Christmas Wedding at the Gingerbread Café (The Gingerbread Cafe - Book 3) (A Gingerbread Cafe story)

by Rebecca Raisin

  “A nightclub? Is that some kind of code for male strippers?”

  This time I lob a cushion at him. He ducks and it sails over his head onto the tiled floor. “It might be but my lips are sealed. It’s secret women’s business.”

  While Frank Sinatra croons Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas from the speakers above, I grab Damon by the collar of his shirt and pull him in for a long kiss.

  Chapter Two

  Nine days

  “Cherry blossom?” CeeCee says, her voice soft with concentration as she wraps turkey, cranberry and Camembert into parcels made with paper-thin filo pastry for today’s lunch special.

  “Mmm?”

  “Can you pass me the egg-wash?”

  I place the small bowl of beaten egg next to her and find the pastry brush. Leaning over her shoulder as she wraps the delicate pastry, I contemplate what they’ll taste like once the Camembert is a creamy melted mess with the sweet cranberry, and the crunch of the filo, and can’t wait to get them baking.

  “You breathin’ down my neck for a reason?” CeeCee jokes.

  I giggle and take a step back. “You’re making me hungry.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” she hollers. “I’m so hungry my stomach’s touchin’ my backbone! I’ll put a couple o’ these in the oven for a little taste tester.”

  “You read my mind.” It’s a wonder we get anything baked around here; there’s always a few rest stops during the day where we break, and eat what we’ve cooked.

  While we wait for the pastries to brown we clean the bench in preparation for the next round of baking. The café is quiet today, and the usual worry we’re baking for ourselves sits heavy in my belly.

  “What’s those wrinkles popping up ’tween your eyes for?” CeeCee says.

  I laugh. CeeCee’s southern way of talking makes even the blackest moods fade. “Same old reason, Cee. Wondering where the heck everyone’s got to, ’cause they sure aren’t in town today.”

  She shrugs. “It’s still early, Lil. They’ll come. Especially when they see what I’ve got planned next.” She waggles her eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion.

  “Got something in your eye?”

  She guffaws and slaps her leg. “No, I do not. I was trying to be mysterious!”

  I laugh. “So what’s going to draw the punters in today?”

  “You’re gonna put weight on just looking at the recipe, I swear it, but it’s gonna be a showstopper.” Fumbling in the pocket of her apron, she pulls out a square of paper and waves it at me.

  I unfold it and read quickly. “A croquembouche?”

  She snatches the piece of paper back, and pushes her glasses back on. “Not just any croquembouche, a salted caramel croquembouche with ricotta cream. Instead of making one big tower of profiteroles, I thought we could make say ten smaller towers. They sure are pretty, and if we flick toffee around them it’ll look like tinsel ’round a Christmas tree.”

  Her enthusiasm is infectious, but I stand mute because it’s a French recipe, from a French culinary magazine. CeeCee’ll try baking anything once, but after Damon’s chat about Guillaume my mind connects the dots, and the picture is a love heart.

  “I think you’re right, Cee.” In the picture the little balls of choux pastry are stacked up into a cone shape, the salted caramel glaze dripped over them makes them shine, and some tendrils of spun toffee flicked over once they’re assembled will draw in a crowd for sure. My mouth waters at the thought of biting into the luscious ricotta filling.

  I sidle up to her and lean close. “So-o-o…where’d you get this recipe from?”

  CeeCee makes a show of wiping her hands on her apron, and then bending over to take silver bowls from under the bench, though her brown cheeks blush so furiously they’re almost purple.

  “Cee?”

  She stands, and pretends not to have heard me, but I can read her expressions as clearly as a road map. I snatch up the piece of paper. “You know…” I play with her “…I’m sure I remember Guillaume mentioning this recipe to me before…”

  Her mouth opens and closes, and she drops the silver bowl, which clangs like a cymbal as it bounces on the floor.

  “Did he now?” she eventually manages.

  I’m just about to press her for information when the doorbell jingles.

  “Well, lookie here,” she booms. “If it ain’t your daddy.” Her voice is slightly manic with what? Relief?

  My father strides in, flicking his braces over his big belly, which is a sure-fire sign he’s hungry. “Hey, Dad.” He hugs me tight.

