You are invited to the wedding of the year!

Snow is falling thick and fast outside the Gingerbread Café and, inside, its owner Lily is planning the wedding of the year. Her wedding! She never dreamt it would happen, but this Christmas she’ll be marrying the man of her dreams — in a Christmas-card-perfect ceremony!

The gingerbread is baking, the dress is fitted and the mistletoe’s in place — for once, everything’s going to plan. That is until her mother-in-law arrives… Suddenly, Lily’s famous cool is being tested like never before and her dream wedding is crumbling before her eyes.

In the blink of a fairy light, the Gingerbread Café has been thrown into chaos! Lily thought she had this wedding wrapped up, but with so much to do before she says ‘I do’, can Lily get to the church on time — and make this Christmas sparkle after all?

Praise for REBECCA RAISIN’s Gingerbread Café series

‘Christmas at the Gingerbread Café is a lovely, cheery festive read, a good old-fashioned feel-good romance to warm the cockles of your heart. This is one of my favourite Christmas reads of the year.’ Books with Bunny

‘This is a great novella that I really enjoyed reading and found that I didn’t want to put it down. It is the perfect read to get you in the mood for Christmas and my mouth was watering after reading about all of the delicious-sounding baking. If you are looking for a Christmassy romance then don’t look any further than Rebecca Raisin’s brilliant debut.’ Bookbabblers on Christmas at the Gingerbread Café

‘Raisin not only excels in creating a festive mood — the tone of family and friends coming together is sweet — but also portrays a lovely winter-wonderland setting, where things are covered in snow. This makes the book feel cosy and safe. It’s definitely an uplifting read.’ Sam Still Reading on Christmas at the Gingerbread Café

‘This is a short and incredibly sweet novella that explores a very endearing and unexpected romance. It is definitely one that will make you laugh and warm your heart, and one that can be happily devoured in one sitting.’ Louisa’s Reviews on Christmas at the Gingerbread Café

‘If you love Christmas, romance and HEA then you will love this sweet novella.

This one gets an A!’ Clue Review on Christmas at the Gingerbread Café

‘Wow — loved it, loved it, loved it! … It was just like I was visiting with old friends. Rebecca’s descriptions are so vivid I could very well have been stood in the café, hugging CeeCee and waddling out after sampling all the different chocolatey delights on offer. My mouth literally watered with every turn of the page. … I don’t know what I’m going to do whilst waiting for the next book — Christmas is so far away!!’ Crooks on Books on Chocolate Dreams at the Gingerbread Café

‘This book is sweet & delicious, and I am looking forward to the next in the series as they end all too quickly!’ All Booked Out on Chocolate Dreams at the Gingerbread Café

Also by Rebecca Raisin

The Gingerbread Café trilogy:

Christmas at the Gingerbread Café

Chocolate Dreams at the Gingerbread Café

The Bookshop on the Corner

Christmas Wedding at the Gingerbread Café

Rebecca Raisin

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © Rebecca Raisin 2014

Rebecca Raisin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781474007764

Version date: 2018-06-20

REBECCA RAISIN

is a true bibliophile. This love of books morphed into the desire to write them. She’s been widely published in various short-story anthologies, and in fiction magazines, and is now focusing on writing romance. The only downfall about writing about gorgeous men who have brains as well as brawn is falling in love with them — just as well they’re fictional. Rebecca aims to write characters you can see yourself being friends with. People with big hearts who care about relationships, and, most importantly, believe in true, once-in-a-lifetime love.

For Sophie Hedley because I love you.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Praise

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Dedication

Chapter One – Ten days

Chapter Two – Nine days

Chapter Three – Eight days

Chapter Four – Seven days

Chapter Five – Six days

Chapter Six – Five days

Chapter Seven – Four days

Chapter Eight – Three days

Chapter Nine – Two days

Chapter Ten – One day

Chapter Eleven – Wedding Day

Epilogue – Christmas Day

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Ten days

The fluffy white meringue hypnotizes me as it swirls around the mixer into soft valleys and peaks. A chocolate cake cools on the stainless-steel bench ready for me to layer with meringue, which will look like fresh snow for the cheery-faced fondant reindeers to graze in. High-pitched voices interrupt my reverie, and I turn to see the small children of Ashford making their way along the icy street, caroling.

It’s almost nightfall; through the tinseled window and flashing fairy lights I watch them sing, their faces lit up with the excitement of Christmas. I switch off the mixer, and dust my hands on my apron. Edging closer to the door, I listen to them pitch and warble. I sing along, enraptured by the catchy festive songs.

A couple of young stragglers pull away from the crowd of carolers, and race to the window of the Gingerbread Café. They push their tiny red noses against the glass; their breath fogs up the view. I duck my head around the door. “See those marshmallow snowmen? CeeCee made them especially, so when you’re finished caroling you can take as many as you want. Tell your friends too.” Their eyes go wide, as they squeal and dash back to the group, gesticulating wildly back to the sweet treats on display.

Smiling at their exuberance, I glance back to the window, and see why they’re so animated. At their age and height it must look like a monolithic ode to gingerbread. CeeCee insisted we make our own Christmas tree this year…out of gingerbread. It took us the better part of three weeks to work out how exactly to bake the pieces so they’d fit together to form branches. There were plenty of mistakes made, which were hastily eaten up by our regular customers.

We felt like the most accomplished engineers when it was finally erected and we’d decorated it with golden candy floss ‘tinsel’, and ‘baubles’ made from scarlet toffee. The ‘ground’ is made from marshmallow, and the Christmas presents made from chocolate dusted with edible glitter sit afoot the tree. All the late nights baking seem like nothing when a crowd of children stop and ogle it as if it’s something magical. I can’t wait for Damon’s daughter, Charlie, to see it. For a moment I picture her, with her beautiful blond curls, following the kids along the street, singing. I miss her when she’s gone, almost as if she’s my own child.

The doorbell jingles, catching me mid-chorus. I turn, half expecting the tiny revelers to rush in. “Oh, golly, that’s the voice I love,” Damon teases. His hands snake behind my jacket and he rubs the warmth of my back. “Operatic, and dramatic.”

“Very funny.” I grin. “I would have tried a bit harder if I knew I had an audience.” So, my singing leaves a lot to be desired. I blame my mamma — she’s sings as if she’s being strangled and unfortunately I inherited that gene.

“And I get to wake up to the sound of that voice every day until…for ever.”

Gazing up at him, my mouth hanging open like a love-struck fool, I say, “Ten days until I’m Mrs. Guthrie. Ten days until I swan down that aisle. I’m tingly with excitement even if I do have to wear gloop on my face, and be tortured with hair devices to make my curly hair…curly.”

He laughs so hard little dimples appear on his cheeks. “I’m tingly too, in more ways than one.” He half groans as he leans down and kisses me full on the mouth. I close my eyes as my whole-body throb reaches swoon level. This fine-thing sure knows how to kiss a girl, all right.

Slightly breathless, we pull apart, silent for a moment until the blood rushes back to wherever the hell it’s supposed to be. We stare hard at each other, but I don’t dare kiss him again. We’re likely to close up shop and jump into bed for the evening. As tempting as that is, I have cakes to bake.

But…no.

I have cakes to bake.

Damon runs his hands through his hair. “Let’s just close…”

Jelly-legged from his presence, I fight to stay strong. “Nope.”

He hooks his fingers through the belt loops of my jeans and pulls me against him. I step back, but he pulls me close again in an effort to convince me. “Lil…”

“Nope.”

His lips part slowly, and my restraint almost crumbles. Cakes, think of the cakes.

He moans low. “You’re a temptress…”

I laugh. “It’s a hard life.”

“Very hard,” he agrees, winking. He makes a show of exhaling, and shakes away the desire that is plain on his face. Composed, he says, “Let’s stop canoodling in the doorway before we end up in some compromising photos on CeeCee’s Spacebook.”

I imagine a picture of us wrapped together squid-like, flushed, for the world to see on Facebook. I giggle and drag Damon close to the fireplace when my friend Missy ducks her head in and says, “Hello, lovebirds! You’re looking mighty sweet all tangled like that.”

“Come out of the cold, Missy.” I wave her over to the fire. She struts in. Despite being heavily pregnant, she still manages to saunter rather than waddle.

Missy, who owns The Sassy Salon, has all these grand plans for my wedding hair and make-up, and, while it’s not usually my thing, it’s hard not to get caught up in her excitement. She is an expert, after all.

