Chapter 11
HAZEL
The bell over the door jingles as I push into the shop, the warm scent of sugar and chocolate greeting me like a hug.
My ankle hardly aches at all after another day of rest, though I’ve kept it snugly wrapped inside my boot for extra support.
The gentle throb is a reminder of my misadventure, but compared to a few nights ago, it’s nothing.
“Good morning, Hazel. Be a dear and lock the door. We don’t open for another two hours, and we’ll be in the back.
It’s time I showed you how to make the candies—not just sell them.
” Mrs. Holmes’s voice carries from behind the counter, steady and no-nonsense as always.
She’s arranging the display case—neat rows of cellophane-wrapped truffles gleaming under the glass, each tied with festive green and red ribbon.
I turn the lock with a small click and let out a breath before following her through the door near the stairs that separates the kitchen from the storefront.
The scent back here is stronger, richer—the mingling perfume of vanilla, sugar, and something sharp like peppermint oil.
I mimic her movements, scrubbing my hands at the sink before drying them on the fresh linen towel by the stove.
“We’ve nearly run out of melt-away butter mints,” she says, pulling open the oversized silver fridge. The door creaks, and I shiver at the chill that escapes. “The good news is they’re fairly easy to make and a good place to start with your apprenticeship. Have you made them before?”
She sets ingredients on the counter in quick succession: butter, heavy cream, and corn syrup. From the pantry shelf come powdered sugar, peppermint oil, and little jars of gel food coloring.
“I can’t say that I have.” My lips curve sheepishly as I watch her line everything up in precise order. “I’ve learned how to do a lot of things, but candy has never been one of them—though I’ve always wanted to try.”
Mrs. Holmes fishes a pad and pen from her apron pocket, jotting quick notes before tearing the page free and handing it to me. Her handwriting loops in tidy, old-fashioned script. I skim the list, committing it to memory before tucking the paper into my pocket like a treasure map.
“How did you fare with the storm and your day off? Did you find a tree?” she asks, glancing up from her work.
A tree. My chest tightens, thoughts skidding instantly to Benjamin—to his quiet steadiness, the heat of his arm brushing mine, the way his lips had felt against mine: unplanned, overwhelming, unforgettable.
I swallow hard, pulling my apron over my head.
“It was an adventure,” I answer lightly. “But I did manage to get my tree.”
“Sounds like a story there,” she remarks, measuring out butter and cream before sliding them into the mixer with practiced ease.
“First, we beat the butter, cream, and corn syrup together.” She pauses, turning her keen eyes on me.
“Well? Go on. You’ll make the next batch, but I want to hear about your adventure. ”
My stomach flips. How could I possibly explain everything—the snowstorm, the truck, the way my heart had raced for reasons that had nothing to do with the cold? Even now, it feels more dream than memory. Or a nightmare, if I focus too hard on how close I’d come to getting stranded.
“Hazel?” Her sharp, peppered eyebrow rises in expectation.
“Sorry.” I force a smile. “Just sorting where to start. I stopped at the stores you mentioned, but they were all sold out.”
“Even Harry’s?”
“He’d sold out that very morning.”
“Well, good for him—bad luck for you.” She clicks off the mixer, folding her arms. “So where did you manage to get a tree, then?”
I hesitate, anticipating the scolding that’s coming. “Well… just as I was leaving, Harry mentioned a Christmas tree farm a few hours up the mountain.”
Her eyes narrow. “That old fool let you drive up to Oakwood Farms? With a storm on the way? I’d wager my bones he knew it was coming.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “He didn’t say anything about a storm.
And I was desperate for a tree,” I admit.
Desperate enough to ignore the warning I did get—the one from Benjamin.
The one I’d brushed off with a laugh. My lips tingle at the memory, and I shift uncomfortably, grateful Mrs. Holmes can’t see the thoughts flickering across my face.
“Well, I’m glad you made it home in one piece,” she says briskly, turning back to the bowl. “Now pay attention. You need to add the powdered sugar in half-cup increments until the dough is soft, but not sticky. Test it by rolling it between your hands, like this.”
She sprinkles sugar, the mixture puffing faintly into the air with a sweet, dusty scent, then demonstrates—rolling the white dough between her palms. It looks oddly satisfying. “See? The dough shouldn’t cling to your skin. It should feel like play dough.”
“I thought we were making candy, not cookies.” I roll the ball she presses into my hand, testing the texture—smooth, cool.
