Chapter 29
“Do I need to go over the rules of play again?” Mom asks, and the group of us murmurs no, focused on the task in front of us. We’ve participated as a family in the gingerbread house decorating contest for years—the rules haven’t changed, and they’re seared into our collective memory.
Decorating stations have been set up on the long dining tables—one house per every four chairs.
I sit beside Amelia, who sits across from Mom, who sits beside Dad, in our usual formation.
Kids on one side, parents on the other. Two of Amelia’s best friends from high school, Miriam Scoville and Evie Hunt, whose family owns the Cookie Cottage and provided the gingerbread tonight, are next to us, with their significant others across from them.
I gaze down the long table and realize I recognize everyone.
Remember babysitting some, or being babysat by others.
There are former teachers, school friends, owners of businesses in town, some of which have passed from one generation to the next over the years.
I think back to how Austin laughed when I told him how seriously townspeople take gingerbread house decorating.
“Like, with candy and icing? Isn’t that more a kid thing? ”
It’s an everyone thing in Harmony Hills, I’d responded, somewhat icily.
Amelia is restless beside me now, tapping her fingers against the tabletop as we wait for “go” time. The incessant tapping pulls me back to reality. “You okay?”
“What’s taking so long?” she grumble-whispers, and I shush her lightly.
Unless you know her well, or have witnessed it firsthand, you might not believe Amelia is cutthroat competitive.
I once watched her speed-eat a pumpkin pie during Harvest Festival to win the title of Pie Queen.
A feat made more impressive because pumpkin pie is one of Amelia’s most-loathed foods.
“It’s thick and slimy, and tastes like licking the bottom of someone’s feet after they’ve walked in mud! ”
My sister starts bouncing her legs, her chair pushed back slightly to offer better maneuverability once the timer begins. Competitive mode unlocked. I chuckle quietly.
Along with the gingerbread, multiple bowls have been placed down the centre of each table, filled with red and white peppermint swirl candies, sprinkle-frosted chocolates, miniature silver balls, and sugar-topped gumdrops.
Piping bags of royal icing sit at the ready beside each gingerbread house.
There’s a large clock—a Christmas bell, which is on display at Season’s Eatings during the holidays—with a built-in timer used to keep tabs on competitors’ progress.
Miss Elsie is on clock duty this evening, sitting on the stage with Mary Piggins, who looks fast asleep on a cushy dog bed beside her.
“Hey, Libby. Are you in the zone?” Amelia asks, nudging me.
“You bet. Ready to go.” I have every intention of winning tonight. Amelia and I may not look alike, and we probably have more personality differences than similarities, but we both inherited the Munro competitive gene.
Mom goes over the rules again, hurriedly, despite our prior assurances we don’t need a recap.
“Whoever decorates fastest wins first prize,” she says, leaning her elbows on the table and locking eyes with me, then Amelia.
“But you have to use every single candy at your station.” We nod, already knowing the rules by heart but playing along for Mom’s benefit.
When I said Amelia and I inherited the competitive gene… it didn’t come from Dad.
“Then, the independent panel of judges does the final review for second place: the most festive—I know Kirby’s parents and Miss Betty are on the panel, but I’m not sure who else,” Amelia says, taking over where Mom left off.
“Millicent Mueller, too. Colleen Rice, and Art Piney,” Dad adds. Colleen Rice is the town’s librarian, and Art Piney is a real estate lawyer. I see the judges sitting onstage, chatting while they wait for the event to begin.
“Did I miss anything?” Mom looks at each of us again, and we shake our heads. “Okay, c’est du gateau! We’ve got this.”
“?‘C’est du gateau?’?” I say to Amelia. “Something-something cake?”
“Hush,” Mom says, at the same time Amelia says, “Piece of cake.”
“Competitors ready?” Miss Elsie asks. She’s standing beside the clock now, about to press the timer button. Mary Piggins continues snoozing, oblivious to the rising excitement in the hall.
“Ready!” The competitors shout as a group.
Liam’s at the next table over, but directly in my sightline.
There’s a crease between his brows as he concentrates on the dish of candy a few inches from his outstretched, at-the-ready hand.
He looks up, sees me, and grins. He’s on a team with Beckett (who is also grinning but has locked eyes with Amelia), his grandfather, and Beckett’s dad.
The timer rings, and the room explodes with activity. Excitement rises as royal icing is quickly piped on and teams strategize in semi-hushed tones. Christmas carols stream through the speakers, adding to the energetic vibe.
I’ve opted to use plastic craft tweezers to apply my candies to the one side of the roof.
Amelia’s split the candy up and is applying it simultaneously with both hands, almost as quickly as Dad is piping on a hatch-design meant to look like shingles.
I don’t pay attention to the others, because the ticking clock is ticking, and my adrenaline has taken over.
But my sister has decided it’s time for some smack talk.
“Might as well give up now,” she calls out to Beckett’s team, not breaking focus or lifting her eyes.
“Was about to say the same to you, Mila,” Beckett replies, her voice relaxed but teasing. I glance over at Amelia and see she’s smiling as she continues applying candies with both hands—it’s impressive, the dexterity and rhythm she has going. I need to get back to work.
“Now, let’s keep things civil,” Mom says. “We’re going to win, but let’s do it with Munro grace, girls.”
Dad chuckles. He’s used to this from the three of us, and always manages to appear unruffled by our intensity.
“And… done!” Miriam Scoville, who’s seated beside Amelia, holds her hands straight up in the air, her auburn braids falling over her shoulders. The rest of her family sits back in their chairs, clapping hands and whistling. Miss Elsie notes the time, just as Amelia and I stammer, “What? How?”
We look at each other in confusion, before snapping eyes to the Scoville family’s fully decorated gingerbread house.