I rub her belly before giving her a hug. As always she smells sweet with perfume and hair products, her heavily made-up face perfection as she fluffs her big auburn curls. “I don’t intend to interrupt you two from whatever it is you were doing…” she arches an eyebrow, and grins “…but I wanted to give you these, Lil.” She hands me a brown paper bag. “Some make-up samples, colorstay, so no matter how much toying you do to your pretty little face, it should stay put.”

I go to protest, but she shakes a finger. “Before you start shaking your head, hear me out. You need to decide what colors you like…so just try it, OK? I know make-up is not your thing, but you’ll get used to it if you try it out a few times before the wedding.”

Damon lets out a huge belly laugh. I pivot, hands on hips, and give him a fake pout, he stops immediately and claps a hand over his mouth. “You think this is funny?” I tease; ruing the fact that at almost thirty years of age I still don’t understand the basics of applying make-up. I’ve tried, but it feels so unnatural, as if I’ve cemented my face, that I can’t help but mess with it, as a child would.

“No, no!” Damon holds his palms up, stifling a laugh. “Definitely not funny.” I give him a shove with my hip and turn back to Missy.

“I just hope I’m not going to look like a Dolly Parton impersonator.”

Missy rolls her eyes heavenward. “There’s nothing wrong with Dolly Parton, Lil. That woman knows what real beauty is.”

I guffaw.

“She’s my people and I won’t hear a bad word about her!” Missy laughs. I grin back. Missy dresses similar to Dolly Parton, all tight miniskirts, bold prints, the odd sequin or two. She’s vibrant and sassy and has a heart of pure gold.

“OK, no more Dolly jokes. So are there instructions with this stuff?” Doubt creeps in as I survey the bag full of colorful vials and tubes used for God knows what. Missy knows I’m erring on the side of natural rather than full-on war paint, but so far all I see are pinks and reds so bright they make my eyes hurt.

Missy scoffs. “No, there aren’t instructions! At least try the lipsticks and see which shade you prefer. We can sort the rest at the make-up trial, OK?”

“OK.”

“I better go and close up shop or else Tommy’ll think I’ve run off with another man.”

Laughter barrels out of us at the thought of a heavily pregnant woman running anywhere, least of all off with another man. “See you tomorrow, and thanks.” I hold up the bag. Missy air kisses us both and struts away. From behind you can’t even tell she’s pregnant — all the gingerbread men and slices of pie she’s consumed have obviously gone straight to the baby.

“Only ten more days…” Damon’s voice brings me back to the present as he kisses the top of my head.

Ten more days marks our one-year anniversary, and our wedding day.

I wasn’t searching for love a year ago, far from it, when it fell in my lap — or rather my café — in the form of this tight-jean-wearing, curly-haired, six-packed, glorious man. Some days it still doesn’t feel real, that this kind of passionate, all-consuming love could just happen, in the blink of an eye, but thank my lucky stars, it did.

Nipping my fingers into Damon’s back pockets, I pull his hips close. “Look at them…”

Ashford’s mini carolers huddle together as they wait to cross the road. They’re bundled up in woolen scarves and beanies, their mittened hands holding candles. They chorus Amazing Grace, and I stiffen in Damon’s arms. Oh, no. I bite the inside of my cheek. I wiggle my toes. Isn’t that what people do to stem their tears? It’s too late. My eyes well up; it’s no use. That song kills me. It’s the very heart of Christmas and it speaks to me like nothing else.

“Lil?” Damon says. “You OK?”

I half laugh, half hiccough. “It’s that darn song. It’s even more of a tear-jerker when six-year-olds are singing it.” My voice comes out a little strangled as I try to laugh it off.

“How could I forget?” he says wistfully. “The Amazing Grace blubber-fest exactly one year ago today.”

I cock my head. “Wait…what? You saw that?” This time last year I had my hand wedged well and truly up a turkey’s behind, stuffing the damn poultry to sell in the café as I sang my little heart out to Amazing Grace, laughing-shrieking-sobbing with the sadness of one whose life wasn’t going as planned. And that very same day, I met Damon.

Damon smacks his forehead. “Whoops. So I may have been spying on you long before you marched across the road to shout at me for stealing your customers.”

The memory makes me smile. I’d been all riled up when this handsome newcomer strode into town selling the same things as my beloved Gingerbread Café. It hadn’t helped matters he was gorgeous and instantly had a shop full of ladies, single or not, flicking their shiny hair, and strutting about, trying to make his acquaintance.

“You were spying on me?” I ask, mock seriously.

He puts a hand to his chest and does his best to keep his face straight, but his lip wobbles as he gulps back laughter. “I fell in love with you that very second. I thought, if a girl can stuff a turkey, simultaneously cry, and laugh, and sing like it’s the only thing that’ll save her, then she’s the one for me.” He presses a fist to his mouth, no doubt reliving the scene in all its sob-fest glory.

I laugh and blush to the roots of my hair. I really did make a spectacle of myself that long-ago wintry morning in the café. I had no idea anyone could see me in such a vulnerable state. “I’m surprised —” I hit him playfully on the arm “— that you’ve never mentioned this before.”

He raises his eyebrows. The deep brown of his eyes is so easy to get lost in, I forget for a moment what we’re even discussing. “You were upset, and I didn’t want you to know I’d seen. I only wanted to make you smile. Little did I know that you’d take offence to my mere presence in town, and that it would become a bit harder than I’d first thought.”

Thinking back to that day, I’m caught up in a rush of mixed feelings. Back then, I was pining for my ex-husband Joel, too naïve to know he was no good, not realizing it was just the idea of love I missed — and not actually him. And that very day, I’d vowed to run Damon out of town because I’d seen him as a threat to my business, and without the café I would have been lost and broke. That version of me, sad and lonely, seems like a lifetime ago.

Shaking my head, I marvel — what a difference a year makes. It hadn’t taken long for me to fall in love with Damon; he truly was a Christmas miracle. And now, we’re about to get married! I resist the urge to pinch myself.

When a man turns every notion you had of love upside down, and shows you what a genuine heart he has, it’s almost impossible not to well up, and again it makes me wonder why I let my ex-husband treat me callously for so long. Silently, I thank the universe he’s out of my life for good, and instead focus on the wonderful man in front of me.

And next year, I vow, I’ll only listen to Amazing Grace when I’m alone, and can bawl for the full five minutes and afterwards will feel strangely refreshed, and altogether festive.

“Where’s CeeCee?” Damon asks, glancing around the café.

Frowning, I push a tendril of hair back. “She dashed out to get some Christmas presents for her grandbabies.” I glance at my watch and shrug. “But that was a while ago. She’s probably bumped into someone.”

You can never really dash anywhere in Ashford. Everyone knows everyone — you can’t get down the main street without stopping to chat to people. Even the inclement weather doesn’t deter the locals from stopping to shoot the breeze.

Outside snow drifts down like white confetti, pitching in the wind, and settling on the square window panes. The sight makes me want to curl up and watch the world go by. With that in mind, I push Damon towards one of the old sofas in front of the fireplace, and sit with my legs over his lap. He’s impossible to resist and the cakes can wait, for five minutes, at least. The fire is stoked up, and crackles and spits as if it’s saying hello. Damon groans. “I’m beat. You don’t realize till you stop for a minute.” He covers his mouth as he yawns, which immediately makes me yawn.

“How’d today go?” I ask. Damon owns a small goods shop across the road, and hosts cooking demonstrations as well as sorting out the finer details of our catering business. No matter what you do, money is tight for shopkeepers in Ashford purely because it’s such a small town. Though the lead-up to Christmas is frantic for us all.

“Busy. I must have made a hundred cups of coffee…”

I smirk. Damon’s fancy coffee tastes like tar to me, but women still flock there, and grimace their way through a cup. He’s totally clueless they’re ogling him as he dashes behind the counter, while they stare, mouths hanging open. I don’t blame them. I’d spend my morning at his coffee bar and stare too if I could.

“Any catering enquiries for January?”

He shakes his head. We decided not to take any bookings for the catering over Christmas because of the wedding but we’d hoped to get some parties booked for the new year. Our catering business is what keeps us afloat in the times the streets are quiet, especially over winter. “They’ll come, Lil. Don’t worry; let’s just focus on Christmas and the wedding and having our families all in one place.”

I bite a nail, before catching myself, hearing Missy in my mind berating me. “I hope we haven’t made a mistake turning clients away.”

