by Darci Hannah
“Filming?” I had no idea what she was talking about.
“You know, for his show, Windy City Eats? Only it’s not just Chicago he covers. Chevy travels all around Lake Michigan, highlighting local restaurants and festivals.”
“Betty said he was a food critic. She never mentioned anything about him hosting his own show . . . or that he was filming our Christmas cookie bake-off.” The thought made me nervous. It was just like Betty and Felicity to forget to mention this little fact to me. However, it was certain to bring a whole new level of competition to our small-town Christmas festival. I hoped Beacon Harbor could handle it. As far as foodie shows went, I didn’t know much about the Chicago food scene, and, quite frankly, I didn’t have much time to watch television these days. When I did, it was blissfully mindless viewing.
“That’s probably a good thing.” Ginger grinned. “Well, it will sure spice up things here for the holidays. What’s your signature cookie?” she thought to ask.
I shrugged. “I haven’t narrowed it down yet.”
“Oh, I know it’ll be good. Just so you’re aware, I’m making fudgy German chocolate cookies with coconut frosting. They’re an ode to German chocolate cake, only in a cookie. They’re a childhood favorite.”
“Those sound amazing,” I told her honestly. I’d never heard of German chocolate Christmas cookies with coconut frosting, but whatever they were, I knew I’d have to step up my game. “Thanks for the heads-up. I guess Felicity is the one to watch as well. Wonder what kind of cookie she’s going to bake?”
“Seeing as how she planned this whole cookie bake-off, she obviously knows what kind and has probably been practicing to perfect it. Think flashy and impractical, like her.”
We both giggled. “Glad I won’t be baking hers. And speaking of baking, I should get back to work.” The line of waiting customers had grown. “Good luck!”
It didn’t take long before I realized just how the Great Beacon Harbor Christmas Cookie Bake-Off was going to impact my plans for pulling off the perfect Christmas. I had already agreed to make Betty’s signature cookie, as a friend. Betty had sold me the old lighthouse and was the first friend I had made in the town. Baking twelve dozen Christmas cookies for her was the least I could do. However, when I began receiving calls from other frantic shop owners, I realized that Felicity Stewart, Ms. Tannenbaum herself, had sucked the holiday spirit out of the village.
“Who has time to bake extra cookies?” Ali Johnson complained over the phone. Ali and her husband, Jack, had retired to Beacon Harbor with the dream of opening a bookstore. They now owned the Book Nook, a vibrant little bookstore and one of the most charming shops in town. Ali told me that all her grandchildren were coming to spend Christmas with her and Jack. She didn’t have the energy to bake extra cookies for the store.
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “What did you have in mind?”
“Something easy. Jack loves those toffee bars. Do you know the ones I’m talking about?”
“A pan cookie with a buttery shortbread base, topped with melted milk chocolate and a sprinkling of toasted pecans?”
“Yes!” she cried into the phone. “Those are the ones.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Pan cookies were far less time consuming than drop cookies, cutouts, or Betty’s sophisticated linzer cookies. “Oh, Lindsey, you’re a lifesaver!” Ali cried. “I honestly didn’t know how we were going to manage. The holidays are always so busy for us, and Jack and I have only enough energy to dote on the kids.”
Kids. The thought of having little ones running around my home stopped me in my tracks. In New York, the thought had never crossed my mind. In Beacon Harbor, however, my mind instantly conjured the image of Rory Campbell.
“Lindsey?”
I cleared my throat. “Sorry. How does twelve dozen sound? If you run out, you can always order more.”
The moment I hung up with Ali, I got a call from the Beacon Harbor Theater. “Lindsey, this is Zach.” Zoe and Zach Bannon were a darling young couple in their late twenties. With only a dream and all their life savings, they had purchased the old, run-down Beacon Harbor Theater. They had renovated it before I moved to town and were working their hardest to turn it into a trendy local playhouse and event center. “I can’t bake cookies!” Zach proclaimed. “I mean, I literally can’t. Zoe and I don’t cook, let alone bake. We have a rice cooker and a microwave oven.” I could hear the panic in his voice.
