sit, and my heart lifts at us girls having some time together. Usually we gather at some point each day to shoot the breeze but of late, with all of us busier, we haven’t had as much time. “Did you say labor-inducing?” I frown over at Missy.
“Not really,” she says, “though my old bladder isn’t what it used to be. It should be illegal to make a pregnant woman laugh like that, Lil.” She takes a sip of her decaf coffee.
We giggle at Missy’s joke. They’re the type of girls that make your cheeks ache from smiling, and your belly hurt from laughter.
CeeCee closes her eyes and runs a hand over Missy’s bulging belly. “Won’t be long now, Missy.”
Missy turns to CeeCee, her eyes wide. “I’m not ready!” she blurts out, high-pitched as though she thinks CeeCee means she’s going into labor right now.
“He ain’t ready right now, either. I seen it.” CeeCee points to the spot between her eyebrows. We all tease CeeCee about her second sight but she’s been scarily accurate in the past so a kind of silence descends as we think of Missy finally having the baby she’s dreamed about her entire adult life. She’s worried about being an older mom at forty-five, but none of us think that matters a damn. Forty-five seems as good an age as any to have a baby.
Missy says, “He can bake in there a little while longer.” She goes all misty-eyed. We don’t say a word, but I’m guessing we’re each thinking the very same thing: that Missy’s going to be a wonderful mother and sometimes the best things happen to those who deserve them most.
Missy wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater and turns to me and says, “Don’t think we’ve forgotten, Lil. What made you skip across the way like you’re training for a bobsled team?”
“If only I had a Spandex one-piece.” I muse. “Well, someone—” I put my hands on my hips and stare directly at Missy “—said I should try and wear make-up so I’d get used to it before the wedding. This someone also said it was colorstay! When it quite clearly wasn’t!”
Missy leans her head against the sofa and giggles. “I gave you the wrong bag! Didn’t you think it was odd the lipsticks were way too bright for you?”
I make my mouth a tight line.
The girls laugh into their hands. “And let me guess, your poor old fiancé had it spread right across his handsome face too?”
I cross my arms and nod, trying my best not to sputter with embarrassment.
The girls burst out laughing, as I color the perfect shade of Pink Passion myself.
CeeCee cocks her head and says, “I think we can imagine the rest o’ that scenario. Pray tell, how’d the two o’ you ride in the same truck to work and not notice each other’s faces?”
I grimace. “We were so late…so we hurried to the truck and launched ourselves in cracking heads as we did. I drove with one eye closed, as pain kind of numbed one side of my face. Damon had one of those beanie things on with the side straps, and I just didn’t see. The windscreen demister didn’t work so Damon was frantically wiping at the screen… Golly, I need a new truck, and a new make-up expert…” I flash Missy a grin. “When I pulled into the street there were a bunch of ladies waiting on Damon’s stoop, so I slowed and he jumped out.”
“It could’ve been worse,” Sarah says. “Could’ve happened when your future in-laws were here.”
I gasp at the thought. “True. That would have been a nightmare! Speaking of which, they dropped in already.”
Missy leans forward on her seat. “I thought they weren’t due for a week yet?”
I throw my palms up. “They wanted to surprise us.”
“Well, that’s the sweetest thing I’ve heard,” Missy says. “I bet they were excited to finally meet you.” She fluffs her curls, and gives me a huge smile. Missy’s one of those people that sees the good in everyone, and everything, so telling her I’m slightly uneasy about a few things Olivia said will only make her want to fix it.
“It was certainly interesting,” I say.
Sarah cocks her head. “Interesting, Lil? That’s like saying someone’s shoes look comfortable when what you really mean is ugly. What happened?”
In deference to Damon, I don’t feel right telling them what Olivia said. “Oh, you know, it was just so unexpected. And late, and I wasn’t prepared. George, Damon’s dad, fell asleep, and Olivia…I think she was probably jet-lagged herself. They’re coming here for dinner tonight, they can meet my parents, and—”
“Lil,” Sarah says gently, “you’re wringing your hands so hard they’re going to fall off.”
I unclasp them and smile. “Weddings, huh? At Christmas. Do you think it’s selfish having it at this time of year?”
“Why do you say that?” Sarah probes, a frown appearing between her smoky kohl-rimmed eyes. “You love Christmas. And it’s your anniversary, after all.”
