by Teri Wilson
“That was seven years ago. I was trying to get over our breakup.”
“And are you?” Dad says. “Over it?”
Of course I am. I can’t believe he’s even asking me that question. But when I try to form an answer, the words stick in my throat. I blink back at him until Mom changes the subject.
“Now that you’re back, why don’t you join me?” Mom offers me an apron covered with layer upon layer of peppermint-striped ruffles. It’s the very antithesis of basic Manhattan black.
“You know I can’t bake.” The stove in the apartment I share with Maya has a grand total of one useable burner, and the tiny oven is filled with takeout menus. I’m not even sure it actually works. “These cookies are gorgeous. I’d only end up ruining the rest of the batch.”
My mom shakes her head and forces the apron into my hands. “You’re forgetting something very important—holiday baking isn’t about a perfect end result. It’s about the process. Besides, Aidan just rescued you and brought you home in a fire engine. The cookies will be a nice thank-you gesture.”
The kitchen window doesn’t look out to the driveway, but Mom’s not guessing—she’s absolutely certain that Aidan’s the fireman who drove me home. I knew it. My ride with Aidan has already made the Owl Lake gossip rounds. There was probably a phone tree or something, and now everyone in town is talking about it.
“It was hardly a rescue.” I tie my apron strings into a bow with a tad too much force. “He offered me a ride, that’s all. And he didn’t exactly seem thrilled about it.”
But he’d also offered to help solve the Fruitcake mystery, so maybe I should overlook his comment about me being in such a hurry to get back to the city. Besides, I had been in a hurry to get back to Manhattan. I still am.
“You two have fun.” Dad winks at me before swiping one of the chocolate walnut cookies for himself. “I’ll go check the smoke alarms, just in case.”
“Very funny,” I say, but already I’m forgetting the difference between baking soda and baking powder. Which is the one with the arm swinging the little gavel? Or is it a hammer? And what do either of those have to do with baking?
“Here you go, honey.” My mom slides the recipe book across the counter toward where I’m standing beside the mixer. “Why don’t you get all the ingredients together and get the batter started while I frost the batch that just came out of the oven? Put twice the amount listed for everything so we can make a double batch.”
I can do this. It’s just measuring things and stirring them together, right? It’s got to be easier than wielding a pastry bag and drawing cute little details with icing, like my mom’s doing. Already, she’s drawing a tiny, intricate fire hose in the hands of a gingerbread firefighter.
Automatically, I move to unfasten the charm bracelet from my wrist so it won’t get dirty in what’s sure to be a messy attempt at holiday baking. But of course the clasp still refuses to budge. Why didn’t I bring my jewelry-making tools with me on this trip? If I could get my hands on the right pair of pliers, I could probably get this silly thing off in no time.
For now, I tuck the charms into the sleeve of my black turtleneck sweater as best as I can.
“You’re so good at this, Mom.” I attempt to measure out two and half cups of flour and am immediately covered in a cloud of fine white powder. Fruitcake is sitting at my feet and sneezes four times in rapid succession.
“I’ve been doing it for more than thirty years,” she says. “It just takes practice.”
“Thirty years. Has it really been that long?” Is that sugar that I just added to the flour, or was it salt? I definitely shouldn’t be trying to carry on a conversation while I’m doing this. I add a little extra sugar, just in case.
“I started the first Christmas your dad was a rookie firefighter. We were engaged, but not yet married. I turned up at the firehouse a week before Christmas with the most pathetic looking gingerbread firemen and iced sugar cookies anyone had ever seen.”
I look up from the bowl in front of me, now overflowing with ingredients. Somehow, I’ve never heard this story. Probably because I haven’t helped my mom with her firefighter cookies in years. I used to love dressing up in one of her holiday aprons and licking the batter from the beaters of the mixer when I was a little girl. But as I grew older, I became far too intimidated by the perfection of her end results to try my hand at helping, convinced I’d just mess everything up. And lately, I haven’t been home during the holidays at all, as Aidan was so keen to point out earlier.