He shrugs. “It’s our wedding, Lil. I’m sure everyone understands.”

We’ve chosen a Christmas Eve wedding for sentimental reasons; it will be a year exactly that we’ve been a couple, and it seems fitting to make the commitment on that date. Plus, it’s when Charlie visits, and my parents are finally back from an extended round-the-world-trip. And a winter wonderland wedding — well, you can’t get more romantic than that.

But…it’s also a busy time for the café until December twenty-fourth and then we’re suddenly deader than a doornail, as people hibernate for the remaining winter. By turning catering clients away after a steady year of building the business into almost-flourishing, I do step back and wonder if we’ve made the right choice. I don’t have anyone to fall back on financially if ends don’t meet, and that’s enough to keep me awake at night sometimes. Damon’s family are wealthy, but he stubbornly refuses to take handouts from them, which is one of the reasons I love him. He makes his own way. But a small part of me sometimes thinks that’s why he doesn’t seem overly concerned when his business doesn’t make enough to cover costs. He does have that back-up if he ever needs it, despite saying he’d never ask them for money.

Maybe it’s just one of our differences: he’s a little more relaxed about his future, whereas I tend to plan ahead. It’s a good thing, in some respects — he brings me back to earth, the times I’m fiddling with the calculator, my paperwork piled in front. He’ll massage my shoulders before gently taking away my pen, and telling me to leave it for a while. That my furious adding and subtracting won’t change anything at ten minutes to midnight.

Secretly, I’ve been trying to save. I want to pay CeeCee back for the Joel fiasco, but she won’t have any of it, so I’ve been squirrelling money into an account, which I’ll put aside for her grandbabies. I also have another account, reserved especially for future wages for another staff member for the café. We’ll need an extra pair of hands if, make that when, I fall pregnant. I want to be squared away financially when it does happen. I’ll still work in the café, but I’d like to spend some time at home too. A baby needs routine, and I’m determined to find a way I can make it work. Just the thought of nursing a baby makes me warm inside. We’ve been trying since Easter, with no luck, but I know it’ll happen. Just like Missy, it’ll happen when I least expect it.

Outside the young carolers cross the icy street their voices carrying over on the wind, pure and sweet like tiny angels.

“And anyway,” Damon says, his lazy smile in place, “unless we renew our vows every December, it’s the only time we’ll turn clients away.”

I flash him a grin. He’s right. I should be focusing on the wedding, not getting all angsty over the business side of things. He takes my hand and laces his fingers through mine.

It won’t be long before friends and family arrive in Ashford for the week. There have been flurries of phone calls and emails about where they’ll stay and what they’ll do. I can’t wait for them to sit at the kitchen bench nursing steaming cups of gingerbread coffee, while I bake for them.

I wonder what they’ll make of my business. The café, with its dark-chocolate-colored walls and gingerbread-man bunting, looks enchanting at nightfall, when the fire throws shadows over the space, and the Christmas decorations shine under the fairy lights. It’s cozy and warm, the kind of place you can loll about and forget your troubles. And celebrate love, and friendship and everything in between.

Excitement dazzles me for a moment, as I think about baking beautiful cakes for people I love. Baking has always been more like a meditation for me. Life makes sense when I’m clasping a wooden spoon, and have a bowl of batter cupped under an arm. And it’s infinitely more magical when I make a sweet treat with a friend or family member in mind. When they exclaim about the presentation of a gateau, and, with fork poised mid bite, roll their eyes heavenward oohing over the flavors, it makes my heart sing. And that’s why I run a café that struggles as much as it flourishes. I need to. It’s what I’m meant to do. Seasons come and go, and so do customers. Summer is busy, and Christmas is hectic, but between that we falter, just like all the shops in Ashford.

I snuggle close to the man I’m going to marry. The soft orange glow from the fire lights up his face, and again I have one of those overwhelming feelings that life is Christmas-card perfect.

“Now it’s so close, are you nervous about the wedding?” Damon asks.

“No way, Jose. Are you?” I arch an eyebrow.

“Nope. It can’t come quick enough for me. Lil and Damon Guthrie…”

My heart flutters at the words. “Lived happily ever after.”

He grins. “The end.”

I run through our wedding checklist in my mind, but Damon’s sentiment has turned my brain to mush, making it hard to remember. Damon’s been involved in almost every step of the wedding planning. We’ve grown closer, if that’s even possible, while we’ve had our heads bent over our wish list.

“I’ve still got to organize the bouquets, the centerpieces for the tables, confer with the photographer, the dress fitting, the make-up trial…” I trail off as I think of the orders I need to finish for the café too.

He rubs the sandy brown stubble on his chin as though he’s contemplating. “Oh! I spoke to Guillaume again. He’s happy with our ideas, said it won’t be any trouble.”

Guillaume owns L’art de l’amour, a French bistro just outside Ashford. When we were pondering a venue for the reception I knew instantly I wanted to have it there. It’s an intimate space that’s just the right size for our guests. It’s not showy, or glitzy, just classically French, with a chef who’s passionate about his food, no matter how temperamental he is.

Translated the name of the restaurant means The Art of Love, which I think is a good omen, but I keep that pearl of wisdom to myself. Guillaume’s a genius when it comes to the culinary arts, and we trust his judgment explicitly, though I did ask Damon to massage Guillaume’s ego so we could make a few suggestions. He’s typically French and believes in his methods and recipes, so for him to even discuss our menu, well, Damon must have charmed the socks off him.

The rumor mill has settled down now, but when Guillaume appeared in town a few years back there was plenty of speculation about why such a formidable chef would choose the outskirts of Ashford to ply his exotic wares. And we’re yet to figure it out. There’s a story behind the great man, but he’s not talking. All we care about is him making the night spectacular with his inventive cooking.

“What did it take to convince him?” I ask.

Damon bites down on his bottom lip, a gesture that makes me want to ravish him right there. “I might have bent the truth a teeny tiny little bit…”

I give him a shove. “Out with it.”

“I said the menu suggestions were CeeCee’s idea. His face glowed red, and he instantly agreed.”

I throw my head back and laugh. Guillaume has a soft spot for our CeeCee. She doesn’t seem to notice when he visits the café and blushes like a schoolboy in her presence. When he’s around CeeCee his jaw loses the tense set to it, which is replaced by a wide grin. He fidgets, reverts to speaking French, usually making CeeCee holler at him, “Come now, Guillaume, do I hafta get my French dictionary out again?”

“Wait till I tell her that,” I say.

Damon tuts. “If you tell her she can’t pretend she doesn’t know he’s sweet on her.”

I gasp. “You think she knows?”

“I think she does.”

“Does Guillaume know that CeeCee knows?”

Damon’s eyes shine bright with laughter. “You sound like a teenager.”

I frown.

“OK, yes, I think Guillaume knows she knows, but doesn’t know what to do about it.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of knows, when no one knows.”

“I know,” he deadpans.

Well, I’ll be darned. CeeCee and I don’t keep secrets from each other. It’s almost impossible to at any rate. We know each other so well that we’ll read each other’s expressions and with a few foot stomps, or heavy sighs, we’ll inevitably let the story tumble out. But the minx has kept this from me fairly easily.

I wonder if CeeCee has contemplated dating again? Maybe that’s why she hasn’t mentioned that she knows Guillaume is sweet on her? Curtis, CeeCee’s husband, passed away four years ago, and she misses him with all of her heart. They had that rare once-in-a-lifetime kind of love. But saying that, some companionship might be just the thing for her. There’s no way I’m broaching that particular subject with her though — she’s liable to beat me over the head with a bread stick if I even mentioned it.

“Your mamma stopped by the shop today.” My parents have only been back in Ashford a few weeks after an extended world trip. It seemed once they started traveling they couldn’t get enough of exploring the world outside of our small town. I missed them desperately while they were gone, but I understood they were hit with wanderlust, and I was happy for them after a lifetime of living in one place.

“Oh? What did she stop in for?”

“She wanted a hamper of goodies for Reverend Joe…”

“Hmm.” Oh, Lord, what’s cooking in that mind of hers? It’s not unusual for Mamma to support the church with hampers of food, especially at Christmas, but it’s odd she didn’t ask me to make one for her. Scampering over to Damon and asking him to make one can only mean one thing. She didn’t want me to know. “What for? Is she trying to rearrange the church or something?”