“It’s just I guess it didn’t occur to me that our guests might have preferred to spend Christmas Eve with their families rather than attend our wedding. I mean, I know you girls wouldn’t think that, but are other people thinking that?”
Sarah scoffs. “That’s crazy, Lil. It’s one more reason to celebrate.” Sarah’s an introvert among us more feisty personalities — she’s the kind of girl you can tell your secrets to and know she’s like a vault. A quirky, whimsical soul who I count as one of my closest friends after CeeCee.
I play with the handle of my mug. “I hope so.”
“Put it out of your mind,” Missy says. “There’s no place we’d rather be than watching you two lovebirds get married. And I’m sure everyone agrees.”
“Stop fussing, Lil,” CeeCee says.
“Well, OK.” Their coffee cups are empty. I stand and pick them up. “How about some hot chocolate?”
“I was wondering how long we’d have to wait,” Sarah jokes. I’ve never seen a girl so addicted to chocolate as she is. And she’s as skinny as a beanpole, the lucky thing. “I should’ve known you had a hankering.” I smile and head to the stove.
I take a small pot down and pour in some milk. While that begins to boil, I break off chunks of dark chocolate and stir them in. It’s like a big warm hug, the smell of the molten chocolate melting as it combines with the creamy milk. Once it’s mixed through I pour it into four glass mugs and throw some marshmallows on top.
“Let me help.” Sarah dashes over and takes two of the mugs, sipping hers as she goes. “Lil, gosh, that’s good.”
I laugh my thanks. We’re quiet for a moment as we savor the rich taste, bitter and sweet at the same time from the quality of the dark chocolate, sweetened by the gooey marshmallows.
Missy rubs her hands together. “How’s about we do that make-up trial soon? Now Olivia’s here we can invite her too.”
“Hmm,” I say. “Let’s just keep it us girls for now.”
Missy raises an eyebrow. “OK. You just say when and we’ll make a night of it, just us. I’m about to get a lot more time on my hands.”
“With a baby comin’?” CeeCee says in mock consternation.
Missy hoots with laughter. “No, I mean, with the salon. My new girl, Becca, starts today, so I’m going to hand things over to her and go rest my swollen…everything.”
“I can’t believe it,” I say. “It’s going to be so weird not having you just a few steps away.”
Missy’s eyes shine with tears. “Oh, golly, here I go again.” She plucks a tissue from the box. “You know, I can’t wait until this urge to cry over every itty-bitty thing goes away.”
“Hush now,” CeeCee says. “Missy, you know where we are. It ain’t like we’re going anywhere. You still gonna visit us every day. I know I ain’t going to be able to function without some cuddles from that little bundle o’ joy you about to bring into the world.”
Missy gives us a warm smile. “Thanks, Cee. I’m really looking forward to the whole motherhood thing. I’m scared, and excited and nervous. But mostly just plain grateful. There’s times though when I worry about the salon. You know? That’s been my baby for as long as I can remember.”
“It’s going to be in good hands,” Sarah says and looks to me and CeeCee. “I met Becca yesterday. She’s going to fit right in here. With one look at grumpy ol’ Marjorie she had her figured out. They were firm friends by the time she left. She’s going to treat that salon like it’s her own.”
Marjorie is Ashford’s answer to the Grinch. She despises Christmas. Hates any form of celebration. Calls us all materialistic and brain-washed by consumerism. She sure is hard to fathom when you first meet her. “Geez, Missy, if she can handle Marjorie she can handle anyone!” I say. I go to the display fridge and take out some dark chocolate fruit mince truffles, and a handful of Missy’s favorite, gingerbread and white chocolate.
Sarah gives me a thumbs up while Missy takes a deep breath and continues: “I know. I should be thanking my lucky stars I even managed to find a hairdresser that’d come live in Ashford. For a while there I thought I might have to close up for the duration. And Becca is sweet as sugar. I don’t know why I feel as though I’m never gonna see anyone again. Anyway, listen to me! We’re supposed to be organizing your wedding!”
“Missy,” I say, “you’re bound to feel that way. Your life is about to change for the better. And like Cee says, we might even see more of you now that you’re a free woman. Have baby will travel.”
