Christmas at the Gingerbread Café Read online

  Chapter Four

  That afternoon we’re rushed off our feet. The folk in town are vying to pay it forward to the church so the reverend will look kindly upon them. They’ve got good hearts, and I hope, what with all the discounts, I’m still making some money. Everyone who comes in appreciates the gospel Christmas music. CeeCee hams it up in her soprano voice, and pitches and warbles to the customers, who join merrily in.

  We sell our last Lane cake; the white iced fruit cakes are a Christmas tradition in Alabama, where CeeCee is from. She’s got most of the town folk hooked on her southern food. Most of our gingersnap-pear cheesecakes are snapped up too. Dusting my hands on my apron as the final customer carries his box of goods out, I raise my eyebrows at CeeCee. She’s gulping down iced-tea as if she’s been stuck in the desert.

  “I sure didn’t expect such a flurry all at once.”

  She puts her empty glass down, and says, “I don’t think I ever been that parched. Glory be, that was busier than I ever seen it before.”

  Glancing over the street, I see Damon. He’s on his haunches scrawling something on his chalkboard. Guilt gnaws at me, as I see his shop is empty, and has been each time I had a minute to look his way. He’s spent the morning sitting on a stool by the window reading the paper, or talking on his cell.

  “What’s he doin’?” CeeCee wonders.

  “Probably advertising his cooking classes. They just aren’t going to work. Folk ‘round here can cook, anyway.”

  CeeCee grunts. “Yeah, but that’s what folks said about you opening a shop to sell home-made food. They all said who was gonna buy from you when they been taught how to bake since they was knee-high to a grasshopper? But they did, they surely did. Maybe he ain’t cooking home-made food. Maybe he’s fixing to teach them something fancy. You see all those grown-up kids coming back from whatever big city they livin’ in. They don’t want their mamma’s traditional meals — they want all that fancy stuff, like sushi or some such.”

  “But he’s making our cheesecake. While it’s mighty tasty, it isn’t exactly fancy.”

  “Probably just to get them in. Show them he’s one of us. Then he’ll start on with all that seaweed, and raw fish.” She screws up her face. “It’s just disgusting.”

  Damon stands up, and dusts his hands on the seat of his jeans. He looks over his shoulder at us, and waves. He has big hands Big, but graceful, as I imagine a piano player would have.

  I’m lost for a moment thinking of whether his hands would be soft or rough and calloused from cooking, when CeeCee yelps. “Free! He’s doing it free!”

  I look at the blackboard.

  “FREE cooking class. Baked food, made with LOVE. Take home what you make.”

  Damon does a mock salute and strolls back inside his shop.

  “Pray tell, what’s all that made with love about?” CeeCee asks, her forehead furrowing.

  “You still think he’s special now?”

  “He’s just playing a game with you.” She takes off her Santa jacket and hat, both damp from the weather. Her hair lies flat on the top of her head; she runs a hand through it, musing. “Come by the fire.” CeeCee says as I throw another log on, and watch it slowly take. We sit on the small sofa that faces the street.

  CeeCee continues, “You like a daughter to me, you know that. So I’m going to speak to you like your mamma would. Look at that man.” She points to Damon standing at the window, hands crossed over his chest, facing towards us.

  “What?”

  “I can tell a person’s heart by their smile. And his smile goes all the way up to his eyes. Joel’s smile stopped right under his nose. You see what I’m saying?”

  “You’re saying Joel looked down his nose at people?”

  “Damn straight, I am.”

  I laugh at CeeCee’s sincerity. She’s trying to hypnotize me into agreeing with her. I shake my head. “Well, if he’s giving out free classes, I might just stay open all night, and sell whatever I have left. I’ll start a batch of butterscotch pies, and hope no one knows it’s me who baked them.”

  CeeCee taps her nose with her finger, implying a secret. “They’ll know it were you. But you go right on ahead. I’m just gonna sit here awhile and warm my old bones up.”

  “You do that. I might as well tell everyone our new closing time.”

  CeeCee’s cackle follows me out of the door as I go to write on the chalkboard.

