We move to the window display next – my miniature gingerbread village. I’d been so proud of it. Each little house painstakingly iced, the rooftops dusted with sparkling sugar snow, the pathways lined with crushed peppermint candy. I’d even piped tiny wreaths on the doors.
Now, it just looks pathetic as I dump the whole thing in the trash.
We begin packing the smaller decorative items from the counter – the ceramic Santa mug holding pens, the little bowl of cinnamon-scented pinecones, the ‘Joy’ sign painted in holly berries. We wrap each item carefully in newsprint before placing it in a box.
“Remember when Mrs. Gable tried to ‘help’ decorate the sugar cookies last year?” Charlie asks suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence. “Sprinkles ended upeverywhere. In the espresso machine. In the cash register.”
A tiny, choked sound escapes me – not quite a laugh, more like a gasp.
“She was convinced edible glitter was just… regular glitter,” I murmur, picking up a tiny gingerbread lamppost. “And there was no convincing her otherwise.”
“Or what about when Mr. Henderson started a book club and they met here for the first meeting?” Charlie muses.
I smile faintly at the memory. "God, that was a disaster. Those six men crowded around our smallest table, looking like they were at a funeral instead of discussing—what was it again?"
"Some thriller. Patterson, I think." Charlie chuckles, carefully wrapping a snowman figurine. "The men looked like the last thing they wanted to do was be here together, talking aboutsome book. Their wives must have made them come. I'm pretty sure they never had another meeting."
"Mr. Henderson kept trying to get them to share their 'feelings' about the protagonist," I say, the memory momentarily distracting me from the hollowness in my chest. "And that one guy with the bow tie just kept checking his watch every thirty seconds."
"The best part was when they all ordered black coffee and nothing else, then looked horrified when you brought out those lavender shortbread cookies as a courtesy." Charlie shakes her head. "You'd think you'd offered them poison."
"Except Mr. Henderson. He ate like six of them." I place the last of the snowman figurines in the box. "Remember how they all left at exactly the one-hour mark? Like they'd synchronized their watches."
We work in silence for a few minutes. The weight of reality settles back over me as we continue to pack up the knickknacks.
“Oh god, and then there was that time that new lady joined the knitting group. I still don’t know who told her about the group but those other ladies were not having it.”
Charlie snickered, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Oh, that was brutal. What was her name again? Marjorie? Margaret?"
"Marion," I said, remembering the petite woman with her bright pink cardigan. "She came in with those circular needles and started doing that continental style of knitting."
"And Mrs. Winters looked like she'd just witnessed someone commit murder in her living room." Charlie shook her head, carefully placing a snowglobe into the box. "The way she kept clearing her throat every time Marion looped her yarn."
"And don't forget how Mrs. Pemberton kept 'accidentally' bumping Marion's elbow," I added. "And then they all started that passive-aggressive critique session."
"'Oh dear, that's certainly an... interesting technique,'" Charlie mimicked in a perfect imitation of Mrs. Winters' nasal tone. "'In my fifty years of knitting, I've never seen anyone hold their needles quite like that.'"
I nodded, remembering how the group of older women had huddled together, shooting disapproving glances at Marion's quick fingers. "Then there was that whole 'proper ladies knit English style' lecture from Mrs. Fitzgerald."
"Poor Marion just sat there turning redder and redder." Charlie sighed. "I tried to rescue her by bringing some cinnamon rolls over, but by then the damage was done."
I look over at Charlie, so grateful that we’d shared so many memorable times together at the bakery. And desperately wishing that they didn’t have to end.
“I think that’s all the packing I can do today,” I say, putting one last snowglobe in the box. “Are you still up for coming upstairs for a Christmas marathon?”
“You know I am. I love those shows so much I watch them year-round.”
“What do you want to eat?” Just as I ask I hear my stomach growling.
“Thai from down the street?”
“Ooh, yea. Good call. I’ll call it in while you open up the wine. Oh, and grab some of those sugar cookies that just came out of the oven.”
Charlie heads into the kitchen and grabs way too many cookies while I call Golden Elephant.
I manage a faint smile, tucking my phone away after ordering our usual – pad thai for Charlie, green curry for me, and spring rolls to share. The familiar routine feels surreal against the backdrop of today's devastation.
We trudge up the narrow staircase to my apartment. Each step feels heavier than the last, my body moving on autopilotwhile my mind cycles through the day's events like a horror movie on repeat. Denton's face as he walked out. The eviction notice. The trade to San Francisco.