Our ceremony is to take place in the hundred-year-old chapel in Ashford, a beautifully restored building, with huge stained-glass arched windows that funnel in the most glorious light. So many memorable events have been held there, from weddings, to baptisms and funerals of those we’ve loved, it just seems right, as if we’ll be a part of the fabric of that sacred place once we’re married. Reverend Joe is a fan of our gingerbread and caramelized pear Bundt cake so I baked him one when we met him to discuss our nuptials. He’s a sweet man who doesn’t seem to age, just looks the same year in year out, almost as if he’s otherworldly.

“No idea why she wanted the hamper.” Damon throws his palms up in an effort to bamboozle me, but I can tell when he’s bending the truth. He gets this tiny little wrinkle on one side of his mouth, probably in his effort to hold back a smile.

“You’ve got your lying face on…”

“My what?” He narrows his eyes.

“Your lying face. I can read you like a book.”

He scoffs. “Is that so?”

“Yep.” He presses his cheek against mine; his breath tickles my skin.

“Well, it’s…a surprise.” He smiles, and continues holding me close.

“Give me a clue.”

“Nope.” He clucks his tongue. “You, pretty lady, are just going to have to wait and see.”

“Fine.” I cross my arms in mock annoyance, hoping he’ll give in.

Instead he laughs, and says, “Fine.”

“Fine. I think I might just pay a visit to the church…”

“It’s closed.” Damon grins and gathers me in his arms. He stares into my eyes long enough to make me giddy. “And anyway, you wouldn’t guess the surprise even if you were staring straight at it.”

“Really? I’m pretty clever when I want to be.”

“That you are.” He strokes my hair back and runs his fingers around my face.

“If you keep up with that, I’ll fall asleep,” I say as he continues.

“My parents phoned.”

Damon’s parents are due to fly in a few days before the wedding. Despite a few attempts for me to meet them earlier, it hasn’t happened. Though Damon’s often caught up with them in New Orleans when he’s flown over for a weekend visit to see Charlie.

“What did they say?” I ask.

“They’re excited to meet you. Mother wanted every minute detail about the wedding. I felt…I don’t know, so excited to share it all with them, not just the wedding, but my life here, the shop, the town, you. I mean, of course they know about it all anyway, but it feels different now they’re actually going to visit, you know?”

“They’ll love it here and I can’t wait to meet them.” They’re scheduled to arrive three days before the wedding, which is cutting it fine, so I’ve organized a morning tea so his mother can get to know us girls, and hopefully feel a little more included in the pre-wedding fun.

He nods, and pulls at his shirt — one of those God-awful checker types he insists on wearing as though he’s some kind of cowboy. They do suit him, but it’s a running joke between us, now, how much I hate his so-called cowboy style.

“I told Mother all about the chapel, and about Guillaume. She wanted to know what’s left to do, and if we needed anything.”

“Did she like the sound of it?”

He gives me a lazy smile. “She did. And she kept on about the menu — that’s what reminded me to ring Guillaume and check our requests were OK.”

I relax my shoulders. “Good. I’ll sort out the flowers and the centerpieces, and those few other things and we are just about done!”

“I have a feeling there’s not going to be a bridezilla for me,” Damon says, half sadly.

I shove him playfully. “You sound disappointed.”

He laughs. “Oh, you know, there’s a lot to be said for those guys with eyes as big as headlights, sitting at Jerry’s bar, nursing a beer, wondering when exactly the woman they met morphed into a screeching mass of nerves.”

“Is this about beer?”

He drums his fists against his shirt. “Maybe I’d be better with whiskey, Lil,” he says in a throaty voice as if he’s a chain-smoking, whiskey-swilling tough guy. “Yep,” he continues. “Thought I’d escape the crazy bride-to-be ramblings and head over there with Tommy. But there’s no rambling. And no crazy bride. What the heck are we going to talk about?”

A giggle escapes me as I picture Damon trying to be one of those guys that hold up the bar at the run-down old pub the next town over. Sure, he’ll be able to make conversation with anyone, but invariably he’ll start talking about a three-day cassoulet he’s set on making, or some new zany haute cuisine we’re trying for our catering business, and the guys there will glance at each other over the top of his head and label him a sissy.

And Tommy as his so-called drinking buddy? Tommy is Missy’s husband. While Missy is an exuberant, fast-talking sweetheart, Tommy is her polar opposite. He’s quiet to the point of silent, but deep down he’s just a really observant, intuitive guy who doesn’t make small talk just for the sake of it.

“I wouldn’t go to Jerry’s if you paid me,” Damon says.

“Well…I have some bad news for you.” I wink at him. “A surprise, you could say.” I grin wickedly.

He runs a hand through his sandy blond hair, and grimaces. “Please do not say the B word.”

Bachelor party: it brings to mind all those connotations of men behaving badly, but around here the only mischief they get up to is the usual pranks you’d expect of teenagers.

“OK, I’ll use the S word. The guys checked with me first — they really want to organize a stag party for you.” Damon goes to speak but I halt him with a hand up. “It’s just a small group. Something low-key.”

Damon leans his head back on the sofa. “Low-key? Like a dinner party?”

I tap his leg. “No, siree. I’m afraid you’re going to have to let them drag you out and shave off your eyebrows or whatever it is they do these days.”

He groans. “Shooters of bourbon and tough-guy stories…”

“’Fraid so. Just don’t let them tie you to a pole in the snow, or anything like that.”

Damon’s eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

I hide my smile. “It’s a tradition around here — that’s why smart folks don’t get married in winter…”

Laughter rumbles out of him as he puts a hand to his chest. “Oh, you jest.”

“Enjoy!” I say cheerfully.

“What about you? Are the girls going to organize something special?”

I gulp, suddenly nervous at the thought. “Well, they did say something about heading off to a nightclub…”

“A nightclub? Is that some kind of code for male strippers?”

This time I lob a cushion at him. He ducks and it sails over his head onto the tiled floor. “It might be but my lips are sealed. It’s secret women’s business.”

While Frank Sinatra croons Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas from the speakers above, I grab Damon by the collar of his shirt and pull him in for a long kiss.

Chapter Two

Nine days

“Cherry blossom?” CeeCee says, her voice soft with concentration as she wraps turkey, cranberry and Camembert into parcels made with paper-thin filo pastry for today’s lunch special.

“Mmm?”

“Can you pass me the egg-wash?”

I place the small bowl of beaten egg next to her and find the pastry brush. Leaning over her shoulder as she wraps the delicate pastry, I contemplate what they’ll taste like once the Camembert is a creamy melted mess with the sweet cranberry, and the crunch of the filo, and can’t wait to get them baking.

“You breathin’ down my neck for a reason?” CeeCee jokes.

I giggle and take a step back. “You’re making me hungry.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” she hollers. “I’m so hungry my stomach’s touchin’ my backbone! I’ll put a couple o’ these in the oven for a little taste tester.”

“You read my mind.” It’s a wonder we get anything baked around here; there’s always a few rest stops during the day where we break, and eat what we’ve cooked.

While we wait for the pastries to brown we clean the bench in preparation for the next round of baking. The café is quiet today, and the usual worry we’re baking for ourselves sits heavy in my belly.

“What’s those wrinkles popping up ’tween your eyes for?” CeeCee says.

I laugh. CeeCee’s southern way of talking makes even the blackest moods fade. “Same old reason, Cee. Wondering where the heck everyone’s got to, ’cause they sure aren’t in town today.”

She shrugs. “It’s still early, Lil. They’ll come. Especially when they see what I’ve got planned next.” She waggles her eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion.

“Got something in your eye?”

She guffaws and slaps her leg. “No, I do not. I was trying to be mysterious!”

I laugh. “So what’s going to draw the punters in today?”

“You’re gonna put weight on just looking at the recipe, I swear it, but it’s gonna be a showstopper.” Fumbling in the pocket of her apron, she pulls out a square of paper and waves it at me.

I unfold it and read quickly. “A croquembouche?”

She snatches the piece of paper back, and pushes her glasses back on. “Not just any croquembouche, a salted caramel croquembouche with ricotta cream. Instead of making one big tower of profiteroles, I thought we could make say ten smaller towers. They sure are pretty, and if we flick toffee around them it’ll look like tinsel ’round a Christmas tree.”

Her enthusiasm is infectious, but I stand mute because it’s a French recipe, from a French culinary magazine. CeeCee’ll try baking anything once, but after Damon’s chat about Guillaume my mind connects the dots, and the picture is a love heart.

