Rebecca Raisin - Christmas At The Café - Christmas at the Gingerbread Café / Chocolate Dreams at the Gingerbread Cafe / Christmas Wedding at the Gingerbread Café / Wish Upon a Christmas Cake

“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 left CeeCee on her own. She’s in a state, fanning her hands at her face, and looking all faint. “You OK?”

She sobs as if she’s gone and lost her best friend. “Cee, what is it?”

Lifting her head, she walks to me, throws her arms around my shoulders, like a bear. “I’m just as happy as a hog in slop! I heard you gone said yes to a date with Damon!”

The joys of living in a small town. “Seriously, how did that get to you so quick?”

“Emma Mae was over there, and heard you twos giggling like children. She said you were snuggled up, all cozy-like.” Her eyes twinkle with unshed tears.

“Emma Mae’s a busybody. It’s not a date. We’re just going to the carols together. As friends. No one even mentioned the D word. Plus that phone of his started bleating out all over the place again. Makes me wonder what he’s hiding. Kind of puts a pall over things.”

Knitting her brow, she glances over at the shop, as if she can discern from here what Damon’s secret is. “Surely someone knows something about why he suddenly back.”

I follow her gaze. Damon’s gesticulating wildly to the local sheriff, probably about the boys attempting to shoplift earlier that day. Poor kids, trying to get their mamma a present on account of their daddy walking out not so long ago. At least Damon had a heart once he heard their story. He gave them a box of small goods to take home to their mamma, as long as they promised never to steal again.

“I think,” CeeCee says, dragging her eyes back to mine, “he’s probably just tying up loose ends back in New Orleans. You said he had a shop there, right?”

“CeeCee, it doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m just happy to go to the carols with someone other than myself. Plus, it’ll set tongues wagging, so that’s a bonus too.”

She nods. “Sure as shooting will. Now you all ready for that fancy shindig tomorrow?”

“I think so. I’m going to stay back tonight and do as much prep as I can, then Damon and I’ll head on over about lunchtime to set up. You sure you’ll be OK by yourself? It’s been busy these last few days.”

“I’m sure. If I get stuck Walt said Janey’s just a phone call away. Folk ‘round here won’t mind waiting if there’s a queue. I’ll ply them with candy-cane coffee, or some such. You don’t worry ‘bout a thing, ‘cept Damon.”

“‘Cept Damon?” I copy, arching my eyebrows.

CeeCee fusses with her hair, and tries to look innocent. “You know what I mean.”

“So far so good,” Damon says, setting down a tray of empty Chinese soup spoons that moments before had been filled with tuna and mango ceviche.

“Wow, that was quick. Are we making enough?” We’re halfway through, and so far it doesn’t look as though people are slowing down with the food.

Damon winks. “We’ll have plenty, don’t you worry. The noise level goes up every time I go out there, and I hazard a guess that the alcohol consumption is rising right along with that noise. People are starting to dance. I think I saw the mayor doing Gangnam Style…”

“Oh, golly! I can’t wait to see pictures of that.”

Damon’s right. If anything we’ve over-catered. I want to make sure we’re known for quality food, and plenty of it.

“What’s next?” Damon says, standing so close I feel his breath on my neck. Goose bumps break out on my skin, and I blush at the thought of him noticing them.