In a large bowl using a hand mixer, beat butter, brown sugar, and
molasses until fluffy, about 2 minutes. Add egg and vanilla and beat until
combined.
In a medium bowl, whisk flour, spices, baking soda, and salt until
combined. With the mixer on low, gradually add dry ingredients to wet
ingredients until dough just comes together. (Do not overmix!)
Divide dough in half and create two discs. Wrap each in plastic
wrap and chill until firm, about 2 to 3 hours.
Preheat oven to 350° and line two large baking sheets with parchment
paper. Place one disc of dough on a lightly floured surface and roll until
1/4″ thick. Cut out gingerbread men with a 3″ wide cutter and
transfer to baking sheets.
Bake until slightly puffed and set, 9 to 10 minutes, depending on
the size of your cookie cutters. Let cool on baking sheets for 5 minutes before
transferring to a cooling rack to cool completely.
Repeat with remaining disc
of dough. Decorate with icing and sprinkles as desired.
Carson went to the kitchen with every intention of spilling his
story to his family, but the only person he found was his grandmother. She had
her gray hair tied up in a ribbon, an apron over her jeans and sweater, and a
welcoming smile on her face. She held out her arms for a hug as soon as Carson
walked in.
He gathered her against him, inhaling her warm scent. She always
smelled of vanilla with a touch of cinnamon.
“You know Millie and I aren’t engaged, right?” Carson pulled away
from her.
“Of course, darling.” She turned back to her rolling pin and dough
on the counter. “I had rather hoped, of course…but it did seem too good to be
true.” She flashed him a quick smile and a wink. “Did she tell you I had called
her?”
After Carson nodded she said, “Why don’t you tell me what really
happened?”
Carson took a seat at the kitchen table and watched his
grandmother use a cookie cutter on the dough while he filled her in.
After he’d finished, she said, “And now, what are we going to tell
everyone else?”
Carson blinked. “We’re going to tell them exactly what I just told
you.”
His grandmother tsked her tongue. “No. That’s boring. We need a
story.”
“I think Millie would prefer boring honesty,” Carson said.
Using a spatula, his grandmother carefully transported a freshly
cut gingerbread man from the counter to a parchment-covered baking sheet. “I
don’t believe that for one second,” she said. “Have you even read any of her
books?”
“Granny, I’m not really her target audience.”
“And why not?” She pinned him with her stare.
He lifted his shoulder. “If things work out, I promise I’ll read
one of her books.”
His grandmother banged her cookie cutter on the counter. “You’re
doing it all backwards. You have to read the book first!” Sighing and shaking
her head, she returned to her cookies. “It’s a wonder you ever made it through
school.”
“Romance novels weren’t required reading in the business program.”
“Pity that.” With her back stiff and straight, she moved a few
more gingerbread men to the pan.
“Granny…” It occurred to him that his grandmother might be
distracting him by talking about Millie so that they didn’t have to talk about
the inn’s dismal finances.
She cast him a sly look. “And what do you mean ‘if things work
out’? Could it be that you’ve finally met your match?”
Carson flushed, and his shirt suddenly seemed itchy and too tight.
He pulled at his collar. “I just…”
“Have I ever told you about the first time I saw your grandfather?
Our eyes met and the whole world seemed to freeze and fade like a black and
white photograph.”
Although Carson had heard the story many times, he didn’t stop
her. He loved his grandparents, and he longed for a marriage like theirs.
Besides, he didn’t want to talk about Millie. He just wanted to be with her.
“He looked so handsome in his uniform,” his grandmother continued.
“We were at the train station. I was heading for New York City and cooking
school, and he was off for training in Fort Dix.” She sighed. “I miss him every
day.”
Carson stood, wrapped his arms around his grandmother, and kissed
the top of her head. “I do, too, Grandma.”
She leaned against him. “I just don’t understand why your sister
has been so unlucky in love.”
“Jackson’s a good man.”