“I think you’re right, Cee.” In the picture the little balls of choux pastry are stacked up into a cone shape, the salted caramel glaze dripped over them makes them shine, and some tendrils of spun toffee flicked over once they’re assembled will draw in a crowd for sure. My mouth waters at the thought of biting into the luscious ricotta filling.

I sidle up to her and lean close. “So-o-o…where’d you get this recipe from?”

CeeCee makes a show of wiping her hands on her apron, and then bending over to take silver bowls from under the bench, though her brown cheeks blush so furiously they’re almost purple.

“Cee?”

She stands, and pretends not to have heard me, but I can read her expressions as clearly as a road map. I snatch up the piece of paper. “You know…” I play with her “…I’m sure I remember Guillaume mentioning this recipe to me before…”

Her mouth opens and closes, and she drops the silver bowl, which clangs like a cymbal as it bounces on the floor.

“Did he now?” she eventually manages.

I’m just about to press her for information when the doorbell jingles.

“Well, lookie here,” she booms. “If it ain’t your daddy.” Her voice is slightly manic with what? Relief?

My father strides in, flicking his braces over his big belly, which is a sure-fire sign he’s hungry. “Hey, Dad.” He hugs me tight.

“Hey, darlin’.” I detect the faint whiff of cigar smoke on him, the same old dad, sneaking puffs out of Mamma’s sight. If she knew he was still partial to the odd cigar, I’d hear her yelling all the way from home.

“Morning, CeeCee.” He tips his head.

“Let me get you a candy-cane coffee.” She bustles away, no doubt glad for the interruption.

“Hungry?” I say, remembering the parcels in the oven.

“Well…”

I edge him to a table. “Get comfy. You can try the turkey, cranberry and Camembert pastry that Cee’s just made.”

He laces his fingers together. “Don’t tell your mamma.” He winks.

“She’s still making you diet?”

His face is glum as he counts on his fingers. “No sugar, no bread, no pasta, no rice. High protein, rabbit food only. And you know your mamma.” He screws up his face. “Her idea of dinner is over-boiled carrots, and frozen peas, with a side of charred steak. At least my choppers stay sharp after all that grinding.”

I laugh. He’s always on about his teeth, as if the secret to longevity is how well his choppers are holding up. Mamma isn’t the best cook in the world. In fact she’s downright disastrous. Dad still marvels to this day how I managed to learn to cook since I share her genes, but my grandmother baked, and I spent a lot of my childhood in her kitchen.

“You’re putting me in a predicament just being here,” I joke. “What if she walks past and I’ve just gone and served you a plate of banned food?” I pop the pastries on two plates and take them to the table.

“She won’t,” he says. “I made sure of it.” He lowers his voice as if he’s plotting something more sinister.

CeeCee wanders over with mugs of candy-cane coffee and we sit at the table together. I slide a plate to each of them and take one of the steaming cups of sweet coffee.

“How’d you make sure of it?” I ask him.

“She said that Emma Mae invited her over for a game of Scrabble, and you know those two once they get to talking. I’ll be lucky if she’s home for dinner.”

I swallow a sip of coffee and say, “What if she was lying? And she said that to test you, knowing full well you’d sneak into the café?”

His eyes go wide and he pushes the plate away as if it’s on fire.

CeeCee pipes up, “I’m sure I seen her walk past not even a minute ago…” She cackles high and loud, and I smirk behind my hand.

He scoffs. “I knew you were joking — give me that plate back! And anyway, once a week, surely that’s OK for a treat? I’m only human.”

I cluck my tongue. “Dad, you come in every day.”

“Small portions, Lil. That’s the secret.” Somehow he manages to keep a straight face. Dad visits at least once a day, fills up on whatever we’re baking, and takes a few gingerbread men for the road. There’s no sign of small portions anywhere near his dinner-sized plate.

A customer blows in just as I’m about to retort, a broody-looking stranger with dark eyes, and a fit physique. I go to stand and CeeCee says, “You catch up with your dad, Lil. I’ll go.”

I nod thanks, and sit.

“So,” Dad says between forkfuls, “as the chief organizer of Damon’s bachelor party, I thought I’d run a few things by you.”

I grin. “How did you end up in charge of the bachelor do?”

He shrugs. “Damned if I know. Seems everyone’s working and Tommy thinks I need to step away from daytime TV…”

Folding my arms and leaning my elbows on the table, I say, “Maybe that’s a good idea.” Dad retired just before he and Mamma went away; before that he worked with Tommy in the dairy. Almost forty years in the same place, and I think now he’s home he misses the routine, and his friends there. Not so much the back-breaking labor, but the lack of physical work has definitely added to his waistline, hence Mamma’s nagging. “But a few midday movie sessions aren’t such a bad idea either.”

He gives me a half-smile. “It was a novelty at first, but now…well, I’m under your mamma’s feet all the time, and I’m kind of…bored. It was OK when we were traveling, but now, I need to find something to do.” He flicks his braces. “So, first step; bachelor party, second step, something to fill my days…”

My dad’s one of those people who like to keep busy. He retired on Mamma’s say-so, but I don’t think he was really ready for it. And I hate to think of him sitting at home trying to keep out of Mamma’s way as she vacuums and dusts daily in her usual frenzy.

“You could do some volunteer work?”

He knots his bushy eyebrows. “That might be just the thing.”

I rest my hand atop his. “Why don’t you try the community center? I’m sure they’d love your help.” We’re both silent as we glance out of the snow-mottled window to Walt’s empty furniture shop.

Walt and Janey usually run all the local events out of the community center, but we haven’t seen them in an age. Janey was diagnosed with cancer back at Easter time. She and Walt moved to a small hotel in Springfield to be closer to the big hospital there while she receives treatment.

“I’ll go in and see who’s running things now, see if they need a hand.” Dad clears his throat. “So, for the bachelor party, what’ll it be? I was thinking I’d set up our front room like a casino. I’d be the croupier, of course. Do you think Damon would like that?”

“He’d love it.” And he would. A night in, gambling pennies on cards, would suit him to a T. “What night are you thinking?”

“Maybe Monday night? Leaves two days before the wedding in case someone dyes his hair red, or whatever it is they do these days.”

“Blue’s more his color.”

Dad bellows so loud CeeCee glances over, and the newcomer does too. I mouth sorry, and exchange a smile with CeeCee.

“Possum,” Dad says, reverting back to my childhood pet name. “Look at you.”

I pat my hair down; my curls are probably a riot after dashing outside earlier.

Dad waves a hand at me. “No, Lil, I mean look at you.” His face softens. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so…radiant. Damon is a great guy. He’s smitten with you. It’s as obvious as the big nose on my face.” He laughs. “What I’m trying to say is, your mamma and I are so proud of you, from the way you run the café, to the way you cherish your friends, and because you’re marrying a man who is truly worthy of you. And I can’t wait to walk you down that aisle, knowing that the man standing at the other end is a good one.”

I rub the top of his hand. Dad doesn’t often speak like this; usually he’s more of a prankster, a joker. And I guess like most people he had his doubts about my ex-husband Joel. He never said anything directly, but he’d asked me the night before my first wedding if I was really sure I was making the right decision. And I was sure; it wasn’t until much later that the marriage fell apart, and Joel changed into a different man from the one I married. But that part of my life taught me some valuable lessons about myself, and I wouldn’t change it.

“That means a lot, Dad.” I give his hand a squeeze.

“It’s all true,” he says. “Being away for so long, you know, we worried about you. When we heard that Joel had slunk back into town, we almost flew back. But CeeCee called and said she’d sorted it. It’s a funny thing, parenthood — you’ll always be my little girl no matter how old you are.”

I stand and walk around to give him a hug. “I’m glad you didn’t cancel your trip for that. I’m lucky to have a friend like CeeCee.”

“That you are, darlin’. So…” he winks “…what’s the chance of a slice of one of CeeCee’s pies?”

“You’re going to get me in trouble…” I amble over to CeeCee, who’s packing a box of baked goods for the newcomer. I nod hello and he gives me a tentative smile. CeeCee pipes up, “This is Clay. He’s gone and moved to the Maple Syrup Farm. Gonna do it up real nice, like it used to be.”

“Nice to meet you, Clay. You’ll be busy by the sounds of it.” I picture the derelict farm. It needs a complete overhaul, that place.

Clay nods, and gives me a ghost of a smile.

“Dad wants a piece of pie, Cee. So just holler if you need a hand.”