  “Hey, darlin’.” I detect the faint whiff of cigar smoke on him, the same old dad, sneaking puffs out of Mamma’s sight. If she knew he was still partial to the odd cigar, I’d hear her yelling all the way from home.

  “Morning, CeeCee.” He tips his head.

  “Let me get you a candy-cane coffee.” She bustles away, no doubt glad for the interruption.

  “Hungry?” I say, remembering the parcels in the oven.

  “Well…”

  I edge him to a table. “Get comfy. You can try the turkey, cranberry and Camembert pastry that Cee’s just made.”

  He laces his fingers together. “Don’t tell your mamma.” He winks.

  “She’s still making you diet?”

  His face is glum as he counts on his fingers. “No sugar, no bread, no pasta, no rice. High protein, rabbit food only. And you know your mamma.” He screws up his face. “Her idea of dinner is over-boiled carrots, and frozen peas, with a side of charred steak. At least my choppers stay sharp after all that grinding.”

  I laugh. He’s always on about his teeth, as if the secret to longevity is how well his choppers are holding up. Mamma isn’t the best cook in the world. In fact she’s downright disastrous. Dad still marvels to this day how I managed to learn to cook since I share her genes, but my grandmother baked, and I spent a lot of my childhood in her kitchen.

  “You’re putting me in a predicament just being here,” I joke. “What if she walks past and I’ve just gone and served you a plate of banned food?” I pop the pastries on two plates and take them to the table.

  “She won’t,” he says. “I made sure of it.” He lowers his voice as if he’s plotting something more sinister.

  CeeCee wanders over with mugs of candy-cane coffee and we sit at the table together. I slide a plate to each of them and take one of the steaming cups of sweet coffee.

  “How’d you make sure of it?” I ask him.

  “She said that Emma Mae invited her over for a game of Scrabble, and you know those two once they get to talking. I’ll be lucky if she’s home for dinner.”

  I swallow a sip of coffee and say, “What if she was lying? And she said that to test you, knowing full well you’d sneak into the café?”

  His eyes go wide and he pushes the plate away as if it’s on fire.

  CeeCee pipes up, “I’m sure I seen her walk past not even a minute ago…” She cackles high and loud, and I smirk behind my hand.

  He scoffs. “I knew you were joking — give me that plate back! And anyway, once a week, surely that’s OK for a treat? I’m only human.”

  I cluck my tongue. “Dad, you come in every day.”

  “Small portions, Lil. That’s the secret.” Somehow he manages to keep a straight face. Dad visits at least once a day, fills up on whatever we’re baking, and takes a few gingerbread men for the road. There’s no sign of small portions anywhere near his dinner-sized plate.

  A customer blows in just as I’m about to retort, a broody-looking stranger with dark eyes, and a fit physique. I go to stand and CeeCee says, “You catch up with your dad, Lil. I’ll go.”

  I nod thanks, and sit.

  “So,” Dad says between forkfuls, “as the chief organizer of Damon’s bachelor party, I thought I’d run a few things by you.”

  I grin. “How did you end up in charge of the bachelor do?”

  He shrugs. “Damned if I know. Seems everyone’s working and To
mmy thinks I need to step away from daytime TV…”

  Folding my arms and leaning my elbows on the table, I say, “Maybe that’s a good idea.” Dad retired just before he and Mamma went away; before that he worked with Tommy in the dairy. Almost forty years in the same place, and I think now he’s home he misses the routine, and his friends there. Not so much the back-breaking labor, but the lack of physical work has definitely added to his waistline, hence Mamma’s nagging. “But a few midday movie sessions aren’t such a bad idea either.”

  He gives me a half-smile. “It was a novelty at first, but now…well, I’m under your mamma’s feet all the time, and I’m kind of…bored. It was OK when we were traveling, but now, I need to find something to do.” He flicks his braces. “So, first step; bachelor party, second step, something to fill my days…”

  My dad’s one of those people who like to keep busy. He retired on Mamma’s say-so, but I don’t think he was really ready for it. And I hate to think of him sitting at home trying to keep out of Mamma’s way as she vacuums and dusts daily in her usual frenzy.

  “You could do some volunteer work?”

  He knots his bushy eyebrows. “That might be just the thing.”

