Christmas Wishes Part 3

I throw my palms up. “They wanted to surprise us.”

“Well, that’s the sweetest thing I’ve heard,” Missy says. “I bet they were excited to finally meet you.” She fluffs her curls, and gives me a huge smile. Missy’s one of those people that sees the good in everyone, and everything, so telling her I’m slightly uneasy about a few things Olivia said will only make her want to fix it.

“It was certainly interesting,” I say.

Sarah cocks her head. “Interesting, Lil? That’s like saying someone’s shoes look comfortable when what you really mean is ugly. What happened?”

In deference to Damon, I don’t feel right telling them what Olivia said. “Oh, you know, it was just so unexpected. And late, and I wasn’t prepared. George, Damon’s dad, fell asleep, and Olivia…I think she was probably jet-lagged herself. They’re coming here for dinner tonight, they can meet my parents, and—”

“Lil,” Sarah says gently, “you’re wringing your hands so hard they’re going to fall off.”

I unclasp them and smile. “Weddings, huh? At Christmas. Do you think it’s selfish having it at this time of year?”

“Why do you say that?” Sarah probes, a frown appearing between her smoky kohl-rimmed eyes. “You love Christmas. And it’s your anniversary, after all.”

“It’s just I guess it didn’t occur to me that our guests might have preferred to spend Christmas Eve with their families rather than attend our wedding. I mean, I know you girls wouldn’t think that, but are other people thinking that?”

Sarah scoffs. “That’s crazy, Lil. It’s one more reason to celebrate.” Sarah’s an introvert among us more feisty personalities — she’s the kind of girl you can tell your secrets to and know she’s like a vault. A quirky, whimsical soul who I count as one of my closest friends after CeeCee.

I play with the handle of my mug. “I hope so.”

“Put it out of your mind,” Missy says. “There’s no place we’d rather be than watching you two lovebirds get married. And I’m sure everyone agrees.”

“Stop fussing, Lil,” CeeCee says.

“Well, OK.” Their coffee cups are empty. I stand and pick them up. “How about some hot chocolate?”

“I was wondering how long we’d have to wait,” Sarah jokes. I’ve never seen a girl so addicted to chocolate as she is. And she’s as skinny as a beanpole, the lucky thing. “I should’ve known you had a hankering.” I smile and head to the stove.

I take a small pot down and pour in some milk. While that begins to boil, I break off chunks of dark chocolate and stir them in. It’s like a big warm hug, the smell of the molten chocolate melting as it combines with the creamy milk. Once it’s mixed through I pour it into four glass mugs and throw some marshmallows on top.

“Let me help.” Sarah dashes over and takes two of the mugs, sipping hers as she goes. “Lil, gosh, that’s good.”

I laugh my thanks. We’re quiet for a moment as we savor the rich taste, bitter and sweet at the same time from the quality of the dark chocolate, sweetened by the gooey marshmallows.

Missy rubs her hands together. “How’s about we do that make-up trial soon? Now Olivia’s here we can invite her too.”

“Hmm,” I say. “Let’s just keep it us girls for now.”

Missy raises an eyebrow. “OK. You just say when and we’ll make a night of it, just us. I’m about to get a lot more time on my hands.”

“With a baby comin’?” CeeCee says in mock consternation.

Missy hoots with laughter. “No, I mean, with the salon. My new girl, Becca, starts today, so I’m going to hand things over to her and go rest my swollen…everything.”

“I can’t believe it,” I say. “It’s going to be so weird not having you just a few steps away.”

Missy’s eyes shine with tears. “Oh, golly, here I go again.” She plucks a tissue from the box. “You know, I can’t wait until this urge to cry over every itty-bitty thing goes away.”

“Hush now,” CeeCee says. “Missy, you know where we are. It ain’t like we’re going anywhere. You still gonna visit us every day. I know I ain’t going to be able to function without some cuddles from that little bundle o’ joy you about to bring into the world.”

Missy gives us a warm smile. “Thanks, Cee. I’m really looking forward to the whole motherhood thing. I’m scared, and excited and nervous. But mostly just plain grateful. There’s times though when I worry about the salon. You know? That’s been my baby for as long as I can remember.”