She shoos me away. “Your daddy dumber ’n a bucket of coal if he thinks your mamma won’t find out. Ain’t no way I’m serving him pie, neither!”

I massage her shoulders and laugh. “How will she find out?”

“She’s a woman from a small town, cherry blossom. O’ course she’ll find out.”

We’re tidying the café after another long day. CeeCee’s whizzing around as if she’s on a sugar high; even though she’s got twenty plus years on my almost-thirty she’s as spritely as a teenager. I’m mopping the floors as she restacks the books on the shelves and tidies the tables near the fireplace. She’s humming, and bopping along as she works.

We’ve been so busy in the lead-up to Christmas I’m as worn out as a rag doll but CeeCee’s like a never-ending ball of energy. I clean slowly, and decide I’ll reward myself with a nice long soak in the tub when I get home. And if Damon happens to wander in while I’m in there, all the better.

Blowing my hair from my face, I rest awhile using the mop as a prop to hold me. The street is almost deserted as shops close for the evening. It’s almost seven, and snowing hard outside, when I see a couple of finely dressed people walk into Damon’s small goods shop. There’s something about them that catches my eye. They’re not from around here by the looks of it: the woman is wearing a fancy fur coat, with a matching beret, and the gentleman is wearing a suit and scarf.

CeeCee goes out front to bring in our chalkboard. She races back inside, and dumps the A-frame against the wall. “It’s cold enough out there to freeze the balls off a pool table!” She rubs her hands together to warm them. “Who’s that over yonder?”

“I don’t know.” I dunk the mop, and swish it around the bucket when CeeCee says, “Well, we about to find out. Here they come now.”

Damon holds onto the woman’s elbow and escorts them over the icy street.

They stand just outside the café and shake the snow from their shoulders. Damon pushes against the door and motions for the couple to step in before him. Up close, I see the resemblance, and my chest tightens. Oh, golly, I wish I’d had some warning. They weren’t supposed to arrive for another week! I run a hand through my hair, which is an unkempt mess, no doubt, after such a busy day. My apron is stained and I’m wearing the oldest pair of boots I own, which squeak as I walk. The woman is draped in pearls, and the silver bobbed hair under her beret is immaculate. The man is ruggedly good-looking, like an older Damon, with the same kind eyes.

“Lil, Cee,” Damon says, shivering from the short walk across the road. “This is my mother, Olivia, and my father, George.”

I’m too stunned to speak, ruing the fact their first impression of me is the way I look right now. I’m not a fancy dresser, nor do I care about hair and make-up, but these people are Guthries and no matter how much I pretend I don’t care, I do. The Guthrie family has enough money to buy out a small country, and I just wish the first time I met them I were wearing something other than my bright scarlet Christmas sweater that reads: Jingle all the way! Not to mention my candy-cane earrings that flash intermittently. They must think Damon’s gone mad to marry a girl who is so utterly disheveled.

CeeCee shoots me a look that says pull it together. With a surreptitious nod in return, I smile brightly and walk towards them to give them a welcome hug. Olivia immediately puts out a hand to shake. Fumbling, and unsure, I drop my outstretched arms, and hope my faux pas isn’t noticeable.

Though CeeCee hasn’t missed a trick and barrels past me, screeching, “That ain’t how we say hello ’round here. Come on and give us a great big cuddle!” She launch hugs Olivia and nearly knocks her off her knee-high boots. I hide a smile, thanking the Lord again for CeeCee’s ability to break the ice. God, I love this woman.

Olivia teeters for a moment and then says, “Thank you, CeeCee.” She regains her composure, and stands tall. “Well, it’s certainly nice to meet you, Lil. We’ve heard so much about you.”

“You too, Olivia.” I find my voice. “This is a wonderful surprise!”

Damon rubs his mother’s shoulders. “Come on, Mother, let’s sit down. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” He pushes his parents softly in the back and motions to the sofas before taking my hand and kissing me softly on the cheek. He whispers, “They were so excited they couldn’t wait another day. They cut their holiday short.”

They’d been holidaying somewhere sunny, so I’m chuffed they cut it short — their son’s wedding should take precedence in my book, and they obviously agree.

George and Olivia hover near the fire and CeeCee says, “Go on and sit down, you makin’ the place look crowded,” and laughs her southern haw. “I’ll fix us some drinks, while y’all get to talkin’.”

Buoyed by CeeCee’s confidence, and Olivia’s radiant smile, I sink into the sofa. I pat the cushion, and Damon sits next to me, leaning close enough I can smell his aftershave, sweet and spicy, making me woozy with thoughts of him.

CeeCee bustles around the kitchen, humming Jingle Bells. Damon shoots me a smile. “I’ll give CeeCee a hand with the drinks.” He jumps up, leaving a Damon-sized dent in the sofa, which I quickly roll into. George and Olivia gaze around the café, taking in the bookshelves by the fire, and the display fridge filled with chocolate truffles neatly ordered in rows.

“Beautiful place you have here, Lil,” George says, his voice so similar to Damon’s. “Damon told us how hard you’ve worked to build the café up over the last few years.”

“Thanks, George. Though it’s not just me. I’ve got CeeCee here — she’s the one with all the grand plans.” I tuck a tendril of hair back, hoping I don’t look as bedraggled as I feel.

He smiles. “I’m sure you’ve had a hand in it too.”

I return his smile, and say, “I’m so glad to meet you both.”

“Us too,” Olivia says, pulling down her beret and sweeping her hair back into place from CeeCee’s rambunctious hug. “We managed to swap a few things around, and get a flight. We were worried about being delayed by the weather flying in, so figured it was best to get here early.”

George rests his head on the back of the sofa, and folds his hands. “Though all that travel has surely caught up with me…” He closes his eyes.

Olivia lets out a small laugh. “Traveling through so many time zones, our body clocks don’t know where we are.” She pats George’s hand, and he mumbles incoherently.

I laugh. “Will he sleep?” I click my fingers. “Just like that.” George’s chest rises and falls slower as slumber overcomes him. Sitting so close to the fire after a long day in transit has obviously zapped George.

Olivia sighs. “He can sleep anywhere, that man, on a plane, on a train, but not today it seems. He was too keyed up about finally seeing Damon.”

“How long are you planning to stay in Ashford?” I ask as Olivia gazes at her slumbering husband, watching his lips flutter with each deep exhalation.

Finally she turns back to me. “Not long. We’ll leave the day after the wedding.”

I frown. “Oh, you’re not staying for Christmas Day?” I’d thought it was a given that they’d stay. Charlie will be here, and we’d planned a week off in honor of spending the time as a family, instead of taking a honeymoon. CeeCee drops something in the kitchen; the clattering makes George’s eyelids flutter momentarily. “Sorry!” Damon hollers out.

“No, Ashford’s not my kind of town, Lil.” She lets out a hollow laugh. “That’s why we moved from here as quickly as possible. Neither of us can work out why Damon felt the urge to move back. He was only a toddler when we left, so it’s not like he would have remembered the place.”

I try not to blanch at her statement. “Ashford’s changed a lot since then. You might like it a little more now.”

“It hasn’t changed a bit. The main street is still the same, and even the people are the same. Nothing changes here. We’ve come early to make sure Damon is…happy.”

Golly. I double blink. “Happy?”

She tilts her head to the side, and slaps on a smile. “His sudden departure from New Orleans worried us, and the few times we’ve seen him since haven’t allayed those concerns.”

My mind whirls. Damon didn’t leave New Orleans suddenly; he left after a long drawn-out divorce with his first wife, Dianne. In fact, he stayed in New Orleans a lot longer for his daughter’s sake. Leaving her there and only being able to see her on school holidays and the odd weekend has been tough on him, there’s no question, which is why he spent so long making the decision to move.

I clear my throat, suddenly not sure I’m on an even keel with Olivia any more. “You’ll see, then, how happy Damon is here. He loves this place.”

“Does he?” She lifts a brow. “Wonderful.”

I glance over my shoulder wondering what’s taking CeeCee and Damon so long. CeeCee is busy showing Damon our profiterole towers, and miming how we flicked the toffee on them.

Olivia shifts back on her chair. “Between us, Lil, he’s always despised small towns. He’s a vibrant, social person, so it makes us wonder if he’s made the right choice. He’s missing so much being away from his family.”

I nod dumbly, the wind knocked right out of me. Damon told me he moved here specifically because it was a small town and that was what he wanted. His parents had lived here eons ago, and it felt like a special place to him. When his daughter visits she can roam the meadows, safe in a small-town environment.

