Christmas At The Café. Rebecca Raisin

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СКАЧАТЬ to the church so the reverend will look kindly upon them. They’ve got good hearts, and I hope, what with all the discounts, I’m still making some money. Everyone who comes in appreciates the gospel Christmas music. CeeCee hams it up in her soprano voice, and pitches and warbles to the customers, who join merrily in.

      We sell our last Lane cake; the white iced fruit cakes are a Christmas tradition in Alabama, where CeeCee is from. She’s got most of the town folk hooked on her southern food. Most of our gingersnap-pear cheesecakes are snapped up too. Dusting my hands on my apron as the final customer carries his box of goods out, I raise my eyebrows at CeeCee. She’s gulping down iced-tea as if she’s been stuck in the desert.

      “I sure didn’t expect such a flurry all at once.”

      She puts her empty glass down, and says, “I don’t think I ever been that parched. Glory be, that was busier than I ever seen it before.”

      Glancing over the street, I see Damon. He’s on his haunches scrawling something on his chalkboard. Guilt gnaws at me, as I see his shop is empty, and has been each time I had a minute to look his way. He’s spent the morning sitting on a stool by the window reading the paper, or talking on his cell.

      “What’s he doin’?” CeeCee wonders.

      “Probably advertising his cooking classes. They just aren’t going to work. Folk ‘round here can cook, anyway.”

      CeeCee grunts. “Yeah, but that’s what folks said about you opening a shop to sell home-made food. They all said who was gonna buy from you when they been taught how to bake since they was knee-high to a grasshopper? But they did, they surely did. Maybe he ain’t cooking home-made food. Maybe he’s fixing to teach them something fancy. You see all those grown-up kids coming back from whatever big city they livin’ in. They don’t want their mamma’s traditional meals — they want all that fancy stuff, like sushi or some such.”

      “But he’s making our cheesecake. While it’s mighty tasty, it isn’t exactly fancy.”

      “Probably just to get them in. Show them he’s one of us. Then he’ll start on with all that seaweed, and raw fish.” She screws up her face. “It’s just disgusting.”

      Damon stands up, and dusts his hands on the seat of his jeans. He looks over his shoulder at us, and waves. He has big hands Big, but graceful, as I imagine a piano player would have.

      I’m lost for a moment thinking of whether his hands would be soft or rough and calloused from cooking, when CeeCee yelps. “Free! He’s doing it free!”

      I look at the blackboard.

       “FREE cooking class. Baked food, made with LOVE. Take home what you make.”

      Damon does a mock salute and strolls back inside his shop.

      “Pray tell, what’s all that made with love about?” CeeCee asks, her forehead furrowing.

      “You still think he’s special now?”

      “He’s just playing a game with you.” She takes off her Santa jacket and hat, both damp from the weather. Her hair lies flat on the top of her head; she runs a hand through it, musing. “Come by the fire.” CeeCee says as I throw another log on, and watch it slowly take. We sit on the small sofa that faces the street.

      CeeCee continues, “You like a daughter to me, you know that. So I’m going to speak to you like your mamma would. Look at that man.” She points to Damon standing at the window, hands crossed over his chest, facing towards us.

      “What?”

      “I can tell a person’s heart by their smile. And his smile goes all the way up to his eyes. Joel’s smile stopped right under his nose. You see what I’m saying?”

      “You’re saying Joel looked down his nose at people?”

      “Damn straight, I am.”

      I laugh at CeeCee’s sincerity. She’s trying to hypnotize me into agreeing with her. I shake my head. “Well, if he’s giving out free classes, I might just stay open all night, and sell whatever I have left. I’ll start a batch of butterscotch pies, and hope no one knows it’s me who baked them.”

      CeeCee taps her nose with her finger, implying a secret. “They’ll know it were you. But you go right on ahead. I’m just gonna sit here awhile and warm my old bones up.”

      “You do that. I might as well tell everyone our new closing time.”

      CeeCee’s cackle follows me out of the door as I go to write on the chalkboard.

      The wind has picked up. I shrug into my jacket, and fumble for the chalk in my pocket.

      “You can’t let up, can you?” I spin to look up at Damon, a mite scary, leaning over me while I’m squatting at the board.

      “Not all of us have family money to fall back on, you know.”

      “That right?”

      “Sure is.”

      “You don’t hardly know a thing about me.”

      “I can say the same for you.” I stand and gaze into his eyes. I try to look fierce, but it reminds me of staring competitions we had back in high school. We stared at each other until someone blinked, and they lost the game. I purse my lips, trying to keep my laughter in check but it barrels out of me, in a very unladylike way.

      His eyes crinkle. “This funny to you?”

      “A little. It’s just, it reminded me…”

      Damon’s phone rings, a loud, startling tone. He checks the screen, and rushes off, head hunched as he answers it.

      “Well, I’ll be. Can’t miss a phone call. Typical city slicker,” I grumble.

      By the time I finish the sign, complete with whorls of tinsel colored in chalk, CeeCee has cleaned the kitchen from the day’s labors and has started making pastry. “So much for warming those old bones. You don’t trust me to make the pies, I see.”

      “Sugar plum, you got enough going on, lest someone say, your pies ain’t made with love.”

      I sidle up and hug her. I’d be lost without CeeCee in my life. “You’re tired. We can leave the pies until tomorrow.”

      “It’s OK, sugar. I’d rather be here with you than at home on my lonesome.”

      “You’re too good to me.” With CeeCee being so sweet, and me being reminded of all the things we’ve both lost, I well up again. I turn away from her and try and dry my eyes with the back of my hand but she knows me better than that.

      “Don’t you go getting all sentimental on me.” I lose it completely when I see tears pool in her eyes. Again, I curse myself for being such a dramatic crier. I’m so sensitive sometimes it kills me.

      CeeCee and her husband, Curtis, moved from Alabama to Ashford when their kids were just babies. Curtis worked on the railroads for most of his life, and that’s how they wound up here. He spent his time to-ing and fro-ing on the train lines, with СКАЧАТЬ