“It’s going to be in good hands,” Sarah says and looks to me and CeeCee. “I met Becca yesterday. She’s going to fit right in here. With one look at grumpy ol’ Marjorie she had her figured out. They were firm friends by the time she left. She’s going to treat that salon like it’s her own.”

Marjorie is Ashford’s answer to the Grinch. She despises Christmas. Hates any form of celebration. Calls us all materialistic and brain-washed by consumerism. She sure is hard to fathom when you first meet her. “Geez, Missy, if she can handle Marjorie she can handle anyone!” I say. I go to the display fridge and take out some dark chocolate fruit mince truffles, and a handful of Missy’s favorite, gingerbread and white chocolate.

Sarah gives me a thumbs up while Missy takes a deep breath and continues: “I know. I should be thanking my lucky stars I even managed to find a hairdresser that’d come live in Ashford. For a while there I thought I might have to close up for the duration. And Becca is sweet as sugar. I don’t know why I feel as though I’m never gonna see anyone again. Anyway, listen to me! We’re supposed to be organizing your wedding!”

“Missy,” I say, “you’re bound to feel that way. Your life is about to change for the better. And like Cee says, we might even see more of you now that you’re a free woman. Have baby will travel.”

More composed, Missy nods. “You’re right. I’ll probably have my own sofa here at the café, with my own fluffy blanket. Cee can use that baby carrier thingy-majiggy and wander around with him tied to her chest, singing lullabies, while I catch up on my beauty sleep.”

“That sounds mighty fine to me,” CeeCee says. “Ain’t nothing like rocking a baby to sleep, especially at Christmas. I’m gonna teach him a bunch of carols before he’s even old enough to smile.”

CeeCee is always babysitting for locals. She’s affectionately known as a baby whisperer. Exhausted mothers often stop by the café and beg CeeCee to tell help get their infants to sleep. She laughs her southern haw, and takes the squawking bundle into her arms. We order the exhausted women to rest up, they’ll amble to the recliner with a steaming cup of hot chocolate in hand. Drink it quickly and doze, safe in the knowledge Cee’ll have their babies snoozing in no time.

I hope CeeCee will have the chance to hold a child of mine. And that she’ll be around when they are old enough to bake alongside her. I don’t think there’s anything nicer than picturing that day. Almost as if I can see a little blond-haired girl standing on a step so she can reach the bench, listening patiently to Cee as she shows her how to mold fondant, or roll out pastry.

“I saw your mamma the other day,” Sarah says, pulling me from my daydream. “That holiday definitely agreed with her. She’s looking as happy as I’ve ever seen her.”

She’s been flitting around town since she came home, showing anyone who’ll look her holiday photo album. “Did you see the pictures?”

“We all saw the pictures!” Missy says.

I shake my head, laughing, grateful she didn’t invite everyone to the family slide-show night. Mamma learned the art of taking a ‘selfie’, which was adorable for the first few hundred shots. “You know she’s gone and invited my cousin Jeremiah to the wedding?” The girls attended my first wedding, and know all about the disaster that is my cousin.

They dissolve into laughter again.

“You girls finished?” I arch my brow, and try to keep the smile from my voice.

Missy gushes, “Oh, he’s just misunderstood! His hair grew back grey, after all…”

I gasp. “Mamma told you too?”

She shakes her head no. “Rosaleen. And…it seems, well, I don’t know how to put it—”

“No! Please don’t tell me Mamma invited Rosaleen?”

Missy pulls a face and says, “She’s very excited. And so are her daughters…”

CeeCee clears her throat. “While we’re at it…the three Mary-Jos were asking about bringin’ their boyfriends.” She shakes her head, as she’s always ruffled by the outrageously flirty teenagers. “Seem too young for boyfriends if y’all ask me.”

I curse under my breath. Mamma’s gone and invited people left, right and center, without checking with me. With the extras that Olivia wants to invite, our intimate affair is going to be a circus. At this rate Guillaume is going to throw his tea towel down and cancel.

“Shoot. With that news, I better get to makin’ more gingerbread wedding favors,” CeeCee says, and lifts her bulk out of the chair. She turns back and says to Sarah, “Is that man-mountain o’ yours gonna be here for the wedding?”

Sarah and I look at each other and laugh. Seems CeeCee is all set with giving our significant others a nickname, and sticking with it.

“He sure is,” Sarah says. “Actually…he’s not planning on going anywhere after that.”

