he chews happily, not caring chunks of chocolate box fall to the floor with each bite.
Matthew’s hands are smeared with chocolate as the fire crackles heartily behind him. My chest tightens as I think how lucky I am that these people are more than just customers, they’re friends. Ashford is a small town, and I know all the ins and outs of Georgia and Matthews’s life. It’s been tough for Georgia, a single mom with a child who needs extra help, yet she’s done it, she’s worked tirelessly for her son. Whenever she needs a hand, her gardens mowed, or something in the house fixed, someone will step up; they won’t expect payment, or even thanks. It’s just the way things are done here. Folk look out for one another.
And their visits almost every day are a highlight for me. This place, with its mix of eclectic people, is so easy to live in. It makes me all warm and fuzzy like one of Sarah’s heartwarming novels.
A young couple mill at the front of the café near our wicker baskets, which CeeCee has filled with shortbread shaped like Christmas trees. They flop against each other as they peruse, in that new love kind of way.
CeeCee and I set to work making gingerbread coffees, and hot chocolate for regulars who come in and hover by the fire. The café is a hive of activity this time of the day, friends catching up over plates of warm bagels, their chatter more animated as they cradle cups of steaming-hot coffee. They bunch closer when newcomers arrive, and stand back so they can warm themselves by the fire.
Missy struts in with a flick of her hair, and joins us at the bench. “Hey, sugar,” she says, grabbing a gingerbread man from the basket and unwrapping the clear cellophane. “You had us worried there for a minute.”
“It was nothing,” I say, watching crumbs fall down Missy’s front, which is somehow even bigger than it was just a couple of days ago. She rubs a hand protectively over her belly as she chews. I can’t help but stare at it thinking back to yesterday and how sure I was that would be me soon.
“Earth to Lil,” Missy says, waving her hand in front of my face.
I shake myself. “I’m a million miles away today!”
“You’ve got a lot on your plate. I’ve got some good news,” she says between bites.
“Yeah?”
“Your dress is finished. I happened to walk past Bessie’s shop, and thought I’d poke my head in. I had a teeny tiny little peep. It’s truly gorgeous, Lil.”
A ripple of excitement runs through me. “She’s finished all that beading already?”
“She sure did, and it’s as lovely as you are, Lil. I stood there, overcome again by one of those God-awful hormonal crying jags, and pictured you in it. Your long blond curls cascading down the open back of the dress, that bias cut sitting so well over your curves. You need to go try it on, Lil. Bessie said she can make any adjustments you need.”
Bessie’s the local dressmaker, and tailor extraordinaire. She runs a small haberdashery shop, too. Like most folk in Ashford, you need to offer as many services as you can to make ends meet. An unassuming woman who can take a piece of fabric and sew it into something magical. She’d sketched my gown, a while back, and I knew instantly from those black and white drawings it was perfect. Now it’s ready!
It’s like a satin sheath, with long sleeves, and a plunging backline, forties style, simple yet stunning because of the exposed back, which drapes into a cowl at the base of my spine. Bessie thought the front of the gown needed a little sparkle, so she hand-sewed some antique beads along the décolletage.
“It kind of makes it more real, doesn’t it?” I ask. When I went for the first fitting a few weeks back I sat with it draped across my lap wondering what Damon would make of it as I walked down the aisle. Would he be expecting a more formal gown, or would he instinctively know I’d choose something classic, and unfussy?
Missy gives me her megawatt smile. “It’s really real! Bessie said we can all scoot on down there whenever we’re ready to try on our dresses. And we need to meet up, us girls, and discuss the bridal shower. That’s if you still want to have one? I know getting sick has been a time suck…”
The thought of a late night out when I still have so much to do makes me sigh. Would the girls think I was no fun if I bowed out?
“Would I be a total party pooper if I said no to a nightclub?”
Missy struts around the bench, and gives me a hug. “No, definitely not, and to tell you the truth, with my ankles now canckles, and the need to pee a five-minute occurrence, I’m kind of relieved. How about we spend a night in watching soppy chick flicks and eating…” she surveys the cooling bench “…a few of those right there?” She points to a rack of butterscotch tortes.
“I been running over hell’s high acre,” CeeCee says, which is her roundabout way of saying she’s been busy. “A night in sounds about right to me too.”
Missy fills a paper bag up with cookies. “Golly, I’m going to be the size of a house when this baby comes out. And you know what? I don’t give a damn.” She rubs her belly. “OK, sugar, a night in… I’ll scoot over and tell Sarah.”
“You ain’t scooting anywhere on that icy road,” CeeCee says, her voice stern. “I’ll go an’ tell Sarah, and I may as well take this here pile of truffles for her. You know what she’s like if she doesn’t have a chocolate fix. It just ain’t fair you girls so skinny.”
Missy laughs, and showers me with crumbs. “I’m so skinny? I can’t even get in the door sideways!”
CeeCee rolls her eyes. “That won’t be for ever, Missy.”
Missy winks. “I hope you’re right. Lil, let me know when you’re ready and we’ll go see Bessie and try our dresses on.”
“Sure,” I say. “How about the day after tomorrow? I should be all caught up here by then.”
“Done. Don’t forget I want a piece of that pie when it’s ready, Cee.” She click-clacks her way out of the shop, somehow making pregnancy look glamorous.
It’s well before dawn the next morning, and we’re taking a break after making a huge batch of dough to make braided loaves for our lunch special. The yeasty smell of dough proving accompanies us as we sip our candy-cane coffee.
The doorbell jingles, and in walks Guillaume, gruff, and unsmiling. “Lily-Ella, what is the meaning of this?” He brandishes a piece of paper.
“What?” I ask. His face is dark with fury.
“You don’t want your reception at L’art de l’amour any more? I have already ordered the supplies! Found extra staff! And you send me an email to tell me this!” His thick French accent rises with each word.
CeeCee frowns. “Let me see that.” She rests her glasses on the bridge of her nose as she reads, mumbling as she goes, “Well, I’ll be…”
Olivia. I don’t have to read
