Christmas Wishes Part 3. Diana Palmer

up. Soon, I promise myself, I’ll buy a new truck. It whines as I reverse, but I thank my lucky stars it even started. I only live up the street a way, but with all our late nights, and early mornings, there’s no way I’m walking in a blizzard. Usually I have Damon for company on the sixty-second journey home, but he must have jogged home and picked up his car to ferry his parents around. As I wait for the truck to warm up, I idly wonder if he’s back from dropping them off yet.

      Finally the old truck sputters to life, so I loop to the main street. The town is deserted with only the Christmas lights to keep me company. Pushing my foot on the brake, I stare into Walt’s furniture shop, which is directly across the road from the Gingerbread Café. It’s the only window bare of flashing lights and shiny tinsel, when it’s usually the opposite: the most decorated shop in town, with a life-size Santa inside, sitting on one of Walt’s handmade chairs.

      But now, it looks bereft, no decorations, and empty of Walt’s one-of-a-kind furniture, and empty of the cheerful man and wife who’d usually be dashing around town at this time of year organizing the town’s celebrations. CeeCee goes regularly to visit them in Springfield, and always comes back a smaller version of herself, as if her sadness is somehow shrinking her.

      Tearful, I push the accelerator down, and head slowly home along the slick wet street.

      As I pull into my driveway the porch light bathes the house in a cheery glow. Damon must be back. Fairy lights shine through the lace curtains, flashing green and red like little pulses.

      I don’t bother locking the truck, and head inside. Heat from the fire hits me as soon as I cross the threshold, and I race to stand in front of it, dropping my parka on a footstool, and unwinding my scarf as I go. In the corner of our small lounge sits a naked Christmas tree. The smell of the pine needles permeates the small room, and I gaze at it, picturing how it’ll look dressed in decorations. Being a festive-season fanatic, I’d normally have hung the ornaments a month ago in my excitement, but this year I want to wait for Charlie to do it. Her little cherub face will light up once she sees the gingerbread snowmen with bright silver button eyes and half-moon smiles that I baked and strung together to make a garland.

      “Damon?”

      “Glass of wine?” His voice carries out from the kitchen.

      Carrying two glasses of red wine, he turns into the small room, and my breath hitches. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of gawking at him. Somehow the man is always tanned no matter what the season, blessed with the kind of olive skin I’d have to bake myself to achieve. But it’s every little nuance of him, the way he walks, the sound of his voice, right down to the little muscle that runs up his forearm.

      He smiles his big old warm smile that makes me melt like marshmallow in a fire.

      “Red wine, OK?” I nod and take the proffered glass. I take a huge swig before catching myself. Delicacy isn’t my thing.

      He embraces me, and nuzzles into my neck. The heat from the fire and his breath on my skin is almost enough to make me swoon. “You taste like icing sugar,” he says.

      “I try my best.”

      “So,” he says, “aren’t they great?” Before I can respond he continues speaking in a rush. “Dad loved your window display, and Cee’s eggnog. He’s looking forward to meeting your parents, and having dinner. And Mother said she’s all set to help out with the smaller details of the wedding, which will free you up for the café.”

      “I’m not so—”

      “She sang your praises the whole drive out to Abe’s place. And don’t worry, I’ll do dinner the day after tomorrow. I know you’ve got a few orders due. It’ll be nice to cook for my parents. You forget how much they mean to you sometimes. Seeing them again has made me realize how important family is. And it’ll be great for Charlie to spend some time with them too, when she gets here.”

      “Y-yes, it’ll be great for Charlie…” I manage to stammer, my heart sinking while Damon looks as bright as I’ve ever seen him.

       Chapter Three

       Eight days

      When I wake this next morning, I’m alone. I touch Damon’s half of the bed; the sheets are cold. Rolling out of bed, I find my robe and wrap it around me. The house is warm; he’s stoked up the fire before he left.

      Walking through the small hallway to the kitchen the air is rich with the scent of roasted coffee beans. I must have slept through his fancy coffee machine as it gargled its way into life this morning. It usually vibrates, and churns so forcefully, it’s almost as if the ground is shifting.

      There’s a note by the kettle, where Damon knows I go each morning to make my much easier instant coffee.

       Lil,

       I left to have breakfast with my parents, I didn’t want to wake you, you were completely zonked.

       Damon. xxx

      I laugh in spite of myself. Zonked is a nice way of saying my mouth was probably hanging open, my hair a tangled mess. But I wonder why he didn’t wake me regardless. Maybe he wanted time alone with his parents? Half relieved, I dress quickly and head out front.

      The truck takes for ever to start. I sit there with my breath fogging up the windscreen; eventually it sputters to life, and I reverse slowly on the icy driveway.

      The main street is dark as I chug along, and head around the back of the café to park. A strip of light peeps out under the back door of the café. CeeCee. I hurry inside.

      “There you are, sugar plum.” She pours a cup of thick golden syrup into a bowl, and mixes it through the other ingredients.

      “Gingerbread?” I ask.

      “Gingerbread cakes,” she replies. “With lemon sugar icing, and candied fruit.”

      “Let me help.” I wash my hands and don my apron. CeeCee’s laid the bench with the ingredients to make candied fruit, so I begin by chopping cherries in half and taking the pith out.

      “I take it you didn’t sleep on it like I told you?” She sizes me up over the rim of her glasses.

      I continue with the cherries, trying to be delicate so I don’t squash their flesh. “I slept fine.”

      She harrumphs. “Glory be, those bags under your eyes are so big I could carry my shopping home in ’em!”

      I give her a rueful smile. “That so? I guess Olivia gave me a lot to think about, that’s all.”

      She clucks her tongue. “Like what?”

      “Like what if Damon’s only staying here because of me?”

      “Child! O’ course he is! That man loves you! But he was set on staying here from the moment he opened that shop door. Don’t you go obsessing over every little thing ’cause you getting the fever…” She purses her lips.

      “What fever?”

      “Mmm hmm, you getting the wedding fever. Don’t think I don’t know!” She waggles her finger at me.

      Taking a pot from the hook above the stove, I mix sugar, honey and water and bring it to the boil. “What the heck is wedding fever supposed to mean?”

      “You getting the jitters.” She puts her big brown palm up. “Don’t you start backchatting me neither. I know what you gonna say, so don’t. You need to take some deep breaths and trust in the love you have for each other. Weddings…they send everyone a little cuckoo.”

      I laugh, picturing myself mopping my brow struck by some so-called wedding fever. “You’re right, Cee. It’s just…she made these off-the-cuff comments like Damon hates small