More composed, Missy nods. “You’re right. I’ll probably have my own sofa here at the café, with my own fluffy blanket. Cee can use that baby carrier thingy-majiggy and wander around with him tied to her chest, singing lullabies, while I catch up on my beauty sleep.”
“That sounds mighty fine to me,” CeeCee says. “Ain’t nothing like rocking a baby to sleep, especially at Christmas. I’m gonna teach him a bunch of carols before he’s even old enough to smile.”
CeeCee is always babysitting for locals. She’s affectionately known as a baby whisperer. Exhausted mothers often stop by the café and beg CeeCee to tell help get their infants to sleep. She laughs her southern haw, and takes the squawking bundle into her arms. We order the exhausted women to rest up, they’ll amble to the recliner with a steaming cup of hot chocolate in hand. Drink it quickly and doze, safe in the knowledge Cee’ll have their babies snoozing in no time.
I hope CeeCee will have the chance to hold a child of mine. And that she’ll be around when they are old enough to bake alongside her. I don’t think there’s anything nicer than picturing that day. Almost as if I can see a little blond-haired girl standing on a step so she can reach the bench, listening patiently to Cee as she shows her how to mold fondant, or roll out pastry.
“I saw your mamma the other day,” Sarah says, pulling me from my daydream. “That holiday definitely agreed with her. She’s looking as happy as I’ve ever seen her.”
She’s been flitting around town since she came home, showing anyone who’ll look her holiday photo album. “Did you see the pictures?”
“We all saw the pictures!” Missy says.
I shake my head, laughing, grateful she didn’t invite everyone to the family slide-show night. Mamma learned the art of taking a ‘selfie’, which was adorable for the first few hundred shots. “You know she’s gone and invited my cousin Jeremiah to the wedding?” The girls attended my first wedding, and know all about the disaster that is my cousin.
They dissolve into laughter again.
“You girls finished?” I arch my brow, and try to keep the smile from my voice.
Missy gushes, “Oh, he’s just misunderstood! His hair grew back grey, after all…”
I gasp. “Mamma told you too?”
She shakes her head no. “Rosaleen. And…it seems, well, I don’t know how to put it—”
“No! Please don’t tell me Mamma invited Rosaleen?”
Missy pulls a face and says, “She’s very excited. And so are her daughters…”
CeeCee clears her throat. “While we’re at it…the three Mary-Jos were asking about bringin’ their boyfriends.” She shakes her head, as she’s always ruffled by the outrageously flirty teenagers. “Seem too young for boyfriends if y’all ask me.”
I curse under my breath. Mamma’s gone and invited people left, right and center, without checking with me. With the extras that Olivia wants to invite, our intimate affair is going to be a circus. At this rate Guillaume is going to throw his tea towel down and cancel.
“Shoot. With that news, I better get to makin’ more gingerbread wedding favors,” CeeCee says, and lifts her bulk out of the chair. She turns back and says to Sarah, “Is that man-mountain o’ yours gonna be here for the wedding?”
Sarah and I look at each other and laugh. Seems CeeCee is all set with giving our significant others a nickname, and sticking with it.
“He sure is,” Sarah says. “Actually…he’s not planning on going anywhere after that.”
“What?” I ask. “He’s moving here for good?”
She nods, her smile lighting up her doll-like features. “Yep. We figured it was about time. I mean, Ridge’s practically living here anyway. But he’s selling his apartment in New York, and moving in with me.”
We screech our support and take turns hugging Sarah. She met Ridge a few months back after he came to do a story on a chocolate festival the town of Ashford hosted at Easter time. It didn’t take long for love to blossom with the pair of them, and before we knew it Ridge was here almost every weekend after quitting his job at The New York Herald newspaper and doing freelance work instead.
Sarah says, “It’s the weirdest feeling making room on my bookshelves for him. Is that odd? I mean, aren’t I supposed to move half the clothes in the closet, or free up some room in the bathroom cabinet?”
“I think it’s completely normal,” I say. “I’m sure there are plenty of people who are quite fussy about who they share their shelves with.”
After another fit of laughter, Sarah stands and shrugs her coat on.
CeeCee groans and says, “Let’s make more o’ those gingerbread wedding favors then, Lil.”
“Be sure and send any mistakes my way. I’m craving gingerbread men so bad I’m worried I’m going to have a gingerbread baby,” Missy says. Sarah clasps Missy’s hands, pulling her bulk out of the sofa. “Let’s go, gingerbread mom. I’ve got a customer, by the looks.”
