by Meg Muldoon
I pressed pause on the stereo, putting an abrupt end to Johnny Mathis singing Silver Bells. I strained to listen for more and peered out the window, seeing little beyond my own frightened expression in the reflection.
It could have just been the wind knocking something over. Or a deer, I told myself. There were plenty of them out in these woods. Plenty of other wildlife too. It could have been—
There was another loud sound out there. And this one was easy enough to identify: it was the sound of a boot against hollow wood.
The sound of a large boot against hollow wood.
Someone was out there on my deck.
I reached for my cell phone in my apron pocket, and began dialing Daniel’s number.
Just then, there was a loud rap at the window.
I could make out the figure of a tall man standing there, but couldn’t see his face.
My heart jumped up in my throat. I backed away, listening to the ringing.
“Please pick up,” I muttered desperately. “Please pick u—”
Just then, I noticed a faint, familiar jingle coming from the other side of the glass.
I placed the phone down on the kitchen island, and listened.
There was another loud rap at the window.
I let out a great big ol’ sigh of relief, and rushed for the back door.
Chapter 6
Huckleberry brushed past me, bounding into the kitchen on a mission for some leftover pie, no doubt.
The man with the beard stayed in the doorway, grinning sunnily.
“Daniel Brightman, what in the world are you doing creeping around out here? Don’t you know that you just scared me half to dea—”
I stopped talking when I noticed what he was holding in his hands.
A giant, beautiful bouquet of pearly pink roses.
My mouth dropped open in surprise.
“What’s… what’s this all about?”
He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
“You know what today is, don’t you?” he said.
I furrowed my brow, my stomach tightening as I tried to figure out what important event I was missing.
Our wedding anniversary wasn’t until Christmas Eve.
“Uh…” I stammered.
He laughed.
“Cin, I thought it was women who remembered anniversaries better than men,” he said, handing me the bouquet. “Okay, I’ll jog your memory. It was three years ago, to this very night, that I followed a certain little dog into these here woods. And it was three years ago, to this very night, that I saw the most beautiful girl I’d ever set eyes on working in the kitchen here. Sadly making her gingerbread fortress, all alone. Looking like an angel in the snowstorm.”
I looked up at him as a feeling of guilt over forgetting the importance of tonight settled in my gut.
I’d completely forgotten about what today was.
“Oh, honey,” I said, looking up at him. “I’m so sorry. I should have—”
“Shh,” he said.
He pulled me close to him, planting a long passionate kiss on my lips that made my knees buckle with its intensity. His trimmed beard felt rough and pleasant at the same time as it brushed up against my face.
He pulled away.
“I wanted to do that the moment I saw you from out in those woods three years ago, Cinnamon Peters,” he said. “It makes no difference to me if you remember that night or not. But for as long as I live, I always will.”
I reached for his hand, kissing the back of it.
He smiled at me, our eyes meeting, our souls understanding each other.
I wouldn’t ever forget that night either. Even if I lived to be 122 years old.
I inhaled the sweet, soft smell of the roses, and then invited him inside. The same way I had done three years ago tonight.
Then I got him a nice, gooey slice of cherry pie.
The same way I had done three years ago tonight.
Chapter 7
A brisk breeze blew into the side of my face, bits of crystalized air pelting me as I walked along Tinsel Street in downtown Christmas River.
Chadwick paused out in front of me for a moment, shaking his scruffy coat free of ice. Then he started trotting again, his nails clicking against the concrete of the shoveled sidewalk.
The last few weeks, I had started volunteering again with the Humane Society of Christmas River. Usually when I got too busy at the pie shop, the daily walking duties with the shelter were the first thing I axed from my schedule. But I had been trying to make more time for it lately. Honestly, the walks did me as much good as it did the dogs. I got a chance to stretch my legs, clear my head, and be out in nature, which was a nice change from the hot, busy and hectic environment of the pie shop kitchen.
Chadwick threw himself down on the sidewalk near a telephone pole abruptly, the way sometimes he tended to do when he got tired and had had enough walking.
I shook my head, and let out a short sigh of frustration.
I’d been walking Chadwick for two weeks now, and while he was cuter than Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, I had found him to be a somewhat moody, stubborn little dog. It was hard to get Chadwick to do things you wanted him to do. He didn’t play fetch, he wasn’t motivated by food of any kind, and sometimes, for no good reason, he just liked to throw himself down during a walk. The only way to get him going again would be to drag him off the curb, or pick the pup up and place him back on his feet. In addition to his poor walking skills, from what the shelter manager said, Chadwick was a master escape artist. His last owners had given him up after the dog dug under their backyard fence so many times, a whole section became upended and fell over.
Still, despite his stubborn disposition and general unruliness, I found myself liking the moody pooch quite a bit. He had some spunk to him. Sometimes he’d bark at the squirrels in the trees, but would pull away in the opposite direction at the same time, as if their fast movements and bushy tails scared him. I hadn’t ever seen a dog spooked by squirrels before, and it made me laugh. Plus, he had these large, hollow, sad-looking eyes, as if all he wanted in the world was a forever home and somebody to love him.
