by Solly, Clare
“Crystallized ginger. It’s really tiny but it gives a little extra chewiness and punches of the spice here and there,” Dottie said absently. “If only they could help the museum.”
“Hey, that’s an idea!” Hetty exclaimed. “Why don’t you make some or give me the recipe and we will make a bunch here. You could sell them at the museum, and I’ll sell them here, and give you the proceeds.”
Frank walked up and handed Hetty his bill with cash. “Thanks for lunch Hetty,” he said then he spied the tin of cookies. “Dottie, are those your gingerbread? What did you do to doctor them up this year?”
“It’s a secret, and if you want to know, they’re two bucks a cookie. Proceeds go to the museum,” Hetty said, tossing a wink at Dottie.
Frank pulled five dollars out of his pocket and slapped it down on the counter next to Dottie. “Even if you put cod liver oil in them, they’d still be the best cookies this side of the river.” Hetty took three cookies and wrapped them up in a plastic container for Frank.
“I threw in in extra one,” she said handing them over.
Dottie stood up and placed a kiss on his cheek. She loudly whispered to him, “The secret this year is crystalized ginger.” Then in a normal voice she said as she sat back down, “Let me know if you like them. We’ll be selling them here and at the museum,” she said loud enough for the entire diner to hear, even though only two of the twenty tables were occupied.
“Will do,” Frank said as he headed toward the door.
The ladies giggled to each other.
The bell to the diner door rang twice, and Dottie could hear Frank exchanging pleasantries with someone.
“Be right back,” Hetty said and she walked away.
“Hey, Dottie,” said a strong masculine voice that she knew all too well. She turned to see Joe Thomas standing right beside her.
“Hey, Joe,” she said and immediately regretted not saying something more profound. But what do you say when you accidentally, almost kiss one of your best friends who disappeared so many years ago that you hit with Christmas wreaths, especially when you both are almost allegedly engaged?
“Hey, Joe,” Hetty echoed saving Dottie from her mental crisis. “Here is your dinner, grilled chicken, broccoli, spinach, sauce on the side.”
“Thanks, Hetty,” he said taking the bag and handing her a twenty-dollar bill.
“I’ll go get your change,” said Hetty looking back and forth from Joe who was looking at Dottie, to Dottie who was making bug eyes at her.
“Thanks,” Joe said. As Hetty walked away, he said quietly, “Hey, Dottie. Um, so what happened at the house earlier, I—”
“You don’t have to say a thing, Joe,” Dottie whipped around feigning courage. “We are two grown-ups who knew each other as kids, and I just stopped by and left you food, and we painted. That’s all that happened,” she said emphasizing her last few words.
Joe looked at her with confusion. Almost as if he wasn’t going to apologize for almost kissing her.
“Oh. Ok. Right,” he said trying to wrap his head around what Dottie was saying. Or not saying.
“Here’s your change,” Hetty said handing Joe back his money. “Hey, do you need a dessert? Dottie is selling her specialty gingerbread cookies to raise money for the museum.”
“Really?” Joe asked.
“You don’t have to—” Dottie started.
“They’re two dollars each and they’re delicious,” Hetty cut her off.
Joe looked in the tin and made a face.
“I know that you don’t eat carbs—” Dottie started.
“I’ll take the rest of them, there look to be fourteen in there?”
“I think so,” Hetty said, putting the lid on the container and picking it up to hand to Joe.
He pulled out a ten and a twenty and held them out to Dottie. “Here. It’s for a good cause. I know how much you love that place.” Dottie took the bills after a moment of hesitation. Joe took the cookie tin with his free hand.
“See you ladies later,” Joe said smiling. He turned to go and started to whistle as he walked out of the diner. After the door closed behind him, Hetty looked at Dottie.
“Why do you look stunned?” Hetty puzzled.
“Hetty, I brought him a whole container of those cookies a few hours ago.”
“Well, he either likes the cookies or you. And my money is on you.” Hetty said and she walked away leaving Dottie dumbfounded at the counter. “I guess it’s time to figure out how you feel.”
