Christmas Wishes Part 3

“You too, Olivia. Tell that sleepy husband o’ yours I said bye, now.” Cee ambles outside, the door blowing closed behind her.

With an internal sigh, I sit back down. Beside me, Damon’s grinning as if he’s just won the lottery, oblivious to my mood. He’s tapping his feet, and laughing, jittery with happiness like some kind of jumping bean. He stands again, moves to his father and shakes his shoulder. “Dad, you’re here to get to know Lil!” George starts, and opens his eyes.

Damon chuckles. “Come on, old man, let me show you Lil’s window display. It’s a work of art.” Don’t leave me, I silently scream, but watch dumbstruck as they put their coats on and head back outside to admire it from the street.

They walk out to the dark night before Olivia continues: “As I was saying, I’m sure you didn’t mean to, but somehow you’ve neglected to invite some of the Guthrie family… I know you probably don’t know us well enough, but it’s a little rude to leave them out.”

With a deep breath I counter, “Oh? We wanted a small, simple wedding. We’ve only invited close friends and family. Damon hasn’t seen the extended family in years, even decades, despite them living around here — we figured it wouldn’t be a problem.”

Olivia frowns and shakes her head. “Exactly — we haven’t seen some of them for a long time, so now’s the perfect opportunity to right that. No matter how simple you intend it to be.”

The Guthrie family tree is rich in history as well as funds. There are branches of Guthries on the outskirts of town but we rarely see them. Occasionally they’ll attend CeeCee’s church and she’ll bring news back of more Guthrie babies being baptized; other than that, they don’t drop into town.

I scratch the back of my neck, feeling lost and alone all at once; without being able to pinpoint why, I think Olivia is baiting me. “We’ve only got so much room and I’d rather, we’d rather,” I correct, “it more intimate with just close family and friends.”

Olivia does a little chortle again, as if I’m a child to be placated. “Damon won’t tell you this, Lily, because he knows you want a small wedding, but he would prefer his family there. All of them. I do hope it won’t be a problem… I can always help. It’s late notice but I’m sure we can find a bigger venue, even a better chef, for that matter.”

My breath catches. Would Damon seriously not have mentioned he wants the entire Guthrie clan at our wedding? And what’s the talk about a better venue? Another chef? Glancing over to the window, I watch him talk with his dad. He’s so animated, his face lit up with joy. They stand under the awning; Damon laughs, and his father pats him on the back. I can’t hear what they’re saying but happiness radiates from them both.

I mentally shake myself. I’m not going to sit here like a bamboozled fool. “Damon’s been involved every step of the way with the wedding planning, and he’s never once mentioned that he wanted to invite more people. And to be honest, Olivia, the venue is perfect and we’re very lucky to have the chef we do. He doesn’t usually cater weddings.”

Olivia gathers her coat tighter. “Perhaps Damon doesn’t know how to tell you. But I’m his mother and I know my son. Known him his whole life, in fact.” Again she gives me that huge smile as if it’ll take the sting out of her words.

An awkward silence hangs between us and I figure I’m going to have to try and compromise so we don’t so much as get off on the wrong foot, as outright stagger. “Of course, Olivia, if it’s important to you, and to Damon, we can try to accommodate more people.”

Guillaume will throw a fit, but somehow we’ll have to make it work. I’ll get CeeCee to ask him. Damon must be catching his death outside, and for once I wish the display window wasn’t such a talking point.

Perhaps Olivia just needs to be included more; then she’ll see for herself how happy Damon is here and that our wedding, though simple, is going to be lovely. “Olivia, I’d love some help in choosing the centerpieces. I wanted poinsettias, maybe in rectangle planters, sort of Christmassy, and in keeping with the color theme. We’ve been so busy in the café the last few days the wedding preparations have kind of been pushed to the side.”

“Your wedding has been pushed to the side? Your wedding?” she says, not managing to hide the incredulous edge to her voice.

“Not my wedding, our wedding. This is the busiest time of year for us — for all of us.” I indicate to Damon outside too. “And there’s no question work comes first, hence the need for a simple wedding.”

The Christmas carols playing overhead finish, and we’re suddenly sitting in silence.

Olivia says with a pained expression, “I don’t mean to sound rude, but why on earth would you have a wedding at this time of year if you don’t have time to plan it?”

