Just Add Mistletoe: Christmas in Gingerbread, Colorado

by Moore, Addison

  Tanner blows out a breath as he looks to me. That weight of the world stare makes me feel like trash, like I’ve let my little brother down, and I know I have.

  “We’re going to Cater,” he announces. “If you ladies want to join us, you’re welcome. It’s Take a Tour of the Factory Monday.” He tilts his head my way and lifts his cup to me. “Let’s see what the golden boy can do. Rumor has it, not every superhero wears a cape.”

  Missy looks from Tanner to me as her mouth falls open, and I’m sorry she has to be here to witness Tanner’s display. But it could be worse. She could take him up on that tour of the factory. They both could.

  Sabrina rises to stand and raises her shoulders at Missy. “I hope patent leather boots are the right look for Cater this time of year.” She hikes up a heeled hoof before skipping over to the door.

  Missy sheds a tiny smile sealed with deviant intent as she looks to my brother and me. “Bring on the pies, boys. I’m ready if you are.”

  The four of us walk out the door, and just like that, it indeed gets worse.

  * * *

  The drive to Cater is about a good solid half hour with the roads icy as they are. Missy volunteered to drive out with Tanner, and I got stuck with Chatty Cathy who doesn’t seem to come with a shut-off switch to save my sanity. I hear all about the trials and temptations as her reign of Miss Corn Shucker three years in a row. It turns out, Sabrina spent some time in the national beauty pageant circuit as well and is considering opening a boutique that caters to young girls who might be looking into that profession. I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s probably more of a hobby than it is a profession, and that Gingerbread isn’t exactly brimming with beauty pageants, save for the one. But I’m not here to burst anyone’s bubble. Tanner distributed all the bad news one can handle on a Monday, and I don’t plan on adding to anyone’s misery.

  We come upon the factory, and my stomach drops at the dismal scene. Coming here as a kid, it looked towering and strong, all steel and might—and here it looks woefully small, all rust and fatigue. The paint is peeling away from the side of the building, and the sign that once boasted Home of Holiday Pies sits crooked and faded as a memory.

  “Geez,” I say under my breath as I glide into the parking spot next to Tanner’s. I can’t remember when I was here last. For as seldom as I’ve visited Gingerbread, I sure as heck didn’t bother to make the trek out to this old place. In my mind, Tanner had it handled. He seemed to be on top of everything—and, come to find out, the weight of it all has all but collapsed on top of him.

  We get out and follow Tanner in through the giant delivery door opened in the back with Missy next to him and Sabrina bouncing dutifully by my side. It almost feels as if we’ve paired off, as if we were couples, and I shake that thought right out of my head. Missy wouldn’t be interested in Tanner that way, would she? Nope. Missy is playful and cheery, and Tanner is as serious as an unemployment slip, about as cheery as a root canal.

  Sabrina takes ahold of my hand just as Missy turns back and catches the action. That partial grin on her face glides right off before she freely glides in a little closer to my brother. A ripe anger rips through me at the sight. She’s not serious, is she? She can’t be. This entire day is a bad mind warp. A bad dream that I wouldn’t mind waking up from.

  We step past the tired office that doubles as an employee lounge and into the factory proper. This has always been my favorite part of the facility, the inner workings, where rows and rows of pies descend with elegance on the conveyer belts. I step in deep and take in a lungful of air, just waiting to inhale those warm spices I used to live for and—nothing.

  “Where’s the fresh smell?” I pause, carefully detangling my hand from Sabrina’s. I take a few more steps into the factory and note the machines and pulleys all still humming away as if they were right where I left them. Several employees with hairnets supervise the pies as they drop from the conveyer belts and quickly box them, but there’s not one hint of holiday cheer in the air.

  “What smell?” Tanner looks miffed as he leads us to the start of operations into the room that houses the fresh apples, cooked pumpkins, and squash.

  “You know, the scent, the pumpkin spice that used to knock us off our feet when we were kids.”

  Tanner scoffs over at me. “Exactly how long has it been since you’ve been here? Never mind. I think I have a pretty good idea.” He looks to Missy and nods. “I had to switch out the spices we used years ago. It was a cost factor.”