“And your father…”
“Also a good man.”
“But not a prudent one.”
“He’s gone now, Grandma.”
“Don’t I know it,” his grandmother sighed.
Carson wanted to talk about his dad less than he wanted to talk
about anything. “Let’s talk about the inn. I noticed all the rooms are full.”
She perked up. “Yes, I invited everyone I know for the Twelve
Nights of Christmas.”
“You invited…you mean, none of the guests are actual guests?”
“Of course they’re actual guests!” She huffed.
“Is anyone paying?”
“Paying?”
He swallowed a groan. “You invited your friends…”
“Yes,” she said, defiance ringing in her voice. “It will be a
lovely holiday season.” She slid a glance at him. “I even got you to come home,
didn’t I?”
He opened his mouth to deliver a lecture, but she cut him off.
“There’s going to be sleigh rides, a cookie exchange, a toy drive for the
homeless shelter, a singalong, a craft fair, and a reenactment of the
Nativity.”
“And who’s paying for all this?”
She kept her back to him. “None of this is going to cost a dime.”
“Granny! Who’s paying for the cookies? The hot chocolate? Don’t
tell me you planned on inviting the town and everyone you know without feeding
them something.”
She spun around to face him, holding the rolling pin aloft. The
look on her face told him that she wanted to smack him with it.
“It’s Christmas!”
“I know the date,” Carson said through clenched teeth, “but do you
understand that you have to live within the budget I created for you?”
She tilted her head to the side. “There are so many lonely people
out there. And the children in the shelter—don’t you think that they’d like to
see Jed’s camels?”
“Camels? Jed? Who’s Jed?”
“Jed Forester. He bought the Nelsons’ farm and opened up a camel
ranch. Did you know that camel’s milk is considered a power food? He ships his
camel milk products all over the world! It’s really something. He uses the milk
to make shampoo, face cream, lip balm—”
“What do the camels have to do with the inn?”
“Well the wise men are going to be riding them, of course.”
“Of course.” Carson took a deep breath, feeling particularly unwise.
This isn’t actually her house, but it looks like it.
21 Bishop, Greenwich, Connecticut
When we lived in Connecticut I had a good friend who bought a derelict Victorian carriage house in Greenwich. A carriage house is, or was, basically, the garage of the manor house. A carriage house is where the carriages lived. In this case, the manor house, a monstrous mansion had become a retirement home, and the surrounding acreage had been subdivided into tract housing sometime in the fifties, leaving my friend’s carriage house sharing the lawn with the retirement home. My friend’s house was a lovely brick and Tudor building without electricity and outdated plumbing. Over the years I watched my friend turn a mess into a beautiful home. And from watching, I learned a lot, like where to buy fabric, how to refinish cabinetry, how to reupholster furniture, but I think the most important thing I learned about was the notebook. My friend had a notebook and each room in the house had a section in the notebook where she had fabric swatches, paint samples, and most importantly, a picture of what she wanted the room to ultimately look like. I spent a lot of time at antique stores and estate sales with my friend and the most impressive thing about her was even if she found something that she loved, if it didn’t fit or go or work in a particular room or space, she passed it up…even if she loved it. I think that this theory can be widely applied in all areas of my life. In my writing: if I have a story and I know where the story is going, even if I have a great idea, even if I have a witty, clever bit of dialogue, or even if it’s a sky-rocketing kiss—if it doesn’t belong, fit or work in my story, it has to go. I don’t have room or time for tangents. I can’t slow the story down for detours. I struggle to apply this same principle to how I spend my days. If I know what I’m trying to achieve, if I really have a picture in my mind of what needs to be done, even if something looks enjoyable or delicious, if it distracts me from my goals then that’s exactly what it is—a distraction—and how much time I waste trying to make it fit, work or belong is ultimately up to me.
