A Gingerbread Café Christmas. Rebecca Raisin
If someone drives up the footpath and runs over my shoe, I say sorry I was in the way. And here I am, feeling guilty robbing this man of his customers, yet it’s going to cost me too, this whole competition. I sigh; I’m not made for war.
“Fine. I’ll go. And what should I say, do you think?”
A huge smile lights up CeeCee’s face, and I wonder if those two are in cahoots together. It sure wouldn’t surprise me. She pretends to be really interested in her pastry all of a sudden. “Take him a pecan pie. I’m going make another batch tomorrow, anyways.”
It’s all well and good joking about it, but what am I going to say to the man? I begin to wonder if it was the phone call that’s made him so morose.
While I’m wrapping the pie, CeeCee mutters to herself. I know she’s fixing to tell me something, so I take my time, and wait for her to mull it over.
“You know, this might sound crazy, but why don’t you two join forces?”
“Are you on about the matchmaking thing again?”
“No, no.” She shakes her head. “I mean, why not join forces with the Christmas rush? Instead of competing against each other — work together. You never know what might happen. You’ve been trying to find someone to help you cater for as long as I can remember. And lookie here, that fine thing might just be the man for the job.”
“And how’s that going to work? Have you been drinking the sherry when you’re baking those cakes?”
“Just a nip to fortify me,” she says, and laughs. “But I don’t see why you can’t work together. You know, you could run some cooking classes for him — there’s not much you don’t know about baking. He can supply you with those ingredients you ship in for your catering customers. He sells a whole lot of things you don’t, and vice versa. You can work together. You could expand catering to bigger customers in towns further out, if you had another pair of hands — hands like his.” She looks meaningfully at me.
“And when did this come to you? Don’t tell me you just thought about it.” My palms are sweaty, and I realize CeeCee might be right about venturing further out. If Damon can actually cook it might just be a possibility. On my own, I have no hope of catering for larger customers. And there aren’t too many folk interested in working for me, who can cook, and work under pressure, or who want to lose their weekends to do it, either. I’ve been hoping for some extra help, so I can take on more clients, but catering’s hard work. So far, all of the avenues I’ve tried to find staff have turned into a dead end.
CeeCee’s idea spins through my mind. If we worked together, I could surely double the catering side of things, and we’d use products we both sold. It could really work. I stop short; what am I thinking?
“You can thank me later,” CeeCee says. “Now get on over there and see what’s bothering him.”
I fossick through my handbag for my lip gloss, and slick it on.
“Well, I’ll be, make-up too?” CeeCee raises her eyebrows.
“A girl’s got pride, Cee. There’s no reason for me to go over there looking downright disheveled. It has nothing to do with him.”
“‘Course it don’t.” She hums the wedding march as I grab the pie and walk out of the door.
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes heavenward.
“Cherry blossom?”
“Yeah?” I hold the door open.
“You forgetting your jacket again? Someone sure is distracted these days.”
I scoff, and walk back inside to the coat rack.
Once I’m out and walking across the road it dawns on me: I’m nervous. I never meant to hurt him by having these sales; I only wanted to stay afloat. Always me and the guilt. It’s a gift of mine to blame myself. Balancing the pie, I take small steps; the road is icy, and slippery.
“Well, hello,” I say as Damon walks to the front to meet me. He looks up, his eyes vacant. And for a second I’m truly worried. Has someone died? He looks hollowed out, his shoulders are slumped, and his usual grin is replaced with a tight line.
“What you got there?” he asks, his voice barely audible.
“Some of CeeCee’s famous pecan pie. Free, and made with love, no less.”
That provokes a slight lift at the corners of his mouth.
“And what’s with the change of heart?” he says, taking the proffered pie. “This got horse laxatives in it or something?”
Laughter bubbles out of me. “I wish I’d thought of that. Nope. This is a peace offering. The proverbial olive branch.”
I edge closer to the step, about to walk up when I slip on a pile of sleet, and scramble like some kind of roller-skater before I land smack bang into Damon’s arms. He holds me tight, his face trained down towards me. His aftershave wafts over, something tangy and spicy. I try to hold myself back from outright sniffing him. So, I’ve got a thing with aftershave.
“You always throw yourself at men like that?” he asks, grinning.
“You wish,” I say, realizing I should probably try to extricate myself from his embrace. It’s just that he’s so warm. “I think you really need to salt and shovel your steps. Not hard to tell you’re new around here.”
“What, and miss all the fun?”
Untangling myself from Damon, I try to stand without slipping. I notice he still holds the pecan pie, which somehow didn’t get squashed in the fracas.
Pulling my jacket together, I say, “So, what do you say — friends?”
“Why are you doing this?” he asks, his voice husky.
“I’m no good at fighting. I can’t be angry for longer than ten minutes, and this has lasted two days. I’m exhausted. And seeing you over here all glum, well, it’s just not me, causing this kind of reaction in a man.”
He leans back against the window and looks up at the sky. He’s silent for too long; an awkward pause hangs between us, making me fidget.
“OK, well, I’m going to get back—”
“Wait,” he says, touching me lightly on the hand. “Don’t go. You want to come inside for coffee?” There is something different about him, a sadness in his eyes. It dawns on me it might not be the business causing it.
“Sure. Love to.”
We amble inside and my breath catches. “Wow, you sure do know how to decorate.” We’d peeked in when he was setting up, but now the shop is decked out with half whiskey barrels filled with straw, a bed for jars of preserves. Old wagon wheels are varnished and hitched to the walls, with a variety of goods hanging from the spokes on thin golden hooks. On the decked floor, little round up lights shine, making the place sparkle. It’s like something from a Western movie, a bygone era, and it has a real homely feel. The delicious smell of rich coffee beans lingers in the air. In the corner is a huge fireplace with mahogany Chesterfield lounges to each side. The only Christmas decorations are a string of lights along the counter, and a small plastic tree on a coffee table.
“This is really something,” I say.
“Thanks, Lil. Can’t take much credit for it, though. It’s an exact replica of the shop I had back in New Orleans. Someone else designed it.”
“So you have two shops?”
He moves behind the fancy coffee maker, which is the size of a small car. He presses some buttons and pulls a lever; it coughs and splutters like someone drowning. “Cappuccino OK?”