We hug our goodbyes and promise to catch up again later.
A few hours later I’m busy clearing tables when CeeCee wanders from the office, holding a piece of paper. “Lil, these orders have just come in on that gizmo.” I suppress a smile at her reference to our antiquated fax machine. “We better get a move on — the mayor’s gone ahead and ordered a bunch o’ cakes for his staff Christmas party.” Her finger works its way down the list as she mumbles, “Black forest meringue, yule log, boozy fruitcake, chocolate-fudge cheesecake, and—” she chuckles “—lemonade pie. I knew he loved that pie. He done ordered it every week since I baked it for him a few months back.”
CeeCee’s famous for her southern pies. She makes them from scratch and when they sit cooling on the bench, their scent wafting down the street, you can almost count the seconds until we’re inundated with customers. I’ve watched CeeCee make a million pies, followed her recipes to a T, mixed the ingredients with love in my mind, but they never taste as good. I don’t know what her secret is, but they put the comfort into comfort food, all right.
“So.” Cee puts the list on the bench. “Where should we start?”
I run through the order and say, “With the boozy fruitcakes. They’ll take the longest to bake.”
“You soaked the fruit already?”
“Yes, ma’am. I soaked a batch yesterday, good and proper with lashings of brandy, and some sugar syrup. I thought we’d make mini fruitcakes for the café, but we’ll do that later now, and use this for the mayor’s order instead.”
“OK.”
I wander to the stereo and press play. The café fills with the sound of Christmas carols. It’s dark out despite it being the middle of the day. Outside people hurry from one shop to another searching for Christmas gifts, or buying groceries for their festivities. Snow rests on the dark wooden window panes almost like a framing for the cheery shoppers as they dash about on the cold day.
“I thought we could make some of those gingerbread in a jar gifts, too, Cee.”
Last year we filled a bunch of mason jars with the dry ingredients for gingerbread men, and printed out the tiny recipes cards to go with it. We attached them with red and green festive ribbons, and a gingerbread man cookie cutter. They were fun and easy Christmas gifts, and all people had to do was add the wet ingredients and bake.
“Easily done, Lil,” she chortles. “Ain’t like we short of supplies for gingerbread.” She bends down and unearths a box from under the bench and rifles through it. “We’ve got a bunch of cookie cutters here, and most o’ them are Christmas themed. We sure can make those gingerbread jars again. Kids loved buying those last year for their folks.”
I lean over and look into the box of still-wrapped cookie cutters. “Let’s get this order done, and then we can make some, and put them in the window.”
We pull out silver bowls, and I take the fruit mix from the fridge. The pungent smell of alcohol hits me as soon as I peel back the plastic wrap.
“Glory be, how much brandy did you put in there?” CeeCee hollers. She makes a huge show of covering her face with her hands.
“Enough.” I smirk. “And a splash of rum for good measure.” While CeeCee finds the remainder of ingredients the recipe calls for, I grease square loaf pans with butter, then turn on the mixer and beat sugar and butter, slowly adding the eggs, once again being drawn into the world inside the arms of the beater, hypnotized by the transformation and the way certain ingredients combine.
CeeCee whisks the flour and spices that she’ll add to my bowl so we have one huge batch to add the alcohol-infused fruit to.
“The fruit is ripe with brandy, Cee.” I lift a fat cherry aloft; it’s plump from absorbing the alcohol. It seems festive — the red and green cherries and golden raisins shine out from the bowl. CeeCee nods and smiles at the small gem-like cherry in my fingers.
“Let’s ice them white and mold some holly and ruby-red berries out of fondant.” I throw the cherry back in the bowl.
“They’ll look mighty Christmassy, Lil,” she says, stirring while she gazes dreamily over my shoulder to the busy street outside.
We work in silence, humming along to Silent Night as the singer croons softly out of the speakers above us. There’s something so healing about baking. I know CeeCee feels it too. Life just seems to make sense when you can plunge your hands into a bowl of brandied fruit, and chat away to your best friend about the most trivial things.
Once we’ve put the loaf pans in the oven, I scour the mayor’s order to work out what’s next.
The doorbell jingles, and in walks Damon’s dad, George. He’s dressed impeccably in a suit and wears a tie. “Good morning, ladies.”