Chapter Seven
As he walked into the hardware store, Joe found Frank and Murray bickering.
“I’m telling you when you have a sturdy siding, you don’t have to have a thick cementation!” Murray exclaimed.
“Well, soft is great until you have to use it as a foundation for the house. For that you need sturdier,” Frank countered.
The two men were fighting about consistency and hard versus soft. For a moment Joe thought they must be discussing cement.
Then Murray said, “If you’re gonna put icing on it and decorations, you need harder.”
Joe had reached the counter, and got looped into the conversation, “Yes, but softer is better for the overall aesthetic. What do you think, kid?” Murray said turning toward Joe.
“Well,” said Joe trying to catch signs from both men as to what they were talking about and rubbing his neck with his hand, “I think if you need a firm foundation, hard is always better,” he stated firmly. “But, isn’t this the wrong time of year to be pouring cement? Isn’t the ground too cold and wet?”
The proprietors looked at each other and then burst out laughing. “Oh kid,” Murray said, “We’re talking about gingerbread houses. That Dottie has me with gingerbread on the brain with those cookies she’s selling at the diner.”
“Oh,” Joe said chuckling. “Yeah, her cookies always were the best.”
“Myrrh here is trying to take the stand that you don’t need a thick icing to keep the walls together. I say, if you have a good sturdy gingerbread, you don’t need to worry about the icing,” Frank turned to Joe. “So, what do you think?”
“Well, uh, I don’t do much building. I’ve mostly just done eating. And for that I prefer Dottie’s, because they’re soft. This year’s batch is particularly tasty,” Joe said trying to remain neutral. But the way the men looked at him, it was if they already knew. To deflect he sputtered, “I have more in my car, if you’d like them.”
“We wouldn’t want to take your cookies—” Frank started.
“But we will happily take the delicious things off your hands, as I hear you don’t do carbs in the off season,” Murray finished his sentence as he stood up and batted away at Frank.
“Sure, sure. I’ll go grab them,” Joe said laughing. “While I’m out, could one of you grab some more painter’s tape and an edging brush for me? I ran out and I want to get the painting finished tonight, if possible,” Joe said as he walked toward the door.
A few moments later Joe returned with the cookie tin. A paintbrush and a roll of blue tape were on the counter. Frank was nowhere to be seen, but Murray was sitting behind the counter, reading a paper that he had folded into quarters.
“Ya know,” Murray started as if he and Joe were in mid conversation, “The museum has been a part of this town for over a hundred years. Maybe longer.”
“Uh huh. Dottie’s mom ran the place and we would hang out there after school sometimes. Doing our homework and playing hide and seek in the rooms,” Joe reminisced.
“Well, its closing,” Murray said, looking over his reading glasses and paper.
“Really, Dottie didn’t—,” he stopped himself. “I didn’t hear that. That is too bad,” Joe cleared his throat. “How much do I owe you?”
Murray looked at Joe scrupulously, and then back down at his paper. “A tin of cookies,” he said seriously.
“Murray,” Joe said, “I can afford tape and a paintbrush. How much do I owe you?”
; “Like I said,” Murray said reaching for the tin, opening it and taking out a cookie, “A tin of cookies.”
“Fine, then,” Joe said picking up the tape and the brush. “Thanks, Murray,” he said tapping the brush to his brow like a scout salute. “See you later,” and Joe turned to walk back to his car.
“Those boards and shingles and such should be in tomorrow,” Murray called out after him, mid chew of his cookie.
“Great, give me a call and I’ll come down,” Joe hollered over his shoulder waving the brush just over his head as a wave goodbye. “Enjoy the cookies.”
The moment the door closed behind Joe, Frank muttered, “Well, it looks like it’s up to us, Murr.”
“What are you talking about, you old coot?” Murray looked at his friend with a mixture of confusion and judgement.
“The way I see it, those two are meant for each other, and it’s up to us to make it happen,” Frank gave his friend a knowing look.
“But if we spend our time on this, it will delay our Christmas decorating. I don’t know that I can meddle and plan out my big display on my house that will beat you to tarnation, again.”
