Christmas Wishes Part 3. Diana Palmer
one of those overwhelming feelings that life is Christmas-card perfect.
“Now it’s so close, are you nervous about the wedding?” Damon asks.
“No way, Jose. Are you?” I arch an eyebrow.
“Nope. It can’t come quick enough for me. Lil and Damon Guthrie…”
My heart flutters at the words. “Lived happily ever after.”
He grins. “The end.”
I run through our wedding checklist in my mind, but Damon’s sentiment has turned my brain to mush, making it hard to remember. Damon’s been involved in almost every step of the wedding planning. We’ve grown closer, if that’s even possible, while we’ve had our heads bent over our wish list.
“I’ve still got to organize the bouquets, the centerpieces for the tables, confer with the photographer, the dress fitting, the make-up trial…” I trail off as I think of the orders I need to finish for the café too.
He rubs the sandy brown stubble on his chin as though he’s contemplating. “Oh! I spoke to Guillaume again. He’s happy with our ideas, said it won’t be any trouble.”
Guillaume owns L’art de l’amour, a French bistro just outside Ashford. When we were pondering a venue for the reception I knew instantly I wanted to have it there. It’s an intimate space that’s just the right size for our guests. It’s not showy, or glitzy, just classically French, with a chef who’s passionate about his food, no matter how temperamental he is.
Translated the name of the restaurant means The Art of Love, which I think is a good omen, but I keep that pearl of wisdom to myself. Guillaume’s a genius when it comes to the culinary arts, and we trust his judgment explicitly, though I did ask Damon to massage Guillaume’s ego so we could make a few suggestions. He’s typically French and believes in his methods and recipes, so for him to even discuss our menu, well, Damon must have charmed the socks off him.
The rumor mill has settled down now, but when Guillaume appeared in town a few years back there was plenty of speculation about why such a formidable chef would choose the outskirts of Ashford to ply his exotic wares. And we’re yet to figure it out. There’s a story behind the great man, but he’s not talking. All we care about is him making the night spectacular with his inventive cooking.
“What did it take to convince him?” I ask.
Damon bites down on his bottom lip, a gesture that makes me want to ravish him right there. “I might have bent the truth a teeny tiny little bit…”
I give him a shove. “Out with it.”
“I said the menu suggestions were CeeCee’s idea. His face glowed red, and he instantly agreed.”
I throw my head back and laugh. Guillaume has a soft spot for our CeeCee. She doesn’t seem to notice when he visits the café and blushes like a schoolboy in her presence. When he’s around CeeCee his jaw loses the tense set to it, which is replaced by a wide grin. He fidgets, reverts to speaking French, usually making CeeCee holler at him, “Come now, Guillaume, do I hafta get my French dictionary out again?”
“Wait till I tell her that,” I say.
Damon tuts. “If you tell her she can’t pretend she doesn’t know he’s sweet on her.”
I gasp. “You think she knows?”
“I think she does.”
“Does Guillaume know that CeeCee knows?”
Damon’s eyes shine bright with laughter. “You sound like a teenager.”
I frown.
“OK, yes, I think Guillaume knows she knows, but doesn’t know what to do about it.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of knows, when no one knows.”
“I know,” he deadpans.
Well, I’ll be darned. CeeCee and I don’t keep secrets from each other. It’s almost impossible to at any rate. We know each other so well that we’ll read each other’s expressions and with a few foot stomps, or heavy sighs, we’ll inevitably let the story tumble out. But the minx has kept this from me fairly easily.
I wonder if CeeCee has contemplated dating again? Maybe that’s why she hasn’t mentioned that she knows Guillaume is sweet on her? Curtis, CeeCee’s husband, passed away four years ago, and she misses him with all of her heart. They had that rare once-in-a-lifetime kind of love. But saying that, some companionship might be just the thing for her. There’s no way I’m broaching that particular subject with her though — she’s liable to beat me over the head with a bread stick if I even mentioned it.
“Your mamma stopped by the shop today.” My parents have only been back in Ashford a few weeks after an extended world trip. It seemed once they started traveling they couldn’t get enough of exploring the world outside of our small town. I missed them desperately while they were gone, but I understood they were hit with wanderlust, and I was happy for them after a lifetime of living in one place.
“Oh? What did she stop in for?”
“She wanted a hamper of goodies for Reverend Joe…”
“Hmm.” Oh, Lord, what’s cooking in that mind of hers? It’s not unusual for Mamma to support the church with 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