“I don’t believe that for a minute,” I say.
“It’s true. They looked like a mess, but your dad and the other men at the fire house loved them—or at least, they loved that I’d made an effort—and somehow it became a Christmas tradition.” She’s moved on from the gingerbread men and is now dusting the snowflake sugar cookies with shimmery edible glitter.
“And you’re still baking them, even though Dad retired.” I feel myself smile at the idea.
“Of course. The firehouse is a very important part of the community, and really, I can’t imagine giving up the tradition just because your dad isn’t the chief anymore. To him, the men at that station are still family. They always will be.”
And now that family includes Aidan. My heart gives a little twist, and I add an unspecified amount of ground ginger to my batter. It’s hard to measure when my hands are trembling.
I don’t want to be this rattled by my latest encounter with Aidan. I really don’t. I just want to think about ordinary things, like getting my promotion and making my way to Paris for Christmas someday all on my own. But instead, I’m back in Owl Lake with a strange bracelet stuck on my arm and all sorts of strange and confusing feelings clouding my head over a man who hasn’t been a part of my life in almost a decade. Although truthfully, those feelings have been fluttering through me since I first ran into him outside of FAO Schwartz.
It doesn’t help that my mom’s story about baking for the firemen when she and my dad were newly engaged is giving me major It’s a Wonderful Life vibes. I could have had that life. I could have been the one baking terrible cookies for my firefighting husband-to-be all those years ago, but I chose another path.
Rightly so, I remind myself. As Jeremy said the other night, I’m living the dream.
I flip the electric mixer to the on position. Fruitcake leans heavily against my leg, all warmth and comfort. He’s got a dusting of flour on his head, and it makes him look like he’s been outside playing in the snow. I smile, and as the cookie dough spins round and round, I realize just now was the first time Jeremy has crossed my mind all day.
Maybe my heart isn’t quite as broken as I thought it was.
“I can’t believe you’re making me do this.” I take one last look at the platter of cookies in my hand and wince.
They’re every bit as bad as I expected them to be—worse, because I had such a good time with my mom in the kitchen that I let her talk me into trying to decorate the last batch of gingerbread firefighters and snowflake sugar cookies myself. Let me tell you, drawing things with frosting is a lot harder than it looks. My poor gingerbread firemen look like they’re wrestling yellow snakes instead of wielding fire hoses. Happy holidayssssssssssss.
“You helped make the cookies, so of course you should help deliver them too,” my mom says as we walk up the sidewalk toward the firehouse. Fruitcake trots alongside us on a candy cane-striped dog leash my dad picked up on one of his errands this afternoon. Any day now, the dog will probably have his own Christmas stocking hanging from the mantle. “Besides, it will be fun.”
“Are you just saying that because you don’t want anyone to think you’re the one responsible for the snake cookies?”
“Absolutely not. They’ll be thrilled to see us—and thrilled with the cookies. Just wait.” My mom laughs and gives me a little nudge, because the closer I get to the station,
the more I’m dragging my feet.
What am I doing here? More to the point, why does one of our biggest family traditions have to involve delivering homemade baked goods to Aidan’s workplace?
With any luck at all, he’ll be out on a call. Not that I want anything in the nearby vicinity to catch on fire, but isn’t there a kitten in a tree somewhere that needs saving?
But the ladder truck, the pumper truck and the small engine are all present and accounted for, lined up side by side in the apparatus bay, as shiny and red as Rudolph’s famed nose. A wreath hangs on the grill of the ladder truck, and I can’t help wondering if Aidan hung it there himself. I’m guessing his job is more than a basic fireman. Since he drove me home in the rig, he must be the fire engineer responsible for the ladder truck.
I remind myself I’m not here to see Aidan. I’m here for my mom and her favorite Christmas tradition. But somehow my heart doesn’t seem to get the memo. It beats wildly out of control as Mom knocks politely on the door to the fire house.
