A Gingerbread Café Christmas. Rebecca Raisin

surely that’d be the end of it, and he’d learn his lesson. I guess not.

      I set to work peeling pears and try to think up a new strategy. It’s finicky work, but cooking always calms me. That’s probably why I run a business that makes next to no money.

      An hour later, the fruit’s peeled and sliced. I finely grate fresh ginger and mix it through the sliced pears, setting it aside so the flavors combine. I smirk when I realize I have the perfect payback for Mr Smarty Pants across the way.

      “Where you at?” CeeCee waddles in from out back.

      “Where am I? Cee, it isn’t exactly big in here, you know.”

      “Now don’t you be backchatting me. You won’t believe what I just heard.” She plonks her bag on a table, and unwinds her scarf, getting tangled on account of the fact she’s wearing her mittens. She’s out of breath and in a tizzy.

      “What?”

      “He’s starting those cooking classes, and tonight he’s making gingersnap-pear cheesecake!”

      I gasp.

      “That ain’t all. They get to take whatever they bake home with them.”

      “How did he know we’re baking that today?”

      “He must have seen Billy come in with all those pears, or else someone told him.”

      “Who did we tell we planned on gingersnap-pear cheesecake?”

      “We only told Reverend Joe, and Billy’s mamma.”

      Yesterday we had a multitude of customers that came in to shoot the breeze. Anyone could have heard. We’re going to have to watch everything we say in future.

      CeeCee narrows her eyes. “I bet it was Billy’s mamma. And she’ll probably start taking their pears over to him.”

      “Is there any point even making it now?” Eyeing the amount of fruit I’ve spent so much time preparing, I sigh. “Be a shame to waste it.”

      CeeCee surveys the work I’ve done. “I have a hankering for it after all that talk yesterday. We make it, and then if they don’t sell we halve the price by lunchtime. Maybe no one’s booked in to his classes—you ever think of that?”

      “Yeah, you’re right. It’s not like most of them don’t know how to make cheesecake, anyway. Did you see his sign?”

      CeeCee shuffles over to the window, muttering and cursing, though she doesn’t hold with cursing, usually. “I don’t believe it. He’s trying to start a war with us! What we gonna do?”

      I turn on the CD player and the gospel choir begin with Silent Night. The lights in the window flash green, red, and a luminescent white. The angel atop the tree seems to smile benevolently down on me. Steeling myself, I say, “We’re going to appeal to their Christmas spirit.”

      CeeCee looks at me as if I’ve lost my marbles. “Here you go.” I reach under the counter and produce a Santa hat and a bell I found in our box of old decorations.

      “And what you expect me to do with this?” She widens her eyes, and jingles the bell.

      “You, Mrs Claus, are going to drum up business by walking the length of the street, handing out candy canes, and some kind of coupon. Buy one, get one free. Or Buy one, pay it forward, and they can donate a free item to the church. What do you think?”

      A grin replaces her consternation. “I didn’t think you had it in you. How’s about I walk on his side of the street?”

      I know we should be feeling worried on account of giving so much away, but we’re like schoolkids, and I’m having more fun than I care to admit. “Sounds like you know what you’re doing, Mrs Claus.”

      CeeCee laughs, her big-bellied southern haw, and goes to our Santa display. “I’m just gonna borrow the fat man’s jacket here for a minute—lucky we the same size.” She wraps the dusty red jacket around herself and giggles, and tries to fit the hat over her thick black curls. “You gonna owe me a hair set, sugar plum. This hat sure gonna flatten my wave.”

      “Sure, I’ll organize Missy to fix your hair up pretty for Christmas.” I laugh.

      “I look a sight!” she says, grinning at her reflection in the window. “Right, go print me some coupons, and I’ll set to work.”

      Leaving Mrs Claus out front, I rush back to my shoebox-size office and hastily type some coupons. Everyone in town loves a bargain, and if they are seen doing something for the church, even better.

      Let’s see him try and outmaneuver me on this. I have the added bonus of being a local born and bred, and our town is more reserved with new folk.

      With a sly grin on my face, I jog back out to the front, yelling, “That fool won’t know what hit him,” only to run straight into the damn fool.

      “Who are you talking about?” Damon asks, rubbing his chin where my head has just connected.

      “Ouch! Who creeps up like that? If you want me to feel the earth move, that isn’t the way to go about it,” I say, sure I’m going to be sporting a big lump on my head any minute now.

      “Which fool are you talking about?”

      I make a show of wincing, while I try and think of an answer. CeeCee’s no help, standing there as a half-dressed Santa, her lips quivering as she tries to hold in laughter. I know she’s going to lose it, and then the whole sorry story will come tumbling out of her mouth.

      “Excuse me, mister, who said you could come in here and spy on us?”

      His forehead creases, and that same sexy smile creeps back on his face. “Who said I was spying?”

      “That smile might work on other girls, but it sure doesn’t work on me. I said you’re spying. Now get on out of here. Shoo.” I wave my hand towards the door.

      “Shoo? Not until you tell me who the fool is.”

      “You’re as dumb as a bucket of rocks if you think I’m telling you anything.”

      “I see.” He scratches his chin, which has a red mark from our collision. “I think you’re cooking up another plan to steal my customers.”

      “Of all the…I think you’re forgetting who was here first. You’re stealing my customers—let’s be clear on that.” I try hard not to poke my tongue out at him. He brings out the worst in me, this newcomer. He’s wearing those same tight jeans, and under his open jacket he’s wearing another of those checker shirts, but has yet another button undone. I can see right down to his belly button and I happen to notice he’s got quite the six-pack going on. The girls round here are going to swoon over him.

      He edges backwards, his brown eyes sparkling with mirth. “Well, my family has lived here since before there was electricity, don’t you know? And wouldn’t the town folk love to know you’re not giving me the same warm welcome that they are?”

      CeeCee bustles over. “Oh, yeah? And who’s your family, then? Ain’t no one mentioned your people to me.”

      “My people, as you say, are the Guthries, born and bred right here in Ashford for as long as anyone can remember.”

      CeeCee and I inhale sharply. The Guthries are the oldest and richest family in our town. So rich, they don’t live here any more. They follow the sun and never struggle through a winter unless they’re skiing. They owned a fleet of cargo ships, and train lines, and had their fingers in all sorts of pies when it came to transport. A few years back they sold their businesses, raking in a fortune. They still own by and large a heap of properties around town, and are well-respected, church-going folk. Not that we ever see them in Ashford, any more.

      It’s all I can do not to cry. There’s no way I can beat him if he’s backed by that kind of money.

      “Why