Christmas Wedding At The Gingerbread Café. Rebecca Raisin
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