Christmas at the Gingerbread Café (3 page)

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.

“Yeah, the Mary-Jos are my best customers, ‘cept they’ve never actually bought a thing. What do you mean can I cook? Sure I can.”

His phone blares out from the pocket of his jeans. He sure does receive a lot of calls.

He looks at the screen and frowns. “I gotta take this.” He struts away, and answers the phone, speaking what sounds all lovey dovey to me. As if he’s trying to soothe someone. He’s obviously got a girl back in New Orleans. Maybe they’re trying to mend the bridges, or something. Not that it matters; I still love my Joel. I’m only here on business, I tell myself, and drink the steaming coffee, which tastes bitter now.

I’m about to leave when Damon strolls back in, rubbing his face. He seems jittery, nervous. I don’t think it’s my place to ask, but I am from a small town, which means it’s kind of in my blood to question.

“You OK?”

He looks startled, as if he forgot I’m here. “Oh, right. Lil, where were we?”

“You sure you’re OK?”

“Nothing time can’t fix,” he says, mysteriously.

His demeanor worries me, but I figure I’ll talk shop and eventually he’ll tell me what’s really going on. Call it female intuition, but there’s something happening in Damon’s life that takes the sparkle from his eyes after each of those phone calls. “OK, then.” I sit back and explain CeeCee’s idea.

The moon is winking behind clouds by the time I cross the street back to CeeCee. I know she’ll be baking up a storm; anything to keep herself from marching over to Damon’s to see what’s taking so long.

Opening the front door, I’m assailed with the scent of butterscotch from CeeCee’s pies. It’s rich and comforting, so buttery, and wholesome, I almost want to take one back to Damon.

CeeCee jumps out from behind the fridge, scaring me half to death. “So, what’d he say?”

“He said yes. I hope I made the right decision.” Fumbling with my apron strings, I decide I’m going to spruce up the shop. I clean when I’m nervous.

“Why you all twitchy like that?”

“You should see the inside of his shop. It’s got polished oak floors, a big old wooden bar, and these tiny little lights that shine right on down to all the bottles perched there. And some imbedded in the floor too. It’s just so warm, what with all that dark wood. He’s got all sorts of things you just can’t get around here. Makes me think this place—” I glance around at the bare white walls, and the long silver benches we use to roll out dough “—is a little stark. You know, once we put the Christmas decorations away…”

CeeCee plants her hands on my shoulders. “So we flick some paint over the walls, and buy some lamps, but what’d he say about the business side of things?”

“Oh, right. Yeah, we discussed it, and we’re going to give it a three-month trial. We’ll expand the catering, and he’ll get someone to run his shop, like you do here, and see if we can venture out further afield. It was the darnedest thing, though…”

“Sit down,” CeeCee says. “You’re all fluttery like some kind of butterfly.”

We move to the lounges, and I take a few deep breaths. I think I’ve overdone it with those fancy coffees of his.

“What’s making you nervous?” CeeCee asks.

“Well, we were discussing all the ins and outs, and what we’d expect from each other, you know, trying to lay some ground rules out before we agree to start, and he kept taking phone calls. Every two, three minutes. In the end, he didn’t say anything, just rushed off with the phone, and then came back with this defeated look on his face.”

“You ask him who it was?”

“I asked him if he was OK. He kept changing the subject.”

CeeCee mutters to herself, and starts wringing her hands. “I don’t believe it! Oh, Lord.” She looks up at the ceiling. “Why you do this to me?”

“What are you talking about, Cee?”

“I seen the signs.” She points to the spot between her eyes. “I seen you two…together.”

I slap my leg and laugh. “Oh, Cee. Is that why you dreamt up this business venture? So I could get a boyfriend?”

“Why o’ course!”

“I should know better than to trust you when it comes to me and single men. I’m nervous, because what if he does have a girlfriend, some kind of long-distance relationship or something? He can’t be running off every two minutes to speak on the phone. And what about if he up and walks out, once I get a bunch of customers?”

“He ain’t like that,” CeeCee says knowingly. “He a Guthrie, after all. They good people. You just say it delicately, maybe phone calls are better left for after work, like that.” She lets out a squeal. “I knew it. I knew this was gonna be your year.”

I laugh along with her, but I’m plagued by doubt. Who would call someone so many times? What’s his secret?

“I’ve tallied up the takings. We gone and had our best day yet.” CeeCee hands me the banking.

“Why, thank you.” We didn’t discount anything, and I sure haven’t seen a pile of cash this big in a long time. Things are definitely looking up for us.

“Head on over to Damon. Here’s his money for those gift baskets we made with all his goodies.”

It’s been nearly two weeks since we began working with Damon. He used our pork shoulder cuts in a cooking class, and we sold out of them the very next day. We’ve swapped and shared products for Christmas party orders, and gift baskets. It was CeeCee’s idea to make Christmas hampers with all beautiful jars of produce Damon stocked, and a selection of our baked goods. We fancied them up with ribbons, and wrapped the baskets in Christmas colors. They’re selling like hot cakes. And tomorrow, Damon and I cater our very first soirée together. I have something to ask him before I begin preparations for the party. “You going to be OK if I go over there?” I ask CeeCee.

