Christmas Wedding At The Gingerbread Café

I flash him a grin. He’s right. I should be focusing on the wedding, not getting all angsty over the business side of things. He takes my hand and laces his fingers through mine.

It won’t be long before friends and family arrive in Ashford for the week. There have been flurries of phone calls and emails about where they’ll stay and what they’ll do. I can’t wait for them to sit at the kitchen bench nursing steaming cups of gingerbread coffee, while I bake for them.

I wonder what they’ll make of my business. The café, with its dark-chocolate-colored walls and gingerbread-man bunting, looks enchanting at nightfall, when the fire throws shadows over the space, and the Christmas decorations shine under the fairy lights. It’s cozy and warm, the kind of place you can loll about and forget your troubles. And celebrate love, and friendship and everything in between.

Excitement dazzles me for a moment, as I think about baking beautiful cakes for people I love. Baking has always been more like a meditation for me. Life makes sense when I’m clasping a wooden spoon, and have a bowl of batter cupped under an arm. And it’s infinitely more magical when I make a sweet treat with a friend or family member in mind. When they exclaim about the presentation of a gateau, and, with fork poised mid bite, roll their eyes heavenward oohing over the flavors, it makes my heart sing. And that’s why I run a café that struggles as much as it flourishes. I need to. It’s what I’m meant to do. Seasons come and go, and so do customers. Summer is busy, and Christmas is hectic, but between that we falter, just like all the shops in Ashford.

I snuggle close to the man I’m going to marry. The soft orange glow from the fire lights up his face, and again I have one of those overwhelming feelings that life is Christmas-card perfect.

“Now it’s so close, are you nervous about the wedding?” Damon asks.

“No way, Jose. Are you?” I arch an eyebrow.

“Nope. It can’t come quick enough for me. Lil and Damon Guthrie…”

My heart flutters at the words. “Lived happily ever after.”

He grins. “The end.”

I run through our wedding checklist in my mind, but Damon’s sentiment has turned my brain to mush, making it hard to remember. Damon’s been involved in almost every step of the wedding planning. We’ve grown closer, if that’s even possible, while we’ve had our heads bent over our wish list.

“I’ve still got to organize the bouquets, the centerpieces for the tables, confer with the photographer, the dress fitting, the make-up trial…” I trail off as I think of the orders I need to finish for the café too.

He rubs the sandy brown stubble on his chin as though he’s contemplating. “Oh! I spoke to Guillaume again. He’s happy with our ideas, said it won’t be any trouble.”

Guillaume owns L’art de l’amour, a French bistro just outside Ashford. When we were pondering a venue for the reception I knew instantly I wanted to have it there. It’s an intimate space that’s just the right size for our guests. It’s not showy, or glitzy, just classically French, with a chef who’s passionate about his food, no matter how temperamental he is.

Translated the name of the restaurant means The Art of Love, which I think is a good omen, but I keep that pearl of wisdom to myself. Guillaume’s a genius when it comes to the culinary arts, and we trust his judgment explicitly, though I did ask Damon to massage Guillaume’s ego so we could make a few suggestions. He’s typically French and believes in his methods and recipes, so for him to even discuss our menu, well, Damon must have charmed the socks off him.

The rumor mill has settled down now, but when Guillaume appeared in town a few years back there was plenty of speculation about why such a formidable chef would choose the outskirts of Ashford to ply his exotic wares. And we’re yet to figure it out. There’s a story behind the great man, but he’s not talking. All we care about is him making the night spectacular with his inventive cooking.

“What did it take to convince him?” I ask.

Damon bites down on his bottom lip, a gesture that makes me want to ravish him right there. “I might have bent the truth a teeny tiny little bit…”

I give him a shove. “Out with it.”

“I said the menu suggestions were CeeCee’s idea. His face glowed red, and he instantly agreed.”

I throw my head back and laugh. Guillaume has a soft spot for our CeeCee. She doesn’t seem to notice when he visits the café and blushes like a schoolboy in her presence. When he’s around CeeCee his jaw loses the tense set to it, which is replaced by a wide grin. He fidgets, reverts to speaking French, usually making CeeCee holler at him, “Come now, Guillaume, do I hafta get my French dictionary out again?”

“Wait till I tell her that,” I say.

Damon tuts. “If you tell her she can’t pretend she doesn’t know he’s sweet on her.”

