LITMIR.BIZ

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festivities. Snow rests on the dark wooden window panes almost like a framing for the cheery shoppers as they dash about on the cold day.

      “I thought we could make some of those gingerbread in a jar gifts, too, Cee.”

      Last year we filled a bunch of mason jars with the dry ingredients for gingerbread men, and printed out the tiny recipes cards to go with it. We attached them with red and green festive ribbons, and a gingerbread man cookie cutter. They were fun and easy Christmas gifts, and all people had to do was add the wet ingredients and bake.

      “Easily done, Lil,” she chortles. “Ain’t like we short of supplies for gingerbread.” She bends down and unearths a box from under the bench and rifles through it. “We’ve got a bunch of cookie cutters here, and most o’ them are Christmas themed. We sure can make those gingerbread jars again. Kids loved buying those last year for their folks.”

      I lean over and look into the box of still-wrapped cookie cutters. “Let’s get this order done, and then we can make some, and put them in the window.”

      We pull out silver bowls, and I take the fruit mix from the fridge. The pungent smell of alcohol hits me as soon as I peel back the plastic wrap.

      “Glory be, how much brandy did you put in there?” CeeCee hollers. She makes a huge show of covering her face with her hands.

      “Enough.” I smirk. “And a splash of rum for good measure.” While CeeCee finds the remainder of ingredients the recipe calls for, I grease square loaf pans with butter, then turn on the mixer and beat sugar and butter, slowly adding the eggs, once again being drawn into the world inside the arms of the beater, hypnotized by the transformation and the way certain ingredients combine.

      CeeCee whisks the flour and spices that she’ll add to my bowl so we have one huge batch to add the alcohol-infused fruit to.

      “The fruit is ripe with brandy, Cee.” I lift a fat cherry aloft; it’s plump from absorbing the alcohol. It seems festive — the red and green cherries and golden raisins shine out from the bowl. CeeCee nods and smiles at the small gem-like cherry in my fingers.

      “Let’s ice them white and mold some holly and ruby-red berries out of fondant.” I throw the cherry back in the bowl.

      “They’ll look mighty Christmassy, Lil,” she says, stirring while she gazes dreamily over my shoulder to the busy street outside.

      We work in silence, humming along to Silent Night as the singer croons softly out of the speakers above us. There’s something so healing about baking. I know CeeCee feels it too. Life just seems to make sense when you can plunge your hands into a bowl of brandied fruit, and chat away to your best friend about the most trivial things.

      Once we’ve put the loaf pans in the oven, I scour the mayor’s order to work out what’s next.

      The doorbell jingles, and in walks Damon’s dad, George. He’s dressed impeccably in a suit and wears a tie. “Good morning, ladies.”

      He’s so much like Damon in the way he walks, and the tone of his voice. “You’re a little early for dinner,” I say, smiling.

      He takes off his leather gloves and leans against the bench. “I’m blaming you. Since I came in here the other night I’ve had a hankering for gingerbread. I figured while Olivia was otherwise occupied I may as well satisfy my craving.”

      CeeCee hems and haws. “See? I told you that tree was a good idea! Draws folks like bees to honey…”

      “It sure does,” I agree. “Pull up a stool, George, and I’ll make you up a plate.” Dusting my hands on my apron, I meander off, searching the selections in the fridge for gingerbread flavors. I take some gingerbread macaroons, and a chunk of gingerbread fudge, and add them to the plate.

      “Don’t forget the gingerbread cake pops,” CeeCee says, pointing. I take a cake pop, and a few dark chocolate and gingerbread truffles from the fridge. So we’re a little addicted to gingerbread flavored treats? What kind of Gingerbread café would we be if we weren’t! There’s something so child-like and sweet about the flavor, and it only gets better once we fancy it up for adults in the form of a more gourmet morsel.

      “So where is that wife o’ yours?” CeeCee asks as she heads to the fridge and takes out foil-covered cream cheese for the chocolate-fudge cheesecake.

      George’s eyes light up as I put the plate in front of him. “Running errands. She said something about organizing the centerpieces for the tables. I guess you’d know more about that, Lil?”

      She what? I only told her very quickly what we envisaged. I imagined we’d go into more detail tonight, and then if she wanted to help she’d at least know what we were looking for. “Oh? I mentioned it the other night, but we haven’t actually discussed it properly yet.”

      George bites into a macaroon, and nods his appreciation. “You know Olivia.” He shrugs, non-committal.

       No, I don’t know her at all.

      He half laughs when I don’t say a word and says as if by explanation, “Loves being involved.” He shrugs, and gives me an apologetic look.

      Maybe she’s simply window shopping? Surely she wouldn’t go ahead and buy something without checking with us first. “I hope she doesn’t go to too much trouble,” I say, with an edge of concern in my voice.

      “She loves that kind of thing, Lil. Once you get to know her you’ll see. She might seem…overbearing at times, but it’s more that she wants to be useful, rather than outright in charge.” He manages to blush, as though speaking this way of his wife is out of order. “But, it’s your wedding, Lil. And if by chance Olivia does tug the reins a little too hard, I hope you feel comfortable having a private word with me.”

      It’s easy to see where Damon gets his personality from. George is friendly and warm, and him offering to step in is a comfort. He obviously knows his wife well. “Thanks, George. Maybe tonight once we get into the finer details of the wedding, Olivia will feel more involved.”

      “I’d say so,” he says amiably. “Until then, I might pay a visit to Damon. Thanks for these.” He holds up a truffle. “I’ll see you tonight, ladies.”

      A few hours later we’ve done the bulk of the mayor’s order, and decide to finish it off later. We’ve tidied up and are ready to move on to the next thing on our list. The most exciting thing we’ve ever baked, too.

      “Nothing for it, let’s make that wedding cake o’yours.”

      I let out a squeal. We’ve spent the last two months searching for the perfect cake design. We settled on a three-tier cake, elegant and striking. We had folders full of design ideas, and it was so hard to narrow it down. After all, we’re known for our cakes, and it has to be perfect.

      “I’ll start on the sponges, Lil, if you want to mix the different flavored ganaches.”

      I take the hand drawn design from the folder, and flip through the pieces of paper for the recipe we settled on. Reading through, I wonder if it’ll be as delicious as we imagine. “Hazelnut ganache for the top layer, dark chocolate and orange for the second, and vanilla bean for the third. What do you think? That’ll cater for all tastes?”

      “Surely will. Ain’t no one gonna see a cake as pretty as this, neither.”

      We set to work, excited to finally start the design we’ve been dreaming about for months. CeeCee’s mouth is a tight line, and I can’t stop my fluttery hands. She’s concentrating hard, yet I can’t seem to focus. I keep going back to the drawing, if we pull this cake off it’s going to be the most elegant piece of artwork we’ve ever baked. And all for my wedding day. Just the thought is enough to send my heart racing. I picture Damon standing behind me as we cut the cake in front of our friends and family, and I’m giddy with love.

      “It’s

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