by Tegan Maher
“Yes, really.” I sighed.
“You’re the best!” She threw her arms around my neck and squeezed just long enough that I had to gasp for air. Once she pulled back, she squealed with excitement and gave me a quick wave before jogging over to a group of teenagers loitering near an apple cider station. Most of them I recognized. Her friends Zoe and Linnea were over at least three times a week. Two boys who I’d first seen in her theater and drama class were now regularly parked on my couch for an evening of movies and junk food with the three girls. But the third boy… now him I didn’t know.
I stood alone with a cup of hot cocoa warming my hands as families brushed past me and watched my daughter smile up at the boy who was obviously her new crush. He laughed at something she said, his hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets, and kept glancing at her as the six of them started deeper into the festival down Main Street.
I’d never really thought about the fact that one day Ember would leave me behind. Sure there might be college in a faraway state, a serious boyfriend, a fiancé, a husband… but not yet. I didn’t have to think about those things for at least another couple of years. It had never occurred to me though, that she may leave me behind much sooner. That mother-daughter outings would be replaced by a boy with sandy blond hair and a letterman’s jacket. I’m not sure why, really. After all, James, her father, and I had started dating when we were younger than she was. Would this new boy be her James? Or would he be a blip in her dating history? Some lapse in judgment that she laughed about in the future when she was more mature and had some life experience under her belt. Would she feel bad for leaving me all alone her first year of the Mystic Key Christmas Festival? I hoped not. As much as I wanted to experience it with her, I wanted her to experience it the way she wanted even more.
Walking through the festival alone would be fine. I’d done plenty alone in my adult years, and I could do plenty more.
“Don’t make me ask again, Brunhilda.” Aunt Hattie’s voice interrupted my thoughts, and I cringed at how loud it was. I guess I wasn’t alone after all. I spun on my heels and marched over to the large table occupied by Brunhilda and her array of fabulous looking baked goods.
Aunt Hattie didn’t notice me approaching, but she tended to have tunnel vision when she was angry. Brunhilda, on the other hand, spotted me out of the corner of her eye, and relief washed over her face.
I felt a pang of guilt and pity for poor Brunhilda. She seemed to think that all it would take to reign Aunt Hattie in was my presence and perhaps a soothing word. She obviously didn’t know Aunt Hattie.
The Graves family matriarch was actually my great aunt, but she’d been both a grandmother and mother figure in our lives, raising my father after his parents had died, and helping raise my siblings and me after our own mother ran off.
At the moment, she was shaking her dragon’s head cane at Brunhilda and seemed to be squaring up. For what, I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t think it was wise to wait and see.
“Hey! Aunt Hattie!” I nearly shouted to get her attention.
“Shay,” she said in greeting. She didn’t turn to look at me, though, her glare fixed firmly on Brunhilda. “Glad to see you. I was hoping you’d make it soon. You have impeccable timing too. See, I’m trying to explain to this wench that I’m owed a refund, but she’s not budging.”
Movement just past Aunt Hattie caught my eye, and I noticed a woman at the far edge of the table next to Brunhilda’s. She was engaged in conversation with a man, and while I typically wouldn’t have given a conversation between strangers a second glance, something about their engagement seemed off. The woman’s eyes darted around as if she were looking for an escape or an interruption, and she nodded along as the man spoke to her.
I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but given the expression on his face, he wasn’t too happy.
“Mmhm.” I made a sound of agreement, forcing my gaze to focus on Aunt Hattie, and leaned in closer. “And why exactly do you need a refund?”
She lowered her cane and planted one hand on her hip, using the other to motion to a grouping of Brunhilda’s hand-painted signs on the table. Most of her signage gave off a cheery, Christmas vibe—lots of accent glitter and candy canes, bells, and holly along the border with her words painted in a swooping, pleasant calligraphy. The ones Aunt Hattie had pointed out, however, were quite different. Bold block letters in an aggressive red shade stood out against the white background they’d been painted on.
The only place in Mystic Key for authentic lebkuchen!
