The Bookshop on the Corner (A Gingerbread Cafe story)

by Rebecca Raisin

  “I also said that I thought I’d found paradise, especially when I locked eyes with the girl from The Bookshop on the Corner. I’d found her, the girl from my dreams, the one who stood in shadows when I slept at night, the girl I knew I would one day find and recognize immediately.”

  The staccato rhythm of my heartbeat drummed in my ears as I read Ridge’s article. It was sweet, and made all our eccentricities seem like something to aspire to.

  I exhaled all my frustrations. “But, Ridge, the twisted version of the article is still out there for the world to read. I don’t see how I can forgive that.”

  He searched my face, before standing close enough to me that I tingled from expectation. “Agreed. I can’t forgive it either. It goes against every moral I have. Every ethic. That’s why I’ve quit, and asked for a retraction otherwise there’ll be a lawsuit from me about using sources that were off the record.” He spoke in a rush, his words hitting me hard.

  He quit? The job that inspired him? That made him grow as a person?

  I frowned. “You quit? Just like that?”

  He folded his arms, and laughed suddenly. “Just like that. And it felt good! I can’t work for someone who does that. And if I lose you because of it, there will be hell to pay for that paper, trust me on that.”

  I was completely lost for words. I expected Ridge would be upset at leaving a job he loved but he seemed…happy, ecstatic even.

  “What will you do now?”

  He smiled, the big toothy smile of his. He must get them polished to be so bright. I made a mental note to ask him about his unnaturally white teeth and his sparkly eyes.

  “I’ll freelance. That, I can do anywhere. And I’ll travel for holidays, instead of for work…”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?” He cocked his head.

  “Yep.”

  “So…”

  “So, what?” I was buying time to work out how I felt about this new development. In parts I felt guilty that he’d left his job, and worried about his future, but mostly I realized I was relieved the man I loved still loved me. And was prepared to put his career on the line to prove it.

  “Talk about a plot twist,” I said, smiling.

  “How are we going with the resolution?”

  I threw my head back and laughed. Imagine spending a lifetime with someone who got you. So what if I lived in a fictional world ninety-five per cent of the time? He’d just have to meet me there.

  “If this were a romance novel, and I was the dashing misunderstood hero, and you were the ultra-sexy heroine, what would happen now?” Ridge asked, pulling me into an embrace.

  “Depends what genre the novel is,” I said, arching my brow.

  “Pretty sure it’s erotic,” he said and winked.

  ***

  Ridge and I held hands as we made our way to the Gingerbread Café the next morning. It was time to explain to the girls. I’d spent some time mulling over what Missy had said about bookmarking my life and realized she was right. It was so much easier to hide behind the covers of my books because there was no chance of being hurt that way. Books were my sanctuary, my escape and a place to dream without judgment or criticism. Maybe Ridge would be my happy ever after, and maybe he wouldn’t, but there was simply no way of knowing unless I threw caution to the wind, and lived out a real romance.

  “There they are!” CeeCee bellowed, waving us into the café. “So you lovebirds have sorted it out, I see?”

  I laughed, and pulled Ridge to a table. “We have. And we’re here to tell you what happened.”

  She brushed the comment off. “Never mind that, let me call Missy. She’s been sobbing her little heart out over the fact that you were going to end up a lonely old cat lady. I tried to tell her you don’t—”

  Lil walked over and put a hand over CeeCee’s mouth. “Save it for Spacebook, Cee. Morning, you two. You look like you could use a warm drink.” She winked at me and bustled off to make us something delectable.

  CeeCee stood in the café doorway and yelled down the street, “Missy, you need to see this!”

  Ridge and I held hands under the table and waited for Missy to come click-clacking down the pavement.

  She strolled into the café, her mascara leaving black traces under her eyes. “Missy, what is it now?” I asked, jumping up to go to her.

  “It’s these damn hormones; even magazine advertisements make me cry! Hi, Ridge,” she said, leaning down to peck him on the cheek, before giving me a tight squeeze. “You sorted it out?” Missy asked between choking sobs.