  I rest my hand atop his. “Why don’t you try the community center? I’m sure they’d love your help.” We’re both silent as we glance out of the snow-mottled window to Walt’s empty furniture shop.

  Walt and Janey usually run all the local events out of the community center, but we haven’t seen them in an age. Janey was diagnosed with cancer back at Easter time. She and Walt moved to a small hotel in Springfield to be closer to the big hospital there while she receives treatment.

  “I’ll go in and see who’s running things now, see if they need a hand.” Dad clears his throat. “So, for the bachelor party, what’ll it be? I was thinking I’d set up our front room like a casino. I’d be the croupier, of course. Do you think Damon would like that?”

  “He’d love it.” And he would. A night in, gambling pennies on cards, would suit him to a T. “What night are you thinking?”

  “Maybe Monday night? Leaves a two days before the wedding in case someone dyes his hair red, or whatever it is they do these days.”

  “Blue’s more his color.”

  Dad bellows so loud CeeCee glances over, and the newcomer does too. I mouth sorry, and exchange a smile with CeeCee.

  “Possum,” Dad says, reverting back to my childhood pet name. “Look at you.”

  I pat my hair down; my curls are probably a riot after dashing outside earlier.

  Dad waves a hand at me. “No, Lil, I mean look at you.” His face softens. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so…radiant. Damon is a great guy. He’s smitten with you. It’s as obvious as the big nose on my face.” He laughs. “What I’m trying to say is, your mamma and I are so proud of you, from the way you run the café, to the way you cherish your friends, and because you’re marrying a man who is truly worthy of you. And I can’t wait to walk you down that aisle, knowing that the man standing at the other end is a good one.”

  I rub the top of his hand. Dad doesn’t often speak like this; usually he’s more of a prankster, a joker. And I guess like most people he had his doubts about my ex-husband Joel. He never said anything directly, but he’d asked me the night before my first wedding if I was really sure I was making the right decision. And I was sure; it wasn’t until much later that the marriage fell apart, and Joel changed into a different man from the one I married. But that part of my life taught me some valuable lessons about myself, and I wouldn’t change it.

  “That means a lot, Dad.” I give his hand a squeeze.

  “It’s all true,” he says. “Being away for so long, you know, we worried about you. When we heard that Joel had slunk back into town, we almost flew back. But CeeCee called and said she’d sorted it. It’s a funny thing, parenthood — you’ll always be my little girl no matter how old you are.”

  I stand and walk around to give him a hug. “I’m glad you didn’t cancel your trip for that. I’m lucky to have a friend like CeeCee.”

  “That you are, darlin’. So…” he winks “…what’s the chance of a slice of one of CeeCee’s pies?”

  “You’re going to get me in trouble…” I amble over to CeeCee, who’s packing a box of baked goods for the newcomer. I nod hello and he gives me a tentative smile. CeeCee pipes up, “This is Clay. He’s gone and moved to the Maple Syrup Farm. Gonna do it up real nice, like it used to be.”

  “Nice to meet you, Clay. You’ll be busy by the sounds of it.” I picture the derelict farm. It needs a complete overhaul, that place.

  Clay nods, and gives me a ghost of a smile.

  “Dad wants a piece of pie, Cee. So just holler if you need a hand.”

  She shoos me away. “Your daddy dumber ’n a bucket of coal if he thinks your mamma won’t find out. Ain’t no way I’m serving him pie, neither!”

  I massage her shoulders and laugh. “How will she find out?”

  “She’s a woman from a small town, cherry blossom. O’ course she’ll find out.”

  We’re tidying the café after another long day. CeeCee’s whizzing around as if she’s on a sugar high; even though she’s got twenty plus years on my almost-thirty she’s as spritely as a teenager. I’m mopping the floors as she restacks the books on the shelves and tidies the tables near the fireplace. She’s humming, and bopping along as she works.

  We’ve been so busy in the lead-up to Christmas I’m as worn out as a rag doll but CeeCee’s like a never-ending ball of energy. I clean slowly, and decide I’ll reward myself with a nice long soak in the tub when I get home. And if Damon happens to wander in while I’m in there, all the better.

