Читать книгу Christmas Wedding At The Gingerbread Café - Rebecca Raisin, Rebecca Raisin - Страница 10

Chapter One

Ten days

The fluffy white meringue hypnotizes me as it swirls around the mixer into soft valleys and peaks. A chocolate cake cools on the stainless-steel bench ready for me to layer with meringue, which will look like fresh snow for the cheery-faced fondant reindeers to graze in. High-pitched voices interrupt my reverie, and I turn to see the small children of Ashford making their way along the icy street, caroling.

It’s almost nightfall; through the tinseled window and flashing fairy lights I watch them sing, their faces lit up with the excitement of Christmas. I switch off the mixer, and dust my hands on my apron. Edging closer to the door, I listen to them pitch and warble. I sing along, enraptured by the catchy festive songs.

A couple of young stragglers pull away from the crowd of carolers, and race to the window of the Gingerbread Café. They push their tiny red noses against the glass; their breath fogs up the view. I duck my head around the door. “See those marshmallow snowmen? CeeCee made them especially, so when you’re finished caroling you can take as many as you want. Tell your friends too.” Their eyes go wide, as they squeal and dash back to the group, gesticulating wildly back to the sweet treats on display.

Smiling at their exuberance, I glance back to the window, and see why they’re so animated. At their age and height it must look like a monolithic ode to gingerbread. CeeCee insisted we make our own Christmas tree this year…out of gingerbread. It took us the better part of three weeks to work out how exactly to bake the pieces so they’d fit together to form branches. There were plenty of mistakes made, which were hastily eaten up by our regular customers.

We felt like the most accomplished engineers when it was finally erected and we’d decorated it with golden candy floss ‘tinsel’, and ‘baubles’ made from scarlet toffee. The ‘ground’ is made from marshmallow, and the Christmas presents made from chocolate dusted with edible glitter sit afoot the tree. All the late nights baking seem like nothing when a crowd of children stop and ogle it as if it’s something magical. I can’t wait for Damon’s daughter, Charlie, to see it. For a moment I picture her, with her beautiful blond curls, following the kids along the street, singing. I miss her when she’s gone, almost as if she’s my own child.

The doorbell jingles, catching me mid-chorus. I turn, half expecting the tiny revelers to rush in. “Oh, golly, that’s the voice I love,” Damon teases. His hands snake behind my jacket and he rubs the warmth of my back. “Operatic, and dramatic.”

“Very funny.” I grin. “I would have tried a bit harder if I knew I had an audience.” So, my singing leaves a lot to be desired. I blame my mamma — she’s sings as if she’s being strangled and unfortunately I inherited that gene.

“And I get to wake up to the sound of that voice every day until…for ever.”

Gazing up at him, my mouth hanging open like a love-struck fool, I say, “Ten days until I’m Mrs. Guthrie. Ten days until I swan down that aisle. I’m tingly with excitement even if I do have to wear gloop on my face, and be tortured with hair devices to make my curly hair…curly.”

He laughs so hard little dimples appear on his cheeks. “I’m tingly too, in more ways than one.” He half groans as he leans down and kisses me full on the mouth. I close my eyes as my whole-body throb reaches swoon level. This fine-thing sure knows how to kiss a girl, all right.

Slightly breathless, we pull apart, silent for a moment until the blood rushes back to wherever the hell it’s supposed to be. We stare hard at each other, but I don’t dare kiss him again. We’re likely to close up shop and jump into bed for the evening. As tempting as that is, I have cakes to bake.

But…no.

I have cakes to bake.

Damon runs his hands through his hair. “Let’s just close…”

Jelly-legged from his presence, I fight to stay strong. “Nope.”

He hooks his fingers through the belt loops of my jeans and pulls me against him. I step back, but he pulls me close again in an effort to convince me. “Lil…”

“Nope.”

His lips part slowly, and my restraint almost crumbles. Cakes, think of the cakes.

He moans low. “You’re a temptress…”

I laugh. “It’s a hard life.”

