A Gingerbread Café Christmas. Rebecca Raisin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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