Chapter Six
Rhett
I'D JUDGED MANY THINGS in my life—surgical residents' techniques, medical journal submissions, my children's science fair projects. But Christmas cookies? That was new territory.
Standing at the entrance of The Little Red Hen on Christmas Eve morning, I adjusted my sport coat and prepared to fulfill my end of our arrangement—an arrangement that had evolved well beyond its original parameters over the past ten days.
As if summoned by my thoughts, Piper appeared at the door, her cheeks flushed with excitement or exertion, maybe both.
"You're here!" She stepped outside, glancing over her shoulder before rising on tiptoe to press a quick kiss to my lips. "Sorry. I've been dying to do that all morning."
The kiss, though brief, sent a jolt of warmth through me.
"I've been thinking about you, too," I admitted, lightly touching the sparkly clip in her pixie cut. "You look beautiful."
She did—a green dress with tiny embroidered snowflakes, a delicate strand of pearls, and a touch more makeup than usual. But it was the sparkle in her eyes, the vitality that radiated from her whole being, that truly drew me in.
"Flatterer." She straightened my tie, her fingers lingering over the fabric. "Ready to judge some cookies, Dr. Thornton?"
"As ready as a cardiothoracic surgeon with no culinary expertise can be."
"You'll do great. Just follow your taste buds and the judging rubric." She handed me a clipboard. "Structure, taste, appearance, creativity, and holiday spirit—five categories, ten points each."
"Very scientific."
She grinned. "I thought you'd appreciate that. Now come on, they're waiting for you."
The café had been transformed for the competition.
Round tables had been pushed back to create an exhibition area, each contestant assigned a numbered station with their baked goods displayed on identical white plates.
The center table held the judges' station—three chairs, water glasses, and notepads arranged with Piper's characteristic attention to detail.
The air hummed with excitement and smelled of vanilla, cinnamon, and freshly brewed coffee. Holiday music played softly beneath the buzz of conversation, punctuated by the occasional clink of cups against saucers and bursts of laughter.
"Rhett!" Maisie called from behind the counter, where she stood filling coffee carafes. "Perfect timing. Logan just got back with Henrietta."
As if on cue, a man I recognized as Maisie's boyfriend entered through the back door, cradling what appeared to be a large copper-colored chicken in his arms.
"The feathered diva has returned," he announced, setting the bird down gently. "And according to Doc Bailey, she's fully recovered from her cold and ready to judge some cookies."
The chicken—Henrietta, I presumed—ruffled her red feathers with an indignant head shake, then released what sounded suspiciously like a sneeze.
"Almost recovered," Logan amended with a grin.
"Wait," I said to Maisie as she approached. "You have a... chicken... inside the café?"
"She's not just a chicken," Maisie corrected, sounding mildly offended. "She's Henrietta, the Little Red Hen's mascot and unofficial taste tester. She was at the vet for her seasonal check-up and a bit of a cold when you were here last. That's why you haven't met her properly."
Henrietta sidestepped past me, her head bobbing with each step, one beady eye fixed on me as if assessing my worthiness.
"She's very discerning," Maisie added, a hint of pride in her voice. "Fair warning: she pecks strangers she doesn't like."
Before I could process the concept of a discerning, potentially hostile chicken, the café door opened with a cheerful jingle.
My heart lifted at the sight of my mother, guided by Lenora's steady hand at her elbow.
She looked better than she had in weeks—her silver hair neatly styled, wearing the winter-white Christmas sweater she'd owned for at least a decade, her eyes clear and present.
"Mom," I said, crossing to her. "I didn't know you were coming."
"Of course I'm coming, Everett," she said with a hint of her old impatience. "I've judged this competition for thirty years. Just because I'm not official this year doesn't mean I'd miss it."
"It's a good day," Lenora murmured, her meaning clear. The good days were becoming rarer, the moments of clarity more precious.
"I'm glad," I told them both, bending to kiss my mother's papery cheek. "You can help me. I'm out of my depth here."
My mother patted my arm. "You'll be fine, dear. Just trust your instincts. And watch out for too much nutmeg—it's a common mistake."
Piper approached, clipboard in hand, the consummate professional despite the secret smile she flashed me.
"Mrs. Thornton! I'm so happy you could make it." She leaned in to hug my mother, who returned the embrace with genuine warmth. "We have a special seat reserved for you—honorary judge emeritus."
