A Gingerbread Café Christmas. Rebecca Raisin
Six – Five days
The icing on her Christmas cake!
Christmas is the season the Gingerbread Café was made for…but owner Lily couldn’t be feeling less merry if she tried. She’s spent another year dreaming of being whisked away on a sleigh-ride for two, but she’s facing festive season alone – again. And, just to give her another reason to feel anything other than candy-cane perky, a new shop across the road has opened… Not only is it selling baked goods, but the owner, with his seriously charming smile, has every girl in town swooning.
But Lily isn’t about to let her business crumble — the Gingerbread Café is the heart of the community, and she’s going to fight for it! This could be the Christmas that maybe, just maybe, all her dreams – even the someone-to-decorate-the-Christmas-tree-with ones – really do come true!
Thank you seems too simple a sentiment for the amount of support and encouragement that I’ve received from my writer friends. They are an inspiration to me, and my first port of call to celebrate or commiserate, and I feel blessed to have them in my life. I read their work, and am in awe of their talent.
Thank you Lisa Swallow, for everything. None of this would have happened without you. There’s nothing better than knowing you’re an email away to laugh, shout, or discuss hot guys with – purely for research! You’re the best. And your success spurs me on.
Julie Davies, I feel like I’ve known you forever. But maybe that’s the sign of an extraordinary writer. Feeling as though you’re connected because their words have touched you.
Thank you to the Carina UK team. Victoria, you’ve been amazing, and I felt immediately like we were on the same wavelength. I look forward to working with you on the next book!
EWG- The Word Cult; Laura, Jake, Lisa, Alyssa and Deb, I love you guys.
To Clare and Liz from Dymocks Ellenbrook – You are the sweetest girls, ever.
Ashley, thanks for coming home and not mentioning it when the house looks like it’s been burgled, and you have to make dinner because writing has taken precedence.
And Mum, you’re the best proof-reader I know, and very cheap (free) you drop everything and set to work. I love you. Rachel, all I have to do is ask, until our pesky twin ESP kicks in, and you’re there, thank you.
My extended family: Aunty Norma, Uncle Alex & Toni, Aunty Jen, Uncle Ronald, Jason & Liesel, Emma, Marg & Kim, Lisa Raisin, Tracy, Cathy, Sam, Tone, Joss, Jules, Jo bear, and Roz ( I’m claiming you) – thanks for all your Facebook messages, and ‘likes’ and ‘shares’ and your constant support. Pretty lucky to have my own cheer squad.
Lastly, William and Jaxson – You’re the reason I’m following my dreams. You guys have taught me so much about life, and love, and what truly counts. I love you, my precious (zombie) boys.
For Julie Davies
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