Chapter 18 The Christmas Cup
Everett
When I opened the door of the diner, the last thing I expected was to step inside a place that looks like some type of Christmas bomb exploded or to be catapulted into the middle of the town’s annual Christmas competition.
Over-the-top doesn’t even begin to describe what I’m looking at or what I’m hearing.
My stomach sinks when Claire calls the woman running the meeting Stella. She seems a bit too happy we’re here, and with every curve of her lips, uneasiness settles over me.
I have a bad feeling getting back to New York isn’t going to happen today—or any day soon for that matter—but I’m doing my best to take note of everything she says in case there’s a clue on how to get us home.
“Anyway,” Stella continues, turning to face the crowd, “this is all in good fun and a friendly competition. On the day of the Christmas Extravaganza, our king and queen will judge each of the entries and name the winner of The Christmas Cup. Are there any questions?”
She pauses for half a second.
“No? Good. If your business is participating in this year’s festivities, please stand when I call your name and tell us what you plan on entering.”
Her finger runs down the paper pinned to the clipboard and then she surveys the audience. Extending her arm, she points to the only familiar face in the crowd. “Chip, let’s start with you.”
He stands, removing his hat. “Thanks, Stella.” Despite the way he’s dressed, I’m surprised to find he doesn’t appear to be much older than me.
“The Chocolate Bar’s entry will be my famous peppermint bark,” he continues. Gasps circulate through the crowd, and I glance over at Claire who just shrugs her shoulders.
“You can’t enter your peppermint bark,” a woman around his age scoffs, standing and causing everyone to look in her direction.
She’s one of the two who waved when we entered.
She has dark brown skin, and her black hair is down, twisted into small braids.
A tiny silver hoop is pierced through her septum, and she’s wearing a bright orange sweater that contrasts against all of the pastel colors around us.
“I’m entering mine,” she says. “But you already know that.”
A loud laugh rolls out of Chip, and everyone’s head swivels toward him like a group of cartoon characters watching a debate, and I begin to question my sanity.
It’s absurd to be fighting over something as trivial as peppermint bark, but then again, who I am to judge them.
Maybe that’s the worst thing that can happen here, and something about that is reassuring.
“There are no rules against two businesses having the same entry,” he argues. “I’ve entered my peppermint bark every year for the last ten years, and I intend to do the same this year.”
Every head swivels back toward the woman, but this time it’s Stella who interjects.
“Now, now. Lolly, he’s right. So, there is no need for any arguing, only festive cheer.” She taps her pen against the clipboard on the last two words. “You can both enter your peppermint bark, and Claire and Everett will be happy to judge it fairly.”
“Well then, I look forward to beating you in the name of festive cheer,” Lolly says, taking her seat as Chip does the same with a bit of a huff. Stella writes something on the paper and then scans the page again. Looking up, she narrows her eyes.
“Okay, Joe and Cami. Do I have this right? Citrine Brews will have a coffee and a tea entry this year?”
A man with graying hair stands. He’s wearing a brown apron over a flannel shirt. His smile takes up his whole face, exposing the wrinkles around his eyes and the dimples in both of his warm ivory cheeks.
“That’s right. We thought a little competition could spice up the marriage.
” He chuckles and nudges the woman sitting next to him, drawing a few laughs from the crowd.
She has a mix of blonde and gray chin-length hair and is wearing a matching brown apron over a loose cream colored sweater. She stands to join him.
“I’ll be making an eggnog latte,” he says.
“And I’ll be beating all of you with my Christmas chai latte,” Cami quips.
“Fabulous,” Stella says, scribbling across the paper. “Okay, well Lolly, we already know what The Gum Drop Sugar Shop will be making. So that brings us to Reid from The Music Box.” She surveys the crowd. “Reid, are you here?”
A man stands, clearing his throat.
He’s young, around our age. He can’t be taller than six feet, maybe a few inches shorter. He’s got light skin, dark hair, beady eyes, a long nose, and a clean shaven face.
