Rain lashed against the village hall’s windows, the weather oblivious to the moans and groans of cake makers from around the district as they raced in from outside, arms full, noses dripping, clothing soaked.
‘It’s ruined.’ A woman one table over from Josie crumpled to the ground, her howl muffled as she buried her head in her arms. ‘Ruined.’
Josie eyed the mountain of white and yellow sludge, on which a fondant Santa – his hat now attached to his feet rather than his head – appeared to be skiing down in a haphazard way. She went to console the woman, to tell her the mushed mess could be saved, but couldn’t force the white lie past her lips.
The woman uncurled herself, picked up the destroyed mountain, dumped it unceremoniously in the nearest bin and stalked out of the hall.
‘I don’t think that’ll be the last cake to end up there.’
Josie twisted round to see Callan shaking his head and thanked her lucky stars that he’d saved her from the same fate. On seeing the rain bucketing down that morning he’d pulled together a makeshift portable stage, complete with a post on each of its four corners, over which he’d draped a tarpaulin, placed it securely in a wheelbarrow he’d borrowed from Will, and presented it to Josie with a proud flourish and a ‘for you, my lady’.
‘Poor woman. My heart goes out to her. She must’ve spent hours making that cake, only for the ski field to have an avalanche.’ A ripple of nerves danced through Josie, and she peeked under the tarpaulin to make sure her cake hadn’t gone the way of her neighbour’s, but it was perfect. Standing straight. Every decoration in place. Not a bump, ripple or wave in the icing.
Josie covered her mouth as the millionth yawn of the day escaped. She’d been up until three that morning perfecting the last tier, inspiration having finally struck in the midnight hour as she’d pondered the meaning of family. Of community. And how it tied into Christmas.
Her heart bubbled with hope. She didn’t expect to win, not when she was so new to the area, but she believed her creation would spark interest, maybe even happiness, and once the judging was done and the cakes could be shared with the community, she believed her work would bring more business to the bakery. That Abigail’s would be renowned once more.
‘Still perfect?’ Callan’s fingertips briefly touched her hip, letting her know he was still there. That he hadn’t left.
Josie ducked out from under the tarpaulin and turned to face him. Even under the unforgiving fluorescent lighting of the hall, Callan looked divine. His eyes shone like freshly stirred melted chocolate. His cheeks were raised high in good humour, his lips as lush as ever. It took everything she had not to reach up, to cup his face, to bring those beautiful lips down to hers.
She closed her eyes so temptation wasn’t staring her in the face, crossed her arms and tucked her hands flat against her ribcage. There. Safe. Unable to reach, unable to touch, unable to cross any boundaries in front of the villagers that might lead to unwanted speculation.
She was sticking to the unspoken, but oh so obvious, rules.
Take things slow.
Keep it easy.
Keep it on the down low.
The squeal of a loud-hailer pierced the air, forcing her to put her fears aside and focus on what was important right now.
The judging.
‘Best of luck.’ Callan nodded encouragingly, then left the hall to join those who’d gathered outside to sing carols and get in the Christmas spirit, before it was time to gorge themselves on cake.
Josie took a deep breath, wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans and surveyed the competition. She’d entered the three-plus tier category, which had limited the number of those who’d entered, but those who had were talented and their creations had her dealing with tingling tastebuds and a storm of snowflakes blustering about in her belly.
The judges wasted no time admiring and tasting. Lip-smacking appreciation came from across the hall where the single-tier cakes were being judged, punctuated by moments of ominous silence.
Waves of tension, nerves and hope rose and fell as they moved from cake to cake, leaving relieved shoulders in their wake. Entrants knew their work was done, judgement had been made, and there was nothing more they could do than sit back and watch the spectacle of those who were as jittery as they’d been.
An interminable amount of time, probably only fifteen minutes, passed before the judges reached Josie. She managed a smile and a nod. No smile or nod was returned, instead they stared at her. Kept staring. Paid no attention to the cake.
Her hands twisted around each other as she became convinced she’d done something wrong and was about to be ejected from the competition in a cloud of shame.
‘Description? Inspiration?’ The head judge. A stout woman in a forest-green buttoned-down cardigan that gave way to beige pants nodded. Her tone even, her eyes encouraging.
