Chapter 9 Crumb Coat
CRUMB COAT
Audrey
The bakery is quiet.
Ovens sigh themselves to sleep. The last trays of gingerbread house pieces cool on the racks. Outside, Hideaway Harbor has emptied, the clatter of boots and chatter of townspeople drifting toward the docks where the lobster-trap Christmas tree waits to be lit.
Normally, I’d feel a pang of wistfulness at missing out—the whole town gathered under twinkling lights, Santa arriving by boat, a crustacean deity glowing from the top of a pyramid of traps.
But considering that the last tree lighting ended with me getting pancaked in the town square by a Saint Bernard, a Hollywood agent, and a satanic cat, wistful isn’t exactly what I’m feeling.
So while everyone else is bundled in scarves and mittens to ooh and ahh over the town’s mascot—Larry the Lobstah—twinkling from on high, I’m content to be surrounded by my cooling racks and my gingerbread-domination blueprints.
Here in my sugar-scented sanctuary, I am safe from vengeful animals and the unnecessary distraction of broad male shoulders.
I glance at Jack’s corner—that’s how I’ve come to think of the desk I once used for stacking business papers until it was commandeered in the name of trademark law and questionable Wi-Fi.
My Croc’ed feet tap with restless energy as I spread another blueprint on the prep counter, rattling through my box of pencils like a woman searching for a lifeline.
Knock. Knock.
Straightening, I groan, tossing my colored pencil back in the box. “We’re closed!” I call, even as my feet betray me and head toward the door.
Another knock. Louder this time.
Thinking it’s some poor caffeine addict who overshot the coffee shop, I flick on the front light. And freeze.
It’s not a lost tourist or a hangry peppermint-mocha hopeful.
It’s Jack.
He stands in the glow of the streetlight, collar turned up against the cold, juggling two enormous shopping bags that look ready to burst. His grin is so wide it tugs one out of me too.
Which, of course, sets off alarms ricocheting in my chest.
It isn’t until his smile slightly dims that I realize I’ve been staring and letting him freeze on the doorstep.
Rushing over the last few steps, I open the door. “If those bags contain your human cruelty lawsuit against Pine & Dandy’s reindeer that you want me to witness, I’ll sic Skippy on you.”
Still smiling, Jack turns sideways to fit through the door. “Ha ha.” He hefts the bags higher, proud as a kid showing off their Christmas morning haul. “I come bearing your much-needed holiday cheer.”
The twisted paper handles look ready to tear from the weight of whatever’s inside. “What are you talking about? I got a tree, remember? Or are you purposely blocking out any memory related to the reindeer incident?”
“You’re awfully jokey for someone who has a dead tree in a literal mop bucket of water leaning against their apartment wall.”
“All Christmas trees are dead, Jack. That’s what happens when you cut them down. They die.”
“Yes, but when you decorate them, like a normal person, they feel alive.”
I peek into the top of one of his bags and jerk back, nearly blinded by the glare off a jumbo package of tinsel crammed on top.
“You got my tree decorations?”
Jack nods, moving past me into the kitchen. “Decorations. Lights. The whole nine yards.”
“Jack…” I warn, “tomorrow is the gingerbread competition.” I point to the blueprints.
He levels a flat stare, one brow barely twitching like even his face can’t be bothered.
“Besides, where’s Amanda?” I cross my arms, bracing myself even as doubt prickles underneath. “You haven’t exactly been spending much time with the client who brought you here to figure out how to film a movie.”
“One, Amanda is happier than an actress at the Vanity Fair Oscars afterparty. Apparently there was a taffy pulling spectacle at the candy shop that Amanda has become infatuated with which morphed into something mildly pornographic that she decided to follow with witnessing a tree made of lobster cages get lit by a Santa arriving by boat at the harbor.”
I snort at the image.
“And two, I think it’s pretty clear that if Amanda Willis wants to do something, she does it—whether or not her lawyer-slash-agent approves.”
I smile, despite knowing I’m continuing a losing battle. “Must make tough work for the lawyer-slash-agent.”
He sighs dramatically. “You have no idea.”
We share a moment of levity before I shake it off and point to my prep table. “Well, I still need to—”
“No, you don’t.” His tone is light as he sets the bags directly on top of my gingerbread blueprints, but his eyes leave no room for argument. “You’ve done more than enough already.” He taps an uncovered section of my design. “You added a boathouse, for Santa’s sake.”
I fold my arms, frowning. “What’s wrong with a boathouse?”
“Nothing, if you’re the architect for the Gingerbread Vanderbilts wanting to build their extravagant Maine getaway with room enough for their yacht.”