“What?” I ask. “He’s moving here for good?”

She nods, her smile lighting up her doll-like features. “Yep. We figured it was about time. I mean, Ridge’s practically living here anyway. But he’s selling his apartment in New York, and moving in with me.”

We screech our support and take turns hugging Sarah. She met Ridge a few months back after he came to do a story on a chocolate festival the town of Ashford hosted at Easter time. It didn’t take long for love to blossom with the pair of them, and before we knew it Ridge was here almost every weekend after quitting his job at The New York Herald newspaper and doing freelance work instead.

Sarah says, “It’s the weirdest feeling making room on my bookshelves for him. Is that odd? I mean, aren’t I supposed to move half the clothes in the closet, or free up some room in the bathroom cabinet?”

“I think it’s completely normal,” I say. “I’m sure there are plenty of people who are quite fussy about who they share their shelves with.”

After another fit of laughter, Sarah stands and shrugs her coat on.

CeeCee groans and says, “Let’s make more o’ those gingerbread wedding favors then, Lil.”

“Be sure and send any mistakes my way. I’m craving gingerbread men so bad I’m worried I’m going to have a gingerbread baby,” Missy says. Sarah clasps Missy’s hands, pulling her bulk out of the sofa. “Let’s go, gingerbread mom. I’ve got a customer, by the looks.”

We hug our goodbyes and promise to catch up again later.

A few hours later I’m busy clearing tables when CeeCee wanders from the office, holding a piece of paper. “Lil, these orders have just come in on that gizmo.” I suppress a smile at her reference to our antiquated fax machine. “We better get a move on — the mayor’s gone ahead and ordered a bunch o’ cakes for his staff Christmas party.” Her finger works its way down the list as she mumbles, “Black forest meringue, yule log, boozy fruitcake, chocolate-fudge cheesecake, and—” she chuckles “—lemonade pie. I knew he loved that pie. He done ordered it every week since I baked it for him a few months back.”

CeeCee’s famous for her southern pies. She makes them from scratch and when they sit cooling on the bench, their scent wafting down the street, you can almost count the seconds until we’re inundated with customers. I’ve watched CeeCee make a million pies, followed her recipes to a T, mixed the ingredients with love in my mind, but they never taste as good. I don’t know what her secret is, but they put the comfort into comfort food, all right.

“So.” Cee puts the list on the bench. “Where should we start?”

I run through the order and say, “With the boozy fruitcakes. They’ll take the longest to bake.”

“You soaked the fruit already?”

“Yes, ma’am. I soaked a batch yesterday, good and proper with lashings of brandy, and some sugar syrup. I thought we’d make mini fruitcakes for the café, but we’ll do that later now, and use this for the mayor’s order instead.”

“OK.”

I wander to the stereo and press play. The café fills with the sound of Christmas carols. It’s dark out despite it being the middle of the day. Outside people hurry from one shop to another searching for Christmas gifts, or buying groceries for their festivities. Snow rests on the dark wooden window panes almost like a framing for the cheery shoppers as they dash about on the cold day.

“I thought we could make some of those gingerbread in a jar gifts, too, Cee.”

Last year we filled a bunch of mason jars with the dry ingredients for gingerbread men, and printed out the tiny recipes cards to go with it. We attached them with red and green festive ribbons, and a gingerbread man cookie cutter. They were fun and easy Christmas gifts, and all people had to do was add the wet ingredients and bake.

“Easily done, Lil,” she chortles. “Ain’t like we short of supplies for gingerbread.” She bends down and unearths a box from under the bench and rifles through it. “We’ve got a bunch of cookie cutters here, and most o’ them are Christmas themed. We sure can make those gingerbread jars again. Kids loved buying those last year for their folks.”

I lean over and look into the box of still-wrapped cookie cutters. “Let’s get this order done, and then we can make some, and put them in the window.”

We pull out silver bowls, and I take the fruit mix from the fridge. The pungent smell of alcohol hits me as soon as I peel back the plastic wrap.

“Glory be, how much brandy did you put in there?” CeeCee hollers. She makes a huge show of covering her face with her hands.

“Enough.” I smirk. “And a splash of rum for good measure.” While CeeCee finds the remainder of ingredients the recipe calls for, I grease square loaf pans with butter, then turn on the mixer and beat sugar and butter, slowly adding the eggs, once again being drawn into the world inside the arms of the beater, hypnotized by the transformation and the way certain ingredients combine.