Outside the night has turned an inky black. Christmas lights from the shops across the road reflect back on the windows of the café, reds and greens melting together, casting a festive glow over the room.

Olivia leans forward. “I know you’ll keep this to yourself, but George and I worry a lot about Damon. Missing out on all those milestones with Charlie. There’s the school plays, and her swim meets…you know, he can never get that time back.”

I crane my neck to see if Damon’s within earshot but he’s still busy chatting away to CeeCee, throwing his hands in the air, and acting out some story, his face lit up with laughter.

“No…” I manage. “I suppose he can’t. But Charlie does seem well adjusted to life here.”

She shrugs. “Listen, it doesn’t matter anyway. Damon was going to return, until…” She bites her lip and stares directly at me.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. “He was going to move back to New Orleans?” My voice comes out almost like a whine. “When was that the plan? We’ve been together since he stepped into Ashford and he was adamant he was staying for good.” Olivia’s put me on the back foot and it’s been all of five minutes.

Olivia raises her eyebrows. “Really, what’s the point of him being here? His business makes next to no money, his daughter is elsewhere, the town isn’t exactly thriving…”

I resist the urge to cup my head in my hands. “I’m here, Olivia. And I love him with all my heart.”

“But so does his seven-year-old daughter. Anyway, food for thought,” she says as if she hasn’t just dropped a bombshell on me. “Now, tell me about your dress…”

I stare ahead, mute with shock. Why would Damon go to all the effort of setting up a shop, having it professionally decorated, if he weren’t planning on staying? It doesn’t make sense. And surely he would have told me? I wonder if it’s just wishful thinking on Olivia’s part. Charlie and Damon miss each other, but is he pining for New Orleans and his old life?

“Lookie here.” CeeCee finally walks back with a tray of eggnog and hands everyone a glass. She puts George’s on the round side table next to him. “This is my special recipe. I surely hope you ain’t driving afterwards.” She cackles high and loud. Damon sits beside me again, and I gladly roll back into his warmth, my stomach recoiling slightly at the conversation Olivia and I just had.

“Thanks, Cee.” I take a sip and even with the frothiness of the milk the amount of alcohol CeeCee’s added gives my system a jolt. She winks at me, and I smile weakly. Maybe she figured a slight inebriation might help when meeting the future in-laws.

Olivia crosses her ankles as if she’s a product from a deportment school. “Lil was just about to tell me all about her dress.”

“Well, she can’t now.” Damon grins at me, and it takes all my might to return a half-hearted smile.

“I’m sure Lil can tell me later. I did want to say one thing, while we’re all together: we have a big family, especially on the outskirts of Ashford, since we were all from here originally—”

CeeCee pipes up, “Since before there was electricity, don’t ya know.” She jerks a thumb towards Damon. “He told us that, already.” She giggles. “Remember that, last year, Lil?” I nod, and smile at the memory of Damon strutting into the café when we’d gone to war with each other trying to steal each other’s customers. I’d said he had no chance, folks round here were loyal, and he was just a newcomer, until he’d thrown into the conversation that he was a Guthrie.

In their heyday, the Guthries owned a bunch of transport, and shipping business in Ashford and its outskirts. They still own lots of property around here but with their businesses sold they had money to burn, and still do, by the looks. I was sure that his family would bail him out if we went head to head, business to business, but instead we fell in love, and worked together, propping each other’s shops up.

CeeCee waddles over to the coat rack, and wraps her scarf, and takes her handbag down. “On that note, I’m gonna leave you kids to it. Nice meeting you, Olivia. Give George my respects. Be seeing y’all.” It’s late and CeeCee must be bushed. I know I am. I stand to hug her, and must hold on a little tight. “Whoa, cherry blossom, you gonna strangle me.”

I let out a nervous laugh. “See you, Cee.” She searches my face; she knows me so well, and intuits there’s something off kilter.

“I’ll be here bright and early, sugar plum.” We exchange a knowing glance — she’ll be here before the sun rises behind grey skies to find out what’s stolen the smile from my face.

“Night, Cee.”

“Lovely to meet you, CeeCee. I can’t wait to find out more about the matron of honor.” Olivia flashes her a wide smile. It’s so charming I crumple a little inside; her tone’s markedly different with Cee than it was with me.

“You too, Olivia. Tell that sleepy husband o’ yours I said bye, now.” Cee ambles outside, the door blowing closed behind her.

With an internal sigh, I sit back down. Beside me, Damon’s grinning as if he’s just won the lottery, oblivious to my mood. He’s tapping his feet, and laughing, jittery with happiness like some kind of jumping bean. He stands again, moves to his father and shakes his shoulder. “Dad, you’re here to get to know Lil!” George starts, and opens his eyes.

Damon chuckles. “Come on, old man, let me show you Lil’s window display. It’s a work of art.” Don’t leave me, I silently scream, but watch dumbstruck as they put their coats on and head back outside to admire it from the street.

They walk out to the dark night before Olivia continues: “As I was saying, I’m sure you didn’t mean to, but somehow you’ve neglected to invite some of the Guthrie family… I know you probably don’t know us well enough, but it’s a little rude to leave them out.”

With a deep breath I counter, “Oh? We wanted a small, simple wedding. We’ve only invited close friends and family. Damon hasn’t seen the extended family in years, even decades, despite them living around here — we figured it wouldn’t be a problem.”

Olivia frowns and shakes her head. “Exactly — we haven’t seen some of them for a long time, so now’s the perfect opportunity to right that. No matter how simple you intend it to be.”

The Guthrie family tree is rich in history as well as funds. There are branches of Guthries on the outskirts of town but we rarely see them. Occasionally they’ll attend CeeCee’s church and she’ll bring news back of more Guthrie babies being baptized; other than that, they don’t drop into town.

I scratch the back of my neck, feeling lost and alone all at once; without being able to pinpoint why, I think Olivia is baiting me. “We’ve only got so much room and I’d rather, we’d rather,” I correct, “it more intimate with just close family and friends.”

Olivia does a little chortle again, as if I’m a child to be placated. “Damon won’t tell you this, Lily, because he knows you want a small wedding, but he would prefer his family there. All of them. I do hope it won’t be a problem… I can always help. It’s late notice but I’m sure we can find a bigger venue, even a better chef, for that matter.”

My breath catches. Would Damon seriously not have mentioned he wants the entire Guthrie clan at our wedding? And what’s the talk about a better venue? Another chef? Glancing over to the window, I watch him talk with his dad. He’s so animated, his face lit up with joy. They stand under the awning; Damon laughs, and his father pats him on the back. I can’t hear what they’re saying but happiness radiates from them both.

I mentally shake myself. I’m not going to sit here like a bamboozled fool. “Damon’s been involved every step of the way with the wedding planning, and he’s never once mentioned that he wanted to invite more people. And to be honest, Olivia, the venue is perfect and we’re very lucky to have the chef we do. He doesn’t usually cater weddings.”

Olivia gathers her coat tighter. “Perhaps Damon doesn’t know how to tell you. But I’m his mother and I know my son. Known him his whole life, in fact.” Again she gives me that huge smile as if it’ll take the sting out of her words.

An awkward silence hangs between us and I figure I’m going to have to try and compromise so we don’t so much as get off on the wrong foot, as outright stagger. “Of course, Olivia, if it’s important to you, and to Damon, we can try to accommodate more people.”

Guillaume will throw a fit, but somehow we’ll have to make it work. I’ll get CeeCee to ask him. Damon must be catching his death outside, and for once I wish the display window wasn’t such a talking point.

Perhaps Olivia just needs to be included more; then she’ll see for herself how happy Damon is here and that our wedding, though simple, is going to be lovely. “Olivia, I’d love some help in choosing the centerpieces. I wanted poinsettias, maybe in rectangle planters, sort of Christmassy, and in keeping with the color theme. We’ve been so busy in the café the last few days the wedding preparations have kind of been pushed to the side.”

“Your wedding has been pushed to the side? Your wedding?” she says, not managing to hide the incredulous edge to her voice.

“Not my wedding, our wedding. This is the busiest time of year for us — for all of us.” I indicate to Damon outside too. “And there’s no question work comes first, hence the need for a simple wedding.”

The Christmas carols playing overhead finish, and we’re suddenly sitting in silence.

Olivia says with a pained expression, “I don’t mean to sound rude, but why on earth would you have a wedding at this time of year if you don’t have time to plan it?”