  “Oh, I get it.” Missy nods my way. Those eager violet eyes have a touch of sadness in them. “The cost of our ingredients alone is enough to make me want to pass out. That’s why I hate giving our food away for free.” She casually shoots a look of disdain to Sabrina.

  “Please”—Sabrina scoffs almost as proficiently as my brother just did—“I’m doing you a favor by hosting all my club meetings at the bakery. Just think how all those women who would have never set foot in that carb factory now have somewhere to purchase all their bakery needs.”

  Missy scowls my way. “Funny how nary a need has arisen. I’m betting they don’t pack a bag of snickerdoodles before they head off to spin class. Not that I have anything against being fit. I myself jog three miles a day when it’s not an ankle breaking winter.” She turns to me. “Noel will love me in the spring.”

  “She will.” I grin. “And I’ll make sure she writes from New York to tell you so.”

  “Ha!” Missy is quick to laugh in my face. But our eyes latch onto one another for a moment, and for the life of me I can’t seem to look away. My heart beats a little faster, and her expression grows serious. If I were to guess, there is something palpable happening here, an attraction that I don’t think either one of us can deny. My breathing picks up, and it’s as if I’m seeing Missy for the very first time, with new eyes, a new heart.

  Tanner gives a solemn applause. “Is the show over? Because I’m ready to start the tour now.”

  And he does just that. Tanner takes us through each depressing play-by-play of what used to be the happiest place on earth. Now it looks as if the factory is conducting its own funeral, each whir of the tired motors penning its own pathetic eulogy. You can’t go ten steps without feeling the despair this place emits like a foul odor. The tour wraps up, and both Missy and Sabrina are offered a piece of fresh baked pumpkin pie—in which Missy indulges. Sabrina just stares at it with disgust as if it were growing limbs in front of her eyes.

  Tanner nods me to the side as his features harden, and I’m almost afraid to follow him. If he has a few rough words to share with me, most likely I deserve them.

  “Well, golden boy? What’s your big solution for this money pit? You got a brainstorm brewing in that million dollar head of yours? Because if you do, everyone in here needs to hear it right about now.”

  I sink back on my heels as I examine the place with a heavy heart. “Yeah, I’ve got an idea. Go with plan A. Shut the place down after Christmas. This place is a financial mortuary.”

  Tanner gives a slow blink as if relieved I finally got the message. Losing this place will be a hard pill to swallow, especially for my mother, but it doesn’t seem possible to pull it from the edge. Nope. This place went over the side years ago. A decline like this doesn’t happen overnight.

  Missy looks my way, her lips quivering as if she might cry, and part of me wants nothing more than to comfort her—for her to comfort me.

  And then, just like that, she gives Sabrina a shove in my direction, and I can’t help but think Monday just got a little worse. It’s not quite Sabrina that’s bringing me down, as it is the fact Missy is so determined to prove the two of us are a fit.

  I’m not a fit with Sabrina Jarrett and her high-heeled mile a minute self-indulgent monologues. Sabrina wraps her arms around me and purrs at least a half dozen indecent things in my ear while Missy bites down on her lip.

  Tanner goes over and they strike up a conversation of their own, and she laughs at whatever
it is he just told her. And oddly the happier Missy gets, the more she glows in my brother’s presence—the angrier I get, and the more I glower next to Sabrina.

  I’m not sure what’s happening anymore, what’s up and what’s down, who I should see and who I should stay away from.

  Sabrina tucks a kiss just under my ear, and Missy glances this way in time to see it, her entire face burning like a bright red bow.

  Is that a smidge of jealousy I detect?

  And just like that, my spirit soars as I drink down the prospect.

  There might just be a bright light at the end of this dismal visit, and her name is Mistletoe Winters.

  Baby it’s Cold Outside

  Missy

  December is always the busiest month of the year for most people, but when you have a thriving business in the heart of downtown Gingerbread, each day flies by like a spinning top. Jenna and Holly are working the front of the bakery while I tirelessly bake batch after batch of as many Christmas cookies as my ovens can handle, and when I’m not doing that, I’m trying to piece together the puzzle that is the Holiday Pie debacle. I’ve laid out a half a dozen pumpkin and apple pies, each just about ready to head into the oven themselves. But the goal isn’t to bake simply a pumpkin pie or an apple. It’s to somehow alter the recipe enough so that it miraculously takes the pie to the next level.

