Christmas Wedding At The Gingerbread Café. Rebecca Raisin
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in some respects — he brings me back to earth, the times I’m fiddling with the calculator, my paperwork piled in front. He’ll massage my shoulders before gently taking away my pen, and telling me to leave it for a while. That my furious adding and subtracting won’t change anything at ten minutes to midnight.
Secretly, I’ve been trying to save. I want to pay CeeCee back for the Joel fiasco, but she won’t have any of it, so I’ve been squirrelling money into an account, which I’ll put aside for her grandbabies. I also have another account, reserved especially for future wages for another staff member for the café. We’ll need an extra pair of hands if, make that when, I fall pregnant. I want to be squared away financially when it does happen. I’ll still work in the café, but I’d like to spend some time at home too. A baby needs routine, and I’m determined to find a way I can make it work. Just the thought of nursing a baby makes me warm inside. We’ve been trying since Easter, with no luck, but I know it’ll happen. Just like Missy, it’ll happen when I least expect it.
Outside the young carolers cross the icy street their voices carrying over on the wind, pure and sweet like tiny angels.
“And anyway,” Damon says, his lazy smile in place, “unless we renew our vows every December, it’s the only time we’ll turn clients away.”
I flash him a grin. He’s right. I should be focusing on the wedding, not getting all angsty over the business side of things. He takes my hand and laces his fingers through mine.
It won’t be long before friends and family arrive in Ashford for the week. There have been flurries of phone calls and emails about where they’ll stay and what they’ll do. I can’t wait for them to sit at the kitchen bench nursing steaming cups of gingerbread coffee, while I bake for them.
I wonder what they’ll make of my business. The café, with its dark-chocolate-colored walls and gingerbread-man bunting, looks enchanting at nightfall, when the fire throws shadows over the space, and the Christmas decorations shine under the fairy lights. It’s cozy and warm, the kind of place you can loll about and forget your troubles. And celebrate love, and friendship and everything in between.
Excitement dazzles me for a moment, as I think about baking beautiful cakes for people I love. Baking has always been more like a meditation for me. Life makes sense when I’m clasping a wooden spoon, and have a bowl of batter cupped under an arm. And it’s infinitely more magical when I make a sweet treat with a friend or family member in mind. When they exclaim about the presentation of a gateau, and, with fork poised mid bite, roll their eyes heavenward oohing over the flavors, it makes my heart sing. And that’s why I run a café that struggles as much as it flourishes. I need to. It’s what I’m meant to do. Seasons come and go, and so do customers. Summer is busy, and Christmas is hectic, but between that we falter, just like all the shops in Ashford.
I snuggle close to the man I’m going to marry. The soft orange glow from the fire lights up his face, and again I have 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