Chapter 10
Ten
Luke
The disaster in front of me is testimony to how much damage can be done by one weak link.
Holly’s gingerbread town hall looks like it’s been through both an earthquake and a frosting tsunami.
Half the structure has collapsed, and store-bought icing oozes down what remains of the east wall like some kind of sugary plague.
Meanwhile, Timmy is gnawing his fingernails down to the quick, and the professional baker is clearly about five seconds away from bailing on the entire endeavor.
I can’t say that I blame him.
I also usually have little patience for mess. Or people who can’t follow directions. But as I roll up my sleeves, I’m not angry. Or irritated.
I’m not even “grumpy.”
I’m simply focused, determined to help Holly recover from the damage caused by this woman who couldn’t follow directions.
“All right,” I say, raising my voice to be heard over the roar of a Christmas carol cranked up to eardrum-rupturing levels. “Regrouping plan: Marge, you’re off icing. You’re now in charge of confectionery distribution.”
She blinks. “What’s that?”
“Timmy will tell you what he needs when it comes to gumdrops, peppermints, etcetera,” I clarify, “and you will organize and supply it. Understood?”
Marge shrinks a little. “Oh, well, yes. All right. I’d like to help more, but…”
I’m about to say that she’s “helped” enough when Holly catches my eye with a pleading expression.
Forcing patience into my tone, I add, “You’ll be a huge help.
Timmy won’t be able to start on the front until we’ve finished the reassembly.
He’ll have to move very quickly. You’ll be instrumental in facilitating his vision as swiftly as possible. ”
“I can do that,” she says, brightening. “And Timmy and I are great at teamwork, aren’t we, honey?”
Timmy nods indulgently, his kindness in the face of his grandmother’s bumbling admirable in a boy so young.
I turn to him with an approving smile. “Sounds like a plan. Why don’t you two huddle at the end of the table and stage the candy for installation there?
” I lower my voice as I add, “But wash your hands first. Just in case someone decides they want a bite of your masterpiece, we want to be sure it’s as germ-free as possible. ”
The boy nods and scurries off, looking pleased by the new direction.
“Paulie,” I continue, turning to the baker who’s still glaring over at what I assume is the competition. “How fast can you get that front wall back up?”
He forces his attention my way. “With a steady supply of the good icing? Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.” His blue eyes slit toward Marge. “Assuming no one interferes when my back is turned.”
Marge scoots farther down the table, chin tucked to her chest as she sorts gumdrops by color.
“I think we’ll be fine on that,” I murmur, nodding toward the structure. “If you’ll get to work on that, I’ll help Holly with the icing and…” I turn to her. “And what else?”
“If you’d start cutting two-inch by half-inch strips for the shutters, that would be fantastic.” Her warm, affectionate smile makes my chest feel tight.
But it’s a good tight, the kind I haven’t felt in far too long.
“I have an extra paring knife in my supply bag,” she adds, starting toward her icing station.
I nod. “All right. Let’s get to work.”
Silence settles over our table as we lock in our assigned tasks.
Paulie has the main floor walls restored in just a few minutes, and Holly moves in, securing the joints with icing.
Once I’ve finished cutting the shutters, I follow with a second batch of the homemade vanilla mixture, applying a thin coat to the cracked cookies with a pastry brush.
Soon, Paulie’s moved on to mending the second floor while Holly and I attach the shutters around the windows.
“A little higher on the left corner,” she murmurs, nudging the cookie in my hand up with her tube of piping.
I shift it.
“Now a little lower,” she says. “Split the difference.” I do, and she breathes, “Perfect.”
And it is perfect.
She’s perfect. Now that Gingerbread Storm Marge has been contained, Holly guides the ship with the skill of a Navy Captain and a charismatic Cruise Ship Director combined.
She keeps everyone on task and making steady progress, while cracking jokes and offering words of encouragement.
She lifts the mood, inspires the troops, and draws us all into the tractor beam of her infectious energy.
She’s not just your average town sweetheart.
She’s a force of nature, of creation, of hope and light, and I instantly decide I need to hire a “Holly” to elevate the culture at Ratcliffe Global.
We’ve always been focused, professional, and effective, but how much more effective would we be if there were someone like Holly around, inspiring hope and leading with joy?
But, of course, there’s no one exactly like Holly.