Interesting side note: my friend died a couple of years ago. Shortly after her death, I was planning a trip to New York. One Sunday morning while I was sitting in church in the nursery with the under age-three crowd and thinking of my upcoming trip, the address 21 Bishop Street popped into my mind. It was so random and unexpected that I Googled the address when I got home. Sure enough, it was my friend’s house. I hadn’t lived in Connecticut for nearly thirty years. I have a poor memory. I have to really think to drag out even my own past addresses, let alone a friend’s. And yet, here was her address in my head. I considered going there but dismissed the thought. I was traveling with my daughter and daughter-in-law and they wouldn’t be interested in a trip down memory lane. And what would be the point? My friend had died–she wouldn’t be there.
But, as luck would have it, my daughters’ flight left in the morning, and mine in the afternoon. Still, I didn’t go. As it turned out, my plane was delayed for several hours. I absolutely could have made the 30 minute trip to Greenwich. But why would I? So, I didn’t. Instead, I sat in the airport for five hours, wondering what I might have missed.
“Over the River and Through
the Wood” by Lydia Maria Child, American
Millie sat at the window of her brownstone apartment watching the
shoppers scurry down New York’s busy streets. Headlights, streetlights, and
just-hung Christmas lights sparkled on the slowly drifting snow.
“Merrow,” Byron cried as he jumped into Millie’s lap. He settled
down with a purr.
“It’s just me and you this year.” Millie ran her fingers through
the cat’s thick fur. She tried telling herself she needed the solitude, she
deserved a respite from her demanding career, and she didn’t have the time or
the energy to devote to cultivating meaningful relationships, but the longer she
sat at the window watching everyone else pursue their Christmas with such
purposefulness and pleasure, the more she wondered.
Mothers with children bundled in knitted stocking caps and mittens
juggled shopping bags. Businesswomen in furs swinging their briefcases strode
past. Men sporting red and green ties walked while talking on their phones.
Shoppers carrying colorful, overflowing bags paused at the window displays.
There had to be a few Ebenezers in the festive crowd, but she couldn’t spot
one. Was she the only one wishing that Christmas would pass her by? Leaning
back into her wingback chair, feet propped on the ottoman, she closed her
eyes. It’s just so wrong…
How could she, one of the world’s most beloved romance writers, be
alone for the holidays? Again? She’d taken a cruise to the Holy Land last year,
thinking what could be more spiritually uplifting than Christmas in Bethlehem?
But it had been a tour full of senior citizens complaining about their food and
hotel beds. At least it had been better than the Christmas the year before with
Liam in Monaco.
Refusing to think about Liam, Millie stood, knocking the sleeping
Byron to the floor. He complained loudly while arching his back and stalking
away.
“Maybe this year we’ll just stay home,” Millie announced to no
one, since Byron had twitched his tail and disappeared into the next room.
Her landline’s shrill ring broke the silence. She studied the
phone. She’d been meaning to shut off the service for a while, but just hadn’t
gotten around to it. Or at least that was what she told herself. The truth was,
with her mom’s voice on the answering machine, Millie couldn’t bring herself to
throw it away even after all these months.
Millie listened to her mom ask the caller to leave a message. No
one who really wanted to talk to Millie ever used the landline. Her friends and
business associates always called her cell…well, they usually texted, or just
sent her an email. No one, other than scam artists and telemarketers, called
her landline. Millie stood in the center of the apartment where she’d lived as
a child, waiting.
“Hello? Camille? Hello?” An elderly woman’s voice warbled through
the room. “You probably don’t remember me, but I was a friend of your
Grandmother LaDonna. My name is Joy Baker.”
Joy Baker. Millie didn’t recall her grandmother ever mentioning a
Joy Baker, and that was the sort of name she would have remembered because she
really liked baked goods, and a joyful baker seemed like a good person to know.
“Anywhoo, I was hoping you’d give me a call. I know you are a
writer, and I have a little business proposition for you.”
Millie frowned at the phone, debating. Her head told her that this
happy baker person was probably a crook, but her lonely heart urged her to pick
up the line.