  “I’m here!” Mom trills as she removes her scarf while skipping through the kitchen. “Holly called and said it was a 911 situation, and I said no worries, Mighty Mom is on her way!” Her ruby red lips expand with her signature grin. Her golden curls look fresh from the beauty parlor, and she’s wearing an incredibly cheery bright red sweater. It would be a shame to get even a speck of flour on it. For the most part, my mother looks gorgeous at any given hour, but there’s an extra sparkle about her today that I can’t quite put my finger on.

  “We’re fine, Mom, really. Besides, you look far too impeccable to be throwing on a hairnet and apron. In fact, you look like you’re ready for church.”

  “Ha!” she balks. “Church? You’re such an ageist, Missy. You think that just because a woman of a certain age gets all gussied up, then she must be going to a house of worship.” She steals a truffle mouse off the counter and moans as it melts in her mouth. “Mmm, divine, but you really mustn’t make your food look like vermin.”

  “Are you kidding? Those are one of my top ten bestsellers. Everyone who comes in here wants at least a dozen Christmas mice to go.” I’m partial to the tiny creatures for several reasons—the cut almond slivers for ears, the red nonpareil eyes, and that eerie shoestring licorice tail—but the real reason they landed on my nice list this year is because they’re no-bake. You simply mix chocolate wafer crumbs and melted chocolate chips to form their bodies. No-bake means I don’t need to crowd an oven. Whenever I see an employee standing around with nothing to do, I suggest they whip up a batch.

  Mom makes a face. “Yes, well, preach it to the choir because I won’t be at the evening service tonight.” She gives a little wink. “Your father is taking me to Le Roux.”

  “Le Roux?” I cease from hovering over the bevy of pies as I stalk over to her. “Wow, a fancy French restaurant. No wonder you look like you’re about to paint the town red—no pun intended. May I ask what the occasion is? Do I want to know?” With my mother you can never be too sure. Mom and Dad instated date night a few years back when it practically became a buzzword for couples the world over. Anything that involves dressing up and enjoying a good meal will undoubtedly get my mother’s attention, and much to the chagrin of my father’s wallet, they have indulged religiously in date night without missing a week.

  “I sold my very first condo this afternoon!” Her voice hits its upper register as her excitement hits full bloom. “You know, from that complex I scored last week? I have another showing this weekend, and if all goes as planned, I’ll have half the units sold before the new year.”

  “That’s fantastic! I say you deserve that dinner. And in light of recent French developments, you may absolutely not assist me in the kitchen this afternoon. I’m fine, I promise. I’m just trying out a few different recipes.”

  She grunts as she observes the rows of uncooked pies. “They all look the same to me. Six apple, six pumpkin. No offense, but you’re going to have to get a little more creative than that.” Her lips twist in a bow. “It all looks a little, I don’t know, boring.”

  “It is boring. I think that’s the problem. I just can’t think of something special enough to wake it up.”

  “Oh, Missy, you’ve always been an over-thinker.” She pulls an apple pie toward her over the marble countertop and glares at it as if it offended her on some level. “Pop quiz.” Her eyes narrow in on mine, and I can’t help but groan. Growing up, my mother demanded that my siblings and I wade our way through our problems by dissecting them as if they were problems on a test—the test of life, my mother would say. “What else could you do with an apple to make it tempting and delicious?” She gives an impish grin as if she’s already aware of the answer.

  My voice hums in my throat for a minute as I try to decipher this. “Caramel apple!”

  Her eyes widen as she looks to me. “Very good. And give me something else for this pie.” She points to the next plain apple pie staring back at me.

  “Salted caramel apple!” My mind explodes with a million ideas at once. “Praline apple crunch, cinnamon apple crisp,” I say, pointing to each of the other pies.

  Mom nods with approval before yanking over a jiggling pumpkin pie. “These are far easier—you must know something that could make a pumpkin pie sing.”

