Baby it’s Cold Outside
Missy
December is always the busiest month of the year for most people, but when you have a thriving business in the heart of downtown Gingerbread, each day flies by like a spinning top. Jenna and Holly are working the front of the bakery while I tirelessly bake batch after batch of as many Christmas cookies as my ovens can handle, and when I’m not doing that, I’m trying to piece together the puzzle that is the Holiday Pie debacle. I’ve laid out a half a dozen pumpkin and apple pies, each just about ready to head into the oven themselves. But the goal isn’t to bake simply a pumpkin pie or an apple. It’s to somehow alter the recipe enough so that it miraculously takes the pie to the next level.
“I’m here!” Mom trills as she removes her scarf while skipping through the kitchen. “Holly called and said it was a 911 situation, and I said no worries, Mighty Mom is on her way!” Her ruby red lips expand with her signature grin. Her golden curls look fresh from the beauty parlor, and she’s wearing an incredibly cheery bright red sweater. It would be a shame to get even a speck of flour on it. For the most part, my mother looks gorgeous at any given hour, but there’s an extra sparkle about her today that I can’t quite put my finger on.
“We’re fine, Mom, really. Besides, you look far too impeccable to be throwing on a hairnet and apron. In fact, you look like you’re ready for church.”
“Ha!” she balks. “Church? You’re such an ageist, Missy. You think that just because a woman of a certain age gets all gussied up, then she must be going to a house of worship.” She steals a truffle mouse off the counter and moans as it melts in her mouth. “Mmm, divine, but you really mustn’t make your food look like vermin.”
“Are you kidding? Those are one of my top ten bestsellers. Everyone who comes in here wants at least a dozen Christmas mice to go.” I’m partial to the tiny creatures for several reasons—the cut almond slivers for ears, the red nonpareil eyes, and that eerie shoestring licorice tail—but the real reason they landed on my nice list this year is because they’re no-bake. You simply mix chocolate wafer crumbs and melted chocolate chips to form their bodies. No-bake means I don’t need to crowd an oven. Whenever I see an employee standing around with nothing to do, I suggest they whip up a batch.
Mom makes a face. “Yes, well, preach it to the choir because I won’t be at the evening service tonight.” She gives a little wink. “Your father is taking me to Le Roux.”
“Le Roux?” I cease from hovering over the bevy of pies as I stalk over to her. “Wow, a fancy French restaurant. No wonder you look like you’re about to paint the town red—no pun intended. May I ask what the occasion is? Do I want to know?” With my mother you can never be too sure. Mom and Dad instated date night a few years back when it practically became a buzzword for couples the world over. Anything that involves dressing up and enjoying a good meal will undoubtedly get my mother’s attention, and much to the chagrin of my father’s wallet, they have indulged religiously in date night without missing a week.
“I sold my very first condo this afternoon!” Her voice hits its upper register as her excitement hits full bloom. “You know, from that complex I scored last week? I have another showing this weekend, and if all goes as planned, I’ll have half the units sold before the new year.”
“That’s fantastic! I say you deserve that dinner. And in light of recent French developments, you may absolutely not assist me in the kitchen this afternoon. I’m fine, I promise. I’m just trying out a few different recipes.”
She grunts as she observes the rows of uncooked pies. “They all look the same to me. Six apple, six pumpkin. No offense, but you’re going to have to get a little more creative than that.” Her lips twist in a bow. “It all looks a little, I don’t know, boring.”
“It is boring. I think that’s the problem. I just can’t think of something special enough to wake it up.”
“Oh, Missy, you’ve always been an over-thinker.” She pulls an apple pie toward her over the marble countertop and glares at it as if it offended her on some level. “Pop quiz.” Her eyes narrow in on mine, and I can’t help but groan. Growing up, my mother demanded that my siblings and I wade our way through our problems by dissecting them as if they were problems on a test—the test of life, my mother would say. “What else could you do with an apple to make it tempting and delicious?” She gives an impish grin as if she’s already aware of the answer.
My voice hums in my throat for a minute as I try to decipher this. “Caramel apple!”
Her eyes widen as she looks to me. “Very good. And give me something else for this pie.” She points to the next plain apple pie staring back at me.
“Salted caramel apple!” My mind explodes with a million ideas at once. “Praline apple crunch, cinnamon apple crisp,” I say, pointing to each of the other pies.
Mom nods with approval before yanking over a jiggling pumpkin pie. “These are far easier—you must know something that could make a pumpkin pie sing.”
“S’mores!” It comes to me without any effort at all. I guess I have to give Mom and her think-your-way-out-of-your-paper-bag mentality some serious props. I think we’re really onto something. “Hazelnut swirl, maple brownie chunk, and, of course, gingerbread.” I give a little shrug as she blows me a kiss.
“Well done, Missy! I’ll give you an A for creativity.” She pulls on a pair of tight black gloves that make her hands look svelte and beautiful. “I’d better head out to meet your father. I’ll catch up with you soon, dear!Toodles!” She breezes out the door as quick as she came in, and my mouth is rooted to the floor.
“That woman is a genius,” I say as Holly comes in, her blonde hair frazzled. Her apron looks as if a dozen chocolate hungry children attacked her all at once. For once I’d like to beat her to the punch and give myself a pop quiz.
“And this place is a circus.” She frowns at the pies. “Any luck?”
“Only the best,” I say, already whipping around the kitchen to gather the ingredients I need to make all of my Holiday Pies dreams come true.
“Yeah, well, you’re going to need it. Guess who’s having date number two right in our café?”
I suck in a sharp breath as I peer around the corner. “Oh my goodness!” My face flushes with heat. There they are, Graham Holiday and Sabrina Jarrett enjoying coffee and an entire slew of Christmas cookies—on the house most likely. I can’t help but grunt at the sight as Graham bites into a stain glassed window cookie. I stayed late yesterday baking batch after batch. They’re some of our top sellers because they’re so beautiful to look at. Graham laughs at something Sabrina says, and my stomach sinks. “I guess I did it,” I say, breathless.
“Yup.” Holly butts her shoulder against mine. “You hijacked two more lives and set them on the trajectory toward alimony and an entire slew of attorneys. They’ll never work, and you know it. They’re not right for one another. Despite his supernatural success, Graham is down-to-earth, and Sabrina is just a corn shuck princess who lives in a hot pink plastic bubble.”
I take a moment to frown over at my sister. She’s not usually such a pessimist when it comes to love. I have no idea why she’s picking on my potential power couple. Sabrina and Graham are clearly cut out for one another. She’s the epitome of vanity, and he has an ego that can hardly squeeze through the door. I’m shocked they haven’t eloped by now.
I tap my sister’s foot with my own. “But what about our dream of him whisking her away to New York? Think of all the inventory we’ll save, the profits we might actually make.” My own voice actually sounds pathetic to me. What was meant to be a battle cry came out as more of a whine. It’s true, though. With Sabrina and her cohorts out of the picture, we might actually crawl out of the red.
Holly shakes her head with that look of disapproval all over her face. “At the end of the day, money is just a tool. But love, that’s something money can’t buy.” Those insistent eyes of hers assure me I’m making the wrong move.
“Don’t look at me like that. What’s done is done. Sabrina and Graham are as good as engaged.” My body bucks as if I were sobbing.