I was hoping that he’d get adopted soon, and that somebody would be able to look past his bad behavior to give the little pooch what he wanted.
“C’mon, Chadwick,” I said, tugging on the leash. “We’re only a few blocks away from the Humane Society. You can rest your paws then.”
He looked back up at me with those large, sorrow-filled eyes.
“C’mon,” I said in a higher pitched tone, pulling at the leash. “Let’s go—”
Just then, I noticed something pinned to the telephone pole that I hadn’t before.
I let Chadwick lie there for a moment longer while I peered at the poster. There was a grainy photo of a light-colored lab mix and words of desperation above it.
Missing! Please Help!
For some reason, the pooch looked familiar, though I couldn’t quite place him.
My baby Harley was last seen near the BrightStar Dog Park and Trail System. He ran away on a walk and is missing. Please call Julianne Redding at 541-788-9089. $500 reward. Desperate.
That was why the dog was so familiar-looking. Julianne Redding and her husband Hank had once been the co-owners of Calamity Jane’s, a high-end western food restaurant in downtown Christmas River. She had been the restaurant’s chef, and she was also the longest-standing Gingerbread Junction judge, having judged cookie houses for nearly 15 years. I’d seen her with her dog Harley several times when I walked Huckleberry in the BrightStar area, a residential area of upscale country homes that had nice recreation trails and a dog park too. Harley was a rambunctious, but friendly, yellow lab and pit bull mix. Since the restaurant had closed, and since her husband Hank died a couple years ago, I’d gotten the impression that Harley had taken on an even bigger importance in Julianne’s life.
I looked at the pooch in the photo again. He had his tongue out, and was l
ooking off into the distance like a proud conqueror.
I wondered how often people actually found the dogs or cats on these kinds of posters. Or if most of them didn’t end up getting hit by a car. Or eaten by a coyote. Or even a wolf, as there had been rumors this fall that one had been spotted on the north side of town.
Plenty of bad things could have happened to Harley. And Julianne might not ever find out what became of her lovable pup.
Poor Harley.
I glanced at the photo one last time, committing the image to memory in case I came across him. Then, I kneeled down and picked up Chadwick. The dog squirmed as I lifted him up from the sidewalk and set him back down on his paws.
He tried to collapse again, but I wasn’t having it this time.
“If you think I’m carrying you back, then you have another thing coming, Chadwick.”
I tugged on the leash, pulling him along, all the way back to the Humane Society.
Chapter 8
The parking lot of the high school was nothing short of a zoo.
I made yet another circle around the lot, stopping frequently for folks crossing the asphalt, headed for the auditorium. Everywhere I looked, the parking spaces were full. I saw Meredith Drutman get out of her car, which she had illegally parked in a handicapped space. It took everything I had not to glare at her as I drove by.
I was about to make yet another circle of the lot, having just about given up hope, when I saw the taillights of a green Subaru light up. I waited patiently as the lady driving the car backed up and pulled out. I took the space, smiling like the Cheshire Cat at getting such a good spot.
The kiddos were already on winter vacation, but the place was packed to the gills on account of it being the Gingerbread Junction registration day.
I sat in the car for a moment, pulling the application forms from my purse and reviewing them carefully, making sure I hadn’t missed anything.
The judges of the annual competition were notorious sticklers for the registration forms being filled out correctly. Because, as everybody knew, this wasn’t just any old gingerbread house competition. There was a nice chunk of change at stake, and perhaps more than that, there were reputations to be made and upheld by the annual contest. It was the fiercest of its kind, and folks from all over the Northwest came to compete in it. Everybody from high-end pastry chefs to weekend bakers entered the Junction. I had thought that because of the top prize being less this year, maybe not as many folks would bother entering. But judging by the full parking lot, this year’s cash prize was equally as tempting as two plane tickets to Maui.
I glanced one more time over the registration form, feeling a slight tug on my heart at seeing only one name under the “All Competitors” section.
I was going to miss having Kara as my Gingerbread Junction partner this year. She always brought such style and elegance to our projects, not to mention entertaining banter. But she had enough on her plate as it was. And I would just have to suck it up and do my best without her.
I got out of the car, walking carefully across the parking lot, trying to avoid any slick spots that the winter storm from the week before might have left.
I took a deep breath before walking into the building.
It felt good to be back here again.
I had missed this competition.
Chapter 9
“And you’re competing by yourself, is that right?”
I nodded as Morgan Brenneke, a retired history teacher with rhinestone-studded, thick-rimmed glasses smacked her gum and looked over my forms from behind a fold-out table.
I stepped closer to her, as I could feel the person behind me breathing down my neck and inching up impatiently. I glanced back. The line was practically out the door of the auditorium, despite the fact that there were nine volunteers helping folks get registered.
