Christmas Witch: A Jagged Grove Short Story

by Willow Monroe

  We’re at my house now, and he unlocks the front door. “True...”

  “But Agnes Dupont was telling me the other day that they needed volunteers to be servers.”

  I grin. “That’s perfect! Call her.” Agnes DuPont is the head of the WBC and a fairly frequent visitor to my clinic, due to her penchant for home DIY. She’s eighty-eight years old, but still thinks she can do her own plumbing, roofing, and carpentry work. Sometimes she’s right. Other times, she needs a little patching up.

  He grins back. “In the morning. Right now I’m going to take a hot shower, then I’m going to bed.”

  “Why? It’s early?” I know for a fact that the man is a night owl.

  “Somebody threw processed meat at me. That’s traumatizing,” he explains with exaggerated horror, then disappears up the stairs.

  The day after tomorrow is the pancake breakfast, and then it’s Christmas. I hope Angelo’s idea works, because we’re out of time.

  I lay in bed thinking about Christmas ruined, and wonder what that would entail, exactly? Most of the presents are surely bought now, wrapped up under a tree for the kids and wives and husbands.

  Will anybody be happy, though? Will the kids unwrap their gifts, then cry because they didn’t get what they wanted - even though they asked for those very things just a month or two ago?

  I frown. Will people wake up and say hurtful things on Christmas morning, all because of a little barberry, a taste of the wrong cookies? Will they ever know what happened? Will they apologize to each other and make up once it’s all over?

  I doubt it. Supernatural or not, people are people, and most people think it would be better to keep fighting with one another than to say sorry and make amends.

  What if Christmas really is ruined?

  Even worse - what if it’s ruined forever? What if it’s so bad that the people of Jagged Grove just decide to never have Christmas again?

  I fall asleep worrying it over in my head.

  Early the next morning - this is getting to be annoying - Angelo knocks on my bedroom door.

  “All set,” he says when I open it.

  “All set?”

  “I talked to Agnes this morning, and she said three extra servers would help them immensely.” He looks very proud of himself.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” I answer, leaning against the bedroom door frame. “Maybe we can fix this after all. I’ll call Rain and let her know what’s going on.”

  “We’re to report at six tomorrow morning, with bells on.”

  “And cookies crumbled,” I say with a grin.

  He laughs and takes my hand. “See - I told you everything would be fine.”

  “Thanks to you. I appreciate it, Angelo.”

  He looks at me and our smiles fade a little. Just enough. We lock eyes, and this time it’s hard to pull away. This time I’m not sure I want to pull away.

  “Trinket,” Angelo says.

  At the same time I say, “Angelo...?”

  He kisses me lightly, a soft brush of his lips on my forehead. Then he turns away and leaves.

  I’m left trembling, confused, and wanting him more than ever.

  I spend the rest of the day crushing cookies with unnecessary violence and hoping he’s right about this fixing everything.

  Nine

  Six a.m. comes bright and early.

  Well, that isn’t true. I’m not feeling bright, and we aren’t early. In fact, we’re ten minutes late, and I’m sure Agnes is having a mild stroke right about now.

  The streets and sidewalks are completely empty as we walk downtown to the community center, our breath making feathers in the air. Dante is carrying our bags of cookies, and Rain won’t shut up.

  “Why six? The breakfast doesn’t even start until nine. We could still be in bed - where it’s warm, and comfy, and -.”

  “Quiet, Rain.” She’s making me long to go home and forget about this idea, and I know we can’t.

  “I’m serious,” she grumbles. “This is ridiculous.”

  Angelo answers her. “There’s a lot of setup for an event like this. Batter has to be poured, toppings set out, syrup heated...”

  “Mm, heat,” I mumble. I can’t feel my lips.

  “Well, I’m glad you told Bilda to stay home. She could catch a cold out here. Besides, I think Blakely is going to pop the question today.”

  That wasn’t why I told Bilda to stay home - I was afraid she’d try to help too much and make things worse. She’s getting better, but she still slips up now and then. Besides, the WBC already told her that she couldn’t help.

  Angelo’s last words hit my brain. I freeze. “What did you just say?”

  “I said...” His voice trails off as he realizes what he’s let slip. “Nothing?”

  “Oh, for crying... I can’t even. Not today,” I mutter. Glaring at him, I warn, “I’ll expect a full explanation as soon as this is over.”

  He doesn’t answer. This is what the wineglasses are for, I realize. If Blakely asks my mother to marry him, and she accepts, everything will change. I don’t know how I feel about this news, so I shove it to the back of my mind.

