8. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Eve
The delicate shimmer of a single candle flickers across my room as the early morning light creeps through the frost-laced window. I didn’t sleep well—my mind was a whirlwind of memories and unspoken words.
I can still sense the lingering presence of Jimmy so close.
I pull on my warmest sweater, trying to ward off the chill that seems to seep into my bones. It's not just the cold of the powerless inn; it's the ache of loneliness that has been my constant companion since Jimmy left.
As I move to the window, I glimpse my reflection in the mirror. My hair is tousled from restless sleep, and dark circles shadow my eyes. I barely recognize the woman staring back at me—a far cry from the confident baker I'd once been at Cornerstone Bakery.
I press my forehead against the cool glass, my breath fogging the pane. I close my eyes, remembering how Jimmy and I used to watch the town wake up together, planning our day at the bakery over steaming mugs of coffee.
Now, with Jimmy next door, I feel more distant from him than ever. With a deep sigh, I turn away from the window. It's time to face the day—and Jimmy—once again.
As I try to tame my hair, a knock interrupts me.
"Morning, Eve." Holly chirps as I open the door. "Once the power is back on, would you mind baking a batch of your famous gingerbread family cookies? They'd be the perfect finishing touch to Christmas at Evergreen Inn."
The request hits like a snowball to the chest, cold and sudden—Gingerbread families—our specialty. The five of us, Mom, Dad, Jimmy, Ella, and I, would bake them together, laughing, joking, and singing Christmas carols. Jimmy and I stole kisses in the pantry while gathering more supplies to fulfill the orders. Families from all over made our cookies part of their holiday celebrations.
"Sure," I manage, my voice sounding distant. "I'd love to."
"Fantastic!" She beams as she flits away, humming a carol under her breath.
I open the wooden box Dad made to house the special cookie cutters he had fashioned for Mom to make unique gingerbread parents, children and pets.
Mom and Dad are gone. Cornerstone Bakery burned to the ground, and Jimmy and I are estranged. Dare I hope that our special family tradition could come alive again?
Underneath the cookie cutters, the recipe card is worn and speckled with past bakes. It's just cookies, I tell myself. Just an ordinary task.
The clink of tools and Holly's laughter trickle up from the basement into the kitchen. My fingers pause on the edge of a flour sack.
Holly’s arm is hooked into Hank’s, and she whispers something in his ear as they enter the room.
Moments later, the basement door creaks open, and Jimmy's frame fills the space. He hesitates on the threshold, his blue eyes finding mine for a fleeting moment before skittering away. My pulse quickens.
"Jimmy, thank you so much for fixing that pipe! You're a lifesaver." Holly gives Jimmy a peck on the cheek.
"Anytime, Holly."
"You know, Eve could use an extra pair of hands with the gingerbread cookies."
He nods, a barely perceptible dip of his head. His fingers thread through his salt-and-pepper hair—a silent dance of anxiety I know too well.
I force a smile, twisting my wedding ring around my finger—a silent testament to promises made and broken.
Jimmy steps into the kitchen, his sturdy build more of a shield than ever. I swallow hard, gripping the edge of the counter for support. The air between us is heavy, pregnant with words unsaid.
"Hank," Holly interjects, "I could use help getting more decorations out of the attic."
"Of course." With a friendly nod toward us, Hank follows her out of the kitchen.
Silence blooms, enveloping us as the door clicks shut behind them.
"Need me to do anything?" Jimmy asks, at last, breaking the quiet. He keeps his gaze fixed on some distant point above my head.
"Flour." I point to the pantry. "We're running low."
He nods again and moves to retrieve it. I gather the rest of the ingredients from the cupboard. My fingers trail over the spice jars. Cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg—each is a memory of laughter and warmth from Christmases past.
"Here." His voice is close. I turn to see him holding out the bag of flour. Our fingers brush, and a jolt of electricity arcs between us.
"Thanks," I whisper, looking up to meet his gaze—there's pain, and a hidden mystery.
"Something on your mind?" I venture, testing the waters.
He flinches slightly, then schools his features into neutrality. "Just... focusing on the task at hand."
"Right," I reply, not convinced but letting it go—for now.
We work side-by-side. The silence weighs heavily between us.
"Remember our first Christmas together?" I say, breaking the stillness. "You tried to surprise me by stringing lights around the bakery."
Jimmy's smile softens his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "And I almost toppled off the ladder when you walked in."
A chuckle escapes me. "Nearly gave me a heart attack."
"Never was much good at surprises." Jimmy's gaze drops as he rolls up his sleeves. I catch the flash of something new—a scar etched across his wrist, pale against his sun-darkened skin.
My hand stills. "What happened there?"
"Ah, just a small accident."
"Jimmy?"
"Let's just focus on these cookies, Eve." His tone is firm, his blue eyes pleading.
"Right, the cookies." I force myself back to the task. The image of that scar haunts me, a vivid reminder of the distance between us.
We work in silence, cutting out gingerbread figures and laying them on the baking sheets. Every brush of his fingers sends a current through my veins, leaving me yearning for the connection we once had.
"Look at them," I murmur as we slide the trays into the oven. "A perfect little family."
"Just like ours used to be," he whispers.
"Used to be," I echo, swallowing the lump in my throat.
The oven's warmth wraps around us. The scent of baking gingerbread fills the air with promises of a Christmas that could still hold magic. If only we could overcome the wall between us.
The aroma, rich and sweet, takes me back to Christmases past. Ella would stand on a stool between us, her tiny hands covered in icing as she helped decorate the cookies.
"Remember the year Ella insisted all the gingerbread men needed red scarves?" Jimmy says as if reading my mind. I imagine he's picturing our little girl, all pigtails, and determination.
I chuckle softly, nodding. "She was so determined."
"Didn't she say they were cold?"
"Yep." I sigh. "She left one without a scarf, saying it was too tough for the cold.
"Like her dad." His voice cracks.
We move closer to the oven, peering through the glass as the cookies puff up and brown. For a moment, we're not estranged spouses but two people with a shared history, witnessing baking's magic transform ingredients into something more.
Our gazes lock, and the years fall away. In his eyes, I see the young man I married—who made me believe in love strong enough to weather any storm.
The timer dings, pulling us out of the moment.
"Maybe this Christmas..." I start but can’t finish.
"Perhaps." His hand brushes against mine once more as we set the cookies on the cooling racks.
"Perhaps." The word hangs in the air like a promise, fragile and unspoken.
"Time to decorate?"
"Time to decorate," I agree, because what else can we do but keep moving forward?
As I add smiles to the gingerbread faces, I wonder if we can do the same for ourselves.
Jimmy picks up a tiny red candy heart, placing it with precision on the chest of the cookie.
"Looks like we haven't lost our touch," he remarks.
"Seems like it," I reply, allowing a cautious flicker of hope to ignite as I add a squiggle of hair to a gingerbread head.
The door creaks open, and Holly and Hank step in.
"Would you look at that? Just like old times." Holly grins.
"Like the bakery never closed," Hank adds, his eyes crinkling with the kind of understanding only old friends possess.
Jimmy and I exchange another glance, one that asks whether the ground beneath us has indeed shifted. The silence stretches, laden with possibility, until Holly's laughter breaks through.
"Come on, you two. These cookies aren't going to eat themselves!"
And with that, the atmosphere lightens, though the question of what comes next hangs in the air.