When I arrive at the Gingerbread Café CeeCee’s standing behind the silver prep bench rolling out pastry as if her life depends on it. She’s muttering to herself and shaking her head.

      “Talking to your invisible friends again?” I joke as I unwind my woolen scarf, a favorite of mine that CeeCee knitted for me years ago. I hang my parka on the coat rack, and stand with my back to the fire, jiggling my legs when the heat sears.

      “You’ve gone and caught me having an argument with this here pastry. I was a million miles away on account of it not complying with me.” Dusting her hands on her apron, she walks to me and pecks me on the cheek. “You look…” Her lip wobbles, and she turns away. Next second she’s slapping her knees and doubles over laughing.

      I survey my outfit. I’m sure she’s seen me wear this a million times over. “You got a problem with the fat man all of a sudden?” I point to the chubby Santa on my sweater.

      She manages to stand upright and slowly turns to me. “Lil,” she sputters, “you killin’ me!”

      Baffled, I look down at my outfit again thinking I’ve got my jeans inside out, or back to front.

      “For someone who doesn’t wear make-up you surely got it spread across your face real good!”

      Shoot! I rush to the mirror in the office and check my reflection. Oh, God! It looks as if someone scribbled all over my face with lipstick. This is why I don’t wear gloop. I scramble to find something to wash my face with, eventually unearthing a container of wet-wipes from the dusty recesses of the desk drawer. I swipe at the residue of make-up, including the black smears of mascara that are everywhere except my eyelashes, and curse myself for languishing in bed with Damon. We’d canoodled for a lot longer than we should have, knowing we were already late. There hadn’t been time for coffee, or even our usual curbside goodbyes.

      As I return to CeeCee she’s still hawing and slapping the silver bench when laughter gets the better of her. “I don’t want to know how that happened…”

      I purse my lips, and try to think of a plausible excuse. “Well, you see…”

      “Don’t even try, Lil. I bet if I walked over to that fine-looking thing across the road his face would be covered in make-up too.”

      My eyes widen and after a high-pitched squeal I dash out of the café, my feet slipping on the icy pavement; I run on the spot, trying not to fall. Eventually, I catch myself, and walk a little more sedately over the road. Damon’s standing in front of the coffee machine that’s the size of a small car, discussing the merits of braising lamb shanks as opposed to baking them with a group of elderly women. They’re not paying any attention to what he’s saying; instead they’re whispering behind their hands. Scrunching my eyes to a sliver, in case it helps minimize the damage, I look at Damon and see the reason for their distraction. The so-named Pink Passion lipstick is spread across Damon’s face. He looks like one of those bobble-head clowns that you drop balls down the mouth of at an amusement park.

      “Damon,” I say urgently.

      “Hey, Lil! This here’s my fiancée, from the Gingerbread Café.”

      The ladies give me a knowing look. I wave limply and tug on Damon’s arm. “I need a quick word.”

      Damon throws the ladies an apologetic glance, and leans down to whisper, “I’m in the middle of a cooking demonstration here.”

      “I’ll be quick.”

      He wriggles his arm free. “Lil, can’t it wait?”

      “You have lipstick all over your face!” I yell a little too loudly. Everyone in the shop stops and turns to stare at Damon. “Sorry!” I say as I watch a blush creep up his cheeks, which, I must say, matches quite nicely with the Pink Passion.

      “Would you excuse me, please, ladies?” he says to the women, who are outright tittering at his expense. “It seems I’ve…er…” He throws me a desperate glance.

      “We er…had cupcakes for breakfast!” I holler. “With pink icing! Lots of pink icing!”

      Damon breaks into a wide grin, and pulls me to him. “You, my lady, are going to ruin my reputation.”

      “That’s my plan,” I whisper back.

      He kisses the top of my head, and I wave to the women before making my way back to the shop.

      Shivering from the cold, I dash back inside the café, and stand by the fire.

      “So, pumpkin, you had pressin’ business over the road, I see?” CeeCee looks down her nose at me and continues to roll pastry dough.

      Before I can respond the doorbell jingles and in walk Missy from The Sassy Salon and Sarah from The Bookshop on the Corner.

      Missy click-clacks her way to me in her high-heeled boots, her big pregnant belly swathed in a bold zebra-print form-fitting coat. “We thought you must have been robbed or something!” Missy screeches. “What on earth were you running over the road like that for?”

      Sarah, who’s dressed in a more sedate grey pantsuit and black coat, gives CeeCee a hug and walks quickly to join us by the fire. “Lil, oh, my God, I snorted coffee up my nose when I saw you ice-skating your way over there. I called Missy straight away and told her to stick her head out the door and take a look at you!”

      Missy smacks her hands together and laughs. “Your impression of running man rooted to the spot was darn right labor-inducing!”

      It’s my turn to blush. “Well…you see, we ate cupcakes…”

      CeeCee trundles over with a tray of gingerbread coffees. “Oh, don’t you listen to those lies she about to sprout!” she says knowingly.

      Missy guffaws and eases herself on the sofa, a hand on her back, and one on her belly.

      Sarah’s eyes light up. “Do tell…”

      I laugh, and know there’s no way I can get away from spilling the beans. Sure as shooting it’s going to end up on CeeCee’s Spacebook. “Darn it, no one can keep any secrets in this town!” Everyone finds a spot to sit, and my heart lifts at us girls having some time together. Usually we gather at some point each day to shoot the breeze but of late, with all of us busier, we haven’t had as much time. “Did you say labor-inducing?” I frown over at Missy.

      “Not really,” she says, “though my old bladder isn’t what it used to be. It should