“Martha!” The current fire chief’s face splits into a wide grin when he opens the door and sees my mom. His gaze sweeps over the trays of cookies in her hands, and then he does a double take when he spots me standing beside her. “Ashley? Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
“Merry Christmas, Uncle Hugh.” Hugh took over the chief’s position after Dad retired. He’s been with the department since my dad’s early days with the OLFD, and while we’re not technically related, he’s always been like an uncle to me. Somewhere along the way, I started calling him Uncle Hugh and the nickname stuck.
He winks at me. “I heard you were in town for the holidays.”
I’m sure you did. I paste on a smile and try not to think about my absolute certainty that everyone in Owl Lake is talking about my ride through town earlier in Aidan’s truck. It was not a rescue, despite how it looked.
Hugh’s grin widens, and he tries to hug me, but it’s difficult with my platter of mortifying gingerbread firemen stuck between us. I pray for fate to be kind and intervene just enough for my cookies to slide to the floor and immediately get trampled underfoot so no one will ever see them, but alas, no such luck.
“Who’s this?” Hugh asks, ruffling the fur on Fruitcake’s head.
The dog’s entire back end wiggles with delight.
“Oh, that’s Fruitcake. Ashley’s dog,” my mom says.
Uncle Hugh straightens and rests his hands on his hips. “That makes perfect sense.”
“It does?” I say, before I can stop myself. I can’t help it because so far, nothing about Fruitcake has made sense.
“Sure. When you were just five or six, you said you wanted a big yellow dog for Christmas. You asked Santa for that very thing at the Firefighters’ Toy Parade. All this furry guy needs is a shiny red bow around his neck.” Uncle Hugh laughs. “As I recall, that was an important detail in your Christmas wish.”
“Oh, that’s right!” My mom nods. “I’d forgotten that you specifically wanted a yellow dog with a fancy red bow. You were so earnest and so certain about what you wanted—but you were also so little at the time. We weren’t sure you were ready to take care of a pet.”
I nod as if in a daze.
A big yellow dog with shiny red bow.
I’d forgotten the specifics of that particular Christmas wish, but now they feel strangely significant because the wish seems to have inexplicably come true.
Or not. There’s got to be a rational explanation. I glance down at Fruitcake. If only he could talk, then I could demand one.
“Come on in.” Uncle Hugh opens the door wider and waves us inside. “The guys are going to be thrilled to see you two. Your cookies are always one of the highlights of Christmas around here, Martha.”
He leads us through the dispatch area, toward the large common room where two rows of plush leather recliners embroidered with the OLFD crest face a big flat-screen television. A long, rustic table sits just past the TV area, and I know from experience that this is where the on-duty firemen share their meals and where the big communal dinners are held on holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas, when the firehouse is full of the OLFD’s family members. It’s the same table where I sat, year after year, before I moved away from Owl Lake. Somewhere on its worn chestnut surface, it probably still has marks from my old crayons.
Firefighters are milling about the station—most I recognize, but a few I don’t. Word spreads quickly that there are cookies on the premises, and soon we’re surrounded by a group of men and women in dark blue OLFD sweatshirts. I’m immediately swept up in a wave of hugs and introductions. Fruitcake is showered with pats and adoration, while I nod and make polite conversation. But all the while, I’m hopelessly distracted, waiting for Aidan to make an appearance.
His absence should be a relief. After all, it’s exactly what I’d hoped for. Instead, I’m hit with a nonsensical tug of disappointment.
I inhale a steadying breath, but then Aidan strolls toward our group from the direction of the locker room and sleeping quarters. Fruitcake bounds toward him, wagging a greeting, and I’m suddenly overly aware of the sound of my own heartbeat.
He’s here.
Of course he is. He works here, what did I expect? Still, I have an urge to pitch my sad little cookies into the nearest trash can before he can see them. This is like our high school home economics class all over again.
Aidan greets my mom with a friendly hug but gives me a wide berth after waving and saying hello. The space between us seems infinite.