Your one-stop-shop for traditional Christmas confections, including AUTHENTIC German Lebkuchen!
The best German Spice Cookies in town!
“Uh… okay. That doesn’t exactly answer my question, though.” I straightened and shot Brunhilda a sympathetic look before turning toward Aunt Hattie.
She was glaring—not necessarily at me, I didn’t think, though one could never be sure. “I’ll tell you why.”
“Great. That would be fabulous,” I said in a dry tone.
“You read the signs?” She cocked an eyebrow.
“You literally watched me do that.”
She gave me a sharp look and slowly turned back to Brunhilda. “Well, Shay, if you read them, then you know that they say this little booth right here is the only place in Mystic Key to buy authentic Lebkuchen.”
I slowly scanned the table to see if I could deduce what in the realms lebkuchen was. Cupcakes, fudge, frosted sugar cookies, fruit cake, but there were a few other items that weren’t easily recognizable to me. Growing up, Dad had served us store-bought desserts, and Aunt Hattie was more of a cake and pie gal, so I didn’t have much experience with stuff like… well, whatever the heck lebkuchen was.
A flash of charcoal moved across my eye-line, and I watched the man in his dark gray suit stomp off with an angry scowl on his face. The woman stayed in place, a far off look in her eyes as she began wringing her hands.
I tore my eyes away again and regarded Aunt Hattie.
“So, then, you’re upset because this is not the only place to find it?” I asked.
“Ah, but there’s more.” She lifted a finger in the air and used it to point to the sign that read The best German Spice Cookies in town!
“Oh, so lebkuchen is a German cookie. That makes sense. I knew it had to be something German. Unless it’s not. Is it not?” I wondered aloud. “Is that something different entirely?”
Aunt Hattie blinked long and slow before letting out an exasperating sigh. “Lebkuchen is a German cookie, yes.”
“But not the best in town?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Not yet, anyway.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder at a booth with a green velvet backdrop. “This broad here says that hers are the best.”
Just over Aunt Hattie’s shoulder, and only because she barely clocked in at five feet and a few inches, I could see the woman positioned between her table and Brunhilda’s, pretending not to eavesdrop. She moved a small sign an inch or so in one direction before bringing it back and moving it in the other, and while she was turned with her back to Brunhilda, I could make out her profile just enough to see the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
I glanced around her station for some kind of identifier, but I didn’t see a business name anywhere. It certainly wasn’t out of the ordinary for hobbyists to rent space at the festival to sell their handmade items, but booths with edible items had typically always been rented by small businesses in town. That is, with the exception of Brunhilda Dunkel, the former school secretary who had been offering up her baked goods since the festival’s inception.
“Who is she, and why do you believe that hers might be better?” I asked.
“How am I supposed to know who she is?” Aunt Hattie threw her arms up in the air. “Look, all I know is, she claims hers are the best, which would make this here sign false advertising,” her gaze shifted back to Brunhilda, who had been silent the entire time, only regarding Aunt Hattie with
a furrowed brow.
“It’s only false advertising if it isn’t true.” Brunhilda pointed out. “And while I can assure you that it is, since you have no idea one way or the other, I don’t see how you can claim you’re owed a refund.”
“I wasn’t finished.” Aunt Hattie said, inching her cane forward until it hovered inches from one of Brunhilda’s signs. “The other sign says this is the only place in Mystic Key for authentic lebkuchen. Now, look, I don’t want to have to involve lawyers in this, but false advertisement is a serious offense.”
I choked back a laugh, but neither Brunhilda nor Aunt Hattie was so much as cracking a smile. Oh crap. She was serious.
“I was completely misled in order for you to secure my purchase. So now that I know you lied, I demand a refund.”
“You ate the entire purchase. If they were that bad, why wouldn’t you have stopped and demanded your refund then?” Brunhilda asked.
She had a point, but it wouldn’t make any difference.
“Because I wasn’t aware of your deception at the time! The only place to buy the best and truly authentic lebkuchen?”
“Yes,” Brunhilda cut her off with a firm tone. “It is the only place for authentic Lebkuchen.”