He’s so much like Damon in the way he walks, and the tone of his voice. “You’re a little early for dinner,” I say, smiling.
He takes off his leather gloves and leans against the bench. “I’m blaming you. Since I came in here the other night I’ve had a hankering for gingerbread. I figured while Olivia was otherwise occupied I may as well satisfy my craving.”
CeeCee hems and haws. “See? I told you that tree was a good idea! Draws folks like bees to honey…”
“It sure does,” I agree. “Pull up a stool, George, and I’ll make you up a plate.” Dusting my hands on my apron, I meander off, searching the selections in the fridge for gingerbread flavors. I take some gingerbread macaroons, and a chunk of gingerbread fudge, and add them to the plate.
“Don’t forget the gingerbread cake pops,” CeeCee says, pointing. I take a cake pop, and a few dark chocolate and gingerbread truffles from the fridge. So we’re a little addicted to gingerbread flavored treats? What kind of Gingerbread café would we be if we weren’t! There’s something so child-like and sweet about the flavor, and it only gets better once we fancy it up for adults in the form of a more gourmet morsel.
“So where is that wife o’ yours?” CeeCee asks as she heads to the fridge and takes out foil-covered cream cheese for the chocolate-fudge cheesecake.
George’s eyes light up as I put the plate in front of him. “Running errands. She said something about organizing the centerpieces for the tables. I guess you’d know more about that, Lil?”
She what? I only told her very quickly what we envisaged. I imagined we’d go into more detail tonight, and then if she wanted to help she’d at least know what we were looking for. “Oh? I mentioned it the other night, but we haven’t actually discussed it properly yet.”
George bites into a macaroon, and nods his appreciation. “You know Olivia.” He shrugs, non-committal.
No, I don’t know her at all.
He half laughs when I don’t say a word and says as if by explanation, “Loves being involved.” He shrugs, and gives me an apologetic look.
Maybe she’s simply window shopping? Surely she wouldn’t go ahead and buy something without checking with us first. “I hope she doesn’t go to too much trouble,” I say, with an edge of concern in my voice.
“She loves that kind of thing, Lil. Once you get to know her you’ll see. She might seem…overbearing at times, but it’s more that she wants to be useful, rather than outright in charge.” He manages to blush, as though speaking this way of his wife is out of order. “But, it’s your wedding, Lil. And if by chance Olivia does tug the reins a little too hard, I hope you feel comfortable having a private word with me.”
It’s easy to see where Damon gets his personality from. George is friendly and warm, and him offering to step in is a comfort. He obviously knows his wife well. “Thanks, George. Maybe tonight once we get into the finer details of the wedding, Olivia will feel more involved.”
“I’d say so,” he says amiably. “Until then, I might pay a visit to Damon. Thanks for these.” He holds up a truffle. “I’ll see you tonight, ladies.”
A few hours later we’ve done the bulk of the mayor’s order, and decide to finish it off later. We’ve tidied up and are ready to move on to the next thing on our list. The most exciting thing we’ve ever baked, too.
“Nothing for it, let’s make that wedding cake o’yours.”
I let out a squeal. We’ve spent the last two months searching for the perfect cake design. We settled on a three-tier cake, elegant and striking. We had folders full of design ideas, and it was so hard to narrow it down. After all, we’re known for our cakes, and it has to be perfect.
“I’ll start on the sponges, Lil, if you want to mix the different flavored ganaches.”
I take the hand drawn design from the folder, and flip through the pieces of paper for the recipe we settled on. Reading through, I wonder if it’ll be as delicious as we imagine. “Hazelnut ganache for the top layer, dark chocolate and orange for the second, and vanilla bean for the third. What do you think? That’ll cater for all tastes?”
“Surely will. Ain’t no one gonna see a cake as pretty as this, neither.”
We set to work, excited to finally start the design we’ve been dreaming about for months. CeeCee’s mouth is a tight line, and I can’t stop my fluttery hands. She’s concentrating hard, yet I can’t seem to focus. I keep going back to the drawing, if we pull this cake off it’s going to be the most elegant piece of artwork we’ve ever baked. And all for my wedding day. Just the thought is enough to send my heart racing. I picture Damon standing behind me as we cut the cake in front of our friends and family, and I’m giddy with love.