“We are,” she replies, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Candy takes many shapes.”
“These seem fairly simple.” I tilt my head, watching as she opens the tiny vial of peppermint oil and lets a few drops fall. “So now we add the flavor and coloring?”
“Smart girl. Then we shape and spell them. Each candy is bestowed with a spell of joy to give the consumer a small feeling of happiness.” She waves her hands over the bowl with a flourish, her fingers faintly glowing.
“I’ll teach you the magic later. For now, we’ll focus on making the candy—if that’s alright with you. ”
“I’m okay with that. I’ve always been better at elemental manipulation of water than potions or incantations.” I shrug sheepishly. “So far, this recipe doesn’t seem too difficult, though.”
“The hardest part,” she continues, flattening a ball with the back of a fork, leaving neat little ridges, “is letting them dry overnight.”
The kitchen fills with the scent of peppermint, sharp enough to clear my thoughts. But only for a moment. Because no matter how hard I try, Benjamin still lingers at the edges—warm, steady, and too close to the storm still in my chest.
“You seem distracted today. Is everything alright?” Mrs. Holmes’s voice cuts gently through the haze of my thoughts, pulling me back to the kitchen with its sweet, buttery warmth.
I force a smile, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Sorry—I was just thinking. On the way here, the whole town looked like a winter wonderland with the fresh snow. The roofs and lampposts were all frosted white, the sidewalks glittered like powdered sugar… It made me think maybe it’s time to get out my camera again.
I could even take some photos of the candies for shop promos. You know, show off the magic.”
“There’s no better promotion than word of mouth,” Mrs. Holmes says dryly, though the corner of her mouth twitches. She plucks one of the mints from the tray and pops it into her mouth with all the confidence of a seasoned candy maker. “Or personal experience.”
I raise a brow, narrowing my eyes at her. “Hey, I thought you said they had to dry overnight.”
She lifts a shoulder in a small shrug, unbothered. “It’s important to test the flavor—you can’t add more peppermint oil later,” she quips.
I glance down at the little lump of mint in front of me. Mine looks like it lost a fight with the fork that was supposed to press it flat. “Yours turn out so perfectly round.”
“Years of practice.” Her hands move with quick, graceful precision, rolling and flattening one after another.
Within seconds, she’s lined up a half dozen identical little disks, their ridges catching the kitchen light.
“Besides, it doesn’t matter what they look like, as long as they taste good.
Candy isn’t meant to be stared at—it’s meant to be enjoyed. ”
She gestures to the one in my hand, and I finally give in, slipping it onto my tongue.
The mint is cool and soft, dissolving almost instantly, like snow melting on warm skin.
The flavor blooms sweet and buttery, with just enough peppermint bite.
For a moment, it feels like being ten again—digging into the bottom of my Christmas stocking, fingers sticky with candy canes while my parents laughed over cocoa in the kitchen.
“They’re delicious,” I whisper, my throat thick.
Mrs. Holmes smiles knowingly. “They’re one of my best sellers this time of year—second only to fudge and candy canes. People can’t resist nostalgia wrapped up in sugar.” She nudges me toward the mixing bowl. “Now, tell me more about this photography hobby of yours while you start the next batch.”
I frown faintly as I measure out the butter and cream, setting them carefully into the mixer.
“Well, it’s more than just a hobby. I actually majored in photography.
” The words taste strange in my mouth, almost foreign now.
I can still remember the pride on my parents’ faces the day I walked across that stage, diploma in hand.
How we’d planned a summer trip after graduation—one that would take us to a gallery that wanted to feature some of my photos.
A lump rises in my throat so suddenly I nearly drop the measuring cup.
“But… I lost my passion for it after my parents passed.” My voice falters, trembling despite my attempt at steadiness.
“This morning was the first time in a year I’ve even looked at something and thought, I wish I had my camera. ”
The words hang between us, fragile and raw, as I keep my hands busy adding in sugar. The mixer whirs, filling the silence.
Mrs. Holmes sets down the tray she’d been arranging and comes to my side.
She doesn’t press, doesn’t prod—just rests her hand lightly on my forearm, her touch warm and steady.
“Sometimes,” she says softly, “life takes things from us we aren’t ready to lose.
And sometimes… it puts something new in our path.
A reason to look forward again, even if it’s small.
You don’t have to chase your old joy all at once.
Just let yourself notice it when it comes. ”