“What do you mean, again?” Frank sputtered. “You know I beat you last year. And the year before that.”
Murray waved him off. “Pah!!”
“We’ll have to get your gal involved, too. We won’t let that boy,” Frank indicated to the door meaning Joe, “leave this town without swinging for the fences to get those two together. I think they just need a little push.”
“Alright, you meddler,” Murray gave in. “I’ll call Hetty and get her on board. ‘Course, she won’t be hard to convince. That one is always one for meddling to make a good love story.”
* * *
The next day Dottie rolled over and slapped at her nightstand with one hand to find her phone, looked at the time on the screen. It was still early, and it was her day off. Soft pattering of rain outside her window made her curl back under the covers. She was just dozing off again when her phone bleated at her. It was Hetty.
“Why are you calling so early,” Dottie yawned as her greeting.
“Why are you not up and moving yet? We have cookies to bake!” Hetty replied over the phone.
Not one to let a good idea cool, Hetty had ordered extra supplies to cover the ones she was taking from the diner for the first batch of cookies. Dottie had forgotten she agreed to today being baking day. “I have all of your ingredients, except your crystalized ginger. But knowing you, there is a five- or ten-pound bag sitting at your house, because that was the smallest quantity you could find, so you have plenty,”
“It’s only 7:30. I’m hanging up now,” Dottie groaned. She had every intention of rolling over and going back to sleep. The rain pattered on her window and coaxed her to nestle farther into the sheets. It was if she snugged in far enough there was no way to get out.
“There will be plenty of time to sleep in if you let the museum close,” Hetty threatened.
Dottie’s eyes flashed open. “I’m up, I’m up,” Dottie unconvincingly moaned but still didn’t move.
“Great. I’ll be at the museum in twenty minutes, and you better not be far behind me, or I’ll send the fire department to your apartment.”
“Fine,” Dottie replied muffled into her pillow.
“I’ll bring the coffee. Goodbye.” Hetty said, rolling her eyes.
“And cinnamon rolls!” Dottie hollered, hoping her demands were heard before the call disconnected.
Dottie cursed herself for making her family’s traditional cookies as she tossed the covers off of herself and rolled out of bed, wiggled into her favorite jeans, cozy socks and for a dash of festivity, threw on her shirt, a baseball raglan tee that had a broken cookie man on it that said “Oh, ginger snap!”
Yanking her hair back and tossing it into a bun, she didn’t brush it. She washed her face and brushed her teeth while a single pod of coffee brewed.
Her small one-bedroom apartment that she had rented when she moved back from college suited her just fine. It was cozy and was new with updated appliances and heating. She had painted it a warm white color and accented the apartment in grays and greens. The furnishings were a mishmash of vintage, goodwill and new, and it looked a bit like a coffee shop on a hit TV show. She wished the kitchen was a little bigger, the stove wouldn’t fit a turkey inside. The kitchen at the museum was much more spacious, and better for large baking projects. However, she could zoom back and forth in her apartment, walking between coffee maker and bathroom to get out of the house in a matter of seconds. Helpful to get out quickly.
Cracking the door, she saw the rain pelting down, but it was a warmish day for early December. She grabbed a lightweight cardigan and a puffer vest. Dottie jammed her feet into her brown and navy duck boots and grabbed the keys off the table. Looking back into her apartment, Dottie sighed. No Christmas tree yet, she just hadn’t had the time or the desire. Grabbing her mug of coffee, she pulled the door closed behind her and walked the stairs from the second floor out to the parking lot. She didn’t even bother locking her apartment door. Small town with a low crime rate.
The routine of falling out of bed and being out the door in ten minutes was something Dottie perfected. When pressed, she could even do hair and makeup and be out in twelve minutes. Hopping into her father’s old burgundy sedan, she made her way from bed to museum in just eighteen minutes.
“I’m impressed,” applauded Hetty as Dottie came over to her car as she pulled up.
“Well, it’s not my first rodeo,” Dottie joked as she grabbed for the canvas shopping bags that were sitting in Hetty’s back seat. “Just these?” she asked of the four bags.