“I’m here,” he falters. “I’ll be making marzipan fruits.”
“Sounds delicious,” Stella beams, writing again. “Wow, you two are really going to have a tough competition.” She glances over her shoulder.
“Alright, next up is Ginger.”
A woman with red curls and fair skin stands.
She is around five feet and her full figure is covered by a bulky coat.
She is sharing a booth with six kids, all of whom have matching curls, and a man who I presume is her husband.
“Sugar—” she begins while trying to hold two of her boys apart.
“Boys, please,” she orders and the boys freeze, straightening up in the booth.
The older one sticks his tongue out at the other, and Ginger snaps her fingers in their direction.
“Sorry about that. I’ll be making sugar cookies. ”
Gasps and whispers circulate around the restaurant.
“None of your famous gingerbread cookies this year?” Stella asks, stunned.
“I wanted to switch it up,” the woman explains. “Plus, I thought it would be fun for the kids to help.”
“If you insist, but they’ll be missed.” Her finger trails down the piece of paper. “And that brings us to Aster,” Stella says.
The other woman who waved stands. She’s a few years younger and at least half a foot shorter than Claire.
Her black hair is wavy and cut to frame her round face.
Deep purple highlights shine through, and a dimple appears on the right side of her face when she smiles.
Her plum puffer jacket hits just above her ankles, and a chunky hand-knitted sage scarf covered with flowers hangs around her neck.
“I’m gonna make a mistletoe kiss cocktail with some of the rosemary from my garden.”
“Delightful,” Stella beams, jotting something down on the paper. “So, I guess that brings us to the last thing on the agenda. Lolly and Chip have graciously volunteered to co-chair the decoration committee.”
There is a groan from somewhere in the crowd, and someone else snorts. Lolly’s arms are folded across her chest, and her lips are pursed. Chip mimics her body language and is shaking his head.
“I’m sure they’ll need help the day of the Extravaganza, so please see either of them to volunteer. Let’s not forget the Sugarplum Park way. We help one another, we’re there for one another, and above all else, we love one another.”
Her face brightens as she looks over the crowd.
“As you all know, this festival is an important part of our town’s history and has been for over a hundred years, so I truly appreciate all of your enthusiasm when it comes to making it the best year yet. Merry Christmas!”
Everyone stands and begins layering on coats, hats, and scarfs. Stella turns to us and unclips the piece of paper from the clipboard she’s been holding.
“Here’s the judging schedule for Christmas Eve,” she explains, handing it to Claire. “And all of the entries.”
“Actually, we were wondering if you had a minute to chat,” I ask, removing my crown.
“I don’t. I have somewhere I need to be.”
“But it’ll only take a moment,” Claire tries.
“Bye now,” Stella says, waving toward a group of people passing by us. “I know you two must be feeling nervous about the judging, but I find the key to it all is just to really lean into the spirit of the town and give into the magic.”
“Is that how we get—”
“Stella!” Another pink-haired woman interrupts Claire, calling out from the kitchen.
“Be there in a minute.” Stella lifts her arm to acknowledge the other woman. “Alright, you two, I’m so looking forward to the Extravaganza,” she says, beginning to walk away. “Be there at one o’clock sharp. I expect you to be in your crowns and sashes since an SDN photographer will be present.”
Claire nods, and a knot forms in my stomach.
“Oh, and please for the love of Christmas, do not be late. The whole event revolves around the competition, and we can’t have it delayed,” she sings, looking over her shoulder. Without another word, she disappears into the kitchen, and my gaze shifts to Claire.
“Did she say SDN?” I whisper.
“I think so. Why, have you heard of that before?”
“The reporter with the pink hair said that was who she was with.”
“Okay…” she says, blinking and looking around the restaurant. The wheels behind her eyes turn as she tries to process everything. Placing my hand on her lower back, I move us toward the door, not sure what our next move should be, but determined to figure it out.