“It’s spectacular!” The wedding cake sits safely in the display fridge, after we took out three lots of shelves to fit it inside.
“I ain’t never seen a cake like it.”
The first tier is round, full of snowflakes like a snow dome, which spill down the silver cake, settling at the base. It’s like a silvery snowstorm come to life. With steady hands, we studded edible diamonds around each tier, and with a sprinkle of glitter it glimmers like an invitation to another world. Each layer has different flavored sponges, with mouth-poppingly luscious ganaches spread thickly through.
“I’m going to take the truffles out of that fridge, Lil. So we’re not opening and closing the fridge all the time.”
“It’s not like it’ll melt though, Cee.” I laugh.
“I know, but the less we disturb it, the better. I don’t want those snowflakes falling off. I ain’t too keen on making those ever again. My eyesight ain’t what it used to be, you know.”
“OK, Cee. That was some finicky work, all right.” Of course we chose to make snowflakes from palm size, right down to the size of a penny. As they became smaller we needed so many more to decorate the tier. After a while though your fingers freeze up on account of having to keep your hands stiff for so long.
“Saying that, though, I don’t reckon I’ve ever liked creating something as much as I have this. And that’s saying somethin’.”
I amble behind CeeCee and rest my chin on her shoulder. “You think we should make wedding cakes now?”
“As long as I don’t have to cut out itty-bitty snowflakes all day, I think I’d like that. Can you imagine what we’d come up with?”
I imagine the café stacked with cakes for weddings, birthdays, family celebrations. And it could be yet another financial back-up for us if the catering side of things falters. “I think we should give it a try.” If I got to spend a day lovingly making someone else’s dream wedding cake, it’d be a damn fine day to me.
At the end of a long day, I sit by the display window and watch the last of the late evening shoppers exit from the shops across the road so the owners can close up. It’s dark out, and CeeCee’s gone home, insisting dinner tonight is only for family.
With the café all toasty warm, and Jingle Bells playing merrily in the background, I get my second wind, and continue on with the mayor’s order. We’ve only got the yule log and CeeCee’s lemonade pie left to make and then we can deliver it early tomorrow.
Yule log is one of my favorite Christmas recipes. Making the cake resemble a log, with all the grooves and gouges, dusted white with snow, is a Christmas tradition in our family. My grandma used to make it every year when I was little. I loved watching her roll the sponge, and cover it with thick butter-cream icing, before running a fork down the length for her grooves. In that soft way of hers she’d share stories about her childhood, while I listened, rapt, occasionally dipping a finger into the chocolate icing.
When I make yule log, I’m transported back to her orderly kitchen, and it warms my heart as though we’re still connected. If you share that kind of love, it can always be brought back to life when you bake. It’s almost as if she’s standing right behind me, smiling.
Glancing at the time, I realize everyone will arrive for dinner soon. Instead of making the base of the yule log, I take some gum paste from the fridge. I set to work, massaging it, to make it pliable to make acorns. They dry rock hard, and aren’t the nicest to eat, but they finish off the woodsy look.
“Hey.” Damon sidles up behind me and kisses the back of my neck, sending goose bumps down my body.
“Hey…” I say, turning to his soft smile.
“It’s freezing in here.” In my trip down memory lane, I hadn’t noticed the fire is down to embers. I set the acorn leaves aside.
“Take a break. Put your feet up.” He leads me to the sofa, and starts fussing with the fire to spark it up before joining me.
He surveys me. “Lil, you look a little…peaked. Are you OK?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” I must look a fright. I push a tendril of hair back, as usual wearier once I’ve sat down for a moment.
“OK. It’s just I don’t want to be standing at the altar alone, while you’re tucked up in bed sick or something.”
I giggle at the thought of Damon all dressed up in his tux, checking his watch. “I’m no runaway bride. If I was sick I’d be there anyway. Happy to spread my germs with you. In sickness and in health, remember?”
He throws his head back and laughs. “I remember. Let’s test the waters.” He leans closer and cups my face, and kisses me slowly. A tingle of desire races through me, and I’m giddy with the fact I get to marry this man.
“Get a room!” We jump as if scalded to the sound of my dad’s jocular voice and rise to greet him. He wraps me in a warm hug, and musses my hair. “Where’s Mamma?” I ask.
Dad scratches the back of his neck. “She’s running late on account of a wardrobe malfunction. I don’t know what that means, but there you have it.”