I gasp. “You think she knows?”

“I think she does.”

“Does Guillaume know that CeeCee knows?”

Damon’s eyes shine bright with laughter. “You sound like a teenager.”

I frown.

“OK, yes, I think Guillaume knows she knows, but doesn’t know what to do about it.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of knows, when no one knows.”

“I know,” he deadpans.

Well, I’ll be darned. CeeCee and I don’t keep secrets from each other. It’s almost impossible to at any rate. We know each other so well that we’ll read each other’s expressions and with a few foot stomps, or heavy sighs, we’ll inevitably let the story tumble out. But the minx has kept this from me fairly easily.

I wonder if CeeCee has contemplated dating again? Maybe that’s why she hasn’t mentioned that she knows Guillaume is sweet on her? Curtis, CeeCee’s husband, passed away four years ago, and she misses him with all of her heart. They had that rare once-in-a-lifetime kind of love. But saying that, some companionship might be just the thing for her. There’s no way I’m broaching that particular subject with her though — she’s liable to beat me over the head with a bread stick if I even mentioned it.

“Your mamma stopped by the shop today.” My parents have only been back in Ashford a few weeks after an extended world trip. It seemed once they started traveling they couldn’t get enough of exploring the world outside of our small town. I missed them desperately while they were gone, but I understood they were hit with wanderlust, and I was happy for them after a lifetime of living in one place.

“Oh? What did she stop in for?”

“She wanted a hamper of goodies for Reverend Joe…”

“Hmm.” Oh, Lord, what’s cooking in that mind of hers? It’s not unusual for Mamma to support the church with hampers of food, especially at Christmas, but it’s odd she didn’t ask me to make one for her. Scampering over to Damon and asking him to make one can only mean one thing. She didn’t want me to know. “What for? Is she trying to rearrange the church or something?”

Our ceremony is to take place in the hundred-year-old chapel in Ashford, a beautifully restored building, with huge stained-glass arched windows that funnel in the most glorious light. So many memorable events have been held there, from weddings, to baptisms and funerals of those we’ve loved, it just seems right, as if we’ll be a part of the fabric of that sacred place once we’re married. Reverend Joe is a fan of our gingerbread and caramelized pear Bundt cake so I baked him one when we met him to discuss our nuptials. He’s a sweet man who doesn’t seem to age, just looks the same year in year out, almost as if he’s otherworldly.

“No idea why she wanted the hamper.” Damon throws his palms up in an effort to bamboozle me, but I can tell when he’s bending the truth. He gets this tiny little wrinkle on one side of his mouth, probably in his effort to hold back a smile.

“You’ve got your lying face on…”

“My what?” He narrows his eyes.

“Your lying face. I can read you like a book.”

He scoffs. “Is that so?”

“Yep.” He presses his cheek against mine; his breath tickles my skin.

“Well, it’s…a surprise.” He smiles, and continues holding me close.

“Give me a clue.”

“Nope.” He clucks his tongue. “You, pretty lady, are just going to have to wait and see.”

“Fine.” I cross my arms in mock annoyance, hoping he’ll give in.

Instead he laughs, and says, “Fine.”

“Fine. I think I might just pay a visit to the church…”

“It’s closed.” Damon grins and gathers me in his arms. He stares into my eyes long enough to make me giddy. “And anyway, you wouldn’t guess the surprise even if you were staring straight at it.”

“Really? I’m pretty clever when I want to be.”

“That you are.” He strokes my hair back and runs his fingers around my face.

“If you keep up with that, I’ll fall asleep,” I say as he continues.

“My parents phoned.”

Damon’s parents are due to fly in a few days before the wedding. Despite a few attempts for me to meet them earlier, it hasn’t happened. Though Damon’s often caught up with them in New Orleans when he’s flown over for a weekend visit to see Charlie.

“What did they say?” I ask.

“They’re excited to meet you. Mother wanted every minute detail about the wedding. I felt…I don’t know, so excited to share it all with them, not just the wedding, but my life here, the shop, the town, you. I mean, of course they know about it all anyway, but it feels different now they’re actually going to visit, you know?”

“They’ll love it here and I can’t wait to meet them.” They’re scheduled to arrive three days before the wedding, which is cutting it fine, so I’ve organized a morning tea so his mother can get to know us girls, and hopefully feel a little more included in the pre-wedding fun.

