Читать книгу Christmas At The Café - Rebecca Raisin, Darcie Boleyn - Страница 29

Chapter Five

Birds chirp from the tree outside my window, making me bolt out of bed. Shoot! Sunlight streams in; I’ve overslept. Damon’s side of the bed is empty, and I take a second to wonder why. It’s not like him to leave without waking me; most mornings we sit together over a cup of coffee that’s so strong it makes my eyes boing open. For a moment I wonder if he’s rethinking our relationship because of Joel’s sudden presence, then dismiss the ridiculous thought.

I curse as I pull clothes from the cupboard. My mind races with all the things we need to do for the chocolate festival, and the activities for the kids on Saturday. I also want to buy a few things for Charlie’s room, cute little girly things: pink sheets, a lamp, maybe some Barbie dolls.

I throw on a loose tee shirt, and pull up some jeans. CeeCee will be wondering where I am; I promised to get in early to make the gingerbread rabbits. In the bathroom I assess my reflection in the mirror: a mite pale, but a lot better than I looked last night. The thought of Joel’s letter sitting in my bag galvanizes me. I have to make an appointment with Mr Jefferson, a semi-retired lawyer, and the only one in Ashford to boot, for some legal advice.

A quick splash of cold water on my face is all I have time for. Make-up isn’t my thing anyway. Ripping open the letter from Joel, I read a whole bunch of legal gobbledegook. My shoulders slump. I’m not sure if it’s because this lawyer’s on Joel’s side, but it sounds as though I will have to pay. He must have planned it so he’d always have a way to get the money back.

***

CeeCee’s hollering away at someone as I walk through the back door of the Gingerbread Café. She’s slamming her hands on the bench and looks all ruffled.

I rush over. “Cee, are you OK? What is it?”

She puts a hand on her heart. “There you is. Glory be, I been so worried! I had to go on over to Damon and make sure you were OK. Rosaleen told me Joel was here last night!”

I look sharply at Rosaleen, who averts her eyes on account of getting caught gossiping. “You don’t miss a trick, do you?” I say to her, fighting the edge in my voice. I have no idea how she manages to discover every tidbit in this town, but she does, and then she spreads the gossip like a game of Chinese whispers.

“I better go.” She picks up a bag of cookies. “I hope everything works out and that…well, you know…” Her voice trails off as she nods to CeeCee and scurries away quick as a mouse. We watch her scrawny frame retreat before turning to each other.

“I nearly done had a heart attack when I heard that snake was here when you all alone! What’d he want? I couldn’t get a word outta Damon, his mouth shut so tight I worry it’d been superglued!” She’s so riled up she speaks in exclamation marks.

I take the envelope from my bag. “Let’s sit on the sofa.” I trudge to it, knowing CeeCee’s going to be worried. “He called yesterday, said he wanted to meet. Cut a long story short, he wants the money back I used to set up the café.”

“He what? That man as crooked as a dog’s hind leg! But he owes you a whole lot more than that! He lost your house and everythin’.” Sweat breaks out above her lip; she picks up a magazine and uses it like a fan.

“I know.” I pat her knee. “Don’t worry, please, Cee. I’m going to see about an appointment with Mr Jefferson, and figure out what to do.” I try my hardest to sound bright, as if I’m not concerned, and hope it fools her.

“I got a bad feeling about this, Lil. He ain’t gonna let up so easy, lawyer or no.”

“It’s fine, Cee. We’ll keep going like we always do. I’ll work out something. You want a gingerbread coffee?”

Her eyes are glassy and I realize she’s about to cry. “Cee, it’s OK. Really, don’t cry.”

“It just ain’t right. You worked your butt off to make this place into a business.”

“We’ve both worked our butts off. Don’t you worry. I’m not going to give in without a fight.” I kiss her soft, plump cheek. “Put your feet up for a bit. I’ll bring you a coffee and a piece of pie.”

“OK, just for a minute, then.” She keeps up a one-way conversation, muttering to herself, and shaking her fists.

***

Once the shock wears off, CeeCee’s back to her bustling, busy self. I try and put Joel out of my mind as we get to work. It’s hard, though, when I picture his sneering face, and think of how cunning he is.

We line the wicker baskets by the front door with greaseproof paper, and fill them with freshly baked hot-cross buns. Within minutes we have customers three deep as the smell travels out to the street.

“I knew that was a good idea!” CeeCee says, pointing to the baskets. “It’s like bees to a honeypot.” And I have to agree. The café is more appealing with all the touches we’ve added recently. Damon built a bookshelf on the wall closest to the fireplace. We filled it with cookbooks, and paperbacks, and hunted out gingerbread coloring-in books for kids.