Holding in an exasperated sigh, I say, “We decided to get married one year to the day we started out as a couple. And because it’s when all of my family would be home, and when Charlie would be holidaying here.” I’m sure she knows all of this. I’ve heard Damon on the phone to her a number of times, discussing the wedding, and the choices he’s made.

“I do wonder if you’ve thought this through. While a snowy wedding is a lovely thought, you’re taking people away from their warm homes at Christmas.”

I’m on the back foot every single time Olivia opens her mouth. If it were anyone else I would have told them straight up that they were pushing my buttons. But out of respect, I bite back on any remarks that aren’t friendly. I try once more to reassure her. “It’s Christmas Eve, not Christmas Day, and we’ve only invited those we’d normally spend time with over Christmas anyway. They’d be happy if our wedding was in the middle of a field with a lame horse for a witness because they care about us. There’s not much more to say about it. I’d love you to be involved in any planning that’s left, but if not that’s fine too.”

The doorbell jingles as Damon and his dad walk inside. “Mighty fine window you’ve got there,” George says.

“Thank you,” is all I manage.

George rubs his gloved hands together and says, “If you ladies are finished discussing the upcoming nuptials, we might call it a night. It’s been a long day of travel for us.”

Damon stands and says, “Dad’s right, you must be tired, Mother. How about I take you to our house and Lil can finish up here and meet us later?”

They’re staying at our house? It’ll be a squeeze when Charlie arrives. It’s only a small cottage up the road from the Gingerbread Café.

“Damon,” Olivia says, her voice saccharine, “we wouldn’t like to impose. We’d planned on staying with Abe Guthrie — he’s not too far from Ashford. We have decades of catching up to do.” She glances squarely at me and I manage to ignore the jibe.

“Right, Mother.” He grins. “How about I drive you there now, and we can meet for dinner tomorrow night?”

George pipes up, “We’re busy tomorrow night. We went ahead and promised Abe that we’d spend the night with his family, but how about the following evening?”

Olivia nods. “I don’t suppose there are any restaurants here yet?” She does a half-gasp, and laughs, as if she can’t believe she said that out loud.

George and Damon join in the laughter. I don’t see the funny side, but maybe that’s because it sounded like an affront to Ashford. Damon’s more relaxed and carefree than I’ve ever seen him, so I press on, hoping I’ve imagined this strange undercurrent from Olivia. “Why don’t we have dinner here at the café? I’ll knock something up.” It’s easier to cook at the café, and bigger than the kitchen at home.

“Perfect,” Damon says. “I’ll prepare the food, Lil. I’m doing a cooking demonstration so I’ll make extra.”

Olivia rubs Damon’s back as moms do. “Lovely, darling. We’ve certainly missed your cooking. Haven’t we, George?”

“That we have.” George steps forward and shakes my hand. “We’d love to meet your parents, Lil. Maybe you could extend them an invitation too?”

“Of course,” I say. “Looking forward to it.” Mamma and Dad have been itching to meet Damon’s parents. Mamma never stops with the queries about what Olivia’s like, and if George really collects vintage cars. Things I have no clue about. Mamma visits Damon’s shop regularly to sit at the coffee bar, and chat with him and her friends, so it feels almost as if she knows more about Olivia and George than I do. She’s probably grilled poor Damon daily for information. Small-town folk, we’re kind of nosey like that.

George says, “Maybe you should invite CeeCee too, Lil? From what we hear she’s part of the family.”

His sentiment stuns me for a moment. While Olivia is formal, George is relaxed and warm, so much like Damon. “She is. She’s like a mother and best friend all rolled into one. I’ll ask her along.”

Olivia fusses with her hair again. “It was lovely to meet you, Lil. We’re blessed to have you in our family. You just let me know what else I can do to help.” She beams at me before hugging me tight. In front of Damon she’s all sweetness and light. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe she is just worried about Damon, and getting to know me will allay some of her concerns.

I pull at the bottom of my sweater. “It was great to meet you. At dinner perhaps we can go over some of the wedding preparations.”

George yawns, and makes a show of stretching. His face is haggard from lack of sleep.

“I better get the old man home.” Damon indicates to George. “You’ll be OK?”

“I have the truck out back. I’ll be fine.” The thought of going home makes me smile in spite of it all. A steaming-hot bath always makes everything better.