‘Oh, yes.’ Josie mentally face-palmed herself. Of course they’d want to know what they were eating and the inspiration behind her creation. She took a deep breath, centred herself and began.
‘The first layer is a fruitcake. So chosen because Christmas is a time of tradition, and fruitcake was always served at our dinner table as part of dessert growing up. I’ve iced it in snow-white fondant and covered it in icing snowflakes and spun sugar snowballs covered in edible glitter, as – even though it doesn’t always happen – a white Christmas is the ultimate Christmas gift.’
She sliced into the back of the cake, keeping the front unblemished so the villagers could visually enjoy it before digging in, and passed pieces to the judges.
Their expressions were inscrutable as they chewed and swallowed, though she swore she caught a tiny nod of approval from the second judge. A dapper gent in a three-piece suit, his iron-grey hair swept up on either side of his head to form a small mohawk.
‘The next layer is chocolate mud cake, representing the indulgence of Christmas. The one time where we can enjoy all the things we love without guilt. As a nod to that I’ve created icing figures of elves hard at work in Santa’s workshop, making toys for the children to open on Christmas morning.’ She indicated the pile of icing presents, each hand-painted a different colour complete with contrasting icing ribbons.
Her heart swelled with pride as an unsolicited ‘ooooh’ of approval came from the third judge. A blonde woman of about her age, wearing a cherry-red Fifties-style vintage dress, covered in sprigs of mistletoe.
She sliced more pieces and passed them round. Her nerves dissipated a little as lips smacked together, and she knew her rich, dark mud cake was spot on in flavour and texture.
‘The third tier is my homage to Sunnycombe. Again, the figurines are handmade, as are the musical notes. I must admit that when I arrived here I wasn’t the biggest fan of Christmas, but the spirit of the village and its people have caused me to rethink my attitude, and I do believe that next year the choir might have an extra member … That’s if they don’t mind taking on someone who’s tone deaf.’
The judges laughed as she passed them the cake. Their laughter subsided as the simple but delicious vanilla cake with snow-white Italian meringue touched their tastebuds.
‘The final tier is a red velvet cake with a cream cheese frosting embedded with teardrop hearts.’ Josie closed her eyes as her throat tightened, like one of the three hearts she’d created and entwined together, then arranged on the top, had become lodged in there.
Except she knew the heart in her throat was not from the cake, but rather a culmination of the happiness she’d experienced in the last few weeks. ‘I made the cake toppers – the ring of hearts, with the three hearts entwined in the centre – to represent what I love most about Sunnycombe. The kindness of the people who live here. The generosity of the people who live here. And the love I see between those who live here. I’ve never felt so accepted, so much a part of a village, so quickly. It’s a special place.’ Josie forced her eyes open, to see the gentleman judge wiping away a tear.
‘And now for a taste?’ reminded the elder woman judge, or Ms Cardigan as Josie had come to think of her.
‘Of course. Sorry. I did go on a bit, didn’t I?’ Josie picked up a clean knife and sliced the final slivers of cake for each of the judges.
The silence that followed as they leaned closer to view her detail-work then noted down their scores, was as overwhelming as it was satisfying.
Her work was done. There was nothing more she could do. And if the softening of their appearance tier by tier was anything to go by, she could give herself a pat on the back for a job well done.
Was it enough to win?
She’d find out soon enough, but either way she was proud of herself and believed she’d represented Abigail’s well. More than anything she hoped she’d done well by the woman the bakery was named after.
A lowering of the temperature in the hall announced the arrival of the masses as the main door was opened and they began to spill in.
Josie searched Callan out and found him within seconds as he had a bouncing, excitable Mia sitting atop his shoulders.
He waved to her and made a beeline for the table, ignoring the rest of the entries, then stopped short a metre away.
Her chest tightened with anticipation. Callan’s opinion mattered more than the judges. She couldn’t say it to the judges, hadn’t wanted to lay that much of herself out for random strangers to see, but the three hearts entwined were representative of the two people who’d brought her the most joy, the most happiness she’d experienced in years.
They’d given her the chance of a life she’d long ago given up on and, eventually, refused to even consider.
Until now.