She really is one of a kind…
Soon, Paulie is singing along with the music, changing the lyrics to personal attacks on the mayor that have all of us laughing, and Timmy is twitching with happy excitement as he enacts his decorative vision for the front porch.
Even Marge is beaming with pride as she globs store-bought icing over the landscape surrounding the structure.
“You know,” Holly murmurs, as she works in behind me, adding chocolate shingles to the roof as I fix the cookie slats into place, “when I woke up this morning, ‘gingerbread disaster recovery with a guy who hates Christmas’ wasn’t on my bingo card.”
“Your bingo card has very specific squares.” I shrug as I slot the last piece of roof onto the tower room. “And I don’t hate Christmas.”
She hums doubtfully. “You sure about that?”
“I don’t,” I say, before adding in a softer voice, “At least not this Christmas. You’ve made it…better.”
“Aw, Grumpy, thank you. That’s very sweet,” she says, pausing in her shingle-application to shoot me a grin that has my ribs tightening up again. “Maybe the sweetest thing ever. I guess I should blackmail people more often.”
I narrow my eyes in a mock glare. “Or you could quit while you’re ahead. Next time, you might blackmail someone with even less of a sense of humor.”
“Impossible,” she deadpans.
My lips hook up on one side. “Touché.”
She winks. “I like your sense of humor. It’s bone dry and well-structured, like a fine champagne.”
“Hate to interrupt the flirting,” Paulie says behind us, “but we have three minutes to get this bad boy finalized and dusted with powdered sugar snow. How long until the shingles are done?”
“One minute,” Holly says, fingers flying. “How about you, Timmy? Is the walkway almost done?”
“I’m done! Just now, all done!” the boy shouts with his full chest, finally seeming to have found his voice.
I look down, genuinely impressed. “Incredible work, Timmy. You have a future in design. No doubt about it.”
Timmy’s green eyes widen. “You think so? Really?”
“I do,” I insist.
“I’ll second that,” Paulie says.
“And I third it,” Holly agrees, applying the last piece of chocolate and stepping back, her arms raised as she beams his way. “And you can say it all started when you were the best dang decorator a gingerbread jubilee team ever had.”
Timmy twitches with happiness, Marge pulls him in for a hug, and Paulie reaches for a silver sifter full of powdered sugar.
As he coats our creation with a dusting of “snow,” Holly leans into my side, wrapping her arms around my waist. “We did it!”
“We did.” I let my arm drop around her shoulders, pulling her close, the feel of her squeezing me tight all the confirmation that I need.
That’s it. I’m going to ask her out.
The decision has been made.
“Time!” The mayor’s husband, Mattie, bellows through his megaphone, just as Paulie finishes covering the icing snow drifts with a thin layer of sugar.
The room erupts in cheers and groans, but at our table, we simply lift our chins and stand proud.
No matter what comes next, we made a remarkable recovery.
And, glancing around the room, I realize our town hall more than holds its own against the other entries.
The mayor’s team is the only creation that comes close in terms of design or quality.
Their recreation of the library is more highly detailed, but it’s far smaller.
I’m not sure how many points a team receives for ambition and scale, but if the score card skews in our favor…
Well, a win isn’t completely out of the realm of possibility.
The judging moves along quickly, proving everyone is eager to get outside to the barbecue truck or home for supper. Night is already falling, and many of these people have been here for hours, setting up and preparing before the competition even began.
As Beatrix, the head judge, takes the mic, we join hands. And yes, I feel a little ridiculous, but with Holly on one side and Timmy on my other, I’m strangely happy to be a part of this silly thing.
Sometimes silly things can still be meaningful, I realize, gazing down at Holly’s profile as the winners are announced.
The historical preservation society’s near-perfect replication of the town theater wins honorable mention, losing points only for a lack of detail in the decoration.
The Victorian mansion from Leonard and Nelson, executed with admirable skill despite the gnarled state of their arthritic hands, wins third.
Holly’s fingers tighten around mine, and Paulie pulls in a sharp breath. Even Timmy begins to tremble slightly, clearly understanding that we’re in the top two. We have to be; none of the other entries can compare.
Which means…this is it.
In another second, Beatrix will announce second place, and we’ll know…
“And in second place, the incredible little library from Hattie’s team. Truly a charming entry showcasing a gorgeous degree of detail,” Beatrix says, rolling almost instantly into, “Which means we have new Gingerbread Jubilee champions!”
In the next breath, she confirms what we all already know in our bones,