I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the comforting, complex perfume of my bakery – cinnamon, chocolate, coffee, hope.
I make two more peppermint mochas, the familiar motions – swirling the syrup, topping with whipped cream and crushed candy canes – a small anchor in the sea of worry.
The rhythmic piping of frosting onto another batch of cookies helps too.Lose yourself in the details, Holly. One snowflake at a time. One customer at a time. That’s how you build a blizzard of goodwill. And maybe, just maybe, goodwill can pay the bills.
The afternoon rush begins to taper off around four. The snow outside is falling harder now, painting the bustling Wicker Park street in soft, silent white.
The shop empties gradually, leaving behind the comfortable hum of the refrigerators and the low murmur of a couple lingering over a shared slice of peppermint cheesecake. Charlie is wiping down tables, her elf hat slightly askew, humming along to “Silver Bells.”
I’m wrist-deep in a massive bowl of gingerbread dough, the spicy, molasses-rich scent rising like a comforting cloud, when the bell above the door chimes. A small draft of icy air snakes in, making the lights shiver. I look up, expecting another bundled-up regular or perhaps a last-minute cookie run.
Instead, I see a little girl.
She can’t be more than four or five, standing just inside the doorway, dwarfed by the heavy wooden frame. Her bright pink puffer coat is dusted with snow, the hood pushed back to reveal a tangle of dark, curly hair escaping from beneath a striped knitted hat. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, and her eyes – wide, impossibly dark, and utterly mesmerized – are fixed on the towering display of gingerbread houses near the window. She’s completely alone.
“Well, hello there,” Charlie says brightly, walking towards the little girl with her most reassuring smile. “Are you lost, sweetpea? Where’s your grown-up?”
The girl doesn’t answer Charlie. She takes a few hesitant steps further into the shop, her little boots leaving damp prints on the worn floorboards. Her gaze sweeps the room, taking in the twinkling lights, the glittering cookies, the towering cakes, finally landing on me, covered in flour, holding a lump of fragrant dough.
A tiny, awestruck smile touches her lips. She points a mittened hand towards the gingerbread houses. “Are those castles?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper.
My heart melts faster than chocolate on a hot stove. Kids in the bakery are one of my greatest joys. “They look likecastles, don’t they?” I say, keeping my voice gentle, matching her wonder. I wipe my hands quickly on my apron. “Yummy, crunchy castles. Did you come to see the gingerbread kingdom?”
She nods solemnly, her dark eyes huge. She takes another step, drawn like a moth to the warm, sugary light. Charlie shoots me a look – equal parts amusement and concern. A child this young, alone in the snow?
“Is your mommy or daddy outside?” Charlie asks again, crouching slightly to be at the girl’s level. “Did you get separated?”
The little girl finally tears her gaze away from the gingerbread houses to look at Charlie. She shakes her head, her curls bouncing. “Daddy’s shopping,” she announces matter-of-factly, pointing vaguely out the snow-blurred window towards the bustling street market visible down the block. “For… for boring things.” She wrinkles her nose adorably. “I saw the sparkles.” She points back to the lights framing the window. “It’s like magic.”
“Itismagic,” I agree, moving slowly out from behind the counter, drawn to her innocent wonder. It’s a balm against my earlier worries. This is why I do this. This moment. “Gingerbread magic. My name’s Holly. What’s yours?”
She considers me for a moment, those dark eyes assessing. “Tabby,” she says finally. “Like the cat. But I’m not a cat.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Tabby-Not-a-Cat,” I say, smiling. “How old are you?”
Tabby holds up five fingers, as she exclaims, “Five!” What kind of parent would let this adorable five-year-old out of his sight for even one minute?!
“Would you like a closer look at the castles? Maybe pick out your own cookie?” I gesture towards the display case filled with smaller, individually wrapped gingerbread men.
Her eyes light up like stars. “Yes!” She takes another eager step forward, then pauses, remembering her manners. “Please,” she adds softly.
Charlie straightens up, her gaze scanning the street outside through the window. “I’ll just pop outside, Hols, see if I can spot a panicked dad shopping for boring things,” she murmurs, already heading for the door. “Keep Miss Tabby entertained.”
As Charlie slips out into the swirling snow, I crouch down near Tabby, keeping a respectful distance. “So, Tabby, what kind of cookie should we pick? A brave one with lots of buttons? Or a sneaky one with a chocolate sword?” I open the display case, releasing another wave of spicy-sweet aroma.
Tabby presses her mittened hands and nose against the glass, her breath fogging it slightly. “A brave one!” she declares. “With… with a hat!” She points to one decorated with a piped white chef’s hat, a leftover from a baking class.
I retrieve the cookie, its little candy eyes and smile beaming up cheerfully. “Here you go, brave Sir Gingerbread,” I say, handing it to her in a small paper bag. “He’s on guard duty now, protecting you.”
She takes the bag reverently, clutching it to her chest with both mittened hands. “Thank you,” she whispers, her eyes shining. She takes a small, careful bite of the cookie’s hat, her expression one of pure bliss. It’s a look that could power the entire block’s Christmas lights.
For a moment, the weight of the bills, Tony Taviani’s smarmy smile, the groaning oven – it all fades away, replaced by the simple, profound joy of making a child happy with something I created.
But suddenly, the peaceful moment shatters like dropped fine china.
The bell above the door doesn’t chime this time; it’s nearly ripped from its hinges as the door bursts open with terrifyingforce. A blast of frigid air roars into the bakery and snow swirls in like angry ghosts.
A man fills the doorway.
