Christmas Wishes Part 3. Diana Palmer
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to the Grinch. She despises Christmas. Hates any form of celebration. Calls us all materialistic and brain-washed by consumerism. She sure is hard to fathom when you first meet her. “Geez, Missy, if she can handle Marjorie she can handle anyone!” I say. I go to the display fridge and take out some dark chocolate fruit mince truffles, and a handful of Missy’s favorite, gingerbread and white chocolate.
Sarah gives me a thumbs up while Missy takes a deep breath and continues: “I know. I should be thanking my lucky stars I even managed to find a hairdresser that’d come live in Ashford. For a while there I thought I might have to close up for the duration. And Becca is sweet as sugar. I don’t know why I feel as though I’m never gonna see anyone again. Anyway, listen to me! We’re supposed to be organizing your wedding!”
“Missy,” I say, “you’re bound to feel that way. Your life is about to change for the better. And like Cee says, we might even see more of you now that you’re a free woman. Have baby will travel.”
More composed, Missy nods. “You’re right. I’ll probably have my own sofa here at the café, with my own fluffy blanket. Cee can use that baby carrier thingy-majiggy and wander around with him tied to her chest, singing lullabies, while I catch up on my beauty sleep.”
“That sounds mighty fine to me,” CeeCee says. “Ain’t nothing like rocking a baby to sleep, especially at Christmas. I’m gonna teach him a bunch of carols before he’s even old enough to smile.”
CeeCee is always babysitting for locals. She’s affectionately known as a baby whisperer. Exhausted mothers often stop by the café and beg CeeCee to tell help get their infants to sleep. She laughs her southern haw, and takes the squawking bundle into her arms. We order the exhausted women to rest up, they’ll amble to the recliner with a steaming cup of hot chocolate in hand. Drink it quickly and doze, safe in the knowledge Cee’ll have their babies snoozing in no time.
I hope CeeCee will have the chance to hold a child of mine. And that she’ll be around when they are old enough to bake alongside her. I don’t think there’s anything nicer than picturing that day. Almost as if I can see a little blond-haired girl standing on a step so she can reach the bench, listening patiently to Cee as she shows her how to mold fondant, or roll out pastry.
“I saw your mamma the other day,” Sarah says, pulling me from my daydream. “That holiday definitely agreed with her. She’s looking as happy as I’ve ever seen her.”
She’s been flitting around town since she came home, showing anyone who’ll look her holiday photo album. “Did you see the pictures?”
“We all saw the pictures!” Missy says.
I shake my head, laughing, grateful she didn’t invite everyone to the family slide-show night. Mamma learned the art of taking a ‘selfie’, which was adorable for the first few hundred shots. “You know she’s gone and invited my cousin Jeremiah to the wedding?” The girls attended my first wedding, and know all about the disaster that is my cousin.
They dissolve into laughter again.
“You girls finished?” I arch my brow, and try to keep the smile from my voice.
Missy gushes, “Oh, he’s just misunderstood! His hair grew back grey, after all…”
I gasp. “Mamma told you too?”
She shakes her head no. “Rosaleen. And…it seems, well, I don’t know how to put it—”
“No! Please don’t tell me Mamma invited Rosaleen?”
Missy pulls a face and says, “She’s very excited. And so are her daughters…”
CeeCee clears her throat. “While we’re at it…the three Mary-Jos were asking about bringin’ their boyfriends.” She shakes her head, as she’s always ruffled by the outrageously flirty teenagers. “Seem too young for boyfriends if y’all ask me.”
I curse under my breath. Mamma’s gone and invited people left, right and center, without checking with me. With the extras that Olivia wants to invite, our intimate affair is going to be a circus. At this rate Guillaume is going to throw his tea towel down and cancel.
“Shoot. With that news, I better get to makin’ more gingerbread wedding favors,” CeeCee says, and lifts her bulk out of the chair. She turns back and says to Sarah, “Is that man-mountain o’ yours gonna be here for the wedding?”
Sarah and I look at each other and laugh. Seems CeeCee is all set with giving our significant others a nickname, and sticking with it.
“He sure is,” Sarah says. “Actually…he’s not planning on going anywhere after that.”
“What?” I ask. “He’s moving here for good?”
She nods, her smile lighting up her doll-like features. “Yep. We figured it was about time. I mean, Ridge’s practically living here anyway. But he’s selling his apartment in New York, and moving in with me.”
We screech our support and take turns hugging Sarah. She met Ridge a few months back after he came to do a story on a chocolate festival the town of Ashford hosted at Easter time. It didn’t take long for love to blossom with the pair of them, and before we knew it Ridge was here almost every weekend after quitting his job at The New York Herald newspaper and doing freelance work instead.
Sarah says, “It’s the weirdest feeling making room on my bookshelves for him. Is that odd? I mean, aren’t I supposed to move half the clothes in the closet, or free up some room in the bathroom cabinet?”
“I think it’s completely normal,” I say. “I’m sure there are plenty of people who are quite fussy about who they share their shelves with.”
After another fit of laughter, Sarah stands and shrugs her coat on.
CeeCee groans and says, “Let’s make more o’ those gingerbread wedding favors then, Lil.”
“Be sure and send any mistakes my way. I’m craving gingerbread men so bad I’m worried I’m going to have a gingerbread baby,” Missy says. Sarah clasps Missy’s hands, pulling her bulk out of the sofa. “Let’s go, gingerbread mom. I’ve got a customer, by the looks.”
We hug our goodbyes and promise to catch up again later.
A few hours later I’m busy clearing tables when CeeCee wanders from the office, holding a piece of paper. “Lil, these orders have just come in on that gizmo.” I suppress a smile at her reference to our antiquated fax machine. “We better get a move on — the mayor’s gone ahead and ordered a bunch o’ cakes for his staff Christmas party.” Her finger works its way down the list as she mumbles, “Black forest meringue, yule log, boozy fruitcake, chocolate-fudge cheesecake, and—” she chuckles “—lemonade pie. I knew he loved that pie. He done ordered it every week since I baked it for him a few months back.”
CeeCee’s famous for her southern pies. She makes them from scratch and when they sit cooling on the bench, their scent wafting down the street, you can almost count the seconds until we’re inundated with customers. I’ve watched CeeCee make a million pies, followed her recipes to a T, mixed the ingredients with love in my mind, but they never taste as good. I don’t know what her secret is, but they put the comfort into comfort food, all right.
“So.” Cee puts the list on the bench. “Where should we start?”
I run through the order and say, “With the boozy fruitcakes. They’ll take the longest to bake.”
“You soaked the fruit already?”
“Yes, ma’am. I soaked a batch yesterday, good and proper with lashings of brandy, and some sugar syrup. I thought we’d make mini fruitcakes for the café, but we’ll do that later now, and use this for the mayor’s order instead.”
“OK.”
I