Rebecca Raisin - Christmas Wedding At The Gingerbread Café

“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 from the speakers above, I grab Damon by the collar of his shirt and pull him in for a long kiss.

Chapter Two

Nine days

“Cherry blossom?” CeeCee says, her voice soft with concentration as she wraps turkey, cranberry and Camembert into parcels made with paper-thin filo pastry for today’s lunch special.

“Mmm?”

“Can you pass me the egg-wash?”

I place the small bowl of beaten egg next to her and find the pastry brush. Leaning over her shoulder as she wraps the delicate pastry, I contemplate what they’ll taste like once the Camembert is a creamy melted mess with the sweet cranberry, and the crunch of the filo, and can’t wait to get them baking.

“You breathin’ down my neck for a reason?” CeeCee jokes.

I giggle and take a step back. “You’re making me hungry.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” she hollers. “I’m so hungry my stomach’s touchin’ my backbone! I’ll put a couple o’ these in the oven for a little taste tester.”

“You read my mind.” It’s a wonder we get anything baked around here; there’s always a few rest stops during the day where we break, and eat what we’ve cooked.

While we wait for the pastries to brown we clean the bench in preparation for the next round of baking. The café is quiet today, and the usual worry we’re baking for ourselves sits heavy in my belly.

“What’s those wrinkles popping up ’tween your eyes for?” CeeCee says.

I laugh. CeeCee’s southern way of talking makes even the blackest moods fade. “Same old reason, Cee. Wondering where the heck everyone’s got to, ’cause they sure aren’t in town today.”

She shrugs. “It’s still early, Lil. They’ll come. Especially when they see what I’ve got planned next.” She waggles her eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion.

“Got something in your eye?”

She guffaws and slaps her leg. “No, I do not. I was trying to be mysterious!”

I laugh. “So what’s going to draw the punters in today?”

“You’re gonna put weight on just looking at the recipe, I swear it, but it’s gonna be a showstopper.” Fumbling in the pocket of her apron, she pulls out a square of paper and waves it at me.

I unfold it and read quickly. “A croquembouche?”

She snatches the piece of paper back, and pushes her glasses back on. “Not just any croquembouche, a salted caramel croquembouche with ricotta cream. Instead of making one big tower of profiteroles, I thought we could make say ten smaller towers. They sure are pretty, and if we flick toffee around them it’ll look like tinsel ’round a Christmas tree.”

Her enthusiasm is infectious, but I stand mute because it’s a French recipe, from a French culinary magazine. CeeCee’ll try baking anything once, but after Damon’s chat about Guillaume my mind connects the dots, and the picture is a love heart.

“I think you’re right, Cee.” In the picture the little balls of choux pastry are stacked up into a cone shape, the salted caramel glaze dripped over them makes them shine, and some tendrils of spun toffee flicked over once they’re assembled will draw in a crowd for sure. My mouth waters at the thought of biting into the luscious ricotta filling.