“Hmm… is it, though?” A whining nasal voice came from the table on the other side of Aunt Hattie, and the woman next door had officially entered the conversation.
Brunhilda’s head whipped so quickly in the other woman’s direction that it caused the bun on her head to loosen.
“What was that?” Brunhilda asked through clenched teeth, her now saggy bun skewing to one side.
The woman was apparently not friendly competition. She tugged at the front of her cropped red blazer and stepped forward, giving Aunt Hattie and I a friendly smile before glancing down at the edge of Brunhilda’s table. She traced her finger along the outline of a Christmas tree on the tablecloth as she spoke.
“Oh, I don’t know, Brunhilda. I was just wondering how exactly you might define authentic.”
“Well,” Brunhilda cleared her throat. “it means that the food… that the way the food is prepared, and its end result is a clear representation of how it would be done in its home country.” Brunhilda set her mouth in a hard line and gave the other woman a once-over. “Remind me where you’re from again, would you, Victoria?”
The woman whose name I’d just learned was Victoria, planted her hands on her hips, and tipped her chin upward. The movement was slight enough that it would’ve been easy to miss, but my ex-mother in law had the same patronizing move she liked to use on me. As if presenting her nostrils somehow made me feel inferior.
Victoria glanced at Aunt Hattie and me out of the corner of her eye to be sure we were still a captive audience.
“Why, Brunhilda, I’m not sure why you’re pretending we haven’t had this conversation before. You know good and well that my family hails from the great country of poets and thinkers.” Victoria took in a deep breath and straightened her blazer again. “The home of the Berlin Wall, the Autobahn, and Castle Road. The birthplace of Johannes Gutenberg, Karl Marx, pretzels, and pumpernickel—”
“This sounds like the opening of a sixth-grade Geography report,” Aunt Hattie settled a hand on one hip and impatiently tapped the dragon head handle of her cane against the edge of the table.
Victoria’s eyes widened in either shock or horror —it was difficult to tell—and her mouth hung open as she stared at Aunt Hattie.
“Look, lady, I don’t care how much you know about Germany. I don’t care which flag was flying above what soil when your mama got knocked up or when you graduated high school. All I care about is which one of you two has the best Lebkuchen in Mystic Key.”
“I do, of course.” Brunhilda glared at Victoria. “And all of my German goodies, including the different Lebkuchen offerings, are truly authentic. My Great Oma’s recipes passed down through the generations. But everyone on the island already knows that. It’s how I’ve managed to make a name for myself. Every year people tell me how much they’ve been anticipating a visit to my booth.”
“I’m sure your Oma would be very proud of you.” Victoria smoothed a hand over the top of her chestnut-colored head and offered a tight-lipped smile. “You know, by using her secret recipe—the one she used to lovingly make Christmas treats for her family—for your own financial gain.”
Brunhilda barked out a laugh, but her cheeks flushed with anger. “My grandmother used to sell a variety of lebkuchen at the Christmas market every year. It’s one of the most popular holiday confections in all of Germany.”
Brunhilda waved a dismissive hand and forced a laugh, glancing at Aunt Hattie and me out of the corner of her eye. “I mean, really. If you had even an ounce of German blood in you, you’d know that.”
Victoria folded her arms over her chest and let out a deep sigh. “Listen, Brunhilda, I understand that my presence here is upsetting you greatly. As I mentioned to you before, that’s not my intention. However, I shouldn’t be forced to bide my time until you decide to no longer occupy space at the Christmas Festival every year. Goddess knows how long that could be. You’re a nix, after all. Don’t you swamp-dwellers live forever?”
Brunhilda took the insult without so much as a wince. “Yes, we do tend to have quite long life spans. Though we don’t spend much time in swamps. We prefer lakes, rivers, and oceans. Tell me, Victoria, can you swim?”
“Whoa,” Aunt Hattie interjected. “Let’s maybe calm down. I’m not sure if threats are the way to go here.”