“No problem,” I soothed, knowing that baking was not for everyone. Yet just because someone couldn’t bake didn’t mean that they should be excluded from the festivities. I picked up my pen and asked, “Are you placing an order for a signature cookie?”
“I know it’s not in the rules, but we’re hosting a holiday craft show and we want foot traffic. We need to be on that cookie list. Any suggestions?”
“I’ve got a good one for you. How about peanut butter cup cookies? They’re small, delicious, and they make a big statement. Nobody can resist them.”
I could hear Zach let out his breath on the other end of the phone. “Sounds great. You’re amazing, Lindsey. We owe you one.”
As the day progressed, I had added pecan crescents to my baking list for Christy Parks of the Bayside Boutique, and a dog-friendly Christmas cookie for Peggy Miller of Peggy’s Pet Shop & Pooch Salon. Peggy said she was going to buy store-bought cookies for her human customers, just to turn the tables. I applauded her decision. Coming up with a holiday dog cookie would be fun, not to mention that I had the perfect dog treat connoisseur to help me. Though, to be fair, Wellington would eat dead, bloated fish on the beach if he got the opportunity. But a holiday pup treat was just the thing to add to my baking list. I’d make extra to keep on hand at the Beacon.
After the flurry of phone calls, I glanced at my baking list. A sudden wave of anxiety hit me. In my haste to help everyone, I had overcommitted. Dear heavens, how was I going to fit it all in? I was only one person. I needed a miracle. And I still had the special orders for the day yet to make!
Leaving the café in the hands of my capable employees, I jumped back to the kitchen and set to work on the coffee cakes and pies. Ryan, dark-haired, thick-set, and charmingly witty, thankfully took over the lunch box orders, making delicious sandwiches and packing each in our tidy red boxes along with a cookie and fresh veggies and dip. The order was for a local quilting group that met at St. Michaels Presbyterian Church every Saturday.
Working like a woman possessed, I had just put the pies in the oven with the nearly done coffee cakes when Bill Morgan arrived. “Heard somebody got a big order of Christmas lights yesterday,” he said with a smile as he poked his head through the kitchen door. “Something smells good in here.”
Bill was a semiretired local who used to own a marina and boat repair shop. His son now ran the shop, giving Bill plenty of time to tinker around on his personal cars and boats. He and his yellow Labrador retriever, Dan, were regulars at the Beacon. “Oh!” I said, remembering that I’d hired him to hang the lights. I was relieved to see him. I left the kitchen and went to unlock the lighthouse door. “I put the boxes in here,” I said. The door was barely open when Wellington seized his moment. His large head shoved open the door just before he leapt, catching me off guard. I tripped, hit the floor, and got a slobber-bath on my face as Welly licked me. I’d been so busy I had forgotten to let him out for his lunchtime potty break.
“He needs to go out,” I told Bill.
“He can play with Dan while we work on the lights.”
“Great idea. After you illuminate the light tower, do you think you and Roger could hang some wreaths in the windows and fix the lights on the awning?”
“You mean those dangling candy lights out there?” Bill grinned knowingly. “Decent effort, Lindsey, but hanging Christmas lights is a tricky business. You should have waited for Rory.”
Argh! Why did everyone keep saying that? I got to my feet, brushed off my bum, and looked him straight in the eye. “Rory’s not here. He’s—”
/>
Bill held up a hand. “I know, ice fishing up north. Smart man. Well, since we’re here, we might as well finish the job. By the way”—he gave the café a once-over—“have you thought about putting a splash of Christmas in here?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling overwhelmed. The café needed decorating, something I was going to do tomorrow. It was Sunday. The Beacon was closed Sunday and Monday, giving me a little break and time to catch up on my baking schedule. “I plan on handling that tomorrow. First, I have an epic amount of baking to do.” The words were no sooner out of my mouth when I smelled something burning.
The coffee cakes!
I waved good-bye to Bill and dashed back to the kitchen. The pies hadn’t burned, thank goodness, but the coffee cakes were crispy. I wanted to cry. It wasn’t my best work. If I continued to burn things, the captain might chase me out too. Knowing the coffee cakes would be picked up at the end of the day to be enjoyed on Sunday, I threw them into the trash and started again.