  Ridge smiled. “We did. And I owe you all a huge apology; you see, what happened was—”

  CeeCee interrupted. “Ridge, you save your explanations. If Sarah’s happy, we’re happy. We knew it musta been some kind of misunderstandin’.”

  My friends sat at the table with us, and started gabbing. CeeCee held up her hand and said, “Wait! Wait! Hush up for a minute.” She closed her eyes, and shrieked, “I seen it!”

  Lil shook CeeCee. “Don’t go and scare him off now.”

  CeeCee opened her eyes wide. “You going to live in Paris awhile, o’, yes, you are. The two o’ you. Not right now, but soon. ” She slapped the table hard. “And I ain’t never been wrong yet!”

  Ridge threw me a questioning glance. I shook my head. I’d tell him all about CeeCee’s second sight later. I melted into Ridge’s shoulder as we listened to CeeCee talk animatedly about our future as if it were mapped out as sure as the stars.

  I squeezed Ridge’s hand under the table and when I closed my eyes I could see us strolling down the streets of Paris towards a bookshop that wasn’t my own. I’d nuzzle into Ridge’s arm as he recited poetry in French, the wind carrying the exotic words away before I could grasp their meaning.

  Maybe it was time to step out of the shadows of my books, just for a little while, and see where love would take me. Paris, the city of love, seemed a good place to start.

  Loved The Bookshop on the Corner?

  Then turn the page to escape back to Ashford in

  Christmas at the Gingerbread Café

  Chapter One

  Amazing Grace blares out from the speakers above me, and I cry, not delicate, pretty tears, but great big heaves that will puff up my eyes, like a blowfish. That song touches me, always has, always will. With one hand jammed well and truly up the turkey’s behind I sing those mellifluous words as if I’m preaching to a choir. Careful, so my tears don’t swamp the damn bird, I grab another handful of aromatic stuffing. My secret recipe: a mix of pork sausage, pecans, cranberries and crumbled corn bread. Punchy flavors that will seep into the flesh and make your heart sing. The song reaches its crescendo, and my tears turn into a fully-fledged blubber-fest. The doorbell jangles and I realize I can’t wipe my face with my messy hands. Frantic, I try and compose myself as best I can.

  “Jesus Mother o’ Mary, ain’t no customers comin’ in here with this kinda carry-on! It’s been two years since that damn fool left you. When you gonna move on, my sweet cherry blossom?”

  CeeCee. My only employee at the Gingerbread Café, a big, round, southern black woman, who tells it like it is. Older than me by a couple of decades, more like a second mother than anything. Bless her heart.

  “Oh, yeah?” I retort. “How are you expecting me to move on? I still love the man.”

  “He ain’t no man. A man wouldn’t never cheat on his wife. He’s a boy, playing at being a man.”

  “You’re right there.” Still, it’s been two lonely years, and I ache for him. There’s no accounting for what the heart feels. I’m heading towards the pointy end of my twenties. By now, I should be raising babies like all the other girls in town, not baking gingerbread families in lieu of the real thing.

  I’m distracted from my heartbreak by CeeCee cackling like a witch. She puts her hands on her hips, which are hidden by the dense parka she wears, and doubles over. While she’s hooting and hollering, I stare, unsure of what’s so damn amusing. “Are you finished?
” I ask, arching my eyebrows.

  This starts her off again, and she’s leg slapping, cawing, the whole shebang.

  “It’s just…” She looks at me, and wipes her weeping eyes. “You look a sight. Your hand shoved so far up the rear of that turkey, like you looking for the meaning of life, your boohooing, this sad old music. Golly.”

  “This is your music, CeeCee. Your gospel CD.”

  She colors. “I knew that. It’s truly beautiful, beautiful, it is.”

  “Thought you might say that.” I grin back. CeeCee’s church is the most important thing in her life, aside from her family, and me.

  “Where we up to?” she says, taking off her parka, which is dusted white from snow. Carefully, she shakes the flakes into the sink before hanging her jacket on the coat rack by the fire.