Joy heaved an audible sigh. “I know you don’t know me…but I also
knew your Grandpa Horace and your Uncle George. I run a little inn out here in
Chickory, New York, and, well, it could use some publicity. I just thought that
maybe if you’d like to come and stay—” Click.
The answering machine only allowed a few seconds per message,
which often took callers by surprise. Millie smiled, wondering if this joyful
baker person was on the end of the line, still yammering, completely unaware
that she’d been shut off midsentence.
Millie honestly couldn’t remember her mom, grandparents or her
Uncle George ever mentioning this Joy Baker, or Chickory, but the information
tickled in the back of Millie’s mind. She settled on the sofa and booted up her
laptop.
Seconds later, images of an upstate village with a church on every
corner popped up on the screen. A springtime shot showed the town green’s
gazebo surrounded by tulips and crocuses. Another image had the gazebo decked
out in autumn’s bright fallen leaves. At this time of year, Millie knew there
would be a blanket of snow. And sure enough, she soon found images of Chickory,
New York, in full Christmas glory. It looked like a picture-perfect place to
spend the holidays…if you had someone to share them with.
Millie closed her eyes against flashing recollections of her
grandparents’ home in upstate New York. Sledding with her bright-cheeked mom
and dad, hanging the lights with her Uncle George, Aunt Helen, and little
Midge.
Ring. Ring.
The phone again. Millie poised her fingers above her keyboard,
waiting. Once again, her heart told her to pick it up, but her sensible side
said stay put.
“Oh dear,” Joy Baker’s voice floated back into the room, “I must
have been cut off. Now, as I was saying, I have this darling old house that
belonged to my grandparents and their parents before them, and I’ve recently
converted it into an inn. It’s just beautiful, if I do say so myself. My niece,
Lorraine, is an artist and she’s made the whole thing just as cute as a button
from the attic to the basement, but the thing is—” Click.
Millie typed in “lodging,” but the closest place to stay to
Chickory was a Motor Motel fifteen miles down the parkway.
If Joy Baker didn’t even have a website, no wonder her inn was
failing. A place could be cute right down to its cement foundation, but if no
one knew it existed, it would always be empty.
The word “empty” made Millie cast a glance at her calendar. She
had half a dozen parties penciled in, but not one of them filled her with
anything other than dread. And the most dreadful one of all was happening
tomorrow night. The annual Book Bash. Simone Shusterfield hosted it every year
at her Southampton mansion. Simone liked to collect writers and artists the way
some rich old ladies collected designer purses and pedigree poodles. Millie’s
editor had insisted she attend, barring raging illness or a family calamity.
But Millie didn’t have any family…or did she? Her parents, her aunt and uncle,
and even little Midge had long since passed.
Could this Joy Baker count as an old family friend? And could her
failing business be called a calamity?
Millie smiled. Of course, she wrote fiction for a living. She
could make up anything she wanted to. She did it every day. And she got paid
for it. And if she could think of a reasonable excuse to avoid Simone’s party
and not have to watch Liam kiss his beautiful fiancée beneath the mistletoe,
then she would go to Chickory, or just about anywhere.
Ignoring the frantic be-sensible voice in the back of her mind,
Millie pulled up an online map. If she took the early morning train to White
Plains she could rent a car from there and be in Chickory by noon. She didn’t
even have to stay the night. She’d just stay late enough to ensure she’d miss
the party.
Her sensible voice tossed out reasons to stay in the city. What
if there’s a blizzard? You could be trapped there for weeks. This Joy Baker
might be a serial killer. Who’s going to take care of Byron if something should
happen to you?
Telling her sensible self to shut up, Millie reserved a rental car
in White Plains. Picking up her phone, Millie shot her friend and neighbor,
Dorrie, a quick text explaining her sudden travel plans. Dorrie’s daughter,
Amber, often cat-sat Byron when Millie traveled for book signings and
conferences. Then she headed for her closet, pulled out her overnight bag, and
dusted it off.
