A Gingerbread Café Christmas. Rebecca Raisin

minute—” I indicate to the bird “—so I don’t see what’s so darn amusing.”

      “Give me that bowl, then.”

      We put the stuffing mix between us and hum along to Christmas music while we work. We decorated the café almost a month ago now. Winter has set in. The grey skies are a backdrop for our flashing Christmas lights that adorn the windows. Outside, snow drifts down coating the window panes and it’s so cozy I want to snuggle by the fire and watch the world go by. Glimmering red and green baubles hang from the ceiling, and spin like disco balls each time a customer blows in. A real tree holds up the corner; the smell from the needles, earth and pine, seeps out beneath the shiny decorations.

      In pride of place, sitting squarely in the bay window, is our gingerbread house. It’s four feet high, with red and white candy-cane pillars holding up the thatched roof. There’s a wide chimney, decorated with green and red jelly beans, ready for Santa to climb down. And the white chocolate front door has a wreath made from spun sugar. In the garden, marshmallow snowmen gaze cheerfully out from under their hats. If you look inside the star-shaped window, you can see a gingerbread family sitting beside a Christmas tree. The local children come in droves to ogle it, and CeeCee is always quick to invite them in for a cup of cocoa, out of the cold.

      I opened up the Gingerbread Café a few years back, but the town of Ashford is only a blip on the map of Connecticut, so I run a catering business to make ends meet. We cater for any party, large or small, and open the café during the week to sell freshly made cakes, pies, and whatever CeeCee’s got a hankering for. But we specialize in anything ginger. Gingerbread men, cookies, beverages, you name it, we’ve made it. You can’t get any more comforting than a concoction of golden syrup, butter, and ginger baking in the oven in the shape of little bobble-headed people. The smell alone will transport you back to childhood.

      CeeCee’s the best pie maker I’ve ever known. They sell out as quickly as we can make them. But pies alone won’t keep me afloat.

      “So, you hear anything about that fine-looking thing, from over the road?” CeeCee asks.

      “What fine thing?”

      She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Damon, his name is. The one opening up the new shop, remember? You know who I mean. We went over there to peek just the other day.”

      “I haven’t heard boo about him. And who cares, anyhow?”

      “You sure as hell wouldn’t be bent over dead poultry, leaking from those big blue eyes of yours, if he was snuggled in your bed at night.”

      I gasp and pretend to be outraged. “CeeCee! Maybe you could keep him warm—you ever think of that?”

      “Oh, my. If I was your age, I’d be over there lickety-split. But I ain’t and he might be just the distraction you need.”

      “Pfft. The only distraction I need is for that cash register to start opening and closing on account of it filling with cold hard cash.”

      “You could fix up those blond curls of yours, maybe paint your nails. You ain’t got time to dilly-dally. Once the girls in town catch on, he’s gonna be snapped right up,” says CeeCee, clicking her fingers.

      “They can have him. I still love Joel.”

      CeeCee shakes her head and mumbles to herself. “That’s about the dumbest thing I ever heard. You know he’s moved on.”

      I certainly do. There’s no one in this small town of ours that doesn’t know. He sure as hell made a mockery of me. Childhood sweethearts, until twenty-three months, four days and, oh, five hours ago. He’s made a mistake, and he’ll come back, I just know it. Money’s what caused it, or lack thereof. He’s gone, hightailed it out of town with some redheaded bimbo originally from Kentucky. She’s got more money than Donald Trump, and that’s why if you ask me. We lost our house after his car yard went belly up, and I nearly lost my business.

      “Lookie here,” CeeCee says. “I think we’re about to get our first customer.”

      The doorbell jangles, and in comes Walt, who sells furniture across the way.

      “Morning, ladies.” He takes off his almost-threadbare earmuff hat. I’ve never seen Walt without the damn thing, but he won’t hear a word about it. It’s his lucky hat, he says. Folks round here have all sorts of quirks like that.

      “Hey, Walt,” I say. “Sure is snowing out there.”

      “That it is. Mulled-wine weather if you ask me.”

      CeeCee washes her hands, and dries them on her apron. “We don’t have none of that, but I can fix you a steaming mug of gingerbread coffee, Walt. Surely will warm those hands o’ yours. How’d you like that?”

      “Sounds mighty nice,” he says, edging closer to the fire. The logs crackle and spit, casting an orange glow over Walt’s ruddy face.

       Chapter Two

      CeeCee mixes molasses, ginger, and cinnamon and a dash of baking soda. She sets it aside while she pours freshly brewed coffee into a mug. “You want cream and sugar, Walt?”

      “Why not?” Walt says amiably.

      CeeCee adds the molasses mix to the coffee, and dollops fresh cream on top, sprinkling a dash of ground cloves to add a bit of spice. “Mmm hmm, that’s about the best-looking coffee I ever seen. I’m going to have to make me one now.”

      “So, I guess I’m stuffing these birds by myself?” I say, smiling.

      “You got that right.” She winks at me, and walks to the counter handing Walt the mug. He nods his thanks and drinks deeply, smacking his lips together after each gulp.

      “What can I get for you?” CeeCee asks.

      “Janey sent me in for a ham, and a turkey, not too big but not too little, neither.” He rubs his belly for emphasis.

      “Sure thing,” CeeCee says. “How’s about one with Lil’s special stuffing? Janey won’t need to do a thing, ‘cept put it in the oven, and baste it a few times.”

      “Yeah? Then maybe we’ll have a peaceful Christmas morning.”

      “Doubt that,” CeeCee says. “If she can’t get all het up at her husband Christmas Day, it just ain’t Christmas.”

      “You think?” Walt tilts his head, and smiles. “So, you girls still busy, what with the new guy, an’ all?”

      I look sharply at Walt. “What do you mean?”

      “I heard he’s selling turkeys and hams, just like you.”

      “Say what!” CeeCee says, barely audible with her head pushed deep into the chest fridge. All I see is her denim-clad rump poking out.

      “What, you don’t know?” Walt says and averts his eyes suddenly sheepish.

      “But I thought he was a small goods shop?” My heart hammers — the last thing I need is more competition.

      “Yeah, he is—what did you think small goods was?”

      I sigh inwardly. “Well, small goods, with an emphasis on the small —”

      CeeCee butts in. “Maybe a few cheeses, some o’ that fancy coffee. What, he gonna start making gingerbread houses too now, and pumpkin pies, and whatnot?” She places her hands on her hips, and is getting up a full head of steam. “That just ain’t how we do business round here.”

      Walt scratches the back of his neck. “I thought you knew. He’s been advertising in the paper…”

      I castigate myself for not being more observant, but I don’t want to make Walt feel any more uncomfortable than he already is.

      “That’s OK, Walt.