I hadn’t ever seen so many people on registration day before.
Morgan looked up at me and then stamped the application, shuffling it over into a stack of papers.
“All entries must be here by 11 a.m. on the day of the competition. If your entry is not here at that time, then you will be disqualified,” she rattled on in automation. “You may not receive any help from anyone else on your gingerbread house other than the people listed on your application. Which in your case, means you cannot get help from anybody else. That is grounds for disqualification. You must also attach an entry card to the front of the gingerbread house display on the day of the competition so that the judges can clearly see your name and the title of your work. If you fail to do this, than it may be grounds for—”
“Disqualification,” I said, finishing her lengthy speech for her.
She moved her head back like a chicken and raised an eyebrow at me, and I suddenly felt like I was one of her students about to get scolded for speaking out of turn.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I guess I’m just… excited about being back in the compet—”
I stopped mid-sentence as I overheard something at the table a few feet over.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up as I recognized the voice.
“Yes, sorry. I filled the application out so hastily, my handwriting is practically unreadable. That reads ‘Pepper Posey,’ and I’m competing by myself.”
My stomach plunged about fifteen stories.
Oh no.
I slowly turned my head, catching sight of that bright fiery red hair of hers.
I swallowed hard, and I felt my right eye start to twitch.
She was entering in this year’s competition?
Not only did she set up a pie shop right across the street from mine, but now she was entering in my competition? Trying to steal what was going to be my title?
Trying to—
“Oh, hi!” she said, noticing me staring at her. “I’m so glad to see you here. Are you entering too?”
I felt my right eye twitch again. The single word came out slow and labored.
“Yes.”
She half-smiled, but I knew what she was thinking.
She must have thought I was a downright weirdo. First that strange stop I’d made at her shop the day before when I wouldn’t come inside. Then my strange reaction when she came by my own shop. And now, me staring at her, my eye twitching and bulging.
Maybe I would have been more bothered by my odd behavior if I wasn’t so… livid.
I swallowed back some saliva that had pooled in the side of my mouth, and did my best to not let on just how insane I was feeling inside.
I cleared my throat.
“I enter every year. Well, at least just about every year,” I squeaked out.
“You know, I can’t say I have too much experience with building gingerbread houses, but I just figured, why not?” she said, tossing her hair back. “I’m new in town, and it sounded like a heck of a lot of fun to me. And I’ve always heard so much about the competition, so I figured I’d take a crack at it.”
I gnawed on my lower lip, trying to figure out how to respond.
What I really wanted to say to her was something along the lines of “Back off, fill-in-the-expletive-here.”
But instead, I just looked at her dumbly, and said:
“It is a lot of fun.”
She smiled, waiting for more, but the small talk tank was empty.
The smile on her face faded a little bit.
“Well, I, uh, I guess I better get back to registering,” she said. “But I’ll see you around sometime, neighbor.”
She patted me on the arm.
I nodded stiffly and then turned back toward my table.
I heard the lady behind me let out a great big sigh, as if I’d just ruined her whole afternoon by not registering in a timely fashion.
I shot her a sharp look over my shoulder, and then finished up with Mrs. Brenneke’s rules of conduct speech.
A few moments later, I was back in my car, having gotten out of that crowded auditorium as fast as my feet could carry me.
> I placed my head on the wheel, letting out a long, long groan.
Chapter 10
I was back in the kitchen, listening to Queens of the Stone Age again.
This time I was making a batch of hazelnut crusts for the Hazelnut Chocolate Liqueur pies, cutting butter and vegetable shortening into the flour and salt mixture before adding some toasted, crushed hazelnuts.
I was going through all the motions, but my mind was somewhere else completely.
Already, it had started.
The slowing of customers.
It was early December: prime tourist season for Christmas River. The dining room of my little pie shop should have been packed. I should have been struggling to make enough pies to keep the glass case out in front full.
Instead, the front of the house was nearly a ghost town. And I figured that for the first time in a long, long time, we’d have leftover pie today.
I stopped what I was doing and dusted my hands off on my apron. I went over to the side kitchen window, craning my neck to look out across the street.
Two employees of Pepper’s Pies were standing outside on the sidewalk. The girls couldn’t have been much older than 20, and both had long blond hair and were wearing pink aprons. They were wearing Santa hats and elf shoes, and were ringing jingle bells. They were handing out samples of pie and pastries to everybody who passed by, grinning sunnily as folks asked them questions about the products.
A chill ran down my spine: there was a huge crowd around the girls.
No wonder my dining room was mostly empty today.
I placed my forehead against the window.
“This is just…”
“Excuse me, Miss Cinnamon?”
I shot straight up, Tobias’s gravelly voice jarring me from my self-pity party.
“Didn’t mean to scare ya, miss,” he said. “Just, there’s this fella who’s out here wanting to see you.”
I leaned back to look at him.
“Did you get his name?”