  “S’mores!” It comes to me without any effort at all. I guess I have to give Mom and her think-your-way-out-of-your-paper-bag mentality some serious props. I think we’re really onto something. “Hazelnut swirl, maple brownie chunk, and, of course, gingerbread.” I give a little shrug as she blows me a kiss.

  “Well done, Missy! I’ll give you an A for creativity.” She pulls on a pair of tight black gloves that make her hands look svelte and beautiful. “I’d better head out to meet your father. I’ll catch up with you soon, dear! Toodles!” She breezes out the door as quick as she came in, and my mouth is rooted to the floor.

  “That woman is a genius,” I say as Holly comes in, her blonde hair frazzled. Her apron looks as if a dozen chocolate hungry children attacked her all at once. For once I’d like to beat her to the punch and give myself a pop quiz.

  “And this place is a circus.” She frowns at the pies. “Any luck?”

  “Only the best,” I say, already whipping around the kitchen to gather the ingredients I need to make all of my Holiday Pies dreams come true.

  “Yeah, well, you’re going to need it. Guess who’s having date number two right in our café?”

  I suck in a sharp breath as I peer around the corner. “Oh my goodness!” My face flushes with heat. There they are, Graham Holiday and Sabrina Jarrett enjoying coffee and an entire slew of Christmas cookies—on the house most likely. I can’t help but grunt at the sight as Graham bites into a stain glassed window cookie. I stayed late yesterday baking batch after batch. They’re some of our top sellers because they’re so beautiful to look at. Graham laughs at something Sabrina says, and my stomach sinks. “I guess I did it,” I say, breathless.

  “Yup.” Holly butts her shoulder against mine. “You hijacked two more lives and set them on the trajectory toward alimony and an entire slew of attorneys. They’ll never work, and you know it. They’re not right for one another. Despite his supernatural success, Graham is down-to-earth, and Sabrina is just a corn shuck princess who lives in a hot pink plastic bubble.”

  I take a moment to frown over at my sister. She’s not usually such a pessimist when it comes to love. I have no idea why she’s picking on my potential power couple. Sabrina and Graham are clearly cut out for one another. She’s the epitome of vanity, and he has an ego that can hardly squeeze through the door. I’m shocked they haven’t
eloped by now.

  I tap my sister’s foot with my own. “But what about our dream of him whisking her away to New York? Think of all the inventory we’ll save, the profits we might actually make.” My own voice actually sounds pathetic to me. What was meant to be a battle cry came out as more of a whine. It’s true, though. With Sabrina and her cohorts out of the picture, we might actually crawl out of the red.

  Holly shakes her head with that look of disapproval all over her face. “At the end of the day, money is just a tool. But love, that’s something money can’t buy.” Those insistent eyes of hers assure me I’m making the wrong move.

  “Don’t look at me like that. What’s done is done. Sabrina and Graham are as good as engaged.” My body bucks as if I were sobbing.

  Sabrina glances our way and does a quick double take. She bounces out of her seat and races to the counter.

  Holly gives me a firm shove in that direction. “You’re on.”

  “Sabrina.” I press my hands over my apron as I plaster on a smile. “What a pleasant surprise.” Shockingly, it doesn’t at all sound sarcastic. What is happening to me? “I see things are going well for you.” I tip my head over to their table as Graham turns my way and gives an unenthused wave. He doesn’t look happy at all, and yet somehow this makes my spirit soar.

  “He’s antsy,” she hisses, her blood red lips quivering as if she were rabid. “He’s making every excuse just to leave. What do I do? What do I tell him?” For the first time ever, Sabrina looks as if she’s about to crawl out of her skin. I’ve never seen this unsure, jittery side of her, and a part of me is lapping it up. But this is no time to gloat.

  Just great. I line up a great catch, and suddenly Sabrina is short on clues on how to keep him coming back for more.

  “I don’t know,” I hiss right back. “I’m boring, remember?” A thought comes to me. “Wait a second.” I glance back to the kitchen at those rows and rows of sweet confections just waiting to come to life, and my heart sinks a bit. “Tell him you have an idea that can help save Holiday Pies.” She leans in, and I spill every last salted caramel detail.