3. Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
MADDIE
A fter a pit stop at Kringle Market for supplies and sundries for Pop Tart and me, she hops out of my rental car when she sees a horse-drawn carriage clip-clopping by.
Experience has proven she gets very excited by “Giant dogs.” Unfortunately, they can’t see her under hoof, and she risks getting trampled. As she races into the road, she looks over her shoulder as if to say, Catch me if you can .
I hurry, hollering, “Pop Tart, stop!”
A little girl and her brother corral my dog, preventing what could’ve been a Flat Tart . Their mom and dad exchange a look. I sense these kids have been hoping for a puppy, and, after saving the day, they may find one under the tree.
I thank them profusely and return to my car. A fit, tall man with trim brown hair and piercing blue eyes stares—equal parts Clark Kent and James Bond.
A jingle inside tingles.
On second thought, given his judgy expression, maybe he thinks I chased my dog into traffic.
Eyebrow arched, he turns on his heel.
Never mind, then .
I fuss over Pop Tart and remind her she’s not allowed off-leash on public streets. Despite the near-squish experience, I marvel at this charming town. North Pole is like a winter wonderland theme park of Christmas perfection. Everywhere I look are festive details, like a mailbox for letters to Santa, a full-scale gingerbread house, full-size Nutcrackers, and the Sleigh Bell Lodge with a reindeer theme. Pop Tart and I are staying in the Prancer room.
I throw open the drapes of the window overlooking the main street that’s like a real-life ceramic Christmas village, only better.
After giving Pop Tart a treat, I turn on The Santa Claus movie for her and check my laptop for 00M messages.
Not only is Cavell grumpy, he’s extremely needy. A terrible combo. I’ll admit that I had a little fun with my impromptu, out-of-office replies.
He needs to learn patience. Manners too. But maybe he’s lonely. One of those guys who lives in a stark high rise, surrounded by metal and glass . . . and stone. It’s in the name. I tell ya, it’s always in the name.
Checking the time, I give Pop Tart a pet and then freshen up for my meeting with Nicole from Nicholls’ Candy Canes. I expect the directions to lead me to an industrial part of town with factories, but the address is two streets over on Candy Cane Lane.
I love it here!
Lined with a giant candy cane archway tied with red ribbons, it dead ends to a storefront with a red and white striped awning festooned with red and white lights. Notably, there aren’t too many people down this way.
A woman wearing a white uniform with a red and white striped silk scarf says, “You must be here for the appointment.”
I nod and slide my eyes from side to side like a secret operative in Mistletoe Mission: a James Bond Christmas . Gron was a huge Bond fan. He even met Ian Flemming once. My sisters and I grew up watching the movies, including the originals from the 1960s. My virtual assistant username is 00M , aka Double-Oh-M, a nod to the treasured memories of time spent with my grandfather.
The woman guides me toward a backroom where another woman in white waits. Her hair matches her outfit and her lips are bright red.
“You must be Madeleine.” She extends her hand. “I’m Nicole Nicholls. Thank you for accepting my offer on such short notice.”
“The Covert Cookie, at your service.”
“You’re confident you can do it?”
I nod. “Affirmative.”
“This will be record-breaking.”
“I’m up for the task.”
She asks, “How do you take your cocoa?”
“Extra cream and a candy cane, please.”
“I like your style.” A smile appears on her thin lips.
This all feels very top-secret. Classified. We discuss details and terms.
I say, “I’ll require a thirty-minute break every four hours.”
She inclines her head in question.
“Personal reasons.” Pop Tart has a small bladder and needs potty breaks.
Do I question the integrity of what I do as a covert cookie baker? Not as long as everyone involved is on the same page. I tend to think of it as a collaboration where a client presents their vision and I execute it. After that, I’m no longer part of the enterprise and how they present the baked goods is their business. They can give me credit or not. Usually, not.
She gazes through the glass window to the professional test kitchen. “Ever since my brother Nicholas got twisted up with Gretel, heiress to the Gingerbread Boutique, things haven’t been the same.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, trying to keep things professional.
“My heart is heavy. My troubles are—” She sighs.
“I’m here to help,” I say assuringly.
“My yuletide is miles away.” She shakes her head.
That reminds me how far I am from my family, but I can’t deny that there’s something special about North Pole, even though it seems I’ve entered a candy cane-gingerbread family feud.
Nicole gives me a tour of the kitchen with a broad stainless steel table in the middle, shelves filled with baking items, and a couple of stand mixers. After providing a list of additional supplies and ingredients that I’ll need, I game plan my preparation of red and white candy cane twist cookies sprinkled with crushed candy canes.
When I get back to Sleighbell Lodge, Pop Tart snoozes as the credits roll to Love on Thin Ice , an adaptation of a hockey rom-com series. I could snuggle up and replay it, but since I’ll be spending my Christmas alone, I opt to go to the holiday party.
As if she can read my mind, my dog’s eyes fly open.
“Yes, you can come. The woman I met at the market was the more the merrier type. I’m sure she’ll adore you.” I nuzzle my nose against Pop Tart’s.
I freshen up and put on a festive plaid skirt and a fitted sweater. After styling my hair in a half ponytail with a bow, I slide in a pair of sparkly snowflake earrings and strike a pose in front of the mirror. “Am I party ready?”
Pop Tart barks in approval.
She wears a Hewitt & Hershey pup-shirt that says Merry Woofmas .
“And you look paw-some.”
Off we go to Balsam Lane. Dark out now, the short drive there is like the Night Lights back home. All that’s missing is the Christmas music synced with the flashing lights. I tune the radio. “All I Want for Christmas is You” blares through the speakers, reminding me of Joshy and Pammy. But I’m on the other side of the world, on the eve of what I’m dubbing Bake-mas, and they can pound coal for all I care.
I park behind a long line of cars. Chin up, this change of plans is just what I need to get into the holiday spirit. I’ve arrived at Christmas Central with each house trying to outdo the last until I reach number eight—the crown jewel, bedecked in lights and glowing penguins, polar bears, snowmen, and Santa’s elves. Spinning in a small circle, my sisters and I would’ve loved this place when we were kids.
From inside, the rise and fall of laughter filters through “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree.” This is better than being home with the Christmas blues or holing up in the hotel all night.
The only problem is, I don’t know anyone. But the mingling guests fade from my awareness in one of those slow-motion movie moments when I spot the man from outside the market. He sips from a mug of mulled cider as the lights twinkle. My heart tugs me forward as a path clears between us. He tilts his head slightly, and our eyes lock.
There’s a jingle inside of me.
Could this be it?
Is this love at first sight?
My thoughts scramble the closer I get.
Then, a woman wearing a slinky red dress slides between us and stops square in front of him. She has a severe bob haircut, and her shoulder blades protrude from her back, reminding me of a gargoyle.
The bubble bursts. Pop Tart lets out a low growl.
I whisper, “Yeah, me too.”
However, the man steps aside and says, “ You made it.”
I can’t help but look around. When no other obvious “You” appears, I point at myself. Tongue-tied, I mouth, Me?
“I was looking for my favorite Pop Tart,” he coos, reaching for my dog. Then he adds, “And my favorite Christmas present.”
He’s even more handsome up close, but before I can fully appreciate this, the room turns fuzzy as he leans toward me. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was about to kiss me on the forehead. Wild and hopeful ideas spring in my mind.
He whispers, “Please play along.”
Pop Tart licks my arm as if insisting I say, Yes .