He nods, and pulls at his shirt — one of those God-awful checker types he insists on wearing as though he’s some kind of cowboy. They do suit him, but it’s a running joke between us, now, how much I hate his so-called cowboy style.

“I told Mother all about the chapel, and about Guillaume. She wanted to know what’s left to do, and if we needed anything.”

“Did she like the sound of it?”

He gives me a lazy smile. “She did. And she kept on about the menu — that’s what reminded me to ring Guillaume and check our requests were OK.”

I relax my shoulders. “Good. I’ll sort out the flowers and the centerpieces, and those few other things and we are just about done!”

“I have a feeling there’s not going to be a bridezilla for me,” Damon says, half sadly.

I shove him playfully. “You sound disappointed.”

He laughs. “Oh, you know, there’s a lot to be said for those guys with eyes as big as headlights, sitting at Jerry’s bar, nursing a beer, wondering when exactly the woman they met morphed into a screeching mass of nerves.”

“Is this about beer?”

He drums his fists against his shirt. “Maybe I’d be better with whiskey, Lil,” he says in a throaty voice as if he’s a chain-smoking, whiskey-swilling tough guy. “Yep,” he continues. “Thought I’d escape the crazy bride-to-be ramblings and head over there with Tommy. But there’s no rambling. And no crazy bride. What the heck are we going to talk about?”

A giggle escapes me as I picture Damon trying to be one of those guys that hold up the bar at the run-down old pub the next town over. Sure, he’ll be able to make conversation with anyone, but invariably he’ll start talking about a three-day cassoulet he’s set on making, or some new zany haute cuisine we’re trying for our catering business, and the guys there will glance at each other over the top of his head and label him a sissy.

And Tommy as his so-called drinking buddy? Tommy is Missy’s husband. While Missy is an exuberant, fast-talking sweetheart, Tommy is her polar opposite. He’s quiet to the point of silent, but deep down he’s just a really observant, intuitive guy who doesn’t make small talk just for the sake of it.

“I wouldn’t go to Jerry’s if you paid me,” Damon says.

“Well…I have some bad news for you.” I wink at him. “A surprise, you could say.” I grin wickedly.

He runs a hand through his sandy blond hair, and grimaces. “Please do not say the B word.”

Bachelor party: it brings to mind all those connotations of men behaving badly, but around here the only mischief they get up to is the usual pranks you’d expect of teenagers.

“OK, I’ll use the S word. The guys checked with me first — they really want to organize a stag party for you.” Damon goes to speak but I halt him with a hand up. “It’s just a small group. Something low-key.”

Damon leans his head back on the sofa. “Low-key? Like a dinner party?”

I tap his leg. “No, siree. I’m afraid you’re going to have to let them drag you out and shave off your eyebrows or whatever it is they do these days.”

He groans. “Shooters of bourbon and tough-guy stories…”

“’Fraid so. Just don’t let them tie you to a pole in the snow, or anything like that.”

Damon’s eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

I hide my smile. “It’s a tradition around here — that’s why smart folks don’t get married in winter…”

Laughter rumbles out of him as he puts a hand to his chest. “Oh, you jest.”

“Enjoy!” I say cheerfully.

“What about you? Are the girls going to organize something special?”

I gulp, suddenly nervous at the thought. “Well, they did say something about heading off to a nightclub…”

“A nightclub? Is that some kind of code for male strippers?”

This time I lob a cushion at him. He ducks and it sails over his head onto the tiled floor. “It might be but my lips are sealed. It’s secret women’s business.”

While Frank Sinatra croons Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas from the speakers above, I grab Damon by the collar of his shirt and pull him in for a long kiss.

Chapter Two

Nine days

“Cherry blossom?” CeeCee says, her voice soft with concentration as she wraps turkey, cranberry and Camembert into parcels made with paper-thin filo pastry for today’s lunch special.

“Mmm?”

“Can you pass me the egg-wash?”

I place the small bowl of beaten egg next to her and find the pastry brush. Leaning over her shoulder as she wraps the delicate pastry, I contemplate what they’ll taste like once the Camembert is a creamy melted mess with the sweet cranberry, and the crunch of the filo, and can’t wait to get them baking.

“You breathin’ down my neck for a reason?” CeeCee jokes.

I giggle and take a step back. “You’re making me hungry.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” she hollers. “I’m so hungry my stomach’s touchin’ my backbone! I’ll put a couple o’ these in the oven for a little taste tester.”