CeeCee whisks the flour and spices that she’ll add to my bowl so we have one huge batch to add the alcohol-infused fruit to.

“The fruit is ripe with brandy, Cee.” I lift a fat cherry aloft; it’s plump from absorbing the alcohol. It seems festive — the red and green cherries and golden raisins shine out from the bowl. CeeCee nods and smiles at the small gem-like cherry in my fingers.

“Let’s ice them white and mold some holly and ruby-red berries out of fondant.” I throw the cherry back in the bowl.

“They’ll look mighty Christmassy, Lil,” she says, stirring while she gazes dreamily over my shoulder to the busy street outside.

We work in silence, humming along to Silent Night as the singer croons softly out of the speakers above us. There’s something so healing about baking. I know CeeCee feels it too. Life just seems to make sense when you can plunge your hands into a bowl of brandied fruit, and chat away to your best friend about the most trivial things.

Once we’ve put the loaf pans in the oven, I scour the mayor’s order to work out what’s next.

The doorbell jingles, and in walks Damon’s dad, George. He’s dressed impeccably in a suit and wears a tie. “Good morning, ladies.”

He’s so much like Damon in the way he walks, and the tone of his voice. “You’re a little early for dinner,” I say, smiling.

He takes off his leather gloves and leans against the bench. “I’m blaming you. Since I came in here the other night I’ve had a hankering for gingerbread. I figured while Olivia was otherwise occupied I may as well satisfy my craving.”

CeeCee hems and haws. “See? I told you that tree was a good idea! Draws folks like bees to honey…”

“It sure does,” I agree. “Pull up a stool, George, and I’ll make you up a plate.” Dusting my hands on my apron, I meander off, searching the selections in the fridge for gingerbread flavors. I take some gingerbread macaroons, and a chunk of gingerbread fudge, and add them to the plate.

“Don’t forget the gingerbread cake pops,” CeeCee says, pointing. I take a cake pop, and a few dark chocolate and gingerbread truffles from the fridge. So we’re a little addicted to gingerbread flavored treats? What kind of Gingerbread café would we be if we weren’t! There’s something so child-like and sweet about the flavor, and it only gets better once we fancy it up for adults in the form of a more gourmet morsel.

“So where is that wife o’ yours?” CeeCee asks as she heads to the fridge and takes out foil-covered cream cheese for the chocolate-fudge cheesecake.

George’s eyes light up as I put the plate in front of him. “Running errands. She said something about organizing the centerpieces for the tables. I guess you’d know more about that, Lil?”

She what? I only told her very quickly what we envisaged. I imagined we’d go into more detail tonight, and then if she wanted to help she’d at least know what we were looking for. “Oh? I mentioned it the other night, but we haven’t actually discussed it properly yet.”

George bites into a macaroon, and nods his appreciation. “You know Olivia.” He shrugs, non-committal.

No, I don’t know her at all.

He half laughs when I don’t say a word and says as if by explanation, “Loves being involved.” He shrugs, and gives me an apologetic look.

Maybe she’s simply window shopping? Surely she wouldn’t go ahead and buy something without checking with us first. “I hope she doesn’t go to too much trouble,” I say, with an edge of concern in my voice.

“She loves that kind of thing, Lil. Once you get to know her you’ll see. She might seem…overbearing at times, but it’s more that she wants to be useful, rather than outright in charge.” He manages to blush, as though speaking this way of his wife is out of order. “But, it’s your wedding, Lil. And if by chance Olivia does tug the reins a little too hard, I hope you feel comfortable having a private word with me.”

It’s easy to see where Damon gets his personality from. George is friendly and warm, and him offering to step in is a comfort. He obviously knows his wife well. “Thanks, George. Maybe tonight once we get into the finer details of the wedding, Olivia will feel more involved.”

“I’d say so,” he says amiably. “Until then, I might pay a visit to Damon. Thanks for these.” He holds up a truffle. “I’ll see you tonight, ladies.”

A few hours later we’ve done the bulk of the mayor’s order, and decide to finish it off later. We’ve tidied up and are ready to move on to the next thing on our list. The most exciting thing we’ve ever baked, too.