“Very hard,” he agrees, winking. He makes a show of exhaling, and shakes away the desire that is plain on his face. Composed, he says, “Let’s stop canoodling in the doorway before we end up in some compromising photos on CeeCee’s Spacebook.”

I imagine a picture of us wrapped together squid-like, flushed, for the world to see on Facebook. I giggle and drag Damon close to the fireplace when my friend Missy ducks her head in and says, “Hello, lovebirds! You’re looking mighty sweet all tangled like that.”

“Come out of the cold, Missy.” I wave her over to the fire. She struts in. Despite being heavily pregnant, she still manages to saunter rather than waddle.

Missy, who owns The Sassy Salon, has all these grand plans for my wedding hair and make-up, and, while it’s not usually my thing, it’s hard not to get caught up in her excitement. She is an expert, after all.

I rub her belly before giving her a hug. As always she smells sweet with perfume and hair products, her heavily made-up face perfection as she fluffs her big auburn curls. “I don’t intend to interrupt you two from whatever it is you were doing…” she arches an eyebrow, and grins “…but I wanted to give you these, Lil.” She hands me a brown paper bag. “Some make-up samples, colorstay, so no matter how much toying you do to your pretty little face, it should stay put.”

I go to protest, but she shakes a finger. “Before you start shaking your head, hear me out. You need to decide what colors you like…so just try it, OK? I know make-up is not your thing, but you’ll get used to it if you try it out a few times before the wedding.”

Damon lets out a huge belly laugh. I pivot, hands on hips, and give him a fake pout, he stops immediately and claps a hand over his mouth. “You think this is funny?” I tease; ruing the fact that at almost thirty years of age I still don’t understand the basics of applying make-up. I’ve tried, but it feels so unnatural, as if I’ve cemented my face, that I can’t help but mess with it, as a child would.

“No, no!” Damon holds his palms up, stifling a laugh. “Definitely not funny.” I give him a shove with my hip and turn back to Missy.

“I just hope I’m not going to look like a Dolly Parton impersonator.”

Missy rolls her eyes heavenward. “There’s nothing wrong with Dolly Parton, Lil. That woman knows what real beauty is.”

I guffaw.

“She’s my people and I won’t hear a bad word about her!” Missy laughs. I grin back. Missy dresses similar to Dolly Parton, all tight miniskirts, bold prints, the odd sequin or two. She’s vibrant and sassy and has a heart of pure gold.

“OK, no more Dolly jokes. So are there instructions with this stuff?” Doubt creeps in as I survey the bag full of colorful vials and tubes used for God knows what. Missy knows I’m erring on the side of natural rather than full-on war paint, but so far all I see are pinks and reds so bright they make my eyes hurt.

Missy scoffs. “No, there aren’t instructions! At least try the lipsticks and see which shade you prefer. We can sort the rest at the make-up trial, OK?”

“OK.”

“I better go and close up shop or else Tommy’ll think I’ve run off with another man.”

Laughter barrels out of us at the thought of a heavily pregnant woman running anywhere, least of all off with another man. “See you tomorrow, and thanks.” I hold up the bag. Missy air kisses us both and struts away. From behind you can’t even tell she’s pregnant — all the gingerbread men and slices of pie she’s consumed have obviously gone straight to the baby.

“Only ten more days…” Damon’s voice brings me back to the present as he kisses the top of my head.

Ten more days marks our one-year anniversary, and our wedding day.

I wasn’t searching for love a year ago, far from it, when it fell in my lap — or rather my café — in the form of this tight-jean-wearing, curly-haired, six-packed, glorious man. Some days it still doesn’t feel real, that this kind of passionate, all-consuming love could just happen, in the blink of an eye, but thank my lucky stars, it did.

Nipping my fingers into Damon’s back pockets, I pull his hips close. “Look at them…”

Ashford’s mini carolers huddle together as they wait to cross the road. They’re bundled up in woolen scarves and beanies, their mittened hands holding candles. They chorus Amazing Grace, and I stiffen in Damon’s arms. Oh, no. I bite the inside of my cheek. I wiggle my toes. Isn’t that what people do to stem their tears? It’s too late. My eyes well up; it’s no use. That song kills me. It’s the very heart of Christmas and it speaks to me like nothing else.

