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Lawson
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“HOW MUCH LONGER?” HOLLY asked. She was staring through the little window of the oven, crouched down so she was almost on her knees, keeping a close eye on them.
“Thirty seconds,” I said.
“We should get them now,” she said. “They smell so good. Not burnt at all.”
“Twenty-six seconds and you can open the door,” I said. “Not before.”
“Why?” she asked. “I’m dying to see them.”
“Baking is a science. Always follow the instructions word for word. When you do...” I opened the door and pulled the tray of cookies out, sitting them on the top of the stove and tossing the oven mitt beside it. “It works,” I finished.
“They’re gorgeous,” Holly exclaimed. “They don’t look burned at all!”
“Now they have to cool,” I said.
“I know, I know. But I bet they taste so good warm.”
“I’m sure they do,” I said. “Because we followed the recipe. Come on, let’s get another batch in while those are cooling.”
The bowl with the batter was sitting on the counter, and Holly grabbed it as I peeled the cookies off the parchment paper and put them on the cooling rack. She reached over and touched it with her bare fingers and pulled them back suddenly, sucking on them. I looked down at it and then at her.
“You should use an oven mitt when you do that,” I said.
“Now you tell me,” she said. “Damn, that hurt.”
I shook my head while she shook her hand and reached for the oven mitt with the other.
“I bet,” I said.
Over the next hour, we baked several more batches, taking each one out and adding them to the cooling racks until the first batch was finally done. It took every bit of self-control I had not to eat them while they were still hot, but I knew if I did, so would Holly, and then our first batch would be done before we ever got icing on them. She was positively brimming with excitement.
Finally, the first batch was cool enough to decorate, and I sat them on the table on another piece of wax paper so we could decorate. It wasn’t long after the first cookie was done in red and green icing before Holly had it in her hand, a devilish look in her eye.
“Not even going to admire the artistry?” I laughed.
“I decorated it. There is no artistry. It’s so bad it must be eaten to conceal the evidence,” she said. “Want a bite?”
Rolling my eyes and struggling not to look too relieved to finally be satiating the hunger for Christmas cookies, I sighed.
“Sure,” I said. “For the sake of concealing evidence.”
She broke off half the cookie, not going down the middle where I would get one color and she the other, but from the bottom half, so each of us got some of both colors. It was silly, since the colors were just that, colors, and didn’t have any separate flavoring. But it was the thought of it that struck me. She wanted us both to have a little bit of both sides. It felt like another sign that something was happening.
“My goodness, these are amazing,” she moaned, making my stomach tighten a little.
“They are very good,” I said between bites.
“Seriously, they aren’t burned on the edges or anything,” she said. “Why can’t I do that?”
“You can. You did. Just with a little help is all.”
She shook her head, closing her eyes as she tossed the last bit of cookie in her mouth. The second batch was already done and cooling and the third in the oven. An idea hit me as I stared across the kitchen and into the living room where the tree stood.
“Something wrong with the tree?” she asked, seeing my gaze.
“No, not at all,” I said. “I wanted to run an idea by you, actually.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, we already wanted to do a big reveal of the tree,” I said.
“I did, but now that it’s out there, it feels silly,” she said. “All the guests have walked by it and seen it in the corner of the room with all the ornaments on it. What’s the point?”
“Did you have the lights on?”
“No.”
“Or music playing?” I asked.
“No,” she said again.
“Then it wasn’t the same,” I said. “There’s a big difference between noticing a tree with ornaments on it in a room and seeing it all lit up and Christmassy.”
“You think so?” she asked. “I don’t want everyone to think it was lame that we were doing a thing when they’d seen it already.”
“I absolutely think so,” I said. “Plus, we could have all the guests decorate their own cookies as an activity. Just sit out the cookies for them and a bunch of the colored icings and let them design them on their own.”
“I love that idea,” she said, her jaw dropping and eyes wide. “I could make little invitations to the tree lighting and tell them there would be cookie decorating and have the invitation look like a cookie!”
“That would be cute,” I said. “Didn’t you say you loved doing crafty stuff? This is a chance to craft away. Go get your materials.”
Holly positively squealed as she stood up, pushing the chair in and dusting off her shirt of cookie crumbs. As she passed by me, her hips brushed my shoulder, and I caught a hint of her perfume. Mixed with the smell of sugar and flour, it was an entirely calming scent, and I wondered just how long I could manage to stay out there with her, finding new ways of keeping our cookie extravaganza going.
Forever sounded like a good amount of time.
Holly returned with a tote full of craft supplies and we moved into the living room area. Sitting on a couch and laying out the papers, markers, scissors, and glue she chose on the coffee table, she began by marking each one with the name of a guest. I sat by her, occasionally going in to grab another batch of cookies from the oven and set them out to cool, then tossing new ones in, as she made her invitations.
