Christmas At The Café. Rebecca Raisin

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. I might have a little chat with him, later on. CeeCee made a nice batch of apple pies yesterday. I’m going to give you one for Janey. You tell her we appreciate her custom, OK?”

      CeeCee adds a pie to the box with Walt’s ham and turkey. “Nice big chunks of apple, too. You make sure you heat it up first, OK?”

      He takes his wallet out and hands CeeCee some cash. “Thank you, girls. She surely will appreciate that.”

      “You have a good Christmas, if we don’t see you before,” I say, nodding to him.

      “Same goes for you. And thanks, I hope you sort it all out.”

      “Don’t you even think of it,” CeeCee says.

      We wait for Walt to leave, and I expel a pent-up breath. “Well, no wonder!” I pace the floor and silently curse my own stupidity.

      CeeCee wrings her hands on a tea towel. “Lookie here, maybe he just don’t know. You should go on over there and tell him.”

      “How can he not know? It’s a small town—any idiot can work it out. You think he’s going to start catering too?”

      I walk to the window and stare out. There he is, waving like a fool. At me. I glare at him and stomp back to the bench. “He’s trying to make nice. Well, that won’t wash. I’m going over there to tell him what I think of him!”

      CeeCee sighs. “Wait, don’t go over there and have a hissy fit. That ain’t gonna help matters.”

      “He’s got no business stealing our customers. And I’m going to tell him that.”

      I bundle my apron, fling it on a table, and march out of the shop. The cold air stings my skin, and I rue the fact I didn’t put my jacket on. Damon sees me coming, and smiles; his big brown puppy-dog eyes look kindly at me, but that doesn’t stop me for a minute. He’s a shark. A charlatan. And I’m going to tell him so.

      He walks out to the stoop of his shop. “Hey,” he says, sweet as pie. “I was going to come over and introduce myself this afternoon.”

      “Who do you think you are?” I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jeans, and resist the urge to stamp my foot.

      “Sorry?” His forehead creases, adding to his rugged good looks. He sure can play the innocent, all right.

      “You think you can just move into town and steal my customers? Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing!” The street comes alive as shoppers stop to watch. This’ll be spread round town before I’m even done talking.

      He looks truly bamboozled, but I know it’s an act. I’ve seen plenty of men like him. He’s dressed like some kind of cowboy, tight denim jeans that hug in all the right places, a red checker shirt, unbuttoned one too many buttons, exposing his chest. This infuriates me. Good looks like that, he’s going to be popular and I’m going to suffer for it. I can see the ladies of this town, frocking up, smearing all kinds of gloop on their faces, while they parade around his shop, pretending to be interested in whatever it is he’s selling.

      “I’m really not following, ah, Miss…” He rubs a hand through his sandy blond hair, which is too darn long for a man.

      “Name’s Lily, and you don’t fool me, mister. Not for a minute.”

      “What are you talking about now? What have I done?” He grins; he actually grins.

      “You’ve been selling turkeys. And Christmas hams! God only knows what else. You’re using your looks to get the ladies in this town to spend their hard-earned money in your shop, and putting me out of business in the meantime.”

      “My looks?”

      It’s all I can do not to huff. “So, you’ve got nothing to say for yourself?”

      He kicks the slushy ice on the pavement, as if he’s trying to formulate some kind of lie.

      “I’m sorry if I caused you this…upset. But I own a shop, and I sell all kinds of things for Christmas. I never thought