  The wind has picked up. I shrug into my jacket, and fumble for the chalk in my pocket.

  “You can’t let up, can you?” I spin to look up at Damon, a mite scary, leaning over me while I’m squatting at the board.

  “Not all of us have family money to fall back on, you know.”

  “That right?”

  “Sure is.”

  “You don’t hardly know a thing about me.”

  “I can say the same for you.” I stand and gaze into his eyes. I try to look fierce, but it reminds me of staring competitions we had back in high school. We stared at each other until someone blinked, and they lost the game. I purse my lips, trying to keep my laughter in check but it barrels out of me, in a very unladylike way.

  His eyes crinkle. “This funny to you?”

  “A little. It’s just, it reminded me…”

  Damon’s phone rings, a loud, startling tone. He checks the screen, and rushes off, head hunched as he answers it.

  “Well, I’ll be. Can’t miss a phone call. Typical city slicker,” I grumble.

  By the time I finish the sign, complete with whorls of tinsel colored in chalk, CeeCee has cleaned the kitchen from the day’s labors and has started making pastry. “So much for warming those old bones. You don’t trust me to make the pies, I see.”

  “Sugar plum, you got enough going on, lest someone say, your pies ain’t made with love.”

  I sidle up and hug her. I’d be lost without CeeCee in my life. “You’re tired. We can leave the pies until tomorrow.”

  “It’s OK, sugar. I’d rather be here with you than at home on my lonesome.”

  “You’re too good to me.” With CeeCee being so sweet, and me being reminded of all the things we’ve both lost, I well up again. I turn away from her and try and dry my eyes with the back of my hand but she knows me better than that.

  “Don’t you go getting all sentimental on me.” I lose it completely when I see tears pool in her eyes. Again, I curse myself for being such a dramatic crier. I’m so sensitive sometimes it kills me.

  CeeCee and her husband, Curtis, moved from Alabama to Ashford when their kids were just babies. Curtis worked on the railroads for most of his life, and that’s how they wound up here. He spent his time to-ing and fro-ing on the train lines, with Ashford as their base. Train lines that the Guthries used to own. They swapped one small town for another. And then their kids, all grown up, moved out of town, like so many, gone to find better jobs in big cities. CeeCee lost Curtis to cancer, one winter, not three years back. When I think of her all alone in that old house of hers, I crumble.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but I’m fine, truly I am. I’ve got my church, and my friends. The kids are coming up for Christmas Day, and I’ll see my grandbabies. That’s all I want. I’m happy on my own. What about you? You wanna come over and spend the day with us? You know you part of the family.”

  I wipe my eyes, and take a deep breath. “Aw, no. I don’t want to intrude, and I know what you’re going to say, so don’t bother. You cuddle those grandbabies of yours. I’m going to sloth on the couch all day, and watch a bunch of soppy Christmas movies. I won’t even get out of my PJs. It’ll be nice not to have to get up and rush in here.”

  CeeCee clucks her tongue. “What about dinner? You can at least come over and let me feed you.”

  “We’ll see.” As much as I love CeeCee, I don’t want her thinking she has to entertain me. She’ll have her own kids there, and her grandbabies who she loves more than anything. A day by myself doesn’t sound so awful. I plan on crying along to cheesy flick
s on TV and eating ice cream straight from the tub.

  “Would you look at that?” CeeCee says, pointing to across the road.

  Damon’s back on the stool by the shop window looking dejected. He’s bent over, cradling his head in his hands.

  “That poor man,” CeeCee says. “Breaks your heart just looking at him.”

  I bite my lip, and ponder. Is he just playing a game here, or what?

  CeeCee’s rolling out big balls of pastry without even looking; it’s second nature to her. “Go on over there, Lil. Looks like he could use a friend.”

  “What? Are you falling for this? He’s angling for sympathy, that’s all.”

  “And why not, pray tell? He’s like a movie star, those fine chiseled cheekbones and that curly hair—don’t you just want to run your hands through it?”

  Like an expert chef, CeeCee’s flinging the pastry all over the place, while her eyes don’t move from Damon.

