A Gingerbread Café Christmas. Rebecca Raisin
sure you heat it up first, OK?”
He takes his wallet out and hands CeeCee some cash. “Thank you, girls. She surely will appreciate that.”
“You have a good Christmas, if we don’t see you before,” I say, nodding to him.
“Same goes for you. And thanks, I hope you sort it all out.”
“Don’t you even think of it,” CeeCee says.
We wait for Walt to leave, and I expel a pent-up breath. “Well, no wonder!” I pace the floor and silently curse my own stupidity.
CeeCee wrings her hands on a tea towel. “Lookie here, maybe he just don’t know. You should go on over there and tell him.”
“How can he not know? It’s a small town—any idiot can work it out. You think he’s going to start catering too?”
I walk to the window and stare out. There he is, waving like a fool. At me. I glare at him and stomp back to the bench. “He’s trying to make nice. Well, that won’t wash. I’m going over there to tell him what I think of him!”
CeeCee sighs. “Wait, don’t go over there and have a hissy fit. That ain’t gonna help matters.”
“He’s got no business stealing our customers. And I’m going to tell him that.”
I bundle my apron, fling it on a table, and march out of the shop. The cold air stings my skin, and I rue the fact I didn’t put my jacket on. Damon sees me coming, and smiles; his big brown puppy-dog eyes look kindly at me, but that doesn’t stop me for a minute. He’s a shark. A charlatan. And I’m going to tell him so.
He walks out to the stoop of his shop. “Hey,” he says, sweet as pie. “I was going to come over and introduce myself this afternoon.”
“Who do you think you are?” I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jeans, and resist the urge to stamp my foot.
“Sorry?” His forehead creases, adding to his rugged good looks. He sure can play the innocent, all right.
“You think you can just move into town and steal my customers? Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing!” The street comes alive as shoppers stop to watch. This’ll be spread round town before I’m even done talking.
He looks truly bamboozled, but I know it’s an act. I’ve seen plenty of men like him. He’s dressed like some kind of cowboy, tight denim jeans that hug in all the right places, a red checker shirt, unbuttoned one too many buttons, exposing his chest. This infuriates me. Good looks like that, he’s going to be popular and I’m going to suffer for it. I can see the ladies of this town, frocking up, smearing all kinds of gloop on their faces, while they parade around his shop, pretending to be interested in whatever it is he’s selling.
“I’m really not following, ah, Miss…” He rubs a hand through his sandy blond hair, which is too darn long for a man.
“Name’s Lily, and you don’t fool me, mister. Not for a minute.”
“What are you talking about now? What have I done?” He grins; he actually grins.
“You’ve been selling turkeys. And Christmas hams! God only knows what else. You’re using your looks to get the ladies in this town to spend their hard-earned money in your shop, and putting me out of business in the meantime.”
“My looks?”
It’s all I can do not to huff. “So, you’ve got nothing to say for yourself?”
He kicks the slushy ice on the pavement, as if he’s trying to formulate some kind of lie.
“I’m sorry if I caused you this…upset. But I own a shop, and I sell all kinds of things for Christmas. I never thought it would affect you. Surely, there’s enough room for both of us?”
“No, there darn well isn’t! And I’m going to make sure you’re not open long enough to find out, anyway.” I spin on my heel and head back to the shop.
He calls out behind me, “I’m starting up cooking classes, Miss Lily. You want to book in to one?”
That stops me in my tracks. Shivering from the elements, I turn back, hovering in the middle of the road. “You what?”
He smirks at me, and for a moment I see my future — an empty shop. There’s no way the ladies of this town will be able to resist him.
“I said, I’m starting cooking classes. You want to come to one?”
“Are you trying to bankrupt me?”
He rubs his chin, and widens those big brown eyes of his. “No. I’m just trying to earn a living.”
My eyes are blazing, but I try to smile and act more confident than I feel. “You go on and do that, then. We’ll see who is still in business by the new year.”
Cars honk at me blocking their way. With their headlights trained on me I suddenly feel under the spotlight. I race back inside the shop, my hands shaking as if I’ve got the DTs.
“You gonna catch your death going outside like that!” CeeCee says. “Go warm up by the fire. Look at you, so white I’m gonna call you Casper.”
I’m so worked up, I haven’t realized I’m covered in snowflakes. My teeth chatter, as if they’re holding a one-way conversation. I rush towards the grate, my hands outstretched to the flames.
“So? What’d he say?” CeeCee frowns, and massages her temples.
I rub my hands together, and turn my back to the fire. “You’re not going to believe it. He’s going to start cooking classes!”
CeeCee’s face relaxes and she laughs. “That boy know he good-lookin’.”
“Do you think it’ll affect us?”
“Not likely, but who knows? I think we need to have some kinda sale up in here.”
We look towards the window and gaze across. His shop is filled with customers. “Would you look at that?” I point to a small itty-bitty woman. “Rosaleen’s over there, and in her church clothes.” I knew this would get to CeeCee.
“I don’t believe it. Church clothes on a Wednesday.”
Before I know it, CeeCee is out front. “Hey, Rosaleen, shouldn’t you be supporting members of your congregation?” she hollers over.
Rosaleen looks at us, her face pinched. “He is a part of our congregation. I already asked him.”
CeeCee shakes her head and tuts, before walking back inside. “Dressed up like that, trying to impress him, at her age, no less.” She harrumphs. “Right, sugar plum. What we gonna discount? Most o’ those folk so tight they squeak. If we offer cut-price goods, they’ll be back over here with their tail between their legs.”
“Good idea. I’ll get the blackboard, and we can write it up and face it directly towards his shop.”
We giggle like schoolgirls, and I smile. We’ll win, I know it. We have to. There aren’t enough customers in this town for both of us.
The next morning, I get to the shop earlier than usual. I’m planning on baking some gingersnap-pear cheesecakes, after a friend of CeeCee’s dropped us in a pile of fresh pears. The scent of the ripe fruit hits me as soon as I open the back door, aromatic and sweeter than any perfume.
Thinking I may as well open the shop since I’m here anyway, I catch sight of Damon. His door is open and there’s a flood of customers on his stoop. I peer over, and, lo and behold, he’s got a chalkboard facing my way.
It reads: Why did the turkey cross the