Victoria didn’t appear to be phased by Brunhilda’s implication. Her posture and expression were both eerily calm.
“She shouldn’t be here!” Brunhilda suddenly whipped around to face Aunt Hattie and me, the heat in her cheeks now blooming out over entire neck and chest. “Every year, I sell traditional German confections. Lebkuchen is my specialty. Everyone knows that. Everyone!”
Aunt Hattie nodded, and I could feel the wave of regret coming off of her. She’d really stuck her foot in it with her little refund stunt, and she knew it.
“She’s only doing this to upset me anyway,” Brunhilda’s voice shook with anger.
“Oh, nonsense.” Victoria challenged. “I’d have to care about you to want to upset you. All I care about is being able to share my love of baking with the Mystic Key community. You don’t own this dessert, Brunhilda. Anyone in town can make it, and anyone in town can sell it here. You need to get over yourself.” Victoria rolled her eyes and turned her back on Brunhilda, finding her way back behind her table.
“I need to get over myself? Me?” Brunhilda squeaked. Her gaze darted back and forth between Victoria and us. “Don’t you see what she’s doing?”
“Uh… actually, no. I’m sorry, Brunhilda, but I feel like we might be missing something here,” I said.
“I’ll tell you exactly what you’re missing.” Victoria’s voice was shrill as she shouted across the table at us. “She’s absolutely beside herself that I’m here for one reason and one reason only. She knows mine is better.” Victoria’s gaze slid to Brunhilda, who was already in a fit of sputters.
“Earlier, not long after I first arrived, she gave me one of her cookies and implied that it was a peace offering. Does this look like she’s trying to make peace to either of you?” Victoria cocked an eyebrow.
“In fact,” Victoria held up a finger as if she’d just had a brilliant idea and hurried around the other side of her table. She pulled something from a tote bag, and by the time she’d rejoined us, I knew exactly what it was.
There was no way this would end well, but I had no idea how to stop it.
“I think it’s safe to assume that Brunhilda would’ve given me a cookie from what she thought was her very best batch from her very best recipe.” She held the cookie up between her thumb and forefinger. “How about we do a little taste test?”
Brunhilda widened her eyes, but her expression was impossible to read for the first time.
Victo
ria brought the cookie to her mouth and nibbled off a small bite, chewing exaggeratedly. After a moment, when I was confident all she could’ve possibly needed to do was swallow, she spat the contents of her mouth out, and they spewed across a portion of Brunhilda’s table.
Aunt Hattie and I gasped in perfect unison, and Victoria reached for a bright pink travel mug on her table. She took a long drink, and once she was finished, she gave an indifferent shrug of her shoulders.
“Notice how she never let you judge for yourself?” Victoria asked Aunt Hattie. “If I were her, I would’ve demanded you taste both and make the decision on your own. All she’s done is verbally attack me. Why won’t she let her food speak for itself?”
“You want me to let my food speak for itself?” Brunhilda seemed to have finally regained her voice, and her eyes wide with anger.
“I do.” Victoria tilted her chin and looked down her nose at Brunhilda.
“You want me to let my food speak for itself?” Brunhilda asked again, this time, a smile crept onto her face, and her tone was low and steady.
Hesitation passed over Victoria’s face, but it was quickly replaced with a smug expression. She crossed her arms over her chest and ticked her chin in the air to look down at Brunhilda.
“I do.” She repeated firmly.
“All right, then.” Brunhilda moved like a flash, turning toward the table and snatching up the item nearest her.
Less than a second later, a German chocolate cake resided in the place where Victoria’s face had once been.
“McMahon is Irish,” Brunhilda shouted.
Chunks of cake began to fall, dotting the front of Victoria’s blazer and white shirt.
Aunt Hattie and I stood in stunned silence, neither of us knowing what to do as we watched Victoria scoop handfuls of cake from her face and toss them onto the ground.
Brunhilda looked a bit shocked by her own behavior, but she wasn’t making any attempts to apologize either.
Victoria stopped abruptly, the hand that had been reaching for her face falling down at her side awkwardly.