“Lil?” Damon says. “You OK?”

I half laugh, half hiccough. “It’s that darn song. It’s even more of a tear-jerker when six-year-olds are singing it.” My voice comes out a little strangled as I try to laugh it off.

“How could I forget?” he says wistfully. “The Amazing Grace blubber-fest exactly one year ago today.”

I cock my head. “Wait…what? You saw that?” This time last year I had my hand wedged well and truly up a turkey’s behind, stuffing the damn poultry to sell in the café as I sang my little heart out to Amazing Grace, laughing-shrieking-sobbing with the sadness of one whose life wasn’t going as planned. And that very same day, I met Damon.

Damon smacks his forehead. “Whoops. So I may have been spying on you long before you marched across the road to shout at me for stealing your customers.”

The memory makes me smile. I’d been all riled up when this handsome newcomer strode into town selling the same things as my beloved Gingerbread Café. It hadn’t helped matters he was gorgeous and instantly had a shop full of ladies, single or not, flicking their shiny hair, and strutting about, trying to make his acquaintance.

“You were spying on me?” I ask, mock seriously.

He puts a hand to his chest and does his best to keep his face straight, but his lip wobbles as he gulps back laughter. “I fell in love with you that very second. I thought, if a girl can stuff a turkey, simultaneously cry, and laugh, and sing like it’s the only thing that’ll save her, then she’s the one for me.” He presses a fist to his mouth, no doubt reliving the scene in all its sob-fest glory.

I laugh and blush to the roots of my hair. I really did make a spectacle of myself that long-ago wintry morning in the café. I had no idea anyone could see me in such a vulnerable state. “I’m surprised —” I hit him playfully on the arm “— that you’ve never mentioned this before.”

He raises his eyebrows. The deep brown of his eyes is so easy to get lost in, I forget for a moment what we’re even discussing. “You were upset, and I didn’t want you to know I’d seen. I only wanted to make you smile. Little did I know that you’d take offence to my mere presence in town, and that it would become a bit harder than I’d first thought.”

Thinking back to that day, I’m caught up in a rush of mixed feelings. Back then, I was pining for my ex-husband Joel, too naïve to know he was no good, not realizing it was just the idea of love I missed — and not actually him. And that very day, I’d vowed to run Damon out of town because I’d seen him as a threat to my business, and without the café I would have been lost and broke. That version of me, sad and lonely, seems like a lifetime ago.

Shaking my head, I marvel — what a difference a year makes. It hadn’t taken long for me to fall in love with Damon; he truly was a Christmas miracle. And now, we’re about to get married! I resist the urge to pinch myself.

When a man turns every notion you had of love upside down, and shows you what a genuine heart he has, it’s almost impossible not to well up, and again it makes me wonder why I let my ex-husband treat me callously for so long. Silently, I thank the universe he’s out of my life for good, and instead focus on the wonderful man in front of me.

And next year, I vow, I’ll only listen to Amazing Grace when I’m alone, and can bawl for the full five minutes and afterwards will feel strangely refreshed, and altogether festive.

“Where’s CeeCee?” Damon asks, glancing around the café.

Frowning, I push a tendril of hair back. “She dashed out to get some Christmas presents for her grandbabies.” I glance at my watch and shrug. “But that was a while ago. She’s probably bumped into someone.”

You can never really dash anywhere in Ashford. Everyone knows everyone — you can’t get down the main street without stopping to chat to people. Even the inclement weather doesn’t deter the locals from stopping to shoot the breeze.