“Hi,” I say back.
The rest of the group clusters around the platters of cookies my mom made, gushing over her artistry and her commitment to the annual cookie tradition. I’m hoping no one notices my lone tray of gingerbread firemen. Maybe they’ll get overlooked in the mix.
But of course Aidan notices them straightaway, and his lips quirk into a grin.
“Sure, those you smile at,” I mutter. I understand why he doesn’t seem happy to see me, I really do, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me sad. I never wanted to hurt Aidan.
He looks up, blue eyes dancing with amusement. “You made these yourself, didn’t you?”
I feel impossibly warm all of a sudden, despite the snowflakes swirling outside. “How could you tell?”
He picks up one of the cookies and squints at it. “They look great, but I’m trying to figure out why the gingerbread man is holding a giant spaghetti noodle.”
“That’s a firehose,” I say flatly.
Matt, one of the firefighters I met a few minutes ago, reaches for a gingerbread man, and Aidan shakes his head. “You might not want to do that if these are anything like the cookies Ashley made back in high school. As I recall, she started a fire in the home economics lab.”
“It wasn’t a fire,” I protest. “Just a minor smoke incident.”
Matt laughs. “Thanks for the warning, but I’m sure they’re delicious.”
He bites into the gingerbread man’s leg and his eyes widen with something that really doesn’t look like delight. He chews for a ridiculously long time before slipping the rest of the cookie to Fruitcake when he thinks I’m not looking. Fruitcake wolfs it down, and then promptly spits it out.
Aidan notices, of course, and I long for the floor of the fire house to open up and swallow me whole.
But then Aidan reaches for one of my cookies, pops it into his mouth and swallows it after a few quick chews. Then he eats another and another, holding my gaze the entire time.
My heartbeat seems even louder. Surely everyone can hear it.
I reach to cover the platter of gingerbread men with plastic wrap to prevent him from eating a fourth cookie. He’s already moved his way straight to the top of my nice list. There’s no need to make himself sick. I don’t think eating too many of my cookies could poison anyone…but I wouldn’t want to s
take someone’s life on that.
He’s mid-reach though, ready to choke down another one, and his hand collides with mine. A spark of electricity passes between us, and I freeze.
What was that?
I search Aidan’s gaze, wondering if he felt it too. But his gaze isn’t fixed on mine anymore. Something else has captured his attention, and that something is the mysterious bracelet as it jingles on my wrist.
“This is pretty,” he says, running his fingertips over the dangling silver charms. “Is it from the jewelry store where you work?”
“No. It’s…um…an antique.” And possibly magical.
No, no, no. It’s not magical. I’m sure loads of little girls wish for big yellow dogs with red shiny bows for Christmas and then years later one prances right into their lives after meeting a stranger on a train. Totally normal. Nothing to see here.
Really, though. I’m being paranoid. Being away from the city is getting to me. The dog and bracelet can’t possibly have anything to do with each other.
Aidan’s expression softens, and it seems as if his eyes glitter with a thousand yesterdays. “You always did love vintage things.”
Warmth fills my chest, until Aidan stops to take a closer look at one of the charms. His eyebrows shoot up. “Wow, look at this one. It’s just like your Christmas cookies.”
Jingle, jingle.
Oh no, not again. “Did you just hear that?”
Aidan’s gaze collides with mine. His nearness makes it hard for me to breathe. “Hear what?”
“Nothing. Never mind.” I gnaw on my bottom lip, afraid to look at the charm. But Aidan is right there, going over it with the pad of his thumb, waiting for me to comment on the tiny silver trinket.
I have no choice. I can’t tuck the bracelet back beneath my sleeve and ignore it like I’ve been trying to do all day, so I look.
And there it is, right beside the dog charm—a tiny silver platter of gingerbread men and cookies shaped like snowflakes, carefully arranged on a rectangular tray with handles shaped like holly leaves. Aidan is right.