Sure enough, they’ve used every decoration, choosing a brilliantly simple design with no obvious pattern, but somehow the colours and shapes work beautifully together.
I glance at the kids—two boys, around six and seven years old—and then lean over, holding up a hand.
They take turns high-fiving me. “Nice one, you guys.”
“Have you two forgotten Most Festive is still up for grabs?” Mom asks, not stopping her own decorating. We jump back in, matching her pace.
Evie Hunt—who’s seated beside Beckett and Liam’s team, and has no competitive streak to speak of—is only half finished, though her design is by far the most complex.
Swirls are placed with precision, the colours alternating in a perfectly harmonized pattern.
She and her family are going to be tough to beat for “most festive.” They appear nonplussed by the tension of competition, methodically working away.
“Look at everyone, all relaxed,” Amelia says, with a sharp, mirthless laugh. “As though this is only about ‘fun.’?” Beckett laughs, and Liam hides a smirk. I shrug as if to say, “Told you so.”
The rest of the night is a blur. The gingerbread winners are declared, and we take second place (the prize is our family name on a plaque displayed year-round at the Cookie Cottage).
Amelia is expectedly displeased. “Second place means you’re the winner of the losers,” she mutters after the judge’s final tallies, and we all laugh—Amelia included.
Chili stations are dismantled, and a skeleton crew, including me, Amelia, Liam, Chase, Beckett, and a few of the town’s teenagers with energy to spare, handle the final cleanup.
There’s not much time to chat, but I catch Liam looking my way more than once, with an unabashed smile.
I’m not sure what to do about Liam, or our clear chemistry that I know is not one-sided. What if I wake up back in the present tomorrow? What if I don’t remember any of this, or him? What if we never get the chance to see where this might go?
What if this was just a dream, after all?
It’s almost midnight by the time Amelia and I get back to Mom and Dad’s. The four of us—still buzzing from the evening and tired, though not yet ready for bed—settle into the living room for slices of homemade gingerbread cake with vanilla-bean ice cream.
It’s cozy; Mom started a fire that glows brightly in the stone hearth, and we’re snuggled up under soft blankets, enjoying the cake and easy chitchat.
It has been years since we’ve done this.
The sudden lump in my throat forces me to put down my half-eaten cake.
I’m different in this timeline; I like who I am in Christmas past.
Mom smiles, noting the subtle shimmer of tears in my eyes. Family has always been her everything—for my dad, too—and I recognize these last few days, all of us together, have likely left a mark on her as well.
If only you knew what’s coming, Mom , I think, returning the smile. I imagine her cooing over her first grandchild, who will be born less than two years from now. It’s even better than this, just wait.
Mom nods gently, as though hearing my internal thoughts, and then the moment is broken by Dad, excitedly talking about the new sign. It leans against the living room wall, and we all look at it.
“Absolutely perfect,” he says. “What a thoughtful gift.”
“And imagine how gorgeous it will be in a few years,” I reply. “Bronze gets better with age.”
My parents glance at each other, and Amelia’s eyes drop to her plate, where the ice cream has melted around the cake. The silence lingers, before Amelia picks up her spoon and starts eating again. Whatever spell settled over my family is broken, but I feel evermore like an outsider looking in.
Soon after, Amelia and I get ready for bed—she’s decided to spend the night rather than go back to her own place.
Brushing our teeth in our tiny, shared bathroom, like old times, we each stand at a corner of the sink and alternate spitting and rinsing.
I had every intention of waiting until morning to ask her about what happened earlier, but I can’t hold back any longer.
“Is everything okay with Mom and Dad?” I mumble, through a mouthful of foamy peppermint toothpaste.
“Hmm?” Amelia asks, leaning over to spit.
Our eyes connect in the mirror above the sink. I ask again, “Are they okay?,” and she frowns before looking down to rinse her toothbrush. I turn the water off once she’s done.
“What do you mean, Are they okay? ” She wipes her hands on the towel hanging on the bar. The towel has a snowman on it, sitting on an old-fashioned sled. There are similar hand towels in all three bathrooms in the house.
“When we were talking earlier about the sign, it seemed to strike a nerve, and Claire mentioned that—”
Amelia’s eyes go wide, and she slaps a hand to her forehead. “I can’t believe I forgot to ask Claire about the twins.”
“What about them?” I’m momentarily distracted from my own line of questioning.
“I was hoping they’d help my students hand out candy canes at the tree lighting.” Amelia puts both hands to her face, tugging her skin down in her distress. “What’s wrong with me? I’m never this forgetful.”
“Give yourself a break.” I tug on her arm until she drops her hands from her face. Then I put on my best bedside-manner voice. Calm, confident, infused with warmth.
“You single-handedly planned our parents’ surprise party. Don’t even bother saying it, Mila—this was all you.” I smile, and she returns it.
“Plus, finishing up school for the year. It’s a lot, and would make even the most organized planner in the universe a little wobbly.”
Amelia sighs. “It has been a lot, quite honestly.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help out more.” I mean more than just the party. Amelia’s expression tells me she understands the scope of my apology.
“I’ll text Claire,” I add. “I’m sure the twins will be happy to take part.”
“Thanks, Sissy.” Amelia pulls me into a hug. “I know it wasn’t easy for you to get home, with your schedule. Love you, Libby.”
I can’t extricate myself to look at her, because she’s still holding me tightly, but I say, “There’s nowhere else I would rather be. Love you, too.”
The loud crash, and subsequent shout of pain, wrenches us apart, and we stare at each other for a split second, before Amelia says, “Libby… Mom ,” her voice tremulous and low. Then she tears out of the bathroom, with me on her heels, and together we race down the stairs.