Outside snow drifts down like white confetti, pitching in the wind, and settling on the square window panes. The sight makes me want to curl up and watch the world go by. With that in mind, I push Damon towards one of the old sofas in front of the fireplace, and sit with my legs over his lap. He’s impossible to resist and the cakes can wait, for five minutes, at least. The fire is stoked up, and crackles and spits as if it’s saying hello. Damon groans. “I’m beat. You don’t realize till you stop for a minute.” He covers his mouth as he yawns, which immediately makes me yawn.

“How’d today go?” I ask. Damon owns a small goods shop across the road, and hosts cooking demonstrations as well as sorting out the finer details of our catering business. No matter what you do, money is tight for shopkeepers in Ashford purely because it’s such a small town. Though the lead-up to Christmas is frantic for us all.

“Busy. I must have made a hundred cups of coffee…”

I smirk. Damon’s fancy coffee tastes like tar to me, but women still flock there, and grimace their way through a cup. He’s totally clueless they’re ogling him as he dashes behind the counter, while they stare, mouths hanging open. I don’t blame them. I’d spend my morning at his coffee bar and stare too if I could.

“Any catering enquiries for January?”

He shakes his head. We decided not to take any bookings for the catering over Christmas because of the wedding but we’d hoped to get some parties booked for the new year. Our catering business is what keeps us afloat in the times the streets are quiet, especially over winter. “They’ll come, Lil. Don’t worry; let’s just focus on Christmas and the wedding and having our families all in one place.”

I bite a nail, before catching myself, hearing Missy in my mind berating me. “I hope we haven’t made a mistake turning clients away.”

He shrugs. “It’s our wedding, Lil. I’m sure everyone understands.”

We’ve chosen a Christmas Eve wedding for sentimental reasons; it will be a year exactly that we’ve been a couple, and it seems fitting to make the commitment on that date. Plus, it’s when Charlie visits, and my parents are finally back from an extended round-the-world-trip. And a winter wonderland wedding — well, you can’t get more romantic than that.

But…it’s also a busy time for the café until December twenty-fourth and then we’re suddenly deader than a doornail, as people hibernate for the remaining winter. By turning catering clients away after a steady year of building the business into almost-flourishing, I do step back and wonder if we’ve made the right choice. I don’t have anyone to fall back on financially if ends don’t meet, and that’s enough to keep me awake at night sometimes. Damon’s family are wealthy, but he stubbornly refuses to take handouts from them, which is one of the reasons I love him. He makes his own way. But a small part of me sometimes thinks that’s why he doesn’t seem overly concerned when his business doesn’t make enough to cover costs. He does have that back-up if he ever needs it, despite saying he’d never ask them for money.

Maybe it’s just one of our differences: he’s a little more relaxed about his future, whereas I tend to plan ahead. It’s a good thing, in some respects — he brings me back to earth, the times I’m fiddling with the calculator, my paperwork piled in front. He’ll massage my shoulders before gently taking away my pen, and telling me to leave it for a while. That my furious adding and subtracting won’t change anything at ten minutes to midnight.

Secretly, I’ve been trying to save. I want to pay CeeCee back for the Joel fiasco, but she won’t have any of it, so I’ve been squirrelling money into an account, which I’ll put aside for her grandbabies. I also have another account, reserved especially for future wages for another staff member for the café. We’ll need an extra pair of hands if, make that when, I fall pregnant. I want to be squared away financially when it does happen. I’ll still work in the café, but I’d like to spend some time at home too. A baby needs routine, and I’m determined to find a way I can make it work. Just the thought of nursing a baby makes me warm inside. We’ve been trying since Easter, with no luck, but I know it’ll happen. Just like Missy, it’ll happen when I least expect it.

Outside the young carolers cross the icy street their voices carrying over on the wind, pure and sweet like tiny angels.

“And anyway,” Damon says, his lazy smile in place, “unless we renew our vows every December, it’s the only time we’ll turn clients away.”

I flash him a grin. He’s right. I should be focusing on the wedding, not getting all angsty over the business side of things. He takes my hand and laces his fingers through mine.

It won’t be long before friends and family arrive in Ashford for the week. There have been flurries of phone calls and emails about where they’ll stay and what they’ll do. I can’t wait for them to sit at the kitchen bench nursing steaming cups of gingerbread coffee, while I bake for them.

