Christmas Wedding At The Gingerbread Café. Rebecca Raisin

Two

       Nine days

      “Cherry blossom?” CeeCee says, her voice soft with concentration as she wraps turkey, cranberry and Camembert into parcels made with paper-thin filo pastry for today’s lunch special.

      “Mmm?”

      “Can you pass me the egg-wash?”

      I place the small bowl of beaten egg next to her and find the pastry brush. Leaning over her shoulder as she wraps the delicate pastry, I contemplate what they’ll taste like once the Camembert is a creamy melted mess with the sweet cranberry, and the crunch of the filo, and can’t wait to get them baking.

      “You breathin’ down my neck for a reason?” CeeCee jokes.

      I giggle and take a step back. “You’re making me hungry.”

      “Well, why didn’t you say so?” she hollers. “I’m so hungry my stomach’s touchin’ my backbone! I’ll put a couple o’ these in the oven for a little taste tester.”

      “You read my mind.” It’s a wonder we get anything baked around here; there’s always a few rest stops during the day where we break, and eat what we’ve cooked.

      While we wait for the pastries to brown we clean the bench in preparation for the next round of baking. The café is quiet today, and the usual worry we’re baking for ourselves sits heavy in my belly.

      “What’s those wrinkles popping up ’tween your eyes for?” CeeCee says.

      I laugh. CeeCee’s southern way of talking makes even the blackest moods fade. “Same old reason, Cee. Wondering where the heck everyone’s got to, ’cause they sure aren’t in town today.”

      She shrugs. “It’s still early, Lil. They’ll come. Especially when they see what I’ve got planned next.” She waggles her eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion.

      “Got something in your eye?”

      She guffaws and slaps her leg. “No, I do not. I was trying to be mysterious!”

      I laugh. “So what’s going to draw the punters in today?”

      “You’re gonna put weight on just looking at the recipe, I swear it, but it’s gonna be a showstopper.” Fumbling in the pocket of her apron, she pulls out a square of paper and waves it at me.

      I unfold it and read quickly. “A croquembouche?”

      She snatches the piece of paper back, and pushes her glasses back on. “Not just any croquembouche, a salted caramel croquembouche with ricotta cream. Instead of making one big tower of profiteroles, I thought we could make say ten smaller towers. They sure are pretty, and if we flick toffee around them it’ll look like tinsel ’round a Christmas tree.”

      Her enthusiasm is infectious, but I stand mute because it’s a French recipe, from a French culinary magazine. CeeCee’ll try baking anything once, but after Damon’s chat about Guillaume my mind connects the dots, and the picture is a love heart.

      “I think you’re right, Cee.” In the picture the little balls of choux pastry are stacked up into a cone shape, the salted caramel glaze dripped over them makes them shine, and some tendrils of spun toffee flicked over once they’re assembled will draw in a crowd for sure. My mouth waters at the thought of biting into the luscious ricotta filling.

      I sidle up to her and lean close. “So-o-o…where’d you get this recipe from?”

      CeeCee makes a show of wiping her hands on her apron, and then bending over to take silver bowls from under the bench, though her brown cheeks blush so furiously they’re almost purple.

      “Cee?”

      She stands, and pretends not to have heard me, but I can read her expressions as clearly as a road map. I snatch up the piece of paper. “You know…” I play with her “…I’m sure I remember Guillaume mentioning this recipe to me before…”

      Her mouth opens and closes, and she drops the silver bowl, which clangs like a cymbal as it bounces on the floor.

      “Did he now?” she eventually manages.

      I’m just about to press her for information when the doorbell jingles.

      “Well, lookie here,” she booms. “If it ain’t your daddy.” Her voice is slightly manic with what? Relief?

      My father strides in, flicking his braces over his big belly, which is a sure-fire sign he’s hungry. “Hey, Dad.” He hugs me tight.

      “Hey, darlin’.” I detect the faint whiff of cigar smoke on him, the same old dad, sneaking puffs out of Mamma’s sight. If she knew he was still partial to the odd cigar, I’d hear her yelling all the way from home.

      “Morning, CeeCee.” He tips his head.

      “Let me get you a candy-cane coffee.” She bustles away, no doubt glad for the interruption.

      “Hungry?” I say, remembering the parcels in the oven.

      “Well…”

      I edge him to a table. “Get comfy. You can try the turkey, cranberry and Camembert pastry that Cee’s just made.”

      He laces his fingers together. “Don’t tell your mamma.” He winks.

      “She’s still making you diet?”

      His face is glum as he counts on his fingers. “No sugar, no bread, no pasta, no rice. High protein, rabbit food only. And you know your mamma.” He screws up his face. “Her idea of dinner is over-boiled carrots, and frozen peas, with a side of charred steak. At least my choppers stay sharp after all that grinding.”

      I laugh. He’s always on about his teeth, as if the secret to longevity is how well his choppers are holding up. Mamma isn’t the best cook in the world. In fact she’s downright disastrous. Dad still marvels to this day how I managed to learn to cook since I share her genes, but my grandmother baked, and I spent a lot of my childhood in her kitchen.

      “You’re putting me in a predicament just being here,” I joke. “What if she walks past and I’ve just gone and served you a plate of banned food?” I pop the pastries on two plates and take them to the table.

      “She won’t,” he says. “I made sure of it.” He lowers his voice as if he’s plotting something more sinister.

      CeeCee wanders over with mugs of candy-cane coffee and we sit at the table together. I slide a plate to each of them and take one of the steaming cups of sweet coffee.

      “How’d you make sure of it?” I ask him.

      “She said that Emma Mae invited her over for a game of Scrabble, and you know those two once they get to talking. I’ll be lucky if she’s home for dinner.”

      I swallow a sip of coffee and say, “What if she was lying? And she said that to test you, knowing full well you’d sneak into the café?”

      His eyes go wide and he pushes the plate away as if it’s on fire.

      CeeCee pipes up, “I’m sure I seen her walk past not even a minute ago…” She cackles high and loud, and I smirk behind my hand.

      He scoffs. “I knew you were joking — give me that plate back! And anyway, once a week, surely that’s OK for a treat? I’m only human.”

      I cluck my tongue. “Dad, you come in every day.”

      “Small portions, Lil. That’s the secret.” Somehow he manages to keep a straight face. Dad visits at least once a day, fills up on whatever we’re baking, and takes a few gingerbread men for the road. There’s no sign of small portions anywhere near his dinner-sized plate.

      A customer blows in just as I’m about to retort, a broody-looking stranger with dark eyes, and a