Damon gives my jean-clad rear a cheeky tap before lacing his arm through Olivia’s.

George says, “See you the day after tomorrow, Lil. Damon’s given me a talking-to about falling asleep, my apologies.” He nods goodbye.

Once the door blows shut, I blow out a breath.

Finding the cordless phone, I punch in CeeCee’s number and fill her in to see what she makes of it. Once I get the whole sorry story out, I say, “So what do you think? Am I overreacting? She was sweet as cherry pie while dropping little bombs on me. Am I reading it wrong?”

“I sure as shootin’ don’t know, Lil. Maybe she’s just thinking of her grandbaby, and it’s only natural that she’d want her son closer to his daughter, but that ain’t your fault, Lil. Damon’s the one who made that choice when he moved here. And he ain’t a fool — he planned a life here when he opened up that shop o’ his.”

I stand closer to the fire, which has burnt down; the glowing orange embers still warm the backs of my legs. “Yeah, I know. But she made it seem like he was running away from something, and that he’d move back to New Orleans once the dust had settled. I felt…like some kind of country hick rebound or something.”

“That man loves you, Lil. Loves you something silly. I don’t want to hear you talkin’ that way, ’cause it ain’t the truth.” She clucks her tongue. “You gonna need to tell Damon what she said.”

I grimace at the thought. “But, Cee, he was so happy to see them, so excited, like a kid or something. I don’t want to ruin that high. Maybe I’ll just wait and see what the next visit brings.”

She sighs dramatically down the line. “I don’t think keeping this to yourself is a good idea, Lil. But see what happens at dinner. Maybe she was out of sorts after a long-haul flight, who knows?”

“Yep, maybe that’s it.”

“You ain’t a pushover, so stand your ground, an’ be firm. Don’t let her tell you how Damon feels. He ain’t the type of man who bottles things up.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose as a headache looms. “I guess.”

“Don’t worry that pretty head o’ yours. I’ll be here for you, Lil. Maybe she was expecting some kind of huge fancy everythin’ wedding… She just needs to get to know you better.”

Even though our wedding is deemed simple, it doesn’t mean it’s not going to be pretty. CeeCee and I have spent an age poring over websites for ideas. We’ve found bride and groom knife and fork sets that say: Mr. and Mrs. And the cutest recipe for gingerbread wedding favors decorated like a bride and groom. Small touches that have special meaning.

“Do you think Damon really does want to invite all those other family members?” He’s often talked about cousins, and uncles who live not too far from Ashford, but he’s never made any attempt to visit them, or even call them on the telephone as far as I know. I can’t see him suddenly wanting them at the wedding. Or have I unintentionally pushed him into agreeing to keep the guest list small? As Olivia said, she’s known Damon his whole life and I’ve only known him a year. Already tonight I’ve seen a different Damon, one who seems more energetic and animated, quick to laugh, and more…himself.

CeeCee says, “I don’t rightly know, Lil. What I think is it’s late, you’ve had a long day, and all this worry ain’t gonna change a thing. Sleep on it, OK?”

The night has gone eerily quiet, with only the small crackle of the dying fire to keep me company. My earlier pre-wedding flush has faded away, replaced by a nervousness I can’t quite shake. “You’re right, CeeCee. A good night’s sleep will help.”

“Go home. Don’t give it another thought.”

“OK.”

“Night, sugar plum.”

“Night.” I hang up, feeling slightly mollified. CeeCee’s got a way of putting things in perspective, and I think maybe I’ve read it all wrong. I gather up the mop that leans against the table and swish it in the sudsy water, before finishing off the floors.

After I’ve packed the cleaning equipment away, I head on out back to my office. I open the drawer and pull out a jewelry box. Inside are wedding gifts I had made especially for our moms and my bridal party. Olivia’s gift sits on top, a silver locket inscribed, ‘Thank you for raising my Mr. Right.’ With a sigh, I wonder if it’s something she’ll like. Somehow after seeing the way she dresses, I can’t imagine her wearing a silver locket, with a gushy sentimental inscription. Instead, I look for Charlie’s gift, a necklace with a pearl pendant, and a card that reads: Charlie, you may know the old saying a bride needs something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, for good luck on her wedding day. But all I need is you. Will you be my flower girl?