I was in the kitchen all day, frantically trying to keep our regular bakery items in stock—cookies, brownies, cupcakes, and pies for the afternoon—while baking special orders. The Beacon was a hub of activity. Wendy and Alaina kept popping into the kitchen with special requests.
“Mrs. Bingham wants to order a chocolate peppermint sheet cake for her Christmas Eve party. Can we do that?” I prayed that I could and told Wendy to write it down.
Alaina popped in next. “Doc Riggles is asking if we can make a boozy mincemeat pie. Do you know what he’s talking about?”
“Yes. Nothing you’d be too fond of, I’m sure. Ask him if he’s a bourbon or a rum man.”
“Gotcha!” She came back a moment later, stating with finality, “Bourbon. Definitely bourbon. He’d like two next Wednesday for the hospital Christmas lunch.”
Bill had popped in to tell me I had run out of Christmas lights before they could finish the light tower and that they were going to the hardware store to pick up more. I nodded, marveling at how I could have run out of lights when I had ordered so many.
The wind had picked up. I could hear it rattle the windows and buffet the back door as I baked. A quick check of my weather app told me that a winter storm was on its way. Perfect, I thought as I popped a tray of sugar cookie cutouts into the oven.
Before I knew it, Ryan came into the kitchen. “Whoa,” he cried, coming to a halt at the sight of me. “You’re still baking? I guess when your name is Bakewell, you just can’t—” I held up a flour-covered hand to stop him.
“Yeah, not funny,” he apologized with a grimace. “Not now, at any rate. Sorry, Lindsey. I just came to tell you that everything’s been cleaned—the coffee machines, the cases, and the countertops have been wiped down, and the café’s been swept and scoured. I’ve turned the sign to closed, but you might want to make sure the doors are locked after we leave.”
I nodded and looked at the mess around me. I’d be up all night washing dishes.
It was time to quit baking. After my employees left, I washed my hands and took off my apron. I then walked into the café and opened the lighthouse door, allowing Wellington to join me. I knelt on the floor and gave him a big hug.
“Look at this place,” I said to him. His large, sensitive eyes looked at me as if he understood what I was saying, but I knew he didn’t have a clue. “I need to decorate the café. I need a Christmas tree. I need to start my holiday baking. I ran out of Christmas lights. Can you believe it?” I was close to tears. “And after so much planning! And I still need to get the lighthouse ready for our guests!” I let out a helpless sob. “Oh . . . Welly,” I hiccoughed. “And I need to bake hundreds of dozens of cookies and come up with my own signature cookie by Tuesday. But I’m so tired. I want to have dinner with Rory tomorrow—” At the mention of the name, his silky ears perked up, and he licked my face. “But how can I when I’m ready to collapse under a load of holiday pressure? My sugarplum dreams are killing me. Why do I do this to myself? I don’t even have an assistant baker. How am I going to pull it all off?”
The words were barely out of my mouth when the overhead lights dimmed and flickered. Any normal person would have thought it was due to the wind, but I knew better. So did Welly. His tail thumped with anticipation. The sweet smell of pipe smoke confirmed it. Although I couldn’t see him, I knew the ghost of Captain Willy Riggs was in the bakeshop.
I looked up at the lights. “If you’re listening, Captain, I need a miracle.”
I waited for a breath or two. Nothing. And really, what was I expecting? He was a ghost, not an angel. The lights stopped flickering and came back on, making me believe that maybe it was just the wind and my imagination. I felt like a fool for talking to a ghost. I gave a self-effacing laugh, wiped my tears, and got to my feet. That was when Wellington turned to the door.
With a suddenness that sent a wave of tingles down my spine, the bakery door burst open, ushering in a gust of icy wind and an ominous figure cloaked in black.
CHAPTER 7
Spooked would be the word for it if I’d had time to think. But I didn’t have time to think. My staff had all gone home, I had forgotten to lock the doors, and I had a pile of dishes yet to wash!
The moment the figure appeared in the doorway, Welly dashed forward, but instead of barking like the guard dog I wanted him to be, his tail swished in the air double-time. He greeted the stranger like an old friend, but I was certain he’d never met this person before.