She had to run to catch the nine-fifteen train. With her bag slung
over her shoulder and banging against her side, she slipped into the train
seconds before the doors slid shut. Taking a deep breath, she headed for the
one available seat. At this time of the morning most of the commuters were
students, retirees, and mothers with children.
The only vacant seat was next to a man about her age, early
thirties, with wavy brown hair and a strong jaw. He had a thick dossier in one
hand and a red pen in the other. Unless he abandoned his place on the aisle,
she’d have to crawl over his long legs to get to the window seat.
Their eyes met, and for one small moment, the world around her
froze, like a black and white photograph. The train lurched, sending Millie
onto the man’s lap.
“I’m so sorry,” Millie said, scrambling over him and pulling her
bag with her.
“It happens,” he said, “although not very often. Actually, almost
never unless I’m wearing a Santa suit.”
But something like that had never happened to Millie before, and
she wondered if he had experienced the same time-stopping moment. Pulling down
her navy sweater, she adjusted her pea coat, and to hide her flushed cheeks,
she tucked her bag beneath the seat in front of her, refusing to meet his eyes
again, and wondering what would happen if she did.
“Do you often wear Santa suits?” she asked, finally raising her
gaze to meet his. His eyes, the color of chocolate, struck her again, but this
time the world continued around them. The train clacked away from the city.
Lower Manhattan’s gritty landscape flashed by the windows. Mothers hushed
crying babies. Conversations filled the air.
“No,” he said, his voice thick with humor, “but I will be
tonight.”
“Are you going to work at a mall?” He didn’t look like the plump
bearded guys who sat at Macy’s this time of year.
“No. I—never mind.” In a decided effort to change the subject, he
nodded at the book in Millie’s hand. “My grandmother reads her books.”
Millie flushed with pleasure. She loved hearing from her readers.
“Then she must have excellent taste.”
The man chuckled, his laugh as warm as his eyes. “No, quite the
opposite, in fact. She’s a connoisseur of The Helping Hands Thrift Store. She
loves the hunt and the kitschy.” He wore a luscious camelhair coat that looked
so soft Millie longed to touch it. He had a Burberry scarf draped around his
neck and a gold watch on his wrist. He didn’t look like the sort of man who
frequented thrift shops.
“Sounds like my kind of gal,” Millie said.
His lips twitched. “That sappy writer’s books fill my
grandmother’s shelves and the movie adaptions are all over the Hallmark
station—my grandmother’s favorite.”
Millie bristled and tucked the book into her pocket, praying he wouldn’t
see her picture on the cover-jacket and realize that she was the sappy writer
his grandmother loved.
“What takes you out of the city?” Millie asked, taking her turn to
change the subject.
“My grandmother. She told me she had a Santa emergency.” He sighed
and shook his head. “I hope this isn’t another one of her ploys.”
“Ploys?”
He nodded. “She’s a schemer.”
“A schemer and a thrift store shopper. I like her already.”
“How about you? Why aren’t you headed to work?”
“Who says I’m not?”
He laughed, and something about the sound filled Millie in a way
she couldn’t describe. It was as if she’d been hollow inside, but this man’s
laugh filled a space she hadn’t even known existed.
“What do you do?” he asked.
Millie’s thoughts spun in circles. Come on, I write
fiction. She thought up something else. “I’m a travel writer.”
She was a writer, and at the moment she happened to be traveling.
Good one. Not really even a lie.
“Oh yeah? That’s great. I love to travel. Where have you been?”
“Hmm, lots of places, of course.”
He smiled. “Of course. But where are you traveling to now?”
“There’s a brand new inn in Chickory, New York. I’m going to check
it out.”
His face paled, his lips pressed together, and a calculating look
filled his eyes. “Is that so? What magazine did you say you work for?”
“I freelance.” Sometimes.
“Ah.” He cleared his throat, a low, grumbling, unhappy sound. “So,
you’re coming all this way to see a new inn.”