I smile, thinking of Charlie’s radiant face, and how excited she’ll be to find out she’s part of the wedding. It was Damon’s idea to surprise her. When she arrives, the day before the wedding, she’ll walk into her bedroom to find a mink-colored gown hanging in her closet, with a faux-fur stole to match. Elegant little golden slippers sit at the foot of her bed, and a diamanté-encrusted clutch that glitters in the dim light. I want Charlie to feel special, and loved, not only included in our big day, but a huge part of it.

Am I the reason Damon lives so far away from his daughter? My heart hurts just thinking of it. I pack the box away. Would Damon keep his feelings secret? And if so, why?

After locking up the café, I jog to my beat-up truck out back. The icy wind takes my breath away, and I shiver, despite wearing a thick waterproof parka, and knitted scarf. The door of the truck creaks as I pull it open and jump up. Soon, I promise myself, I’ll buy a new truck. It whines as I reverse, but I thank my lucky stars it even started. I only live up the street a way, but with all our late nights, and early mornings, there’s no way I’m walking in a blizzard. Usually I have Damon for company on the sixty-second journey home, but he must have jogged home and picked up his car to ferry his parents around. As I wait for the truck to warm up, I idly wonder if he’s back from dropping them off yet.

Finally the old truck sputters to life, so I loop to the main street. The town is deserted with only the Christmas lights to keep me company. Pushing my foot on the brake, I stare into Walt’s furniture shop, which is directly across the road from the Gingerbread Café. It’s the only window bare of flashing lights and shiny tinsel, when it’s usually the opposite: the most decorated shop in town, with a life-size Santa inside, sitting on one of Walt’s handmade chairs.

But now, it looks bereft, no decorations, and empty of Walt’s one-of-a-kind furniture, and empty of the cheerful man and wife who’d usually be dashing around town at this time of year organizing the town’s celebrations. CeeCee goes regularly to visit them in Springfield, and always comes back a smaller version of herself, as if her sadness is somehow shrinking her.

Tearful, I push the accelerator down, and head slowly home along the slick wet street.

As I pull into my driveway the porch light bathes the house in a cheery glow. Damon must be back. Fairy lights shine through the lace curtains, flashing green and red like little pulses.

I don’t bother locking the truck, and head inside. Heat from the fire hits me as soon as I cross the threshold, and I race to stand in front of it, dropping my parka on a footstool, and unwinding my scarf as I go. In the corner of our small lounge sits a naked Christmas tree. The smell of the pine needles permeates the small room, and I gaze at it, picturing how it’ll look dressed in decorations. Being a festive-season fanatic, I’d normally have hung the ornaments a month ago in my excitement, but this year I want to wait for Charlie to do it. Her little cherub face will light up once she sees the gingerbread snowmen with bright silver button eyes and half-moon smiles that I baked and strung together to make a garland.

“Damon?”

“Glass of wine?” His voice carries out from the kitchen.

Carrying two glasses of red wine, he turns into the small room, and my breath hitches. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of gawking at him. Somehow the man is always tanned no matter what the season, blessed with the kind of olive skin I’d have to bake myself to achieve. But it’s every little nuance of him, the way he walks, the sound of his voice, right down to the little muscle that runs up his forearm.

He smiles his big old warm smile that makes me melt like marshmallow in a fire.

“Red wine, OK?” I nod and take the proffered glass. I take a huge swig before catching myself. Delicacy isn’t my thing.

He embraces me, and nuzzles into my neck. The heat from the fire and his breath on my skin is almost enough to make me swoon. “You taste like icing sugar,” he says.

“I try my best.”

“So,” he says, “aren’t they great?” Before I can respond he continues speaking in a rush. “Dad loved your window display, and Cee’s eggnog. He’s looking forward to meeting your parents, and having dinner. And Mother said she’s all set to help out with the smaller details of the wedding, which will free you up for the café.”

“I’m not so—”

“She sang your praises the whole drive out to Abe’s place. And don’t worry, I’ll do dinner the day after tomorrow. I know you’ve got a few orders due. It’ll be nice to cook for my parents. You forget how much they mean to you sometimes. Seeing them again has made me realize how important family is. And it’ll be great for Charlie to spend some time with them too, when she gets here.”

“Y-yes, it’ll be great for Charlie…” I manage to stammer, my heart sinking while Damon looks as bright as I’ve ever seen him.

