At the end of a long day, I sit by the display window and watch the last of the late evening shoppers exit from the shops across the road so the owners can close up. It’s dark out, and CeeCee’s gone home, insisting dinner tonight is only for family.

      With the café all toasty warm, and Jingle Bells playing merrily in the background, I get my second wind, and continue on with the mayor’s order. We’ve only got the yule log and CeeCee’s lemonade pie left to make and then we can deliver it early tomorrow.

      Yule log is one of my favorite Christmas recipes. Making the cake resemble a log, with all the grooves and gouges, dusted white with snow, is a Christmas tradition in our family. My grandma used to make it every year when I was little. I loved watching her roll the sponge, and cover it with thick butter-cream icing, before running a fork down the length for her grooves. In that soft way of hers she’d share stories about her childhood, while I listened, rapt, occasionally dipping a finger into the chocolate icing.

      When I make yule log, I’m transported back to her orderly kitchen, and it warms my heart as though we’re still connected. If you share that kind of love, it can always be brought back to life when you bake. It’s almost as if she’s standing right behind me, smiling.

      Glancing at the time, I realize everyone will arrive for dinner soon. Instead of making the base of the yule log, I take some gum paste from the fridge. I set to work, massaging it, to make it pliable to make acorns. They dry rock hard, and aren’t the nicest to eat, but they finish off the woodsy look.

      “Hey.” Damon sidles up behind me and kisses the back of my neck, sending goose bumps down my body.

      “Hey…” I say, turning to his soft smile.

      “It’s freezing in here.” In my trip down memory lane, I hadn’t noticed the fire is down to embers. I set the acorn leaves aside.

      “Take a break. Put your feet up.” He leads me to the sofa, and starts fussing with the fire to spark it up before joining me.

      He surveys me. “Lil, you look a little…peaked. Are you OK?”

      “Yes, I’m fine.” I must look a fright. I push a tendril of hair back, as usual wearier once I’ve sat down for a moment.

      “OK. It’s just I don’t want to be standing at the altar alone, while you’re tucked up in bed sick or something.”

      I giggle at the thought of Damon all dressed up in his tux, checking his watch. “I’m no runaway bride. If I was sick I’d be there anyway. Happy to spread my germs with you. In sickness and in health, remember?”

      He throws his head back and laughs. “I remember. Let’s test the waters.” He leans closer and cups my face, and kisses me slowly. A tingle of desire races through me, and I’m giddy with the fact I get to marry this man.

      “Get a room!” We jump as if scalded to the sound of my dad’s jocular voice and rise to greet him. He wraps me in a warm hug, and musses my hair. “Where’s Mamma?” I ask.

      Dad scratches the back of his neck. “She’s running late on account of a wardrobe malfunction. I don’t know what that means, but there you have it.”

      “A wardrobe malfunction?”

      Dad shrugs and Damon takes it as a cue for drinks. “I’ll uncork the wine. You guys catch up a while.”

      “Good man,” Dad says and sits heavily. There’s something utterly teddy-bearish about my father. He’s got a pot belly from too many sweets, and wears red braces that make him look like some kind of professor. His bushy eyebrows stick straight up as if he’s been zapped with lightning; they’re longer than the hair on his almost-bald head.

      I lower my voice and say, “She’s dilly-dallying over what to wear, isn’t she?”

      He touches a finger to his nose implying it’s a secret. “She said she’d just be a minute.”

      “I don’t see what’s wrong with what she usually wears.” I have the grace to blush a little as I remember myself fretting about the exact same thing this morning.

      Damon returns with a bottle of red wine, and glasses. “Now you’re talking,” Dad says, accepting a glass eagerly. I think his pot belly might also be a product of his penchant for red wine, which he claims is purely medicinal.

      A second later Mamma arrives, her hair covered in snowflakes, which melt quickly as she rushes towards the fire. She unwraps her winter coat and throws it towards Dad. “Evening all!” she trills happily.

      “Mamma!” My eyes go wide with surprise. “What are you wearing?”

      Golly, I can see where I inherited my fashion sense from. Mamma is decked out in a silky pantsuit, with every color imaginable splashed across it making my eyes cross in confusion.

      “It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” she says. “I borrowed it from Rosaleen. She said shoulder pads are coming back in. And that the vibrant colors make me look a decade younger.” She gives her newly styled hair a dramatic flick. Obviously she snuck in to see Missy at the salon this afternoon too.

      “Where’s Cee?” she asks.

      “Gone on home. Says tonight is just about family.”

      Mamma’s lips pucker. “But she is family.”

      I shrug. “She wouldn’t hear a word of it.”

      CeeCee is more than an employee; she’s my best friend and more like a mother figure, especially when my own was traveling the globe for nearly a year.

      Mamma says, “Maybe she’s beat, Lil. You’ve both been burning the candle from both ends.”

      “Yeah…I guess.” I survey the café, making sure I haven’t left any empty mugs or plates around. On the bench is the gum paste and the few acorn leaves I managed to mold so I wander over and pack them away. With one last look around I’m satisfied the café is as ordered as it’s ever likely to be. I wonder what strangers make of it when they walk in. The sofas