She nodded. “The Snowfield Inn. I even love its name.”
“But will you still love it in July?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“When it’s sunny, no one wants to stay in a snowfield.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I think that depends on how sunny it is.
There’ve been plenty of melting hot summer days where I longed for a good
snowfield.”
“It’s a ridiculous name for an inn,” he said in a tone that made
her wonder why he should care.
“Do you know it?”
“I’ll be playing Santa there tonight.”
“Really?”
“Yes, we’ll see each other again.”
“I won’t be staying that long. This is just a day trip.”
“You’re going all the way to Chickory for just the day?” He nodded
at her bag. “Then what’s that for?”
“I have my computer and just a couple of things in case I decide
to stay the weekend.”
“So there’s hope.”
“Not really. I’m mostly trying to avoid a party tonight.”
“Not a party person?”
“I like parties, but this one…” She took a deep breath, looked out
the window, and relived the pain. “My ex is going to be there with his
fiancée.”
“You’re divorced?”
“No, but Liam and I…we’d been together a long time.” She didn’t
know what made her open up to this man with the chocolate-colored eyes. Maybe
it was because she thought she’d never see him again, or maybe it was because
she hadn’t told anyone for so long about how badly she’d been hurt, or maybe
because she just liked the way his gaze touched hers, but she found herself
telling him all the sordid details: the purple panties under the sofa, the
anonymous posts on her writing blog asking her why, if she was such an expert
on romance, was her boyfriend partying with Scarlet McFaye?
“Wait, your ex is marrying Scarlet McFaye?” His eyes widened.
“Wow, just wow.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s what Liam and all the rest of mankind think,
too.”
“Hey wait, don’t lump me into Liam’s camp.”
“I can’t believe I told you all of this.” Millie flushed and
looked out the window. “I don’t even know your name.”
He reached out and took her hand, as if to shake it, but he
didn’t. Instead, he held it in his own. “I’m Carson Trent, but tonight, if
you’re still at the inn, you can call me Santa.”
When she didn’t respond, he gently squeezed her hand. “This is
where you tell me your name,” he said.
“I’m Millie Cruise.” But most of the world knows me as
Camille Harper, AKA the sappy writer.
They parted at the train station. Millie had a ridiculous desire
to give Carson a hug, even though she had just met him. Her sensible voice told
her to shoulder her bag, casually wave, turn, and get her rental car, but her
feet shuffled and she stuttered over saying goodbye.
“Are you sure you want to rent a car?” Carson asked. “I’m going
there anyway, and it’s a three-hour drive.”
“That’s really nice of you, but how would I get back?”
“You ride back with me on Sunday night.”
“Mmm, no.” For once, she agreed with her sensible voice.
“Do you know how to get to Chickory?” Carson asked.
“My phone does.”
“Of course.” He looked deflated. Taking her hand, he said, “If I’m
lucky, I’ll see you again.”
She left her hand in his. “Do you believe in luck?”
Pain flashed in his eyes. “Not really. Do you?”
“I want to…but it often lets me down.”
“Then let me give you my card, just in case you…” His voice
trailed away, but after he cleared his throat he added, “In case you need
anything, or get lost.”
“Thanks.” She scanned the card. It was heavy, cream colored with
bold navy print. Carson Trent, Principal, Trent and Tavenor Investors,
Your Business Partners. She pocketed the card and thought about giving
him hers, but quickly changed her mind.
Her sensible voice told her she couldn’t hide her identity from
this man forever, but Millie was getting pretty tired of her sensible voice.
Besides, she knew that the chances of her ever seeing him again after today
were very small.
Why do you think that? a
less sensible voice demanded to know. After all, they both lived in New York.
Why not meet? Why not date?
Millie shut down all the voices in her head, because she now
realized they had all stopped being sensible the moment she had first seen
Carson.
“Nice meeting you,” she said, tightening her grip on her bag and
turning away.