Holding in an exasperated sigh, I say, “We decided to get married one year to the day we started out as a couple. And because it’s when all of my family would be home, and when Charlie would be holidaying here.” I’m sure she knows all of this. I’ve heard Damon on the phone to her a number of times, discussing the wedding, and the choices he’s made.

“I do wonder if you’ve thought this through. While a snowy wedding is a lovely thought, you’re taking people away from their warm homes at Christmas.”

I’m on the back foot every single time Olivia opens her mouth. If it were anyone else I would have told them straight up that they were pushing my buttons. But out of respect, I bite back on any remarks that aren’t friendly. I try once more to reassure her. “It’s Christmas Eve, not Christmas Day, and we’ve only invited those we’d normally spend time with over Christmas anyway. They’d be happy if our wedding was in the middle of a field with a lame horse for a witness because they care about us. There’s not much more to say about it. I’d love you to be involved in any planning that’s left, but if not that’s fine too.”

The doorbell jingles as Damon and his dad walk inside. “Mighty fine window you’ve got there,” George says.

“Thank you,” is all I manage.

George rubs his gloved hands together and says, “If you ladies are finished discussing the upcoming nuptials, we might call it a night. It’s been a long day of travel for us.”

Damon stands and says, “Dad’s right, you must be tired, Mother. How about I take you to our house and Lil can finish up here and meet us later?”

They’re staying at our house? It’ll be a squeeze when Charlie arrives. It’s only a small cottage up the road from the Gingerbread Café.

“Damon,” Olivia says, her voice saccharine, “we wouldn’t like to impose. We’d planned on staying with Abe Guthrie — he’s not too far from Ashford. We have decades of catching up to do.” She glances squarely at me and I manage to ignore the jibe.

“Right, Mother.” He grins. “How about I drive you there now, and we can meet for dinner tomorrow night?”

George pipes up, “We’re busy tomorrow night. We went ahead and promised Abe that we’d spend the night with his family, but how about the following evening?”

Olivia nods. “I don’t suppose there are any restaurants here yet?” She does a half-gasp, and laughs, as if she can’t believe she said that out loud.

George and Damon join in the laughter. I don’t see the funny side, but maybe that’s because it sounded like an affront to Ashford. Damon’s more relaxed and carefree than I’ve ever seen him, so I press on, hoping I’ve imagined this strange undercurrent from Olivia. “Why don’t we have dinner here at the café? I’ll knock something up.” It’s easier to cook at the café, and bigger than the kitchen at home.

“Perfect,” Damon says. “I’ll prepare the food, Lil. I’m doing a cooking demonstration so I’ll make extra.”

Olivia rubs Damon’s back as moms do. “Lovely, darling. We’ve certainly missed your cooking. Haven’t we, George?”

“That we have.” George steps forward and shakes my hand. “We’d love to meet your parents, Lil. Maybe you could extend them an invitation too?”

“Of course,” I say. “Looking forward to it.” Mamma and Dad have been itching to meet Damon’s parents. Mamma never stops with the queries about what Olivia’s like, and if George really collects vintage cars. Things I have no clue about. Mamma visits Damon’s shop regularly to sit at the coffee bar, and chat with him and her friends, so it feels almost as if she knows more about Olivia and George than I do. She’s probably grilled poor Damon daily for information. Small-town folk, we’re kind of nosey like that.

George says, “Maybe you should invite CeeCee too, Lil? From what we hear she’s part of the family.”

His sentiment stuns me for a moment. While Olivia is formal, George is relaxed and warm, so much like Damon. “She is. She’s like a mother and best friend all rolled into one. I’ll ask her along.”

Olivia fusses with her hair again. “It was lovely to meet you, Lil. We’re blessed to have you in our family. You just let me know what else I can do to help.” She beams at me before hugging me tight. In front of Damon she’s all sweetness and light. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe she is just worried about Damon, and getting to know me will allay some of her concerns.

I pull at the bottom of my sweater. “It was great to meet you. At dinner perhaps we can go over some of the wedding preparations.”

George yawns, and makes a show of stretching. His face is haggard from lack of sleep.

“I better get the old man home.” Damon indicates to George. “You’ll be OK?”

“I have the truck out back. I’ll be fine.” The thought of going home makes me smile in spite of it all. A steaming-hot bath always makes everything better.

Damon gives my jean-clad rear a cheeky tap before lacing his arm through Olivia’s.

George says, “See you the day after tomorrow, Lil. Damon’s given me a talking-to about falling asleep, my apologies.” He nods goodbye.

Once the door blows shut, I blow out a breath.

Finding the cordless phone, I punch in CeeCee’s number and fill her in to see what she makes of it. Once I get the whole sorry story out, I say, “So what do you think? Am I overreacting? She was sweet as cherry pie while dropping little bombs on me. Am I reading it wrong?”

“I sure as shootin’ don’t know, Lil. Maybe she’s just thinking of her grandbaby, and it’s only natural that she’d want her son closer to his daughter, but that ain’t your fault, Lil. Damon’s the one who made that choice when he moved here. And he ain’t a fool — he planned a life here when he opened up that shop o’ his.”

I stand closer to the fire, which has burnt down; the glowing orange embers still warm the backs of my legs. “Yeah, I know. But she made it seem like he was running away from something, and that he’d move back to New Orleans once the dust had settled. I felt…like some kind of country hick rebound or something.”

“That man loves you, Lil. Loves you something silly. I don’t want to hear you talkin’ that way, ’cause it ain’t the truth.” She clucks her tongue. “You gonna need to tell Damon what she said.”

I grimace at the thought. “But, Cee, he was so happy to see them, so excited, like a kid or something. I don’t want to ruin that high. Maybe I’ll just wait and see what the next visit brings.”

She sighs dramatically down the line. “I don’t think keeping this to yourself is a good idea, Lil. But see what happens at dinner. Maybe she was out of sorts after a long-haul flight, who knows?”

“Yep, maybe that’s it.”

“You ain’t a pushover, so stand your ground, an’ be firm. Don’t let her tell you how Damon feels. He ain’t the type of man who bottles things up.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose as a headache looms. “I guess.”

“Don’t worry that pretty head o’ yours. I’ll be here for you, Lil. Maybe she was expecting some kind of huge fancy everythin’ wedding… She just needs to get to know you better.”

Even though our wedding is deemed simple, it doesn’t mean it’s not going to be pretty. CeeCee and I have spent an age poring over websites for ideas. We’ve found bride and groom knife and fork sets that say: Mr. and Mrs. And the cutest recipe for gingerbread wedding favors decorated like a bride and groom. Small touches that have special meaning.

“Do you think Damon really does want to invite all those other family members?” He’s often talked about cousins, and uncles who live not too far from Ashford, but he’s never made any attempt to visit them, or even call them on the telephone as far as I know. I can’t see him suddenly wanting them at the wedding. Or have I unintentionally pushed him into agreeing to keep the guest list small? As Olivia said, she’s known Damon his whole life and I’ve only known him a year. Already tonight I’ve seen a different Damon, one who seems more energetic and animated, quick to laugh, and more…himself.

CeeCee says, “I don’t rightly know, Lil. What I think is it’s late, you’ve had a long day, and all this worry ain’t gonna change a thing. Sleep on it, OK?”

The night has gone eerily quiet, with only the small crackle of the dying fire to keep me company. My earlier pre-wedding flush has faded away, replaced by a nervousness I can’t quite shake. “You’re right, CeeCee. A good night’s sleep will help.”

“Go home. Don’t give it another thought.”

“OK.”

“Night, sugar plum.”

“Night.” I hang up, feeling slightly mollified. CeeCee’s got a way of putting things in perspective, and I think maybe I’ve read it all wrong. I gather up the mop that leans against the table and swish it in the sudsy water, before finishing off the floors.

After I’ve packed the cleaning equipment away, I head on out back to my office. I open the drawer and pull out a jewelry box. Inside are wedding gifts I had made especially for our moms and my bridal party. Olivia’s gift sits on top, a silver locket inscribed, ‘Thank you for raising my Mr. Right.’ With a sigh, I wonder if it’s something she’ll like. Somehow after seeing the way she dresses, I can’t imagine her wearing a silver locket, with a gushy sentimental inscription. Instead, I look for Charlie’s gift, a necklace with a pearl pendant, and a card that reads: Charlie, you may know the old saying a bride needs something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, for good luck on her wedding day. But all I need is you. Will you be my flower girl?

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