All is not Calm
Missy
When I was little, Christmas Eve meant waking up to the delicious scent of fritters frying over a hot stove. The thick scent would waft into my bedroom and wake me with the promise of doughy goodness. I would tread on sleepy feet over to the kitchen and indulge in one piping hot fritter after another, pungent with lemon zest, a slight hint of booziness from the vanilla, and plump golden raisins that my mother would throw into the batter. It was a little piece of fresh fried heaven in every single bite. It was my mother who gave me a love of baking, a love of freeing my spirit in the kitchen while taking my taste buds to sweet heavenly places. But this bustling Christmas Eve morning, I was awakened with neither the fresh scent of fritters nor the welcoming smile of my mother—instead, I was greeted with a seven-foot evergreen turned on its side, ornaments rolled out into the four corners of the living room. Noel ate her way through most of the wooden ornaments I dared decorate the tree with. And when I found her, she was tangled in Christmas lights, looking every bit adorable and guilty. To top it all off, she left a fresh batch of doggie brownies right in front of a gift I bought and wrapped for Graham. I’ll admit that I laughed a little at that one, but only after I cried at the sight of the mess.
Once I sent her toDaddy’s—and yes, I melt each time I refer to him that way—I showered and hightailed it to the bakery. And all of that was at four in the morning. Suffice it to say, this is turning out to be one long day.
It’s now well past ten. Holly and I are losing our minds scrambling along with the rest of the team to put together a half a million cookie platters for the auction tonight. And even though I’ve been done for days, I can’t stop putting the finishing touches on the gingerbread dollhouses taking up precious real estate in the back of the shop. I’ve long since sent Mayor Todd the gingerbread dollhouse for his girls, and I’ve walked over to the city hall on a few occasions to visit it. I must admit, it is a stunning sight to witness. The second one I’ve erected and decorated is the one I made for Savanah. I know she’ll be thrilled when she wakes up tomorrow morning and sees it filled with the mountain of Barbies that Mom and I purchased to go along with it. Holly accused me of spoiling her, but I let her know that as Savanah’s only crazy aunt, it’s basically my duty.
“Move faster!” Holly cries as she struggles to sprinkle a tray of freshly frosted sugar cookies with edible gold dust. Technically, all gold dust is edible, but the gold dust we’re using amounts to metallic sugar in its yummiest form. Anytime that we place a batch of golden goodies into the showcase out front, they inevitably sell out. There’s just something decadent about shoving a sweet gold nugget into your mouth. It makes you feel as if you’re a part of the aristocracy, and tonight at the auction, it’s all about making people feel as if they belong to a royal gentry. Even though Gingerbread is the most down-to-earth, cozy little town on this planet, once a year on the night of our dear Lord’s birth, we like to kick up our heels while donning our finest frocks. Gilded cookies sort of feel like a given.
“I can’t move faster,” I whimper. “If I move any faster, everything I touch will end up on the floor. You know I’m a klutz in these situations.” It’s true. The faster I’m to move, the slower things get. God forbid that I find myself in a position where my life depended on the agility of my fingers while I’m forced to move under pressure. I’m sure any thief that targeted me would be more than sorry he chose the wrong victim—most likely I would be sorry, too.
Mom rushes in with her hair pulled back into a low ponytail and a red sequined Santa hat pressed over her head. “I’ve got half the van loaded, girls!” She tosses her arms in the air like a showgirl. My mother never lets a hectic situation get her frazzled. In fact, I believe she thrives on chaos—thus, the three children under five by the time she was thirty. “Let’s wrap it up and move it out!”
Holly and I hustle the rest of the platters into the van at breakneck speeds before finally loading ourselves inside as well. In a mad panic, I drive the three of us straight to the community center, parking out back in the drop-off area that’s already rife with people. The bustle of bodies moves in a frenetic pace as if each one of us felt as if we were falling behind schedule. It’s the same every year, and each year the energy level of those working behind the scenes only seems to amplify itself. It’s a beehive from sun up until well after the silent auction closes, and I don’t think any of us would want it any other way. The Christmas Eve auction is the biggest yearly event in Gingerbread, and we work hard to keep all of the magic that comes with it alive.
“Coming through!” I call out as the three of us make trip after trip into the extra-large kitchen attached to the center. A tall woman dressed as an elf has set aside an entire row of tables just for the desserts, and we laden it with yummy treats from the bakery. As much as I love this time of year, I am always thrilled once the benefit begins because it’s the first time in a month that I can truly relax. Part of the fun of the evening is getting dressed up in a nice dress and heels—heels. My feet don’t even know how to behave in those manmade stilts, let alone dance in them. But there will be a band here tonight and lots and lots of dancing, so the heels inevitably come off right after dinner. It’s always fun to see the postman cutting loose with the women from Curl Up and Dye. And who doesn’t love watching the girls from Sabrina’s snobby book club get ripped while downing one too many cups of eggnog?
Sabrina. Just the mention of her steals all the Christmas spirit right out of my heart.
Mom and Holly are schlepping in the last of the platters as I head into the main dining hall to sneak a peek at the elegant holiday décor that’s fit for the finest of establishments. Thick ropes of garland skip around the room, just under the ceiling, giving the place an ironic gingerbread appeal. Lights are woven throughout the boughs, and come evening we’ll feel as if we were transported to the inside of a castle that belongs in a fairy tale. But the pièce de résistance is that twenty-foot blue noble decked out in red ribbons and bows, enough sparkling ornaments to fill a warehouse with, and each branch is twined neatly with enough lights to ensure you can see the spectacle clear up to the space station. Yes, Gingerbread might be small, but we are mighty when it comes to displaying the love of our favorite holiday.