“There,” she said as she put another on the large stack, “I think that’s everyone.”
“I had no idea you had that many guests,” I said.
“I made one for the spouses and kids, too. So, everyone got an invitation, not just the room.”
“You got carried away, didn’t you?”
“I did,” she said, sighing happily, “and I don’t regret it.”
“Fancy how you made the cookie look like it was floating on top of the card,” I said, picking one up.
“Simple trick with bits of wire,” she said. “I love doing stuff like that. I just never have the time for it.”
“You should make more time. You’re really good at it.”
“Thank you,” she said, pulling one shoulder up to her jaw and smiling slyly over it. Her batted eyes completed the expression, and I felt pulled, compelled to kiss her more than I had already. I resisted it by looking away quickly, focusing instead on standing and heading in to pull the last batch of cookies out of the oven.
“That should do it,” I said. “Enough cookies for everyone to have a couple and then some extras. Looks like a lot extra, actually.”
“Maybe we should bring some to Hank,” Holly said. “Poor man did break himself trying to decorate this place. Least we could do is bring him sugary treats.”
“Not a bad idea,” I said. “He’s holed up at his place. It’s not far.”
“We need to decorate some,” she said. “Maybe not Christmas light ones, though.”
“No, I think that might just rub salt in the wound,” I said, chuckling.
We pulled a dozen cookies out and started decorating them, using probably too much icing for each one and then placing them neatly in a tin container. Some of the icing might get smudged, but I figured Hank wouldn’t mind. After we put them in the tin, we both went to our own rooms to change and get ourselves warm enough to head out again.
Once sufficiently bundled up, we headed to the car and got in. For the thousandth time, I kicked myself for not going out and warming the car up first. By the time I would get us to Hank’s, the warm air would just be getting going. Holly didn’t seem to mind, though. She was bundled up in an expensive-looking coat that went over what were clearly homemade mittens and a scarf. There was also a matching hat underneath the hood of her coat that I assumed was also crocheted by her own hand.
Holly was also carrying two cups with tops on them, and she handed one over. As I took it, I could feel how warm it was through my gloves.
“Hot cocoa,” she said. “I was making some for the guests and figured we could use some on our trip.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It smells delicious.”
“It should be. It came out of a packet from in a box. Can’t screw up microwave cocoa.”
I laughed and pulled out of the driveway, heading toward Hank’s.
The cocoa was surprisingly good for a box mix, and by the time we reached Hank’s street, I was almost done with it. Sure, it burned the roof of my mouth a little, but it was still delicious, and I would take not tasting anything else for an hour or so. It might keep me from sneaking some of Hank’s cookies out of the door.
Holly knocked on the door when we got to it and pulled down the hood of her coat. Her honey-blonde hair puffed up around the collar of her coat, almost like a lion’s mane, and she had a big smile on her face as the door opened and an older woman peeked out.
“Is it caroling time already?” she asked.
“Not quite yet,” Holly said. “My name is Holly White. Your husband is Hank, yes?”
“He is. Are you the Holly who had him putting up lights when he fell?”
There was a short moment of silence as Holly stood there, embarrassed. It was possible this lady was just going to shut the door on us and leave us out in the cold. If she did, it just meant more cookies for us, I supposed, but it would certainly be a disappointment considering Holly was just starting to get into the swing of feeling Christmassy.
“Yes,” she said. “We wanted to check on him and bring him some cookies.”
“Oh,” the woman said, then sighed. “Well, come on in, then.”
“Thank you,” I said as she held the door open for me and we walked inside.
Their house looked like a tribute to the seventies. Wood paneling covered the entire house, and the carpet was a bright red shag. It was well-kept, though, and looked like it could have come straight out of a Sears catalogue from the time.
“I’m Darlene,” the older woman said. “Hank and I have been married for forty years this month. Then the old fool falls off a ladder and dashes our anniversary plans.”
“Oh, no, I am so sorry,” Holly said.
“No, it’s not your fault,” Darlene said. “I’ve been telling him he needs to retire already, but he won’t listen. Our grandson Hershel is ready to take over.”
“Hershel?” I asked. “Hershel the Handyman?”
“Yes,” she said, brightening up a bit. “Do you know him?”
I exchanged a look with Holly and tried to keep myself from busting out in a laugh. At least they kept the traditions alive in Snowflake Hollow.
“Can we go in and see him?” Holly asked.
“Sure,” Darlene said. “Come on in.”
We visited with Hank for a while, and while he was very pleased to receive his cookies, Darlene quickly informed us of his new diet his doctor put him on while he was seeing to his broken leg. Apparently, sugar was no longer Hank’s friend.
That didn’t stop him from sneaking one when Darlene left the room to a wide, toothy grin and a devious wink.