“A wardrobe malfunction?”
Dad shrugs and Damon takes it as a cue for drinks. “I’ll uncork the wine. You guys catch up a while.”
“Good man,” Dad says and sits heavily. There’s something utterly teddy-bearish about my father. He’s got a pot belly from too many sweets, and wears red braces that make him look like some kind of professor. His bushy eyebrows stick straight up as if he’s been zapped with lightning; they’re longer than the hair on his almost-bald head.
I lower my voice and say, “She’s dilly-dallying over what to wear, isn’t she?”
He touches a finger to his nose implying it’s a secret. “She said she’d just be a minute.”
“I don’t see what’s wrong with what she usually wears.” I have the grace to blush a little as I remember myself fretting about the exact same thing this morning.
Damon returns with a bottle of red wine, and glasses. “Now you’re talking,” Dad says, accepting a glass eagerly. I think his pot belly might also be a product of his penchant for red wine, which he claims is purely medicinal.
A second later Mamma arrives, her hair covered in snowflakes, which melt quickly as she rushes towards the fire. She unwraps her winter coat and throws it towards Dad. “Evening all!” she trills happily.
“Mamma!” My eyes go wide with surprise. “What are you wearing?”
Golly, I can see where I inherited my fashion sense from. Mamma is decked out in a silky pantsuit, with every color imaginable splashed across it making my eyes cross in confusion.
“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” she says. “I borrowed it from Rosaleen. She said shoulder pads are coming back in. And that the vibrant colors make me look a decade younger.” She gives her newly styled hair a dramatic flick. Obviously she snuck in to see Missy at the salon this afternoon too.
“Where’s Cee?” she asks.
“Gone on home. Says tonight is just about family.”
Mamma’s lips pucker. “But she is family.”
I shrug. “She wouldn’t hear a word of it.”
CeeCee is more than an employee; she’s my best friend and more like a mother figure, especially when my own was traveling the globe for nearly a year.
Mamma says, “Maybe she’s beat, Lil. You’ve both been burning the candle from both ends.”
“Yeah…I guess.” I survey the café, making sure I haven’t left any empty mugs or plates around. On the bench is the gum paste and the few acorn leaves I managed to mold so I wander over and pack them away. With one last look around I’m satisfied the café is as ordered as it’s ever likely to be. I wonder what strangers make of it when they walk in. The sofas are so well loved they’re worn. The dark chocolate walls have tiny chips where kids scuff up against them when they’re hooting and hollering around the place. Christmas decorations hang down from silver hooks in the ceiling, and golden tinsel laces around every available surface. To me, it seems cozy and festive, and almost like a home away from home. Woolen throw rugs are bundled in a wicker basket by the recliners, and secondhand books are an arm stretch away. I want people to visit, and loll about as if they’re at a friend’s house. To stumble in on a cold day, take a deep breath, savoring the scent of what we’re baking, and take their time while they’re here.
Dad and Damon wander to the window display, wine glasses in hand, chatting away as if they’re old friends. They’ve only known each other a few weeks, and already they get on so well, it makes my heart sing to watch them. Dad’s one of those people that really listens when you talk. Looks you right in the eye and asks questions as if you’ve gone and solved the meaning of life or something.
Mamma pours herself a glass of wine and I take the opportunity to strike. “I hear we need a few more place settings at the wedding?” I purse my lips.
She fumbles with the stem of her wine glass. “Honey, it’s only a few—”
“An entire bookclub, Mamma?”
“They’re my friends…”
“And Rosaleen?”
She lifts a hand. “You ever think she’s just lonely? I think she could use some friends, Lil.”
“How’re we all supposed to fit at L’art de l’amour? Mamma, I know you’re excited but how can I make that work?”
“Well, I asked—”
A flurry of wind whips in as the front door opens and in walks Olivia with George in tow.
“Good evening.” Olivia saunters over. She’s wrapped a fine fur stole. She makes a huge show of kissing Damon on both cheeks before striding over to me.
Mamma starts to fidget with her shoulder pads. “Olivia, I’m Lil’s mamma, Sue. It’s nice to finally meet you.” I hear the nervousness in Mamma’s voice and I just want to hug her.
Olivia smiles that sugary smile of hers and says, “Wonderful to meet you, Sue. We’ve been looking forward to this for an age.”