I wonder what they’ll make of my business. The café, with its dark-chocolate-colored walls and gingerbread-man bunting, looks enchanting at nightfall, when the fire throws shadows over the space, and the Christmas decorations shine under the fairy lights. It’s cozy and warm, the kind of place you can loll about and forget your troubles. And celebrate love, and friendship and everything in between.

Excitement dazzles me for a moment, as I think about baking beautiful cakes for people I love. Baking has always been more like a meditation for me. Life makes sense when I’m clasping a wooden spoon, and have a bowl of batter cupped under an arm. And it’s infinitely more magical when I make a sweet treat with a friend or family member in mind. When they exclaim about the presentation of a gateau, and, with fork poised mid bite, roll their eyes heavenward oohing over the flavors, it makes my heart sing. And that’s why I run a café that struggles as much as it flourishes. I need to. It’s what I’m meant to do. Seasons come and go, and so do customers. Summer is busy, and Christmas is hectic, but between that we falter, just like all the shops in Ashford.

I snuggle close to the man I’m going to marry. The soft orange glow from the fire lights up his face, and again I have one of those overwhelming feelings that life is Christmas-card perfect.

“Now it’s so close, are you nervous about the wedding?” Damon asks.

“No way, Jose. Are you?” I arch an eyebrow.

“Nope. It can’t come quick enough for me. Lil and Damon Guthrie…”

My heart flutters at the words. “Lived happily ever after.”

He grins. “The end.”

I run through our wedding checklist in my mind, but Damon’s sentiment has turned my brain to mush, making it hard to remember. Damon’s been involved in almost every step of the wedding planning. We’ve grown closer, if that’s even possible, while we’ve had our heads bent over our wish list.

“I’ve still got to organize the bouquets, the centerpieces for the tables, confer with the photographer, the dress fitting, the make-up trial…” I trail off as I think of the orders I need to finish for the café too.

He rubs the sandy brown stubble on his chin as though he’s contemplating. “Oh! I spoke to Guillaume again. He’s happy with our ideas, said it won’t be any trouble.”

Guillaume owns L’art de l’amour, a French bistro just outside Ashford. When we were pondering a venue for the reception I knew instantly I wanted to have it there. It’s an intimate space that’s just the right size for our guests. It’s not showy, or glitzy, just classically French, with a chef who’s passionate about his food, no matter how temperamental he is.

Translated the name of the restaurant means The Art of Love, which I think is a good omen, but I keep that pearl of wisdom to myself. Guillaume’s a genius when it comes to the culinary arts, and we trust his judgment explicitly, though I did ask Damon to massage Guillaume’s ego so we could make a few suggestions. He’s typically French and believes in his methods and recipes, so for him to even discuss our menu, well, Damon must have charmed the socks off him.

The rumor mill has settled down now, but when Guillaume appeared in town a few years back there was plenty of speculation about why such a formidable chef would choose the outskirts of Ashford to ply his exotic wares. And we’re yet to figure it out. There’s a story behind the great man, but he’s not talking. All we care about is him making the night spectacular with his inventive cooking.

“What did it take to convince him?” I ask.

Damon bites down on his bottom lip, a gesture that makes me want to ravish him right there. “I might have bent the truth a teeny tiny little bit…”

I give him a shove. “Out with it.”

“I said the menu suggestions were CeeCee’s idea. His face glowed red, and he instantly agreed.”

I throw my head back and laugh. Guillaume has a soft spot for our CeeCee. She doesn’t seem to notice when he visits the café and blushes like a schoolboy in her presence. When he’s around CeeCee his jaw loses the tense set to it, which is replaced by a wide grin. He fidgets, reverts to speaking French, usually making CeeCee holler at him, “Come now, Guillaume, do I hafta get my French dictionary out again?”

“Wait till I tell her that,” I say.

Damon tuts. “If you tell her she can’t pretend she doesn’t know he’s sweet on her.”