A reluctant laugh sputters out, undermining my position and making Jack grin.
“But seeing as there is no such thing as Gingerbread Vanderbilts”—he eyes the multiple sheets of gingerbread house pieces I made in triplicate cooling on my racks—“you’ve done enough.”
I don’t have much of an argument. Because he isn’t wrong.
I have gotten more done this year than last. Both for the gingerbread competition and normal day-to-day orders for the bakery.
Since Jack began working out of my bakery, I’ve even been able to sleep more than six hours a night.
And for any baker during the holiday season—small shop or Ritz—that says a lot.
“So what?” I pretend to be put out. “You want to play Martha Stewart now?”
“No.” He straightens, his cheerful expression back in place. “Martha has taste. I have… enthusiasm.” He picks up the bags again—this time from the bottom. “We’re decorating our tree.”
Our tree.
Grateful he can’t see what I am sure is a very goofy and lopsided grin on my face—the massive bags conveniently blocking his view—I guide him toward my apartment entrance in the back. “Fine. But only because it may actually be criminal in Hideaway to abandon a tree in such a sad, naked state.”
“Exactly.” His voice is softer, muffled behind his mountain of holiday spirit. “We wouldn’t want the town gossips judging you, now would we?”
I scoff, thinking of how little Eileen would care about my undecorated tree but how much she’d salivate over the idea of Jack dusting it in tinsel.
Minutes—and a few stumbles—later, we’re in my apartment, straightening our cut-your-own Pine & Dandy special in the new tree stand Jack bought.
Satisfied with how it looks, Jack tears into his bags, pulling out boxes. “Lights first.”
I squint at the labels. One hundred LED lights. Ten different settings. User friendly.
I’m starting to sweat.
“Then decorations.” He attacks the second bag by simply overturning it—spilling tinsel, ornaments, and a tree topper onto the sliver of rug not already swallowed by the circumference of the six-foot tree.
I sift through the pile. “Is this a Larry the Lobstah ornament?”
Jack nods, prying open the first box of lights.
“Yeah. I got everything in town.” The neatly coiled strand immediately knots itself when he yanks on the wrong end.
“Between the Christmas market and this insane holiday store next to the bookshop, I may have blacked out and panic-bought trying to get us everything we need.”
I eye the ceramic flamingo in a Santa hat cozying up to the delicate blown-glass angel in its little coffin of bubble wrap and think ‘need’ is a very generous word.
Jack, not done exploding Christmas in my apartment, hooks up his phone to my speaker.
“All right.” He claps his hands together. “Let’s do this.”
And do this we do.
We untangle lights, burst packages of tinsel, and use enough electrical connections to worry a fire department—all to the soundtrack of Jack’s curated holiday playlist that consists of Dean Martin, Mariah Carey, and the Beastie Boys.
It’s eclectic to say the least.
Just like the tree.
“So.” I eye his placement of a giant glitter pickle. “Did you have a theme or something in mind when you picked out the ornaments?”
Jack grins, a ribbon clamped between his teeth. “You mean besides Christmas?”
I roll my eyes and hang a red velvet bow next to the Santa Astronaut ornament that’s chrome painted. “Yeah, besides that.”
He rolls his eyes back at me. “I didn’t realize trees needed a theme.”
Stepping back, I assess the ornament composition. “Well, what does your tree usually look like?”
He hangs a strand of tinsel over an ornament of a teddy bear dressed as an elf. “I don’t have one.”
When he bends down to grab another decoration, I remove the tinsel and drape it over the end of a branch. “Really?”
“Don’t look so surprised.” His eyes narrow on the teddy bear ornament before placing the bow—this one leopard print—next to a turquoise ball. “You didn’t have one either.”
“Yeah, but I just thought since you seemed so shocked over my lack of tree that trees must be a big deal to you.”
He shrugs, tossing up tinsel. “Since I usually spend Christmas at Sofia’s house, I didn’t think it mattered if I had one or not at mine.
” He leans closer to the tree and inhales deeply.
“But in Los Angeles, real trees are hard to come by. At least ones that last through the actual holiday with most of their needles.” He digs through the decorations, unearthing a plastic snowflake on a red hook.
“But this…”—his hand stills, the grin sliding off his face like melting ice—“tree reminds me of the ones my parents had when I was little.” He blinks, clearing his throat and hanging the snowflake.
“I don’t remember much, but I do remember the smell.
” He steps back, admiring his handiwork, seemingly satisfied with the cluster of ornaments and tinsel he adorned just one section of tree with.