A tall, all too familiar, redhead strides into the room along with a group of scowling men—all who seem to be begrudgingly following her.
“I’ll need these long tables moved to the front. I want to look out and see the people!” she orders, and the men mobilize as if she were about to hold their feet to the flames, and I have no doubt she is. “And I’ll need the podium and the microphone set behind me. I’d like for these two seats to be in the direct path of the spotlight while Mayor Todd gives his welcome speech.”
I can’t help but make a face. I have a sneaking suspicion I know who she plans on seating in those soon-to-be brightly lit places. My feet start in on an awkward dance as I struggle to tiptoe out of the room unnoticed.
A pair of hands comes up from behind, tickling my sides, and I let out a shrill yelp. I turn to find Holly laughing her head off, but I’m guessing she won’t be for long.
“Mistletoe Winters!” Sabrina grates my name out like the sound of nails on a long, never-ending chalkboard. In fact, I’ve never hated the sound of my name more than when it comes straight out of her mouth. No wonder Graham couldn’t stand to be near her. He probably has nightmares that consist solely of her screeching his name out.
Holly gives me a slight push in that direction. “Be brave,” she hisses as she scuttles back to the kitchen like a coward.
“Sabrina!” My feet glide forward like the traitors they are. “What can I do for you?” Other than secure your mouth with duct tape. A stale smile floats to my lips.
Her garish red lips look glossed with gear oil, and that formfitting, red velvet outfit makes me want to find the nearest robe and wrap her in it. Her vacuum-sealed curves don’t exactly leave a lot to the imagination, not that Sabrina ever does. And FYI, I already know what she wants—my man. Something warms in me at the thought of Graham Holiday belonging exclusively to me. And he does.
Her lips expand to dangerous parameters. Her dark coal eyes each look like their own dark cave—caves that not even the bravest of souls would ever want to venture in.
“You know what you can do for me.” She folds her hands together a moment, each fingernail alternating in color from red to green. “I expect to find Graham Holiday seated next to me for dinner, right over there.” She points to where the podium is being placed just behind the seats of honor. “Great news.” She leans in, a giddy wave of excitement shivers through her. “We’re switching things up this year. Mayor Todd will be crowning a lucky couple as king and queen of the dance.”
“A what?” I shake my head, trying desperately to keep up with her level of crazy. I’ll have you know, it’s not easy.
“Think prom, silly. It’s been so long since I’ve had any kind of a title attached to my name, I just thought it was time, you know?”
“No, I don’t know. This is the auction that benefits the community center. It’s also Christmas Eve. I think that’s enough excitement for one night, don’t you agree?” A prom? Aprom? She can’t be serious. I knew that Sabrina Jarrett could find any excuse to don a tiara, but this is ridiculous. And pulling the entire town into her madness seems a bit over the top even for Sabrina. On second thought, it’s exactly on par with her everyday behavior.
She inches back as if I slapped her. “What are you talking about? Everyone in Gingerbread will be thrilled to hear about this new honor. People will vie for the title all year long. Just think about it. Instead of mistletoe and holly strewn all around town”—she rolls her eyes as she mocks my moniker right along with my sister’s—“we’ll have posters of the new candidates begging people to vote for them. Of course, some of us have more clout than others.” She casts a pathetic glance my way. “Anyway, I’ll see you here this evening. Be a little early, and make sure Graham is here in plenty of time before dinner. I want the photographer to get a few extra pictures of the two of us.” She gives a single nod, her demented gaze locked over mine. “You really are a miracle worker, Missy. Not only do I get credit for saving that ridiculous pie factory, but I get to be engaged to the most eligible bachelor this side of New York City. Graham and I are finally reuniting. And it will all go off without a hitch tonight.” Her eyes slit to nothing. “And if it doesn’t—that little pâtisserie you run will have to find a new home. You have less than seven hours to make this happen.” She leans in with a menacing scowl. “Nowscat!”
And I do. I run like heck right out the door, into the waiting van, and speed right back to that little pâtisserie of mine that I’ll own for the next seven hours tops. And after that—it’s powdered sugared curtains for me.
It doesn’t look as if it will be a merry Christmas after all.
* * *
The nightof the community center benefit always calls for everyone to wear their Sunday best. Over the years, some of the women—Sabrina and her cohorts—have taken it over the fashionista top. I’ll admit, it’s fun to see all of the men looking dapper in suits and the women dressed to the glittering nines. I’ve secretly envied the top of the line couture dresses Sabrina has worn proudly—a tad too proudly—in seasons past. But as for me, I’ve donned the very same dress for the past few years, a festive red fitted shift that hugs my curves in all the right places. No one seems to mind that the dress is on repeat, and if they do, they haven’t bothered to complain about it. I primp and prime myself with the best of them for all of fifteen minutes. I’ve been on my feet at the bakery all day, and, to be truthful, the only thing I want to do tonight is sit by a crackling fire with Graham and Noel. Maybe I’ll throw in a couple of cups of cocoa and some homemade marshmallows, too. Now that sounds like a perfect Christmas Eve if you ask me—one that doesn’t include a creature by the name of Sabrina Jarrett.