  “I’m stuffing these birds, and hoping to God someone’s going to buy them. Where’s the rush? Two and a bit weeks before Christmas we’re usually run off our feet.”

  CeeCee wraps an apron around her plump frame. “It’ll happen, Lil. Maybe everyone’s just starting a little later this year, is all.” She shrugs, and goes to the sink to wash her hands.

  “I don’t remember it ever being this quiet. No catering booked at all over the holidays, aside from the few Christmas parties we’ve already done. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

  “So, we push the café more, maybe write up the chalkboard with the fact you’re selling turkeys already stuffed.” This provokes another gale of laughter.

  “This is going to be you in a minute—” I indicate to the bird “—so I don’t see what’s so darn amusing.”

  “Give me that bowl, then.”

  We put the stuffing mix between us and hum along to Christmas music while we work. We decorated the café almost a month ago now. Winter has set in. The grey skies are a backdrop for our flashing Christmas lights that adorn the windows. Outside, snow drifts down coating the window panes and it’s so cozy I want to snuggle by the fire and watch the world go by. Glimmering red and green baubles hang from the ceiling, and spin like disco balls each time a customer blows in. A real tree holds up the corner; the smell from the needles, earth and pine, seeps out beneath the shiny decorations.

  In pride of place, sitting squarely in the bay window, is our gingerbread house. It’s four feet high, with red and white candy-cane pillars holding up the thatched roof. There’s a wide chimney, decorated with green and red jelly beans, ready for Santa to climb down. And the white chocolate front door has a wreath made from spun sugar. In the garden, marshmallow snowmen gaze cheerfully out from under their hats. If you look inside the star-shaped window, you can see a gingerbread family sitting beside a Christmas tree. The local children come in droves to ogle it, and CeeCee is always quick to invite them in for a cup of cocoa, out of the cold.

  I opened up the Gingerbread Café a few years back, but the town of Ashford is only a blip on the map of Connecticut, so I run a catering business to make ends meet. We cater for any party, large or small, and open the café during the week to sell freshly made cakes, pies, and whatever CeeCee’s got a hankering for. But we specialize in anything ginger. Gingerbread men, cookies, beverages, you name it, we’ve made it. You can’t get any more comforting than a concoction of golden syrup, butter, and ginger baking in the oven in the shape of little bobble-headed people. The smell alone will transport you back to childhood.

  CeeCee’s the best pie maker I’ve ever known. They sell out as quickly as we can make them. But pies alone won’t keep me afloat.

  “So, you hear anything about that fine-looking thing, from over the road?” CeeCee asks.

  “What fine thing?”

  She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Damon, his name is. The one opening up the new shop, remember? You know who I mean. We went over there to peek just the other day.”

  “I haven’t heard boo about him. And who cares, anyhow?”

  “You sure as hell wouldn’t be bent over dead poultry, leaking from those big blue eyes of yours, if he was snuggled in your bed at night.”

  I gasp and pretend to be outraged. “CeeCee! Maybe you could keep him warm—you ever think of that?”

  “Oh, my. If I was your age, I’d be over there lickety-split. But I ain’t and he might be just the distraction you need.”

  “Pfft. The only distraction I need is for that cash register to start opening and closing on account of it filling with cold hard cash.”

  “You could fix up those blond curls of yours, maybe paint your nails. You ain’t got time to dilly-dally. Once the girls in town catch on, he’s gonna be snapped right up,” says CeeCee, clicking her fingers.

  “They can have him. I still love Joel.”

  CeeCee shakes her head and mumbles to herself. “That’s about the dumbest thing I ever heard. You know he’s moved on.”

  I certainly do. There’s no one in this small town of ours that doesn’t know. He sure as hell made a mockery of me. Childhood sweethearts, until twenty-three months, four days and, oh, five hours ago. He’s made a mistake, and he’ll come back, I just know it. Money’s what caused it, or lack thereof. He’s gone, hightailed it out of town with some redheaded bimbo originally from Kentucky. She’s got more money than Donald Trump, and that’s why if you ask me. We lost our house after his car yard went belly up, and I nearly lost my business.