Chapter Three

Eight days

When I wake this next morning, I’m alone. I touch Damon’s half of the bed; the sheets are cold. Rolling out of bed, I find my robe and wrap it around me. The house is warm; he’s stoked up the fire before he left.

Walking through the small hallway to the kitchen the air is rich with the scent of roasted coffee beans. I must have slept through his fancy coffee machine as it gargled its way into life this morning. It usually vibrates, and churns so forcefully, it’s almost as if the ground is shifting.

There’s a note by the kettle, where Damon knows I go each morning to make my much easier instant coffee.

Lil,

I left to have breakfast with my parents, I didn’t want to wake you, you were completely zonked.

Damon. xxx

I laugh in spite of myself. Zonked is a nice way of saying my mouth was probably hanging open, my hair a tangled mess. But I wonder why he didn’t wake me regardless. Maybe he wanted time alone with his parents? Half relieved, I dress quickly and head out front.

The truck takes for ever to start. I sit there with my breath fogging up the windscreen; eventually it sputters to life, and I reverse slowly on the icy driveway.

The main street is dark as I chug along, and head around the back of the café to park. A strip of light peeps out under the back door of the café. CeeCee. I hurry inside.

“There you are, sugar plum.” She pours a cup of thick golden syrup into a bowl, and mixes it through the other ingredients.

“Gingerbread?” I ask.

“Gingerbread cakes,” she replies. “With lemon sugar icing, and candied fruit.”

“Let me help.” I wash my hands and don my apron. CeeCee’s laid the bench with the ingredients to make candied fruit, so I begin by chopping cherries in half and taking the pith out.

“I take it you didn’t sleep on it like I told you?” She sizes me up over the rim of her glasses.

I continue with the cherries, trying to be delicate so I don’t squash their flesh. “I slept fine.”

She harrumphs. “Glory be, those bags under your eyes are so big I could carry my shopping home in ’em!”

I give her a rueful smile. “That so? I guess Olivia gave me a lot to think about, that’s all.”

She clucks her tongue. “Like what?”

“Like what if Damon’s only staying here because of me?”

“Child! O’ course he is! That man loves you! But he was set on staying here from the moment he opened that shop door. Don’t you go obsessing over every little thing ’cause you getting the fever…” She purses her lips.

“What fever?”

“Mmm hmm, you getting the wedding fever. Don’t think I don’t know!” She waggles her finger at me.

Taking a pot from the hook above the stove, I mix sugar, honey and water and bring it to the boil. “What the heck is wedding fever supposed to mean?”

“You getting the jitters.” She puts her big brown palm up. “Don’t you start backchatting me neither. I know what you gonna say, so don’t. You need to take some deep breaths and trust in the love you have for each other. Weddings…they send everyone a little cuckoo.”

I laugh, picturing myself mopping my brow struck by some so-called wedding fever. “You’re right, Cee. It’s just…she made these off-the-cuff comments like Damon hates small towns, and stuff that’s the complete opposite to what he said to me, you know, so one of us is wrong about Damon…”

“Who’s been with Damon almost every day for the last year?”

“Me.”

“Then you ain’t the one who’s wrong.”

I shrug. “Maybe.” I take an orange from the bowl, and peel it; the citrus scent is almost like a tincture.

“Hurry along with that fruit now. I’m going to bake these gingerbread cakes, and you still need to boil that batch in sugar syrup before we can dry it out in the oven.”

I cut the orange peel into small slivers, and add it to the pot, along with some lemon rind, and some pineapple skin. Once the batch is boiled, absorbing the sweetness of the sugar syrup, we’ll dry the slivers in the oven. Then we’ll dust them with sugar crystals to sit atop the gingerbread cakes, a little shimmery goodness that’ll make them sparkle under the fridge lights.

The gingerbread cakes cool on the bench; the scent of spicy ginger makes my mouth water. We’ve moved on to making cake pops. They’ve proved to be popular among the locals, adults and children alike. CeeCee’s all set on decorating the chocolate pops with red sanding sugar and tiny snowflakes she’s made from white chocolate. There’s nothing sweeter than spending an age trying to get the cake pops to look uniform, and then customers pop the dainty mouthful in and, just like that, they’re gone. The perfect bite-sized treat.