Callan’s mouth opened. Shut. Opened again. Clamped down once more.
Her case of the nerves became more unbearable with every second that slipped by. Her hands were gripped at her chest. Her jaw was so tight it could have been wired shut. The unspoken words ‘what do you think?’ begged to be set free.
‘It’s fabliss.’ Mia reached out to touch it, and Callan ducked back a step, even though they were nowhere near it.
‘Fabulous,’ Callan repeated.
‘Fabliss.’ Mia tried again. ‘That’s what I said.’
‘She’s right.’ Callan looked past the cake to Josie. ‘It is fabliss. I mean fabulous. Best cake here.’
‘You haven’t looked at the rest,’ Josie pointed out.
Callan lifted Mia down from his shoulders, then shrugged. ‘I don’t need to. I’ve been to enough of these to know when I see the best. And it is. It’s perfect. Too beautiful to eat.’
His eyes held a mixture of awe, appreciation, and something she couldn’t quite get a handle on. A strain, that was matched by the set of his jaw. The tension around his eyes.
Josie went to ask him if he was all right, but the loud-hailer squealed into action once more.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming to the Great Christmas Cake-off. We are ready to announce the winners.’
A hush fell over the crowd. Anticipation rose, so thick you could almost taste it.
‘First we’ll start with the single-tier category …’
The coming moments were filled with cries of joy and cheers of success, as the winners and place-getters came to the front of the hall to collect their golden cups, rosettes and certificates.
Somewhere, at some point, Callan had slipped around to Josie’s side of the table.
‘You’ve got this,’ he whispered.
‘I’ve got all that matters.’
Josie glanced up to see the delicious creases around his eyes had deepened, his lips turned up into a smile.
If a heart could burst from happiness, Josie was sure hers was on the verge.
‘And the winner of the multi-tiered cake category, and the overall Great Christmas Cake-off champion, goes to …’
Josie, unable to keep her cool one second longer, buried her face into Callan’s arm, not caring that she was touching him in public. That people might see it as a sign of affection between them.
‘Josie Donnelly of Abigail’s Bakery.’
The crowd burst into applause that echoed off the walls and quickly became a roar of approval.
Josie squealed and giggled as she found herself being swept off her feet then whirled round in circles.
‘I can’t believe it.’ She grabbed hold of Callan’s arms to steady herself once he set her down.
‘Believe it. Now go get your prize.’ He took hold of her shoulders, spun her towards the front of the room and sent her on her way.
Kind words in her ears and hands clapped her on the back and propelled her forward. The judges’ huge smiles became increasingly blurry as tears filled her eyes. Josie was torn between jumping up and down or running away and finding a quiet spot to process what was happening to her.
It was a heady mixture of too much and not enough all at once. She wanted to be here, claiming the prize, but more than anything she wanted Callan and Mia at her side, because this was as much about them as it was her.
‘Thank you.’ She wiped away the tears, then took the two golden trophies that were thrust in her direction – one small and featuring a golden slice of cake, the other large and featuring a baker holding a cake, a proud smile on their golden face.
‘These are for you too.’ The vintage-dress judge thrust a bouquet of Christmas lilies into her spare arm. ‘Congratulations. The competition was fierce, but yours was head and shoulders above the rest.’ She lightly touched Josie’s waist and turned her to face the audience. ‘Speech time.’
Josie took a deep breath and tried to piece together her thoughts, but all she could come up with was ‘don’t make an idiot of yourself’, which was as good a starting place as any.
‘I’ll keep this short. I don’t want to make an idiot of myself. I’m a baker not a speechmaker.’
The crowd tittered at her off-the-cuff attempt at humour, and she felt herself relax. Her heartbeat dropped from thunderous rib-cracking thumps to a steady pit-pat. She pushed her shoulders down. Lifted her chin. Found Callan and Mia, and knew by the pride on their faces that even if she jibber-jabbered her way through the speech she’d still have done right by them.
‘Thank you, first of all, to the judges. When I saw the quality of the entries I honestly didn’t expect to get anywhere. So all of this …’ She hefted the trophies and flowers. ‘Well, it’s floored me. And bravo to my fellow bakers. You really are amazing, and I can’t wait to enjoy the fruits of your work.’ Josie turned her attention to Callan and Mia. ‘I said I’d keep this short, so I just need to say one more thank you. And that’s to Callan and Mia Stewart. I couldn’t have done this without your support, your kindness … and your kitchen.’