“You read my mind.” It’s a wonder we get anything baked around here; there’s always a few rest stops during the day where we break, and eat what we’ve cooked.

While we wait for the pastries to brown we clean the bench in preparation for the next round of baking. The café is quiet today, and the usual worry we’re baking for ourselves sits heavy in my belly.

“What’s those wrinkles popping up ’tween your eyes for?” CeeCee says.

I laugh. CeeCee’s southern way of talking makes even the blackest moods fade. “Same old reason, Cee. Wondering where the heck everyone’s got to, ’cause they sure aren’t in town today.”

She shrugs. “It’s still early, Lil. They’ll come. Especially when they see what I’ve got planned next.” She waggles her eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion.

“Got something in your eye?”

She guffaws and slaps her leg. “No, I do not. I was trying to be mysterious!”

I laugh. “So what’s going to draw the punters in today?”

“You’re gonna put weight on just looking at the recipe, I swear it, but it’s gonna be a showstopper.” Fumbling in the pocket of her apron, she pulls out a square of paper and waves it at me.

I unfold it and read quickly. “A croquembouche?”

She snatches the piece of paper back, and pushes her glasses back on. “Not just any croquembouche, a salted caramel croquembouche with ricotta cream. Instead of making one big tower of profiteroles, I thought we could make say ten smaller towers. They sure are pretty, and if we flick toffee around them it’ll look like tinsel ’round a Christmas tree.”

Her enthusiasm is infectious, but I stand mute because it’s a French recipe, from a French culinary magazine. CeeCee’ll try baking anything once, but after Damon’s chat about Guillaume my mind connects the dots, and the picture is a love heart.

“I think you’re right, Cee.” In the picture the little balls of choux pastry are stacked up into a cone shape, the salted caramel glaze dripped over them makes them shine, and some tendrils of spun toffee flicked over once they’re assembled will draw in a crowd for sure. My mouth waters at the thought of biting into the luscious ricotta filling.

I sidle up to her and lean close. “So-o-o…where’d you get this recipe from?”

CeeCee makes a show of wiping her hands on her apron, and then bending over to take silver bowls from under the bench, though her brown cheeks blush so furiously they’re almost purple.

“Cee?”

She stands, and pretends not to have heard me, but I can read her expressions as clearly as a road map. I snatch up the piece of paper. “You know…” I play with her “…I’m sure I remember Guillaume mentioning this recipe to me before…”

Her mouth opens and closes, and she drops the silver bowl, which clangs like a cymbal as it bounces on the floor.

“Did he now?” she eventually manages.

I’m just about to press her for information when the doorbell jingles.

“Well, lookie here,” she booms. “If it ain’t your daddy.” Her voice is slightly manic with what? Relief?

My father strides in, flicking his braces over his big belly, which is a sure-fire sign he’s hungry. “Hey, Dad.” He hugs me tight.

“Hey, darlin’.” I detect the faint whiff of cigar smoke on him, the same old dad, sneaking puffs out of Mamma’s sight. If she knew he was still partial to the odd cigar, I’d hear her yelling all the way from home.

“Morning, CeeCee.” He tips his head.

“Let me get you a candy-cane coffee.” She bustles away, no doubt glad for the interruption.

“Hungry?” I say, remembering the parcels in the oven.

“Well…”

I edge him to a table. “Get comfy. You can try the turkey, cranberry and Camembert pastry that Cee’s just made.”

He laces his fingers together. “Don’t tell your mamma.” He winks.

“She’s still making you diet?”

His face is glum as he counts on his fingers. “No sugar, no bread, no pasta, no rice. High protein, rabbit food only. And you know your mamma.” He screws up his face. “Her idea of dinner is over-boiled carrots, and frozen peas, with a side of charred steak. At least my choppers stay sharp after all that grinding.”

I laugh. He’s always on about his teeth, as if the secret to longevity is how well his choppers are holding up. Mamma isn’t the best cook in the world. In fact she’s downright disastrous. Dad still marvels to this day how I managed to learn to cook since I share her genes, but my grandmother baked, and I spent a lot of my childhood in her kitchen.

“You’re putting me in a predicament just being here,” I joke. “What if she walks past and I’ve just gone and served you a plate of banned food?” I pop the pastries on two plates and take them to the table.