“Well, hello there,” came a woman’s voice. A red mitten appeared from the depths of the snowy black cloak, ruffling Welly’s head in greeting. The mittens came off, and a moment later the stranger pulled back her hood, revealing a cascade of fluffy white curls, round blue eyes behind dainty glasses, and a chubby face smiling in greeting.
My jaw dangled a bit as my thudding heart began to settle down. I agreed with Wellington. This woman didn’t look like she posed a threat at all. In fact, I found her cheerful, petite presence disarming. “Can I help you?” I ventured.
She peered at the bakery cases. “Are you closed for the day, then? Should I come back tomorrow?”
“Are you here to place an order?” Although I smiled, my heart sank as I asked the question. I could hardly handle another order; yet, on the other hand, I could hardly say no to such a round, smiling face.
“Oh, no, no. I’m not here to place an order.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “You must be hungry. The cases have been wiped down, but I have plenty in back. Would you like a piece of coffee cake, or a sandwich perhaps?” I started for the kitchen until her white curls jiggled around her face.
“Oh, no, no,” she said again, quite cheerfully. “Very kind of you, but I’m not hungry.”
It dawned on me then. “You’re a cookie judge! You must be with that Chambers fellow. Are you here to scope out my bakeshop?”
She squinted her eyes and shook her head again. “I’m not a cookie judge, but I have eaten my share of them.” She winked and placed a hand on her ample waistline.
I found her adorable in a grandmotherly way. “Well, I’m stumped. Perhaps I should have asked, how can I help you?”
“Well, and that’s just the thing, dear. I think I might be able to help you. I was looking through the paper and saw your ad. Are you still in need of an assistant baker?”
Yes! Yes! Dear heavens, yes! I screamed in my head. Her timing couldn’t have been better. However, I didn’t want to appear desperate. I didn’t wish to chase this woman away. I couldn’t explain it, but she had the air of a baker. Sure, I’d been fooled before. But I really was desperate, and Wellington seemed to like her. He was sitting at her feet, his hefty weight pressing on her leg as he tried to lick her hand. One thing was clear, the woman was tolerant.
“Umm,” I began, pretending to think. “You know, I believe it is. When can you start?”
She scanned the Beacon with twinkling eyes. “Immediately.”
Carol Nichols, or Mrs. Nichols as I kept referring to h
er for some reason, hailed from up north but was in Beacon Harbor staying with an old friend. She loathed being idle, she told me, and had seen my ad in the paper. She proclaimed it was serendipitous. She had just found out about the Great Beacon Harbor Christmas Cookie Bake-Off and thought she could lend a hand. She had confessed that Christmas cookies were a passion of hers, having collected hundreds of recipes over the years. I loved her enthusiasm, hired her on the spot, and asked her to come in Sunday morning. We weren’t open, but it was the perfect time to show her the kitchen and maybe even have her help prep the bakery for the upcoming week. Mrs. Nichols was delighted, and we agreed to meet the following morning.
I felt indulgently lazy, sleeping in until seven and playing with Welly for an hour before heading to the bakery to meet Mrs. Nichols. It was only as I walked to the bakery that I realized my Christmas spirit had returned. Part of it was because Bill and Roger had finished hanging the Christmas lights. Although they had gone a bit crazy—which I appreciated—their efforts had paid off. The light tower was now covered in a swirl of red and white lights, making it look like a giant candy cane when lit. It was the masterpiece of my exterior illumination campaign. The whole lighthouse complex was a vision to behold, from the candy cane–lined walkway to the white lights outlining the lighthouse and bushes, to the family of twinkling white deer on the lawn. Clark Griswold would have been proud, if not a bit envious.
Another cause for joy was that Rory had gotten home late Saturday night and was coming over to take me to a live Christmas tree farm. I had never cut down my own tree. It had been a childhood dream of mine. I wanted a fresh-cut tree for the Beacon to wow our customers and to provide that last important element to their bakery experience—the scent of fresh-cut pine. The bakery would already be suffused with warm gingerbread, citrusy orange, tangy cranberry, heady cinnamon, and spicy cloves. The crisp scent of pine would bring it all home.