I gasp. “You think she knows?”

“I think she does.”

“Does Guillaume know that CeeCee knows?”

Damon’s eyes shine bright with laughter. “You sound like a teenager.”

I frown.

“OK, yes, I think Guillaume knows she knows, but doesn’t know what to do about it.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of knows, when no one knows.”

“I know,” he deadpans.

Well, I’ll be darned. CeeCee and I don’t keep secrets from each other. It’s almost impossible to at any rate. We know each other so well that we’ll read each other’s expressions and with a few foot stomps, or heavy sighs, we’ll inevitably let the story tumble out. But the minx has kept this from me fairly easily.

I wonder if CeeCee has contemplated dating again? Maybe that’s why she hasn’t mentioned that she knows Guillaume is sweet on her? Curtis, CeeCee’s husband, passed away four years ago, and she misses him with all of her heart. They had that rare once-in-a-lifetime kind of love. But saying that, some companionship might be just the thing for her. There’s no way I’m broaching that particular subject with her though — she’s liable to beat me over the head with a bread stick if I even mentioned it.

“Your mamma stopped by the shop today.” My parents have only been back in Ashford a few weeks after an extended world trip. It seemed once they started traveling they couldn’t get enough of exploring the world outside of our small town. I missed them desperately while they were gone, but I understood they were hit with wanderlust, and I was happy for them after a lifetime of living in one place.

“Oh? What did she stop in for?”

“She wanted a hamper of goodies for Reverend Joe…”

“Hmm.” Oh, Lord, what’s cooking in that mind of hers? It’s not unusual for Mamma to support the church with hampers of food, especially at Christmas, but it’s odd she didn’t ask me to make one for her. Scampering over to Damon and asking him to make one can only mean one thing. She didn’t want me to know. “What for? Is she trying to rearrange the church or something?”

Our ceremony is to take place in the hundred-year-old chapel in Ashford, a beautifully restored building, with huge stained-glass arched windows that funnel in the most glorious light. So many memorable events have been held there, from weddings, to baptisms and funerals of those we’ve loved, it just seems right, as if we’ll be a part of the fabric of that sacred place once we’re married. Reverend Joe is a fan of our gingerbread and caramelized pear Bundt cake so I baked him one when we met him to discuss our nuptials. He’s a sweet man who doesn’t seem to age, just looks the same year in year out, almost as if he’s otherworldly.

“No idea why she wanted the hamper.” Damon throws his palms up in an effort to bamboozle me, but I can tell when he’s bending the truth. He gets this tiny little wrinkle on one side of his mouth, probably in his effort to hold back a smile.

“You’ve got your lying face on…”

“My what?” He narrows his eyes.

“Your lying face. I can read you like a book.”

He scoffs. “Is that so?”

“Yep.” He presses his cheek against mine; his breath tickles my skin.

“Well, it’s…a surprise.” He smiles, and continues holding me close.

“Give me a clue.”

“Nope.” He clucks his tongue. “You, pretty lady, are just going to have to wait and see.”

“Fine.” I cross my arms in mock annoyance, hoping he’ll give in.

Instead he laughs, and says, “Fine.”

“Fine. I think I might just pay a visit to the church…”

“It’s closed.” Damon grins and gathers me in his arms. He stares into my eyes long enough to make me giddy. “And anyway, you wouldn’t guess the surprise even if you were staring straight at it.”

“Really? I’m pretty clever when I want to be.”

“That you are.” He strokes my hair back and runs his fingers around my face.

“If you keep up with that, I’ll fall asleep,” I say as he continues.

“My parents phoned.”

Damon’s parents are due to fly in a few days before the wedding. Despite a few attempts for me to meet them earlier, it hasn’t happened. Though Damon’s often caught up with them in New Orleans when he’s flown over for a weekend visit to see Charlie.

“What did they say?” I ask.

“They’re excited to meet you. Mother wanted every minute detail about the wedding. I felt…I don’t know, so excited to share it all with them, not just the wedding, but my life here, the shop, the town, you. I mean, of course they know about it all anyway, but it feels different now they’re actually going to visit, you know?”