“Nothing for it, let’s make that wedding cake o’yours.”

I let out a squeal. We’ve spent the last two months searching for the perfect cake design. We settled on a three-tier cake, elegant and striking. We had folders full of design ideas, and it was so hard to narrow it down. After all, we’re known for our cakes, and it has to be perfect.

“I’ll start on the sponges, Lil, if you want to mix the different flavored ganaches.”

I take the hand drawn design from the folder, and flip through the pieces of paper for the recipe we settled on. Reading through, I wonder if it’ll be as delicious as we imagine. “Hazelnut ganache for the top layer, dark chocolate and orange for the second, and vanilla bean for the third. What do you think? That’ll cater for all tastes?”

“Surely will. Ain’t no one gonna see a cake as pretty as this, neither.”

We set to work, excited to finally start the design we’ve been dreaming about for months. CeeCee’s mouth is a tight line, and I can’t stop my fluttery hands. She’s concentrating hard, yet I can’t seem to focus. I keep going back to the drawing, if we pull this cake off it’s going to be the most elegant piece of artwork we’ve ever baked. And all for my wedding day. Just the thought is enough to send my heart racing. I picture Damon standing behind me as we cut the cake in front of our friends and family, and I’m giddy with love.

“It’s spectacular!” The wedding cake sits safely in the display fridge, after we took out three lots of shelves to fit it inside.

“I ain’t never seen a cake like it.”

The first tier is round, full of snowflakes like a snow dome, which spill down the silver cake, settling at the base. It’s like a silvery snowstorm come to life. With steady hands, we studded edible diamonds around each tier, and with a sprinkle of glitter it glimmers like an invitation to another world. Each layer has different flavored sponges, with mouth-poppingly luscious ganaches spread thickly through.

“I’m going to take the truffles out of that fridge, Lil. So we’re not opening and closing the fridge all the time.”

“It’s not like it’ll melt though, Cee.” I laugh.

“I know, but the less we disturb it, the better. I don’t want those snowflakes falling off. I ain’t too keen on making those ever again. My eyesight ain’t what it used to be, you know.”

“OK, Cee. That was some finicky work, all right.” Of course we chose to make snowflakes from palm size, right down to the size of a penny. As they became smaller we needed so many more to decorate the tier. After a while though your fingers freeze up on account of having to keep your hands stiff for so long.

“Saying that, though, I don’t reckon I’ve ever liked creating something as much as I have this. And that’s saying somethin’.”

I amble behind CeeCee and rest my chin on her shoulder. “You think we should make wedding cakes now?”

“As long as I don’t have to cut out itty-bitty snowflakes all day, I think I’d like that. Can you imagine what we’d come up with?”

I imagine the café stacked with cakes for weddings, birthdays, family celebrations. And it could be yet another financial back-up for us if the catering side of things falters. “I think we should give it a try.” If I got to spend a day lovingly making someone else’s dream wedding cake, it’d be a damn fine day to me.

At the end of a long day, I sit by the display window and watch the last of the late evening shoppers exit from the shops across the road so the owners can close up. It’s dark out, and CeeCee’s gone home, insisting dinner tonight is only for family.

With the café all toasty warm, and Jingle Bells playing merrily in the background, I get my second wind, and continue on with the mayor’s order. We’ve only got the yule log and CeeCee’s lemonade pie left to make and then we can deliver it early tomorrow.

Yule log is one of my favorite Christmas recipes. Making the cake resemble a log, with all the grooves and gouges, dusted white with snow, is a Christmas tradition in our family. My grandma used to make it every year when I was little. I loved watching her roll the sponge, and cover it with thick butter-cream icing, before running a fork down the length for her grooves. In that soft way of hers she’d share stories about her childhood, while I listened, rapt, occasionally dipping a finger into the chocolate icing.

When I make yule log, I’m transported back to her orderly kitchen, and it warms my heart as though we’re still connected. If you share that kind of love, it can always be brought back to life when you bake. It’s almost as if she’s standing right behind me, smiling.

Glancing at the time, I realize everyone will arrive for dinner soon. Instead of making the base of the yule log, I take some gum paste from the fridge. I set to work, massaging it, to make it pliable to make acorns. They dry rock hard, and aren’t the nicest to eat, but they finish off the woodsy look.