Christmas Wishes Part 3. Diana Palmer
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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.
I sidle up to her and lean close. “So-o-o…where’d you get this recipe from?”
CeeCee makes a show of wiping her hands on her apron, and then bending over to take silver bowls from under the bench, though her brown cheeks blush so furiously they’re almost purple.
“Cee?”
She stands, and pretends not to have heard me, but I can read her expressions as clearly as a road map. I snatch up the piece of paper. “You know…” I play with her “…I’m sure I remember Guillaume mentioning this recipe to me before…”
Her mouth opens and closes, and she drops the silver bowl, which clangs like a cymbal as it bounces on the floor.
“Did he now?” she eventually manages.
I’m just about to press her for information when the doorbell jingles.
“Well, lookie here,” she booms. “If it ain’t your daddy.” Her voice is slightly manic with what? Relief?
My father strides in, flicking his braces over his big belly, which is a sure-fire sign he’s hungry. “Hey, Dad.” He hugs me tight.
“Hey, darlin’.” I detect the faint whiff of cigar smoke on him, the same old dad, sneaking puffs out of Mamma’s sight. If she knew he was still partial to the odd cigar, I’d hear her yelling all the way from home.
“Morning, CeeCee.” He tips his head.
“Let me get you a candy-cane coffee.” She bustles away, no doubt glad for the interruption.
“Hungry?” I say, remembering the parcels in the oven.
“Well…”
I edge him to a table. “Get comfy. You can try the turkey, cranberry and Camembert pastry that Cee’s just made.”
He laces his fingers together. “Don’t tell your mamma.” He winks.
“She’s still making you diet?”
His face is glum as he counts on his fingers. “No sugar, no bread, no pasta, no rice. High protein, rabbit food only. And you know your mamma.” He screws up his face. “Her idea of dinner is over-boiled carrots, and frozen peas, with a side of charred steak. At least my choppers stay sharp after all that grinding.”
I laugh. He’s always on about his teeth, as if the secret to longevity is how well his choppers are holding up. Mamma isn’t the best cook in the world. In fact she’s downright disastrous. Dad still marvels to this day how I managed to learn to cook since I share her genes, but my grandmother baked, and I spent a lot of my childhood in her kitchen.
“You’re putting me in a predicament just being here,” I joke. “What if she walks past and I’ve just gone and served you a plate of banned food?” I pop the pastries on two plates and take them to the table.
“She won’t,” he says. “I made sure of it.” He lowers his voice as if he’s plotting something more sinister.
CeeCee wanders over with mugs of candy-cane coffee and we sit at the table together. I slide a plate to each of them and take one of the steaming cups of sweet coffee.
“How’d you make sure of it?” I ask him.
“She said that Emma Mae invited her over for a game of Scrabble, and you know those two once they get to talking. I’ll be lucky if she’s home for dinner.”
I swallow a sip of coffee and say, “What if she was lying? And she said that to test you, knowing full well you’d sneak into the café?”
His eyes go wide and he pushes the plate away as if it’s on fire.
CeeCee pipes up, “I’m sure I seen her walk past not even a minute ago…” She cackles high and loud, and I smirk behind my hand.
He scoffs. “I knew you were joking — give me that plate back! And anyway, once a week, surely that’s OK for a treat? I’m only human.”
I cluck my tongue. “Dad, you come in every day.”
“Small portions, Lil. That’s the secret.” Somehow he manages to keep a straight face. Dad visits at least once a day, fills up on whatever we’re baking, and takes a few gingerbread men for the road. There’s no sign of small portions anywhere near his dinner-sized plate.
A customer blows in just as I’m about to retort, a broody-looking stranger with dark eyes, and a fit physique. I go to stand and CeeCee says, “You catch up with your dad, Lil. I’ll go.”
I nod thanks, and sit.
“So,” Dad says between forkfuls, “as the chief organizer of Damon’s bachelor party, I thought I’d run a few things by you.”
I grin. “How did you end up in charge of the bachelor do?”
He shrugs. “Damned if I know. Seems everyone’s working and Tommy thinks I need to step away from daytime TV…”
Folding my arms and leaning my elbows on the table, I say, “Maybe that’s a good idea.” Dad retired just before he and Mamma went away; before that he worked with Tommy in the dairy. Almost forty years in the same place, and I think now he’s home he misses the routine, and his friends there. Not so much the back-breaking labor, but the lack of physical work has definitely added to his waistline, hence Mamma’s nagging. “But a few midday movie sessions aren’t such a bad idea either.”
He gives me a half-smile. “It was a novelty at first, but now…well, I’m under your mamma’s feet all the time, and I’m kind of…bored. It was OK when we were traveling, but now, I need to find something to do.” He flicks his braces. “So, first step; bachelor party, second step, something to fill my days…”
My dad’s one of those people who like to keep busy. He retired on Mamma’s say-so, but I don’t think he was really ready for it. And I hate to think of him sitting at home trying to keep out of Mamma’s way as she vacuums and dusts daily in her usual frenzy.
“You could do some volunteer work?”
He knots his bushy eyebrows. “That might be just the thing.”
I rest my hand atop his. “Why don’t you try the community center? I’m sure they’d love your help.” We’re both silent as we glance out of the snow-mottled window to Walt’s empty furniture shop.
Walt and Janey usually run all the local events out of the community center, but we haven’t seen them in an age. Janey was diagnosed with cancer back at Easter time. She and Walt moved to a small hotel in Springfield to be closer to the big hospital there while she receives treatment.
“I’ll go in and see who’s running things now, see if they need a hand.” Dad clears his throat. “So, for the bachelor party, what’ll it be? I was thinking I’d set up our front room like a casino. I’d be the croupier, of course. Do you think Damon would like that?”
“He’d love it.” And he would. A night in, gambling pennies on cards, would suit him to a T. “What night are you thinking?”
“Maybe Monday night? Leaves a two days before the wedding in case someone dyes his hair red, or whatever it is they do these days.”
“Blue’s more his color.”
Dad bellows so loud CeeCee glances over, and the newcomer does