  Blowing my hair from my face, I rest awhile using the mop as a prop to hold me. The street is almost deserted as shops close for the evening. It’s almost seven, and snowing hard outside, when I see a couple of finely dressed people walk into Damon’s small goods shop. There’s something about them that catches my eye. They’re not from around here by the looks of it: the woman is wearing a fancy fur coat, with a matching beret, and the gentleman is wearing a suit and scarf.

  CeeCee goes out front to bring in our chalkboard. She races back inside, and dumps the A-frame against the wall. “It’s cold enough out there to freeze the balls off a pool table!” She rubs her hands together to warm them. “Who’s that over yonder?”

  “I don’t know.” I dunk the mop, and swish it around the bucket when CeeCee says, “Well, we about to find out. Here they come now.”

  Damon holds onto the woman’s elbow and escorts them over the icy street.

  They stand just outside the café and shake the snow from their shoulders. Damon pushes against the door and motions for the couple to step in before him. Up close, I see the resemblance, and my chest tightens. Oh, golly, I wish I’d had some warning. They weren’t supposed to arrive for another week! I run a hand through my hair, which is an unkempt mess, no doubt, after such a busy day. My apron is stained and I’m wearing the oldest pair of boots I own, which squeak as I walk. The woman is draped in pearls, and the silver bobbed hair under her beret is immaculate. The man is ruggedly good-looking, like an older Damon, with the same kind eyes.

  “Lil, Cee,” Damon says, shivering from the short walk across the road. “This is my mother, Olivia, and my father, George.”

  I’m too stunned to speak, ruing the fact their first impression of me is the way I look right now. I’m not a fancy dresser, nor do I care about hair and make-up, but these people are Guthries and no matter how much I pretend I don’t care, I do. The Guthrie family has enough money to buy out a small country, and I just wish the first time I met them I were wearing something other than my bright scarlet Christmas sweater that reads: Jingle all the way! Not to mention my candy-cane earrings that flash intermittently. They must think Damon’s gone mad to marry a girl who is so utterly disheveled.

  CeeCee shoots me a look that says pull it together. With a surreptitious no
d in return, I smile brightly and walk towards them to give them a welcome hug. Olivia immediately puts out a hand to shake. Fumbling, and unsure, I drop my outstretched arms, and hope my faux pas isn’t noticeable.

  Though CeeCee hasn’t missed a trick and barrels past me, screeching, “That ain’t how we say hello ’round here. Come on and give us a great big cuddle!” She launch hugs Olivia and nearly knocks her off her knee-high boots. I hide a smile, thanking the Lord again for CeeCee’s ability to break the ice. God, I love this woman.

  Olivia teeters for a moment and then says, “Thank you, CeeCee.” She regains her composure, and stands tall. “Well, it’s certainly nice to meet you, Lil. We’ve heard so much about you.”

  “You too, Olivia.” I find my voice. “This is a wonderful surprise!”

  Damon rubs his mother’s shoulders. “Come on, Mother, let’s sit down. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” He pushes his parents softly in the back and motions to the sofas before taking my hand and kissing me softly on the cheek. He whispers, “They were so excited they couldn’t wait another day. They cut their holiday short.”

  They’d been holidaying somewhere sunny, so I’m chuffed they cut it short — their son’s wedding should take precedence in my book, and they obviously agree.

  George and Olivia hover near the fire and CeeCee says, “Go on and sit down, you makin’ the place look crowded,” and laughs her southern haw. “I’ll fix us some drinks, while y’all get to talkin’.”

  Buoyed by CeeCee’s confidence, and Olivia’s radiant smile, I sink into the sofa. I pat the cushion, and Damon sits next to me, leaning close enough I can smell his aftershave, sweet and spicy, making me woozy with thoughts of him.

  CeeCee bustles around the kitchen, humming Jingle Bells. Damon shoots me a smile. “I’ll give CeeCee a hand with the drinks.” He jumps up, leaving a Damon-sized dent in the sofa, which I quickly roll into. George and Olivia gaze around the café, taking in the bookshelves by the fire, and the display fridge filled with chocolate truffles neatly ordered in rows.

  “Beautiful place you have here, Lil,” George says, his voice so similar to Damon’s. “Damon told us how hard you’ve worked to build the café up over the last few years.”