“They’ll love it here and I can’t wait to meet them.” They’re scheduled to arrive three days before the wedding, which is cutting it fine, so I’ve organized a morning tea so his mother can get to know us girls, and hopefully feel a little more included in the pre-wedding fun.

He nods, and pulls at his shirt — one of those God-awful checker types he insists on wearing as though he’s some kind of cowboy. They do suit him, but it’s a running joke between us, now, how much I hate his so-called cowboy style.

“I told Mother all about the chapel, and about Guillaume. She wanted to know what’s left to do, and if we needed anything.”

“Did she like the sound of it?”

He gives me a lazy smile. “She did. And she kept on about the menu — that’s what reminded me to ring Guillaume and check our requests were OK.”

I relax my shoulders. “Good. I’ll sort out the flowers and the centerpieces, and those few other things and we are just about done!”

“I have a feeling there’s not going to be a bridezilla for me,” Damon says, half sadly.

I shove him playfully. “You sound disappointed.”

He laughs. “Oh, you know, there’s a lot to be said for those guys with eyes as big as headlights, sitting at Jerry’s bar, nursing a beer, wondering when exactly the woman they met morphed into a screeching mass of nerves.”

“Is this about beer?”

He drums his fists against his shirt. “Maybe I’d be better with whiskey, Lil,” he says in a throaty voice as if he’s a chain-smoking, whiskey-swilling tough guy. “Yep,” he continues. “Thought I’d escape the crazy bride-to-be ramblings and head over there with Tommy. But there’s no rambling. And no crazy bride. What the heck are we going to talk about?”

A giggle escapes me as I picture Damon trying to be one of those guys that hold up the bar at the run-down old pub the next town over. Sure, he’ll be able to make conversation with anyone, but invariably he’ll start talking about a three-day cassoulet he’s set on making, or some new zany haute cuisine we’re trying for our catering business, and the guys there will glance at each other over the top of his head and label him a sissy.

And Tommy as his so-called drinking buddy? Tommy is Missy’s husband. While Missy is an exuberant, fast-talking sweetheart, Tommy is her polar opposite. He’s quiet to the point of silent, but deep down he’s just a really observant, intuitive guy who doesn’t make small talk just for the sake of it.

“I wouldn’t go to Jerry’s if you paid me,” Damon says.

“Well…I have some bad news for you.” I wink at him. “A surprise, you could say.” I grin wickedly.

He runs a hand through his sandy blond hair, and grimaces. “Please do not say the B word.”

Bachelor party: it brings to mind all those connotations of men behaving badly, but around here the only mischief they get up to is the usual pranks you’d expect of teenagers.

“OK, I’ll use the S word. The guys checked with me first — they really want to organize a stag party for you.” Damon goes to speak but I halt him with a hand up. “It’s just a small group. Something low-key.”

Damon leans his head back on the sofa. “Low-key? Like a dinner party?”

I tap his leg. “No, siree. I’m afraid you’re going to have to let them drag you out and shave off your eyebrows or whatever it is they do these days.”

He groans. “Shooters of bourbon and tough-guy stories…”

“’Fraid so. Just don’t let them tie you to a pole in the snow, or anything like that.”

Damon’s eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

I hide my smile. “It’s a tradition around here — that’s why smart folks don’t get married in winter…”

Laughter rumbles out of him as he puts a hand to his chest. “Oh, you jest.”

“Enjoy!” I say cheerfully.

“What about you? Are the girls going to organize something special?”

I gulp, suddenly nervous at the thought. “Well, they did say something about heading off to a nightclub…”

“A nightclub? Is that some kind of code for male strippers?”

This time I lob a cushion at him. He ducks and it sails over his head onto the tiled floor. “It might be but my lips are sealed. It’s secret women’s business.”

While Frank Sinatra croons Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas from the speakers above, I grab Damon by the collar of his shirt and pull him in for a long kiss.