Chapter Fifteen #2
“This block,” I begin, pointing to a row of weathered brick buildings with mismatched shutters, “has been here since the twenties. The Smith family still owns the bakery on the corner. They give away day-old bread to anyone who needs it. At Christmas time, they have German stollen and fruit cake, but I love their Gingerbread people. Coming home from school I used to get day-old Gingerbread people for free, it is one of my happiest Christmas memories. Their shop always smells like love and pastries,” I say with fondness remembering back to when I was a child taking my first bite of the fresh gingerbread cookies.
“This is their house on the corner and the bakery is just a few doors down.”
We keep walking until we reach the bakery, which is just as sweet and inviting as I remember it.
There is a window painting of a snow covered forest under the real snow on the window and a drawing of Santa handing out candy canes to the kids.
Marcel glances in the bakery windows glowing warm in the grey morning.
“That’s very generous of them. Businesses like that . .. they’re rare.”
I think he plans to just look in, but we’re going to experience the neighborhood not just observe it.
“They shouldn’t be rare. Instead of throwing old items out, giving them away allows people who can’t afford it to treat themselves,” I say.
“Mrs. Smith’s husband fought to keep the bakery open when the chain stores moved in.
He said people needed a place that remembered their names and offered a space to sit and enjoy time with neighbors. ”
Marcel’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue.
We walk to the counter and look over the menu.
I don’t know if Marcel is going to order anything.
He looks very much like a mature businessman at this point.
He’s out of his element and is obviously a man who has never been inside of a small neighborhood shop.
I order us a gingerbread man and woman and ask for vegan hot chocolate.
Marcel gets an espresso and we sit together at a small table with barely enough room for two, next to dozens of people lost in conversation.
Their Christmas shopping bags and boxes are piled high beside them.
“Cheers,” I take my gingerbread girl tilt her to kiss his gingerbread boy. “I bet these are even better fresh.”
“Well, she’s being fresh alright,” Marcel teases. “Kissing my gingerbread man like that.” We both take a bite and the flavor melts in my mouth. I don’t tell Marcel that the gingerbread is vegan because he’d find some reason to dislike it.
I watch him taste it, and I know from experience how spicy and buttery the flavor is. It reminds me of the holidays.
“This is pretty good,” he gives me an eye, but won’t completely submit.
Fine, challenge accepted. By the end of the day he will be putty in my hands. We talk to the owner of the bakery and, though he’s pretty old now, he still comes in and inspects the work of his son and daughter-in-law who have taken over.
We thank him and continue on our tour walking past the little playground with faded swings. A group of bundled-up kids squeal as they build a lopsided snow fort. Their laughter echoes against the buildings.
“This is the park the community raised money for,” I tell him.
“Fundraisers, bake sales, car washes, everyone got involved. They wanted the kids to have somewhere safe to play and the only other park is three miles away, too far for little legs.” I wait for a chance to get on the swings and luckily two swings open up with no little people wanting a turn.
I get on the swing and Marcel stands and watches me as I lean back and pump my legs to the sky.
“Aren’t you a little old for that?” he asks with a sexy smirk, which makes me wonder what he’s thinking.
“You of all people should know you are never too old.” I swing higher, feeling free.
He watches me and the children for a long moment, with his hands buried in his coat pockets, but I can see the muscle ticking in his jaw. “You’re making this very difficult for me,” he mutters.
“Good,” I say quietly, almost to myself as I swing high and take a flying leap off.
He jumps to catch me and, though I’ve landed, Marcel scoops me into his arms.
“What the?” He seems shocked.
“It’s time to teach an old dog—”
He eyes me like he’ll flat out drop me if I finish that sentence.
“—how to ice skate.” I broaden my grin and he gently sets me down.
“Who says I don’t already know how to ice skate,” he huffs clearly bluffing.
“Billionaires don’t ice skate,” I say flat out.
“Very judgmental, Juliet.” He acts affronted.
“Well, let’s see how well you can skate.” We walk deeper into the park where there is a little lake that has been converted into an ice rink with a bright sparkling banner draped along the shore. The vendor has skates and benches set up to put them on.
For a heartbeat, we just stand there in the falling snow.
The silence between us is heavy, much heavier than I expected.
Since it’s Christmas vacation all the kids are out and about.
We watch mothers and fathers with their young children holding hands and teaching them how to skate.
There are a few hot shots on the ice, teenagers who probably grew up on the lake skating.
Marcel’s gloved hand brushes mine. It’s a fleeting touch, but it sends a rush of warmth up my arm that I can’t ignore.
“I can’t skate,” he says softly as if he’s choking up. “No one ever taught me how, ma chérie.”
I squeeze his hand and smile. “No time like the present.” I widen my grin and he looks horrified.