“I’ll jingle that big bell if I get run off my feet,” CeeCee says, looking down her glasses at me. “You go. I’m going to start on some more Lane cakes for folk to have Christmas Day. Take your time.” She wanders off singing under her breath.

The Christmas spirit is alive and well in our small town. It’s impossible not to smile when young kids come in, their eyes lit up like fairy lights when they see the gingerbread house, and we give them a marshmallow snowman and a handful of candy canes.

Grabbing my scarf and jacket from the coat rack, I wrap myself up, and wave to CeeCee. “Shout if you need me.”

“Get,” she says, shooing me away like a fly.

I smirk, closing the door softly behind me. The street is busy with families doing last-minute shopping, mothers wearing frantic looks, searching for gifts before the shops shut for good.

I step into Damon’s shop. Customers are milling, picking up things and fussing over the sheer variety he stocks.

“Why, hello, pretty lady,” he says. My heart flutters. It truly does. He’s so darn attractive and it’s beginning to prove difficult not to flirt right back.

“Ho, ho, ho. I bring you a gift.” I hand over the banking bag.

“Thank you.” His smile does go all the way up to his eyes, I notice, just as CeeCee said. He puts the bag under the bench, and pulls out a box. “I also have a gift for you.”

I color. “Oh, what? But mine isn’t really a gift — it’s your money from the baskets.” He hands me a beautifully wrapped box, complete with a big gold bow.

“Go on, open it.”

I rip off the expensive-looking paper then stop. Gosh, darn it, I should have tried to do it delicately, as a lady would. Save the paper, at least. I lift the lid of the box, and when I see it laughter tumbles out of me.

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Oh, I think I should have.”

“What’s it do?”

“It’s a shrilling turkey. See?” He takes the plastic yellow turkey from my hands and presses a button. It starts hawing like a turkey on helium.

I pretend to wipe a tear from my eye. “That’s about the nicest thing anyone ever gave me. How did you know?”

“When I saw it, I thought of you.”

“A plastic, limp, bright yellow turkey reminds me of you, too.”

Customers look at us like we’re crazy, so I turn the shrilling turkey off and sit down.

“Coffee?”

“Sure.”

He’s hidden by the steam for a moment, while the noisy machine does its thing.

“Ma’am.” He places the cup down and ambles around the bench to sit beside me.

“I was…”

“I was…” we say in unison.

“You go…”

“You go…” We laugh; suddenly it’s really hot in here.

I motion for him to speak.

He looks at his coffee, and then up at me. “I was just wondering if you wanted to go to the Christmas carols with me? I hear it’s quite the show.”

“Sure, I’d love to.” I say, quickly, before my voice gets shaky like my hands are. A grin splits his face. “What were you going to ask?”

I wave my hand. “Aw, I was just going to ask if you’d heard about the Christmas carols. It’s quite the show.”

We smile awkwardly at each other, then take comfort in staring into our coffees.

I make a mental note to pull out my red dress, and dust off my boots. Jeans and sweaters are OK for work, but not so much for Christmas Eve. And not for a date with Damon.
Not that it’s a date.

I rush back into the shop, feeling guilty about how long I’ve left CeeCee on her own. She’s in a state, fanning her hands at her face, and looking all faint. “You OK?”

She sobs as if she’s gone and lost her best friend. “Cee, what is it?”

Lifting her head, she walks to me, throws her arms around my shoulders, like a bear. “I’m just as happy as a hog in slop! I heard you gone said yes to a date with Damon!”

The joys of living in a small town. “Seriously, how did that get to you so quick?”

“Emma Mae was over there, and heard you twos giggling like children. She said you were snuggled up, all cozy-like.” Her eyes twinkle with unshed tears.

“Emma Mae’s a busybody. It’s not a date. We’re just going to the carols together. As friends. No one even mentioned the D word. Plus that phone of his started bleating out all over the place again. Makes me wonder what he’s hiding. Kind of puts a pall over things.”

Knitting her brow, she glances over at the shop, as if she can discern from here what Damon’s secret is. “Surely someone knows something about why he suddenly back.”

I follow her gaze. Damon’s gesticulating wildly to the local sheriff, probably about the boys attempting to shoplift earlier that day. Poor kids, trying to get their mamma a present on account of their daddy walking out not so long ago. At least Damon had a heart once he heard their story. He gave them a box of small goods to take home to their mamma, as long as they promised never to steal again.

“I think,” CeeCee says, dragging her eyes back to mine, “he’s probably just tying up loose ends back in New Orleans. You said he had a shop there, right?”

“CeeCee, it doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m just happy to go to the carols with someone other than myself. Plus, it’ll set tongues wagging, so that’s a bonus too.”

She nods. “Sure as shooting will. Now you all ready for that fancy shindig tomorrow?”

“I think so. I’m going to stay back tonight and do as much prep as I can, then Damon and I’ll head on over about lunchtime to set up. You sure you’ll be OK by yourself? It’s been busy these last few days.”

“I’m sure. If I get stuck Walt said Janey’s just a phone call away. Folk ‘round here won’t mind waiting if there’s a queue. I’ll ply them with candy-cane coffee, or some such. You don’t worry ‘bout a thing, ‘cept Damon.”

“‘Cept Damon?” I copy, arching my eyebrows.

CeeCee fusses with her hair, and tries to look innocent. “You know what I mean.”