"Such a fancy title," my mother said, clearly pleased. "And please, I've told you to call me Virginia, or Ginny if you prefer."
"Ginny, then," Piper agreed, leading her to a cushioned chair beside the judges' table. "You're just in time. We're about to begin."
As if on cue, an elderly woman with the same ginger-freckled skin as Maisie entered the café, surveying the scene with the air of someone who'd seen it all before.
"Gram!" Maisie called out, waving. "You made it!"
"Wouldn't miss it," the woman—clearly Maisie's grandmother, Nora O'Malley—responded, unwinding a colorful scarf from her neck. Her sharp eyes caught sight of my mother. "Ginny! Good to see you looking so well."
My mother brightened further. "Nora! Come sit with me. We can critique Everett's judging technique."
As the two older women settled in, chatting like old friends, I felt a rush of gratitude toward Piper and this community that embraced my mother so completely despite her unreliable memory.
Here, she was still Ginny—baker, friend, respected community member—not just "that poor woman with Alzheimer's. "
"Attention, everyone!" Piper's voice cut through the chatter as she stepped to the center of the room.
The buzz of conversation dimmed as contestants and spectators turned toward her.
"Welcome to the Annual Starlight Bay Christmas Cookie Competition!
This year's proceeds benefit the Alzheimer's Foundation's research initiatives. "
She continued with acknowledgments, explaining the judging process with clarity and enthusiasm that had everyone engaged. I found myself captivated by the way she commanded the room without dominating it—drawing people in, making each person feel included and valued. This was Piper in her element.
"And now, I'd like to introduce our judge, Dr. Everett Thornton.
Dr. Thornton has graciously stepped in after Chef Romano's last-minute cancellation, and we're thrilled to have him.
" She gestured toward me. "And of course, we're honored to have Virginia Thornton with us today as our honorary judge emeritus. "
Applause rippled through the café, accompanied by the clinking of coffee cups and encouraging murmurs. I inclined my head in acknowledgment, surprised by how comfortable I now felt among these people who had quickly become friends instead of strangers.
"Let the judging begin!" Piper announced, and the room erupted in excited chatter.
For the next hour, I made my way around the competition tables, tasting cookies ranging from traditional gingerbread to avant-garde concoctions involving chili peppers and white chocolate.
I dutifully recorded scores on my rubric, occasionally conferring with my mother, whose palate was clearly more refined than mine when it came to baked goods.
"Too much nutmeg," she'd whisper, confirming her earlier warning.
"Underbaked," she'd murmur at another station, tapping the cookie's bottom with her fingernail.
"Now this," she said, sampling a rosemary shortbread from contestant number seven, "this is exceptional. Perfect balance. Note how the rosemary complements rather than overwhelms."
Throughout the process, Henrietta stalked the perimeter, her head bobbing with each deliberate step. When I reached contestant number ten, the chicken abruptly changed course and marched directly toward me, fixing me with an unwavering stare.
"She likes you," Logan remarked, refilling coffee cups nearby. "That's rare for her."
"I'm honored?" I replied, unsure of the proper response to chicken approval.
Henrietta circled me once, then pecked at my judging notes, cocking her head as if reviewing my scores.
"Is she... checking my work?" I asked, only half joking.
"Probably," Logan said with a straight face. "She takes these competitions very seriously."
At station twelve, Henrietta hopped onto an empty chair, stretched her neck, and snatched a crumb of gingersnap from the display plate before anyone could stop her.
"Henrietta!" Maisie scolded, hurrying over with a tray of coffee and cocoa. "That's cheating."
The chicken merely fluffed her feathers and gave what sounded remarkably like a satisfied cluck.
"What does that mean?" I asked, genuinely curious about this fowl behavior.
"It means try the gingersnaps," Maisie said seriously. "Henrietta has a thing for ginger. She's the real judge here—I'm just saying."
I dutifully sampled the gingersnaps, which were indeed excellent—crisp outside, chewy center, perfectly balanced spices. Henrietta bobbed her head rhythmically, as if in agreement with my assessment.
"Your chicken has excellent taste," I told Maisie.
"Don't let her hear you call her 'my chicken,'" Maisie warned with a grin. "She believes she owns the place. We're just staff."
By the time I'd visited all fifteen contestants, a clear winner had emerged in my mind—and apparently in Henrietta's, as she'd returned three times to station seven, where an elderly gentleman stood nervously adjusting his bow tie.
Piper approached as I tallied my final scores. "Well? Have we got a winner?"