CeeCee found the wicker baskets at a church fête, and we used all our knowledge of DIY to mount them on the wall. We must have looked a sight that day, two women with nails hanging out of our mouths, drills in hand, as we tried to attach them to the wall. So they hang a little crookedly, but with the amount of nails we used they certainly won’t fall down. Over the Christmas break we painted the walls a dark chocolate color and hung gingerbread-man bunting and fairy lights along the edge of the cornice. It’s chintzy and sweet, and I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished.

The customers trickle away once the hot-cross buns are sold so we stop to catch our breath and plan the rest of the day. I make a quick call to Mr Jefferson, who tells me to fax over the letter from Joel’s lawyer and that he’ll call me as soon as he’s done some investigating into it.

Joining CeeCee on the old sofa by the bookshelves, I take a minute to watch the world go by outside the Gingerbread Café. I could easily grab a book off the shelf and while the day away reading, and gawping out of the window after each chapter.

“I faxed the documents to Mr Jefferson,” I say idly, noticing Damon’s shop is filled with customers. He sells a range of small goods, and does cooking classes once a week, which all manner of local women get themselves glammed up for. Seems once Damon moved to town girls from eighteen to eighty suddenly forgot how to cook.

I watch him wander around the shop, speaking to customers, and get the same tingly feeling I always do when I lay eyes on him. Even when he wears those ridiculous checker shirts he loves so much. They are growing on me, I guess, especially when he leaves one too many buttons open, exposing his chest. I blink the sleepy desire away, and try and look at though I’m not lost in some kind of fantasy world.

CeeCee sighs loudly. “I feel better knowing that he’s gonna help. He’ll see you right. Guess there’s no chance Joel will just up and disappear, is there?”

“You never can tell,” I say, wishing it were true.

CeeCee uncrosses her arms. “If I sit here any longer I’ll fall asleep. Let’s bake something new.”

I stretch, yawning. “Like what?”

“Let’s make some dark chocolate crème brulées. Then that’s one less thing to do for the festival.”

“That’s if we don’t eat them all,” I say, following her back to the kitchen. I can almost taste the rich creamy dessert with its caramelized sugar topping, just by picturing it.

***

With the crème brulées made, and only two or three missing, as temptation got the better of us, we spend the rest of the morning serving customers and planning our range. Trying to organize what can be made ahead, and what needs to be done as late as possible.

CeeCee’s busy concocting a huge slab of macadamia and white chocolate fudge — I can’t even look at it after the amount we’ve eaten today.

A lanky man strolls through the doors, looking almost as if he’s lost something. He takes in the walls, the ceiling, as if he’s a repairman.

“Can I help you?” I ask. He’s not from around here — that much I know.

He strides to the counter. “Name’s Dennis. I heard this place was for sale. Joel told me to come and meet with you — he was a bit sketchy on the details…”

Anger clouds my mind, and I can’t help but glare at the damn fool in front of me, whether he’s innocent or not. What in the hell kind of game is Joel playing sending someone out like some kind of tire-kicker to look over the place?

“This place most certainly is not for sale!” I yell, indignant.

His eyes widen. “But Joel said…”

CeeCee storms over. “You go back and tell that nasty piece of work this kinda carry-on ain’t gonna wash with us! Go on, get.” She shoos him away. He takes one look at her and spins on his heel.

She turns to me. “This ain’t gonna stop, Lil, till he gets his way.”

“I’ll call Mr Jefferson back. But I’m not going to let him bully me into paying, Cee. I’m just not.”

We’re distracted as Charlie runs through the door out of breath. “Daddy said you were making Easter eggs today!” I glance at CeeCee, who in a tacit wave of her hand knows instinctively not to discuss what just happened in front of Charlie. We lock eyes for a moment longer; I can tell CeeCee’s still reeling from Joel’s latest attempt to intimidate me. I mouth the words, “It’s fine.”

CeeCee purses her lips, and pulls the little girl into her arms. “Wanna help us make some eggs?”

Her cornflower-blue eyes widen in excitement. “Yes please! Daddy bought me an apron and everything.” She opens up her pink backpack and pulls out a brown apron.

“Would you look at that?” Cee says. “It’s got gingerbread men all over it. Your daddy sure knows how to buy gifts all right.” We giggle, thinking of the shrilling turkey and the manic bunny. CeeCee helps Charlie fix the strings of the apron, and sets her up on a stool.