“She won’t,” he says. “I made sure of it.” He lowers his voice as if he’s plotting something more sinister.

CeeCee wanders over with mugs of candy-cane coffee and we sit at the table together. I slide a plate to each of them and take one of the steaming cups of sweet coffee.

“How’d you make sure of it?” I ask him.

“She said that Emma Mae invited her over for a game of Scrabble, and you know those two once they get to talking. I’ll be lucky if she’s home for dinner.”

I swallow a sip of coffee and say, “What if she was lying? And she said that to test you, knowing full well you’d sneak into the café?”

His eyes go wide and he pushes the plate away as if it’s on fire.

CeeCee pipes up, “I’m sure I seen her walk past not even a minute ago…” She cackles high and loud, and I smirk behind my hand.

He scoffs. “I knew you were joking — give me that plate back! And anyway, once a week, surely that’s OK for a treat? I’m only human.”

I cluck my tongue. “Dad, you come in every day.”

“Small portions, Lil. That’s the secret.” Somehow he manages to keep a straight face. Dad visits at least once a day, fills up on whatever we’re baking, and takes a few gingerbread men for the road. There’s no sign of small portions anywhere near his dinner-sized plate.

A customer blows in just as I’m about to retort, a broody-looking stranger with dark eyes, and a fit physique. I go to stand and CeeCee says, “You catch up with your dad, Lil. I’ll go.”

I nod thanks, and sit.

“So,” Dad says between forkfuls, “as the chief organizer of Damon’s bachelor party, I thought I’d run a few things by you.”

I grin. “How did you end up in charge of the bachelor do?”

He shrugs. “Damned if I know. Seems everyone’s working and Tommy thinks I need to step away from daytime TV…”

Folding my arms and leaning my elbows on the table, I say, “Maybe that’s a good idea.” Dad retired just before he and Mamma went away; before that he worked with Tommy in the dairy. Almost forty years in the same place, and I think now he’s home he misses the routine, and his friends there. Not so much the back-breaking labor, but the lack of physical work has definitely added to his waistline, hence Mamma’s nagging. “But a few midday movie sessions aren’t such a bad idea either.”

He gives me a half-smile. “It was a novelty at first, but now…well, I’m under your mamma’s feet all the time, and I’m kind of…bored. It was OK when we were traveling, but now, I need to find something to do.” He flicks his braces. “So, first step; bachelor party, second step, something to fill my days…”

My dad’s one of those people who like to keep busy. He retired on Mamma’s say-so, but I don’t think he was really ready for it. And I hate to think of him sitting at home trying to keep out of Mamma’s way as she vacuums and dusts daily in her usual frenzy.

“You could do some volunteer work?”

He knots his bushy eyebrows. “That might be just the thing.”

I rest my hand atop his. “Why don’t you try the community center? I’m sure they’d love your help.” We’re both silent as we glance out of the snow-mottled window to Walt’s empty furniture shop.

Walt and Janey usually run all the local events out of the community center, but we haven’t seen them in an age. Janey was diagnosed with cancer back at Easter time. She and Walt moved to a small hotel in Springfield to be closer to the big hospital there while she receives treatment.

“I’ll go in and see who’s running things now, see if they need a hand.” Dad clears his throat. “So, for the bachelor party, what’ll it be? I was thinking I’d set up our front room like a casino. I’d be the croupier, of course. Do you think Damon would like that?”

“He’d love it.” And he would. A night in, gambling pennies on cards, would suit him to a T. “What night are you thinking?”

“Maybe Monday night? Leaves two days before the wedding in case someone dyes his hair red, or whatever it is they do these days.”

“Blue’s more his color.”

Dad bellows so loud CeeCee glances over, and the newcomer does too. I mouth sorry, and exchange a smile with CeeCee.

“Possum,” Dad says, reverting back to my childhood pet name. “Look at you.”

I pat my hair down; my curls are probably a riot after dashing outside earlier.

Dad waves a hand at me. “No, Lil, I mean look at you.” His face softens. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so…radiant. Damon is a great guy. He’s smitten with you. It’s as obvious as the big nose on my face.” He laughs. “What I’m trying to say is, your mamma and I are so proud of you, from the way you run the café, to the way you cherish your friends, and because you’re marrying a man who is truly worthy of you. And I can’t wait to walk you down that aisle, knowing that the man standing at the other end is a good one.”