“For . . . ?” I ask.
She hits the lights and plunges the kitchen into darkness. She flicks on her phone’s flashlight, and then she produces and lights three Christmas candles that I’ve never seen before.
All three are shaped like gingerbread men, except they’ve been used enough that their heads are caving in.
And they’re old.
You can smell it.
“Does the fire marshal know about those candles?” I whisper.
“Quiet. Don’t disturb the ceremony.”
I glance at Mom.
She’s rubbing her temples and sighing.
Guilt hits me in the sternum.Again.
Mom’s been trying. She’s been working on Grandma all week. And she’s going to find out it’s all been fake very soon. Or at least for nothing when Dane and I “break up.”
Will she feel betrayed?
Or will she understand?
Also, I’m supposed to be asking Grandma about her own grandfather. I did a little digging, and I’m sure George Andersonismy great-great-grandfather. But I don’t know what Grandma might know about him and his romantic history.
“How far back does this ceremony go in our family?” I ask.
Look at me. Impulsive butsmartthis time.
“Shush.Be present.” Grandma hands me one of the gingerbread candles. The wax is thick and hard, with a texture that feels like years of grime has worked its way into the candle itself. Mom is handed a second, and then Grandma uses hers as a light to lead us in three circles around the main prep table in the center of the kitchen as she speaks.
“Ancestors, we come to you today with joyous news,” she intones. “The next generation of gingerbread bakers is here to continue the work you’ve honored us with. May her spoons be accurate. May her mixer never lose power. May her frosting never melt. And may her molasses never crystallize.”
Ben was supposed to do this. I wonder what my brother would say to Grandma’s ceremony.
He’d probably be amused but hide it.
I’m just plain stressed. “Grandma, I have to tell you something,” I say.
She ignores me. “From this day forward, one more generation of Andersons will benefit from the glorious gift passed from mother to son, father to daughter, grandparent to grandchild. But with this gift comes the duty to provide for the good of all of the town of Tinsel through baking, charity, and volunteer work. Amanda Elizabeth Anderson, are you ready to take your rightful place in our family and in our hometown?”
“Grandma, I don’t think—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“Wonderful. We shall now proceed with the presentation of the recipe.”
I start to speak again, but Mom grabs me by the arm and shakes her head at me.
Don’t interrupt?
Orwe’ll fix this later?
Grandma leads us to the desk in the corner, still going on about how our family founded this town, about leading it into the Christmas years, about gingerbread being the root of everything.
It’s overkill.
Mom keeps wincing.