“So, Lil’s gonna temper the chocolate,” CeeCee says, “which is a fancy way of saying she’s going to melt it. Now give me a minute here to read this recipe.” She plonks her glasses on the bridge of her nose, while she reads. “Oh, this is gonna be fun! Says here, we can pipe in white chocolate first to make little patterns in the molds, like dots or squiggles, then, once that sets, we coat with the dark chocolate. They gonna look pretty as a picture.”

I heft up a big bag of dark chocolate buttons, and cut it open. The rich scent of cacao hits me, and it takes all my might not to grab a handful and start eating, no matter that my overfull belly screams in protest.

“Lil needs to set up a saucepan with an inch or two of water and wait for it to simmer. Then she gonna fill a big metal bowl with the dark chocolate buttons atop, so it acts like a bain-marie.”

Charlie crinkles her nose. “What’s that?”

“Kinda like a bath with a bowl on top.” Charlie looks a mite confused at Cee’s description, but shrugs her shoulders and watches our every move. Following CeeCee’s instructions, we wait for the water to heat.

“Ready?” I say to them as I add the chocolate buttons to the bowl.

Charlie ogles it as if it’s something magical. “I’ve never seen so much chocolate,” she whispers, awestruck.

CeeCee cackles. “That bag almost as big as you!”

I stir the molten chocolate, making sure to hold the bowl so it doesn’t drop into the water underneath.

“That smells like heaven itself,” CeeCee says. “I’m gonna melt a tiny bit of white chocolate so we can pipe it into the molds. You can decorate the eggs however you want, Charlie.”

She drags her gaze from the gooey pot of chocolate and claps her hands. “Really? I’m going to do love hearts!”

“Sounds perfect.” I smile.

We work quickly. I check the temperature — it’s almost at the right heat. CeeCee’s done in no time and sets up the piping bags and molds on the bench. She wipes the oval-shaped molds out with a paper towel, which will help make the chocolate eggs glossy when they’re set.

With oven mitts on, I take the bowl of lusciously liquefied chocolate off the saucepan and put it between us on the bench. CeeCee’s used piping bags to swirl thin strands of white chocolate in the molds, which have set. Charlie tries her best to make hearts but they look more like scribbles. She sticks her tongue between her lips as she concentrates.

“You’re doing a great job, sugar.”

She beams. “Now what?”

CeeCee says, “OK, we give it a minute to set, then we lightly brush in the dark chocolate, a real thin layer, and when that’s dry we fill the molds up with chocolate and tap so there ain’t no air bubbles.”

Charlie takes a brush and watches us before attempting her own eggs.

“Real thin, mind.” CeeCee stands behind her and holds the mold so she can brush the first layer over the hearts. “Now you ready for the fun part?”

Charlie puts the brush to her mouth and paints her lips with it. “I can’t help it!” she says when she notices us staring at her mouth, which is coated brown as if she’s wearing lipstick. CeeCee hoots. “You keep that brush just for your eggs now.”

We spoon in the chocolate to completely fill the molds and then tap the sides.

“Sounds like a horse gallopin’ to the finish line!”

I laugh with CeeCee as I survey the bench; we’ve spilt chocolate all over it and it dries quickly in all sorts of obscure dribbles.

“Here comes the messy part.” I rip off a layer of baking paper, and spread it on the clean end of the bench. We laugh as we upend the molds and watch the excess chocolate fall out like lava, leaving only the thin shell. Charlie immediately dips her finger into turned-out chocolate.

“They look perfect already,” CeeCee says, admiring the even, half shells before she puts them in the fridge to set.

We get through three more batches of chocolate eggs, some tiny ovals, some huge as gridiron balls, before we decide to take a break, and sample some of our creations. Charlie hugs us before tottering back to Damon’s shop. Not before taking a handful of treats as she leaves.

“I’ll make us a couple o’ gingerbread milkshakes to go with our chocolate — what do you say?”

I groan in mock protest. “I can see this little fad adding a few inches to my hips.”

CeeCee harrumphs as she mixes up our drinks. “You too skinny anyways.”

“Pfft. You would say that even if I was as big as a barn.”

CeeCee dips the milkshake glasses into honey, then coats the rim with gingerbread crumbs before filling them up. She mooches over and hands me a glass, and we flop to the sofa. I take a big gulp, and close my eyes at the sheer deliciousness of it. The ice cream makes the drink thick, it’s spicy from the ginger, and sweet from the gooey treacle mixed through.

CeeCee smacks her lips together and says, “Glory be, that about as good as a cuddle from yo’ mamma.”