“Us too.” Mamma smiles at Olivia.
Olivia takes off her stole, and begins taking her gloves off, finger by finger. “Lil, as we discussed I went ahead and found you the centerpieces. They’re being delivered tomorrow.”
I clear my throat. “About that, Olivia, we didn’t actually—”
She grins at Mamma. “She’s so busy, what with the café, and Christmas, it was the least I could do. I practically drove the entire length of Connecticut until I found them.”
“That was really kind of you,” Mamma says. In the background Damon makes a joke that has both dads sputtering into their hands.
I glance back to his mother. “But, Olivia—”
“They’re gorgeous, stunning in fact. Big fake sweeping white lilies.” She puts so much emphasis on the words fake and lilies that I almost reel. Is she calling me fake? “They sit in a crystal vase, quite tall, actually. I did worry about people being able to see over the top of them, but figured that isn’t important in the scheme of things.”
“They sound darling,” Mamma says, and nudges my arm. “Don’t they, Lily?”
Damon sits on the arm of the sofa, swishing his red wine before taking a mouthful. I try to catch his eye, but he’s too caught up with a story my dad is telling. “Well,” I say, “I’d hoped on getting poinsettias as part of the Christmas theme.”
Olivia lets out a high-pitched laugh. “Oh, Lil. No! They’re so old-fashioned.”
Mamma nods. “I’ve been trying to tell her that.” I stare at Mamma, trying to explain by the sheer look in my eyes that she’s not helping.
Mamma touches Olivia’s arm. “Let me get you a drink. Red wine OK?”
“Lovely.” Olivia throws her gloves on the nearest table, and fusses with her jacket. “I hope you’re not upset, Lil? I didn’t do the wrong thing, did I?” For a brief second she looks contrite, and again I wonder if I’m making too much out of nothing.
“I’m sure they’re lovely, Olivia. I guess we’ll make them work. Although we had planned on a more festive—”
“Great.” She cuts me off as she twirls her wedding ring on her finger, a dazzling diamond that probably cost more than my house.
Damon wanders over, smiling like a loon. He loops an arm around my waist. “Your dad says he’s got the bachelor party all sorted. I intend to win big, and show the old men how it’s done.”
“Is that so?” I ask, arching a brow. Thankful he’s finally beside me.
“Darling, I was just about to tell Lil all about Katie. All those tête-à-têtes you two have when you come to New Orleans… I thought maybe it’s not too late to fly Katie here. She could definitely help with the menu.”
Mamma returns with an over-full glass of red wine, and manages to slosh half out before handing it to Olivia.
Olivia grabs a napkin from the table and wipes the side of her glass. Poor Mamma looks mortified. I shake my head, trying to signal to her it’s OK.
“Katie’s a lovely girl, quite famous in her own right as a chef these days, works alongside a Michelin-starred someone-a-rather. Damon adores her! Always rushes straight over there when he arrives in New Orleans. Don’t you, darling?”
I give Damon a closed-lip smile as my pulse speeds up. Damon has never once mentioned anyone other than Charlie when he visits New Orleans. I take a step back from him; his hand falls from my waist. “You rush over where exactly?” I keep my voice neutral but I’m sure everyone can tell from the clench of my jaw it’s the first I’ve heard of…Katie.
Damon has the grace to blush. “Katie’s an old friend of mine from high school—”
“They were childhood sweethearts.” Olivia puts a hand to her chest. “Such a sweet girl, lovely family too.”
Damon says, “We were just friends in high school.” He clutches my hand, and gives it a squeeze, but right now I have the most immense urge to ask Olivia what she’s playing at here. And Damon, too. Lunches with his childhood sweetheart?
“So you catch up with Katie a lot, then?” I ask Damon, finding it almost impossible to keep the hurt from my voice.
He swallows hard. “Charlie and I go to her restaurant when I visit New Orleans. We talk shop, that’s all. There’s really nothing more to say.”
We stand silently. Anger courses through me and in equal measure I feel like a fool. Olivia smiles benevolently, and I make my mind up about her. She’s intent on creating a wedge between us for some inexplicable reason. My dad must sense the awkward vibe radiating from us. He scoops up a platter of oysters Damon prepared and waves it under my nose. Immediately I cup my mouth and run to the bathroom.
