Rebecca Raisin - Christmas At The Café

“I better go.” She picks up a bag of cookies. “I hope everything works out and that…well, you know…” Her voice trails off as she nods to CeeCee and scurries away quick as a mouse. We watch her scrawny frame retreat before turning to each other.

“I nearly done had a heart attack when I heard that snake was here when you all alone! What’d he want? I couldn’t get a word outta Damon, his mouth shut so tight I worry it’d been superglued!” She’s so riled up she speaks in exclamation marks.

I take the envelope from my bag. “Let’s sit on the sofa.” I trudge to it, knowing CeeCee’s going to be worried. “He called yesterday, said he wanted to meet. Cut a long story short, he wants the money back I used to set up the café.”

“He what? That man as crooked as a dog’s hind leg! But he owes you a whole lot more than that! He lost your house and everythin’.” Sweat breaks out above her lip; she picks up a magazine and uses it like a fan.

“I know.” I pat her knee. “Don’t worry, please, Cee. I’m going to see about an appointment with Mr Jefferson, and figure out what to do.” I try my hardest to sound bright, as if I’m not concerned, and hope it fools her.

“I got a bad feeling about this, Lil. He ain’t gonna let up so easy, lawyer or no.”

“It’s fine, Cee. We’ll keep going like we always do. I’ll work out something. You want a gingerbread coffee?”

Her eyes are glassy and I realize she’s about to cry. “Cee, it’s OK. Really, don’t cry.”

“It just ain’t right. You worked your butt off to make this place into a business.”

“We’ve both worked our butts off. Don’t you worry. I’m not going to give in without a fight.” I kiss her soft, plump cheek. “Put your feet up for a bit. I’ll bring you a coffee and a piece of pie.”

“OK, just for a minute, then.” She keeps up a one-way conversation, muttering to herself, and shaking her fists.

***

Once the shock wears off, CeeCee’s back to her bustling, busy self. I try and put Joel out of my mind as we get to work. It’s hard, though, when I picture his sneering face, and think of how cunning he is.

We line the wicker baskets by the front door with greaseproof paper, and fill them with freshly baked hot-cross buns. Within minutes we have customers three deep as the smell travels out to the street.

“I knew that was a good idea!” CeeCee says, pointing to the baskets. “It’s like bees to a honeypot.” And I have to agree. The café is more appealing with all the touches we’ve added recently. Damon built a bookshelf on the wall closest to the fireplace. We filled it with cookbooks, and paperbacks, and hunted out gingerbread coloring-in books for kids.

CeeCee found the wicker baskets at a church fête, and we used all our knowledge of DIY to mount them on the wall. We must have looked a sight that day, two women with nails hanging out of our mouths, drills in hand, as we tried to attach them to the wall. So they hang a little crookedly, but with the amount of nails we used they certainly won’t fall down. Over the Christmas break we painted the walls a dark chocolate color and hung gingerbread-man bunting and fairy lights along the edge of the cornice. It’s chintzy and sweet, and I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished.

The customers trickle away once the hot-cross buns are sold so we stop to catch our breath and plan the rest of the day. I make a quick call to Mr Jefferson, who tells me to fax over the letter from Joel’s lawyer and that he’ll call me as soon as he’s done some investigating into it.

Joining CeeCee on the old sofa by the bookshelves, I take a minute to watch the world go by outside the Gingerbread Café. I could easily grab a book off the shelf and while the day away reading, and gawping out of the window after each chapter.

“I faxed the documents to Mr Jefferson,” I say idly, noticing Damon’s shop is filled with customers. He sells a range of small goods, and does cooking classes once a week, which all manner of local women get themselves glammed up for. Seems once Damon moved to town girls from eighteen to eighty suddenly forgot how to cook.

I watch him wander around the shop, speaking to customers, and get the same tingly feeling I always do when I lay eyes on him. Even when he wears those ridiculous checker shirts he loves so much. They are growing on me, I guess, especially when he leaves one too many buttons open, exposing his chest. I blink the sleepy desire away, and try and look at though I’m not lost in some kind of fantasy world.

CeeCee sighs loudly. “I feel better knowing that he’s gonna help. He’ll see you right. Guess there’s no chance Joel will just up and disappear, is there?”

“You never can tell,” I say, wishing it were true.

CeeCee uncrosses her arms. “If I sit here any longer I’ll fall asleep. Let’s bake something new.”

I stretch, yawning. “Like what?”

“Let’s make some dark chocolate crème brulées. Then that’s one less thing to do for the festival.”

“That’s if we don’t eat them all,” I say, following her back to the kitchen. I can almost taste the rich creamy dessert with its caramelized sugar topping, just by picturing it.

***

With the crème brulées made, and only two or three missing, as temptation got the better of us, we spend the rest of the morning serving customers and planning our range. Trying to organize what can be made ahead, and what needs to be done as late as possible.

CeeCee’s busy concocting a huge slab of macadamia and white chocolate fudge — I can’t even look at it after the amount we’ve eaten today.

A lanky man strolls through the doors, looking almost as if he’s lost something. He takes in the walls, the ceiling, as if he’s a repairman.

“Can I help you?” I ask. He’s not from around here — that much I know.

He strides to the counter. “Name’s Dennis. I heard this place was for sale. Joel told me to come and meet with you — he was a bit sketchy on the details…”

Anger clouds my mind, and I can’t help but glare at the damn fool in front of me, whether he’s innocent or not. What in the hell kind of game is Joel playing sending someone out like some kind of tire-kicker to look over the place?

“This place most certainly is not for sale!” I yell, indignant.

His eyes widen. “But Joel said…”

CeeCee storms over. “You go back and tell that nasty piece of work this kinda carry-on ain’t gonna wash with us! Go on, get.” She shoos him away. He takes one look at her and spins on his heel.

She turns to me. “This ain’t gonna stop, Lil, till he gets his way.”

“I’ll call Mr Jefferson back. But I’m not going to let him bully me into paying, Cee. I’m just not.”

We’re distracted as Charlie runs through the door out of breath. “Daddy said you were making Easter eggs today!” I glance at CeeCee, who in a tacit wave of her hand knows instinctively not to discuss what just happened in front of Charlie. We lock eyes for a moment longer; I can tell CeeCee’s still reeling from Joel’s latest attempt to intimidate me. I mouth the words, “It’s fine.”

CeeCee purses her lips, and pulls the little girl into her arms. “Wanna help us make some eggs?”

Her cornflower-blue eyes widen in excitement. “Yes please! Daddy bought me an apron and everything.” She opens up her pink backpack and pulls out a brown apron.

“Would you look at that?” Cee says. “It’s got gingerbread men all over it. Your daddy sure knows how to buy gifts all right.” We giggle, thinking of the shrilling turkey and the manic bunny. CeeCee helps Charlie fix the strings of the apron, and sets her up on a stool.

“So, Lil’s gonna temper the chocolate,” CeeCee says, “which is a fancy way of saying she’s going to melt it. Now give me a minute here to read this recipe.” She plonks her glasses on the bridge of her nose, while she reads. “Oh, this is gonna be fun! Says here, we can pipe in white chocolate first to make little patterns in the molds, like dots or squiggles, then, once that sets, we coat with the dark chocolate. They gonna look pretty as a picture.”