The crowd laughed again, and Josie joined them when Callan rolled his eyes, which earned him a telling off from Mia, complete with wagging finger.
‘Now, go forth … and enjoy.’
The crowd didn’t need to be told twice and quickly dispersed as they beelined for the cakes that caught their attention.
Josie’s heart sank when she noticed her table was empty. Had the cheering been of the polite variety? Had she misread the situation?
She sidled up to Callan, her spirits deflated.
‘You okay?’ Lines of concern bracketed his mouth. ‘You’re meant to be looking happy right now, you know that? Meant to be as proud of yourself as I am of you?’
‘But no one’s eating the cake. It’s like they’re actively avoiding the area. Or maybe there’s a forcefield around the table keeping them away.’
Callan’s hand clamped the top of her head like a claw and gently turned her head to the left. ‘Your answer.’
A photographer was standing off to the side, camera in hand. ‘Are you done with the private congratulations? Because I’d love to get a picture of you with the cake. It’ll be on the newspaper’s website tonight, and the story will be in Monday’s paper.’
Josie looked back at Callan. ‘I’m an idiot.’
‘No, you’re wonderful. Talented. And if anyone had dared touch a smidge of icing before the photo was taken, the event coordinator would have dragged them to the village square by their ear, put them in stocks and thrown leftover cake at them.’
‘Vicious.’ Josie grinned, then turned back to the photographer. ‘I’m ready when you are. Actually …’ Josie hooked her arm through Callan’s before he could step away. ‘This one here will have to be in the picture too, if it’s okay? He’s the owner of the bakery where I whipped this up. Couldn’t have done it without him.’
‘Or me.’ Mia interjected with an indignant shake of Josie’s free hand. ‘I was a good girl and left Josie alone like Daddy told me to,’ she informed the photographer with serious eyes.
Callan unhooked himself from Josie and swooped Mia up onto his hip. ‘Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to steal your glory?’
Josie rolled her eyes. ‘Steal my glory. You’re part of it. You both are.’ She reached out and mussed Mia’s hair, then smoothed it down again for the photo. ‘On the count of three?’
‘And we have to say cheese.’ Mia nodded. ‘That’s the rules.’
‘In that case … can I get you all closer?’ The photographer waved at Josie to snuggle in next to Callan, then gave her the thumbs-up when she was close enough. ‘In three … two … one …’
The three sang ‘cheese’ in unison. Then said it four more times as each picture wasn’t quite right according to the photographer.
‘There we go …’ He flicked the viewfinder round for them to check his handiwork. ‘You all look smashing.’
The image misted in front of Josie as fresh tears sprung from nowhere. The photographer was wrong, they didn’t look smashing. They looked like a family.
One she’d never asked for. One she’d never expected.
One she hoped they might become one day, once they’d had enough time to get used to each other’s rhythms, once Callan was ready, once he could be sure there was no chance of Mia being hurt. Or himself, Josie suspected.
Which there wasn’t.
She knew that in her heart.
She’d spent her life avoiding this. Ensuring there was no chance of forming bonds with anyone, anywhere. Not wanting to deal with goodbyes, or abandonment. Not risking the chance of a broken heart.
Until now.
Now, if she were allowed to, she would give her heart to Callan. To Mia. Because they’d stolen it anyway. It belonged to them. She couldn’t imagine a day without hearing Mia’s curious tones or the patter of her busy feet. To never see Callan’s thoughtful face as he considered a question or posed one. To not feel his hand in hers, his arm around her waist, his lips upon her lips.
An icy shiver raced through her at the mere thought of it.
She’d always been the one to leave. To keep those who might wish to get to know her at arm’s length.
No more.
This was it for her.
It might not be the simplest of circumstances. Falling for a man whose wife had passed away. Treading lightly into a relationship, slowing discovering love, where others had the opportunity to rush headlong into less complicated situations. But this suited her. It suited them. And she would do everything in her power to keep the three shining, happy faces staring at her from the viewfinder together.
Forever.