Christmas At The Café. Rebecca Raisin

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       Chapter Ten

      The morning of the chocolate festival rolls around. I’m jittery with nerves. I hope everything goes as planned, and that there are no spectacular cooking mishaps. It’s one thing to muck up a recipe in the café but quite another to do it in front of almost the whole town. Most of our chocolate recipes are prepared; it’ll just be a matter of keeping up and replenishing, with only a few things made fresh, like chocolate soufflés, which we’ll bake in batches, and I pray they rise into a gooey, chocolaty cloud.

      I get to work early, and find an army of volunteers sitting on the chairs out front sipping mugs of something spicy. “Morning, everyone,” I say, leaning close to peer into their drinks.

      Sarah from the bookshop speaks up. “It’s a hot cup of gingerbread cocoa. You missed the little gingerbread men Cee perched on top. We ate them up first!”

      I laugh as CeeCee wanders out with a tray of more drinks, and offers me one.

      “Thanks, Cee.” I feel almost sad crunching into the cute little button-nose gingerbread man who floats amongst the whipped cream.

      “You got the tables, Lil?” CeeCee asks.

      “In the truck. I’ll bring it around and we can set them up when you’re ready.” I borrowed trestle tables from the town hall. We’re going to line them up under umbrellas, and each station will serve a selection of chocolate-themed deliciousness. The road will be closed for the entirety, so we can spread tables down the length of the street.

      Damon walks out from his small goods shop with Charlie in tow. She skips over to CeeCee and hugs her tight. “My little angel, you go on inside. There’s a special milkshake on the bench for you.” Charlie squeals and runs inside to investigate.

      I clap my hands. “Before we start, CeeCee and I wanted to thank you all for helping out today, and, remember, you can eat as much as you want! So feel free to take a break from your table and sample everything that’s on offer. We’ll be running things inside, and making sure you’re stocked up out here in the event everything sells.”

      Our volunteers let out a whoop, and gather together to help set up. I force myself to look cheerful, but I have a horrible feeling Joel might turn up and ruin things. He said I had one more day, so I expected another pre-dawn phone call from him threatening me. But so far, nothing. A tiny ray of hope runs through me — maybe Mr Jefferson’s involvement scared him off. Maybe he is gone for good. Or is that just wishful thinking?

      ***

      The Gingerbread Café explodes with noise as we cram in as many kids as we can to help paint the Paschal eggs. Laughter rings out as they crack almost as many as they manage to paint. CeeCee and I grin at each other. “At least they’re empty of goo this time,” she says, yelling above the din.

      The streets are crowded with people milling about, sampling all the chocolate desserts on offer. We cover a few of the tables with newspaper and wave to a bunch of kids, who eagerly run up and take a seat. I direct them all to the cotton wool, and paper plates, the pink cardboard and colored pipe cleaners.

      “Right, kiddiewinks.” I hold up a finished bunny-rabbit mask. “So you glue each piece in order as they are on the table, then, once you’re done, I’ll tie a length of elastic through these tiny holes here—” I indicate “—and then you can hang them on the pegs Cee’s left on the string line out back, to dry…” Before I’m finished talking, hands spring from every direction, eager to get their crafts started.

      The Mary-Jos arrive in a hail of glitter. They’re dressed in frou-frou pink gowns, and wear plastic tiaras. One of them, hard to tell which under all that make-up, swishes a wand around, and says, “You, you, you, follow me for face painting!”

      The children push their chairs back, and chase after her.

      ***

      It’s midday when I’m zigzagging through the throng of the festival, and notice Walt’s shop is closed. I stand still as people sidestep me, and watch the shop for movement. Maybe he’s taking a break and has closed the doors for some peace and quiet. I think back to the morning, searching my memory to whether I saw Walt’s shop open at all. I don’t think I did. And why hasn’t Janey stopped by the café? CeeCee’s been her best friend since they were girls, there’s just no way even a squabble would keep Janey away, and if they did bicker the furniture shop would still be open.

      I march back into the café and search for CeeCee.

      She’s leaning against the door jamb, watching Charlie paint a nest made out of shredded brown paper.

      “Where are they?” I ask more abruptly than I mean to.

      She pretends not to hear me, but I see her face fall slightly.

      “Have you ever seen a girl concentrate so hard?” she murmurs.

      “Cee.”

      She shakes her head, and I see her eyes glisten with tears.

      “We just gonna head out back for a minute, Charlie bear, OK?”

      I follow CeeCee outside to the car park.

      She leans her bulk against a rusty old car, and takes a deep breath. I wait patiently, my mind spinning possible scenarios.

      “I was goin’ to tell you after the egg hunt tomorrow. I wanted you to have a good weekend and be able to focus on the business and what with that conman Joel and everythin’…”

      “Tell me what?”

      When she looks at me, it’s almost as if she’s another person, there’s such a sadness in her eyes, and without her usual smile it doesn’t look like Cee.

      “Janey’s been diagnosed with cancer. From what they know, it seems one o’ those aggressive types…” She breaks off as her words become a jumble when the tears finally spill.

      I wrap my arms around her, knowing there’s nothing I can say that will ease her heartbreak in the slightest, and because I’m so shocked. I think of Janey, with her ever-present smile, silver hair always tied up in an orderly bun. She keeps the town social life ticking over as she buzzes around organizing events, and fundraisers. She’s so vital and vibrant it’s hard to picture her as anything less. Surely it can’t be?

      “Will she be OK? I mean, modern medicine is so good these days, right?”

      I lean on the car next to CeeCee.

      “They gonna try, sugar plum, and I been praying for her.”

      “Where is she, Cee? Up in Springfield?”

      CeeCee nods as she wipes her tears.

      “Why СКАЧАТЬ