Christmas At The Café. Rebecca Raisin
“—is a little stark. You know, once we put the Christmas decorations away…”
CeeCee plants her hands on my shoulders. “So we flick some paint over the walls, and buy some lamps, but what’d he say about the business side of things?”
“Oh, right. Yeah, we discussed it, and we’re going to give it a three-month trial. We’ll expand the catering, and he’ll get someone to run his shop, like you do here, and see if we can venture out further afield. It was the darnedest thing, though…”
“Sit down,” CeeCee says. “You’re all fluttery like some kind of butterfly.”
We move to the lounges, and I take a few deep breaths. I think I’ve overdone it with those fancy coffees of his.
“What’s making you nervous?” CeeCee asks.
“Well, we were discussing all the ins and outs, and what we’d expect from each other, you know, trying to lay some ground rules out before we agree to start, and he kept taking phone calls. Every two, three minutes. In the end, he didn’t say anything, just rushed off with the phone, and then came back with this defeated look on his face.”
“You ask him who it was?”
“I asked him if he was OK. He kept changing the subject.”
CeeCee mutters to herself, and starts wringing her hands. “I don’t believe it! Oh, Lord.” She looks up at the ceiling. “Why you do this to me?”
“What are you talking about, Cee?”
“I seen the signs.” She points to the spot between her eyes. “I seen you two…together.”
I slap my leg and laugh. “Oh, Cee. Is that why you dreamt up this business venture? So I could get a boyfriend?”
“Why o’ course!”
“I should know better than to trust you when it comes to me and single men. I’m nervous, because what if he does have a girlfriend, some kind of long-distance relationship or something? He can’t be running off every two minutes to speak on the phone. And what about if he up and walks out, once I get a bunch of customers?”
“He ain’t like that,” CeeCee says knowingly. “He a Guthrie, after all. They good people. You just say it delicately, maybe phone calls are better left for after work, like that.” She lets out a squeal. “I knew it. I knew this was gonna be your year.”
I laugh along with her, but I’m plagued by doubt. Who would call someone so many times? What’s his secret?
“I’ve tallied up the takings. We gone and had our best day yet.” CeeCee hands me the banking.
“Why, thank you.” We didn’t discount anything, and I sure haven’t seen a pile of cash this big in a long time. Things are definitely looking up for us.
“Head on over to Damon. Here’s his money for those gift baskets we made with all his goodies.”
It’s been nearly two weeks since we began working with Damon. He used our pork shoulder cuts in a cooking class, and we sold out of them the very next day. We’ve swapped and shared products for Christmas party orders, and gift baskets. It was CeeCee’s idea to make Christmas hampers with all beautiful jars of produce Damon stocked, and a selection of our baked goods. We fancied them up with ribbons, and wrapped the baskets in Christmas colors. They’re selling like hot cakes. And tomorrow, Damon and I cater our very first soirée together. I have something to ask him before I begin preparations for the party. “You going to be OK if I go over there?” I ask CeeCee.
“I’ll jingle that big bell if I get run off my feet,” CeeCee says, looking down her glasses at me. “You go. I’m going to start on some more Lane cakes for folk to have Christmas Day. Take your time.” She wanders off singing under her breath.
The Christmas spirit is alive and well in our small town. It’s impossible not to smile when young kids come in, their eyes lit up like fairy lights when they see the gingerbread house, and we give them a marshmallow snowman and a handful of candy canes.
Grabbing my scarf and jacket from the coat rack, I wrap myself up, and wave to CeeCee. “Shout if you need me.”
“Get,” she says, shooing me away like a fly.
I smirk, closing the door softly behind me. The street is busy with families doing last-minute shopping, mothers wearing frantic looks, searching for gifts before the shops shut for good.
I step into Damon’s shop. Customers are milling, picking up things and fussing over the sheer variety he stocks.
“Why, hello, pretty lady,” he says. My heart flutters. It truly does. He’s so darn attractive and it’s beginning to prove difficult not to flirt right back.
“Ho, ho, ho. I bring you a gift.” I hand over the banking bag.
“Thank you.” His smile does go all the way up to his eyes, I notice, just as CeeCee said. He puts the bag under the bench, and pulls out a box. “I also have a gift for you.”
I color. “Oh, what? But mine isn’t really a gift — it’s your money from the baskets.” He hands me a beautifully wrapped box, complete with a big gold bow.
“Go on, open it.”
I rip off the expensive-looking paper then stop. Gosh, darn it, I should have tried to do it delicately, as a lady would. Save the paper, at least. I lift the lid of the box, and when I see it laughter tumbles out of me.
“You shouldn’t have.”
“Oh, I think I should have.”
“What’s it do?”
“It’s a shrilling turkey. See?” He takes the plastic yellow turkey from my hands and presses a button. It starts hawing like a turkey on helium.
I pretend to wipe a tear from my eye. “That’s about the nicest thing anyone ever gave me. How did you know?”
“When I saw it, I thought of you.”
“A plastic, limp, bright yellow turkey reminds me of you, too.”
Customers look at us like we’re crazy, so I turn the shrilling turkey off and sit down.
“Coffee?”
“Sure.”
He’s hidden by the steam for a moment, while the noisy machine does its thing.
“Ma’am.” He places the cup down and ambles around the bench to sit beside me.
“I was…”
“I was…” we say in unison.
“You go…”
“You go…” We laugh; suddenly it’s really hot in here.
I motion for him to speak.
He looks at his coffee, and then up at me. “I was just wondering if you wanted to go to the Christmas carols with me? I hear it’s quite the show.”
“Sure, I’d love to.” I say, quickly, before my voice gets shaky like my hands are. A grin splits his face. “What were you going to ask?”
I wave my hand. “Aw, I was just going to ask if you’d heard about the Christmas carols. It’s quite the show.”
We smile awkwardly at each other, then take comfort in staring into our coffees.
I make a mental note to pull out my red dress, and dust off my boots. Jeans and sweaters are OK for work, but not so much for Christmas Eve. And not for a date with Damon. Not that it’s a date.
I rush back into the shop, feeling guilty about how long I’ve