  “No, I don’t want to run my hands through his hair. I’m sure it’s all tangled. That only happens in books, Cee. Sounds like you’ve been reading one too many bodice rippers, if you ask me.” I was all talk. He truly did look sad, sitting there as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  “Get on over there, and make that boy smile. Go on, get.”

  I’m one of those people who always feel guilty. If someone bangs into me, I apologize. If someone drives up the footpath and runs over my shoe, I say sorry I was in the way. And here I am, feeling guilty robbing this man of his customers, yet it’s going to cost me too, this whole competition. I sigh; I’m not made for war.

  “Fine. I’ll go. And what should I say, do you think?”

  A huge smile lights up CeeCee’s face, and I wonder if those two are in cahoots together. It sure wouldn’t surprise me. She pretends to be really interested in her pastry all of a sudden. “Take him a pecan pie. I’m going make another batch tomorrow, anyways.”

  It’s all well and good joking about it, but what am I going to say to the man? I begin to wonder if it was the phone call that’s made him so morose.

  While I’m wrapping the pie, CeeCee mutters to herself. I know she’s fixing to tell me something, so I take my time, and wait for her to mull it over.

  “You know, this might sound crazy, but why don’t you two join forces?”

  “Are you on about the matchmaking thing again?”

  “No, no.” She shakes her head. “I mean, why not join forces with the Christmas rush? Instead of competing against each other — work together. You never know what might happen. You’ve been trying to find someone to help you cater for as long as I can remember. And lookie here, that fine thing might just be the man for the job.”

  “And how’s that going to work? Have you been drinking the sherry when you’re baking those cakes?”

  “Just a nip to fortify me,” she says, and laughs. “But I don’t see why you can’t work together. You know, you could run some cooking classes for him — there’s not much you don’t know about baking. He can supply you with those ingredients you ship in for your catering customers. He sells a whole lot of things you don’t, and vice versa. You can work together. You could expand catering to bigger customers in towns further out, if you had another pair of hands — hands like his.” She looks meaningfully at me.

  “And when did this come to you? Don’t tell me you just thought about it.” My palms are sweaty, and I realize CeeCee might be right about venturing further out. If Damon can actually cook it might just be a possibility. On my own, I have no hope of catering for larger customers. And there aren’t too many folk interested in working for me, who can cook, and work under pressure, or who want to lose their weekends to do it, either. I’ve been hoping for some extra help, so I can take on more clients, but catering’s hard work. So far, all of the avenues I’ve tried to find staff have turned into a dead end.

  CeeCee’s idea spins through my mind. If we worked together, I could surely double the catering side of things, and we’d use products we both sold. It could really work. I stop short; what am I thinking?

  “You can thank me later,” CeeCee says. “Now get on over there and see what’s bothering him.”

  I fossick through my handbag for my lip gloss, and slick it on.

  “Well, I’ll be, make-up too?” CeeCee raises her eyebrows.

  “A girl’s got pride, Cee. There’s no reason for me to go over there looking downright disheveled. It has nothing to do with him.”

  “‘Course it don’t.” She hums the wedding march as I grab the pie and walk out of the door.

  “Oh, please.” I roll my eyes heavenward.

  “Cherry blossom?”

  “Yeah?” I hold the door open.

  “You forgetting your jacket again? Someone sure is distracted these days.”

  I scoff, and walk back inside to the coat rack.

  Chapter Five

  Once I’m out and walking across the road it dawns on me: I’m nervous. I never meant to hurt him by having these sales; I only wanted to stay afloat. Always me and the guilt. It’s a gift of mine to blame myself. Balancing the pie, I take small steps; the road is icy, and slippery.

  “Well, hello,” I say as Damon walks to the front to meet me. He looks up, his eyes vacant. And for a second I’m truly worried. Has someone died? He looks hollowed out, his shoulders are slumped, and his usual grin is replaced with a tight line.

  “What you got there?” he asks, his voice barely audible.

  “Some of CeeCee’s famous pecan pie. Free, and made with love, no less.”

  That provokes a slight lift at the corners of his mouth.