“Yeah, that should be enough to make a few dozen cookies to get us started,” Hetty said as she climbed out of the driver’s seat balancing a pink pastry box with cinnamon rolls inside, two ceramic mugs from the diner, and a thermos. “Be careful, there are eggs in one of those bags!” Hetty hollered as they both dodged raindrops and puddles to the museum. It was only a few feet, but they were both drenched when they reached the expansive porch.
The museum exterior looked as if it were made of gingerbread. The exterior was painted a deep brown color and the shutters and ornate lacy trim were a creamy white. It had a porch deep enough to hold a dinner table for twelve. It wrapped around to the side of the house, skirting two sides. The steps led up to the main entrance but, following the porch around to the side was a door right into the kitchen. Probably to allow the large porch meals to be served easily.
“You know, I’ve always loved how this place looks like it should be from a Victorian novel. It’s dark and brooding from the outside, but with a pop of icing on the windows. The roof with its sloping wooden shingles and all of the windows on all three stories make me think of a mix of Nathaniel Hawthorne novels and Anne of Green Gables,” Hetty commented as they shook the rain off and walked inside.
“Really? I always thought you hated coming here.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Dottie. When we were kids,” Hetty said as they both unpacked the groceries, “I used to think it was creepy that you wanted to hang out here every day, with all of the old photos and pictures all over the walls, and the cold glass cases that show off books and jewelry so that you can look but not touch,” Hetty shivered.
“Yeah, but you loved when we were allowed in the ballroom and held, Grand Dances,” Dottie said the last words with a highbrow accent.
“That’s right! I would make you and Joe dance!” Hetty exclaimed. “What crazy kids we were. Too bad we don’t do anything like that anymore. It was so much fun to play pretend. To have no worries. To ride our bikes anywhere in town, and not come home until dark or dinnertime, whatever came first.”
Dottie said nothing, just set out ingredients and grabbed a piece of paper.
“Maybe with Joe back in town, The Three Musketeers can reunite and get up to some trouble,” Hetty slyly suggested.
Dottie glared at her. “Here
’s the recipe,” she pointed at the paper that was translucent with butter and wrinkled from age that had blurry handwritten notes in several hands all over it. “I figure we do a batch at a time, and while they’re cooking and cooling, we can keep mixing together the ingredients and refrigerating them.”
“Great,” Hetty said reaching for the flour.
“It works best to refrigerate the dough before rolling it out so we can use the cookie cutters. It will be a bit of a laborious process,” Dottie mentioned.
Hetty dusted off her hands and grabbed her phone from her pocket. “I’ll just text Don. He’s managing the diner today. I’ll have him bring lunch to us.” Hetty tapped away at her phone. And then suddenly exclaimed in anger, “Autocorrect is out to destroy the world! We thought it was politicians and oil. Nope autocorrect! How could it think that the word hamburger was meant to be Hun Berets!?!”
Quickly texting again, Hetty corrected the error. Then she smiled. “My husband is sometimes irritating, but he’s cute. Especially with texting,” Hetty quietly sighed. Dottie smiled to herself knowing that her best friend was happy and still in love. Hetty looked up and reported, “He says he will bring us lunch. He’s good like that.” Then changing to a practical, almost bragging tone, Hetty continued, “He cleans my hair out of the drain and tells me every day that I’m beautiful. I think I’ll keep him,” she said tapping something else and then putting the phone back in her pocket.
Dottie had started to cream the butter with the mixer. “You can measure the dry ingredients, there,” she pointed to a bowl indicating Hetty should start there. As Dottie mixed, she smirked, and said, “Remember when we used to take the hanging red velvet ropes and poles from around the displays and make a runway for you to practice your ‘queen walk?”’
Hetty laughed, “And you would be the announcer. And we would make Joe be the judge!”
Joining in the laughter Dottie said, “And that time he gave you a really low score and we ganged up on him?”
“He said that it was for my own good,” Hetty started to laugh harder. “He said it was so I would know the feeling of defeat.”