  “Lookie here,” CeeCee says. “I think we’re about to get our first customer.”

  The doorbell jangles, and in comes Walt, who sells furniture across the way.

  “Morning, ladies.” He takes off his almost-threadbare earmuff hat. I’ve never seen Walt without the damn thing, but he won’t hear a word about it. It’s his lucky hat, he says. Folks round here have all sorts of quirks like that.

  “Hey, Walt,” I say. “Sure is snowing out there.”

  “That it is. Mulled-wine weather if you ask me.”

  CeeCee washes her hands, and dries them on her apron. “We don’t have none of that, but I can fix you a steaming mug of gingerbread coffee, Walt. Surely will warm those hands o’ yours. How’d you like that?”

  “Sounds mighty nice,” he says, edging closer to the fire. The logs crackle and spit, casting an orange glow over Walt’s ruddy face.

  Chapter Two

  CeeCee mixes molasses, ginger, and cinnamon and a dash of baking soda. She sets it aside while she pours freshly brewed coffee into a mug. “You want cream and sugar, Walt?”

  “Why not?” Walt says amiably.

  CeeCee adds the molasses mix to the coffee, and dollops fresh cream on top, sprinkling a dash of ground cloves to add a bit of spice. “Mmm hmm, that’s about the best-looking coffee I ever seen. I’m going to have to make me one now.”

  “So, I guess I’m stuffing these birds by myself?” I say, smiling.

  “You got that right.” She winks at me, and walks to the counter handing Walt the mug. He nods his thanks and drinks deeply, smacking his lips together after each gulp.

  “What can I get for you?” CeeCee asks.

  “Janey sent me in for a ham, and a turkey, not too big but not too little, neither.” He rubs his belly for emphasis.

  “Sure thing,” CeeCee says. “How’s about one with Lil’s special stuffing? Janey won’t need to do a thing, ’cept put it in the oven, and baste it a few times.”

  “Yeah? Then maybe we’ll have a peaceful Christmas morning.”

  “Doubt that,” CeeCee says. “If she can’t get all het up at her husband Christmas Day, it just ain’t Christmas.”

  “You think?” Walt tilts his head, and smiles. “So, you girls still busy, what with the new guy, an’ all?”

  I look sharply at Walt. “What do you mean?”

  “I heard he’s selling turkeys and hams, just like you.”

  “Say what!” CeeCee says, barely audible with her head pushed deep into the chest fridge. All I see is her denim-clad rump poking out.

  “What, you don’t know?” Walt says and averts his eyes suddenly sheepish. />
  “But I thought he was a small goods shop?” My heart hammers — the last thing I need is more competition.

  “Yeah, he is—what did you think small goods was?”

  I sigh inwardly. “Well, small goods, with an emphasis on the small —”

  CeeCee butts in. “Maybe a few cheeses, some o’ that fancy coffee. What, he gonna start making gingerbread houses too now, and pumpkin pies, and whatnot?” She places her hands on her hips, and is getting up a full head of steam. “That just ain’t how we do business round here.”

  Walt scratches the back of his neck. “I thought you knew. He’s been advertising in the paper…”

  I castigate myself for not being more observant, but I don’t want to make Walt feel any more uncomfortable than he already is.

  “That’s OK, Walt. I might have a little chat with him, later on. CeeCee made a nice batch of apple pies yesterday. I’m going to give you one for Janey. You tell her we appreciate her custom, OK?”

  CeeCee adds a pie to the box with Walt’s ham and turkey. “Nice big chunks of apple, too. You make sure you heat it up first, OK?”

  He takes his wallet out and hands CeeCee some cash. “Thank you, girls. She surely will appreciate that.”

  “You have a good Christmas, if we don’t see you before,” I say, nodding to him.

  “Same goes for you. And thanks, I hope you sort it all out.”

  “Don’t you even think of it,” CeeCee says.