  “And what’s with the change of heart?” he says, taking the proffered pie. “This got horse laxatives in it or something?”

  Laughter bubbles out of me. “I wish I’d thought of that. Nope. This is a peace offering. The proverbial olive branch.”

  I edge closer to the step, about to walk up when I slip on a pile of sleet, and scramble like some kind of roller-skater before I land smack bang into Damon’s arms. He holds me tight, his face trained down towards me. His aftershave wafts over, something tangy and spicy. I try to hold myself back from outright sniffing him. So, I’ve got a thing with aftershave.

  “You always throw yourself at men like that?” he asks, grinning.

  “You wish,” I say, realizing I should probably try to extricate myself from his embrace. It’s just that he’s so warm. “I think you really need to salt and shovel your steps. Not hard to tell you’re new around here.”

  “What, and miss all the fun?”

  Untangling myself from Damon, I try to stand without slipping. I notice he still holds the pecan pie, which somehow didn’t get squashed in the fracas.

  Pulling my jacket together, I say, “So, what do you say — friends?”

  “Why are you doing this?” he asks, his voice husky.

  “I’m no good at fighting. I can’t be angry for longer than ten minutes, and this has lasted two days. I’m exhausted. And seeing you over here all glum, well, it’s just not me, causing this kind of reaction in a man.”

  He leans back against the window and looks up at the sky. He’s silent for too long; an awkward pause hangs between us, making me fidget.

  “OK, well, I’m going to get back—”

  “Wait,” he says, touching me lightly on the hand. “Don’t go. You want to come inside for coffee?” There is something different about him, a sadness in his eyes. It dawns on me it might not be the business causing it.

  “Sure. Love to.”

  We amble inside and my breath catches. “Wow, you sure do know how to decorate.” We’d peeked in when he was setting up, but now the shop is decked out with half whiskey barrels filled with straw, a bed for jars of preserves. Old wagon wheels are varnished and hitched to the walls, with a variety of goods hanging from the spokes on thin golden hooks. On the decked floor, little round up lights shine, making the place sparkle. It’s like something from a Western movie, a
bygone era, and it has a real homely feel. The delicious smell of rich coffee beans lingers in the air. In the corner is a huge fireplace with mahogany Chesterfield lounges to each side. The only Christmas decorations are a string of lights along the counter, and a small plastic tree on a coffee table.

  “This is really something,” I say.

  “Thanks, Lil. Can’t take much credit for it, though. It’s an exact replica of the shop I had back in New Orleans. Someone else designed it.”

  “So you have two shops?”

  He moves behind the fancy coffee maker, which is the size of a small car. He presses some buttons and pulls a lever; it coughs and splutters like someone drowning. “Cappuccino OK?”

  “Sure,” I say and sit on a bar stool in front of him.

  After much gurgling from the machine, Damon walks through a shroud of steam and hands me a cup jiggling on a saucer.

  “I hope you like it strong.”

  “Just like my men,” I say and feel myself color. It just slipped out as if I were joking with CeeCee.

  He pretends to flex his muscles, and my blush deepens. “So, do you still have the shop in New Orleans?” I repeat in order to get back to a safer topic.

  His eyes cloud. “Nope. That’s all finished. I’m here for good, now.”

  A heavy silence fills the room. I can hear my heartbeat thump.

  He looks forlorn staring into his cup. “Do you want to join forces?” I ask, before I can change my mind and think about anything remotely sensible, like, I hardly know the man.

  He looks lazily over his cup to me. “What do you mean?”

  Darn it. Too late to recant. “How many people are booked in for the class tonight?”

  He takes a sip of his coffee. “Three. The three Mary-Jos.”

  The three Mary-Jos are infamous for being flirts. They’re teenagers. They all grew up together, some kind of cousins, twice removed or some such. Their moms all staked their claim to the name Mary-Jo and wouldn’t budge. And now our small town has three blond-haired, blue-eyed mischief-makers, who share the same name. It can get confusing.

  “You’re not going to make any money with the Mary-Jos. Can you cook?” I ask.