  One thing at a time.

  Agnes is waiting for us at the door, arms crossed and a cranky expression on her face.

  “Sorry, we’re late,” Angelo says, giving her his aww-shucks smile.

  “Well, at least you showed up. The other girl I hired just called to tell me that she isn’t coming at all.”

  I don’t point out that volunteers aren’t exactly hired.

  “Well, we’re ready to get to work,” Angelo says.

  “Speak for yourself,” Rain mutters.

  I nudge her with my shoulder and will her to hush.

  Agnes leads us into the community building, a long log structure with concrete floors. It is supposed to look rustic, I think, but it just looks cavernous and cold to me. Folding tables stand in long rows, covered with white paper tablecloths and fake greenery centerpieces.

  She leads us through the room to the back, where the kitchen is all stainless steel commercial equipment, and four women are mixing batter at more folding tables. Off to the side, another woman is chopping apples and nuts. She’s a funny little woman, very short, and she looks like she’s been drawn with a bunch of circles - round bun, round face, round belly. Even her knees are round, peeking out from under the hem of her flowered skirt. She smiles when we come in and puts down her knife to come greet us.

  “Follow me,” she says. “I’m Gabby, and I’ll show you where your uniforms are, so that you can get dressed.”

  “Uniforms?” Rain asks. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “No - we try to make the event as nice as possible.” Gabby pauses. “Is that a problem?”

  “No,” I answer quickly, giving Rain a little nudge. “It’s fine. Whatever we need to do.”

  Gabby takes us through a short hall to the restrooms. A coat rack sits between the men and women signs, and she pulls down three of the plastic wrapped garments that hang there. “These look like your basic sizes,” she says with a smile.

  Then her smile fades.

  I follow her gaze and wince when I see that it’s landed on the three bags of cookie crumbs. “What are those?” she asks.

  “Cookies,” Angelo answers quickly.

  “No they aren’t. Are you trying to smuggle in some unauthorized toppings? Because that will get you in big trouble with Agnes.”

  “Unauthorized toppings?” I try to keep a bubble of laughter out of my voice.

  “Yes. Agnes taste-tests, qualifies, and authorizes every topping we use for these events. It’s an important job. Maybe the most important.” She crosses her arms and nods toward the bags. “Care to tell me what that is, and what you’re doing with it?”

  I hold my breath, willing Angelo to come up with something plausible. I can see the panic in his eyes, though.

  “He told you...they’re cookies,” I say quickly.

  Angelo holds up the bag.


  It’s obvious that there is nothing cookie-shaped in those bags. “Or at least they were when we left home this morning. He...uh...fell, on the way here and crushed them.”

  Gabby lifts an eyebrow. “And why would you bring cookies to a pancake breakfast?”

  Angelo is getting a hold on his panic now. “I’m diabetic,” he says. “I need to keep something with me at all times.”

  “But there is plenty of food right here,” Gabby counters. “You’ll be surrounded by buckets of sugary syrup.”

  “Uh...I don’t really like pancakes?” he answers.

  “Was that a question?”

  “No.” Angelo shakes his head. “I definitely don’t like pancakes. Or syrup. Especially syrup.”

  Gabby doesn’t look convinced. I reach for Angelo’s arm. “He has a fear of sticky things,” I say, my voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s a PTSD situation, and he’s very embarrassed. Doesn’t like to talk about it. You understand.”

  “Oh!” Gabby says, her face going soft. “Well, then. Of course I understand. We have to keep a tight lid on the toppings, though, so please forgive me for asking so many questions.” She looks at Angelo and holds out her hand. “If you’ll just give me those, I’ll keep them safe with me in the kitchen for you.”

  This time I come up blank, and apparently so does Angelo because he reluctantly hands her the bags.

  She takes them and pats his hand. “I promise I’ll keep them safe. Now, you three get dressed - we don’t have much time.”

  She hands us the uniforms and walks away. I watch her go, trying to figure out how to get our cookie crumbs back.

  “Not much time? We have two hours,” Rain mutters. She huffs and walks into the women’s bathroom.

  Angelo leans in and whispers, “What do we do now?”

  “I have no idea,” I whisper back, because it’s the truth.

  I could have an episode,” he says. “Fall on the ground and moan a lot.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s a seizure, not a drop in blood sugar.”

  “Oh. What does a drop in blood sugar look like?”

  “Passing in and out of consciousness, I think. Maybe some mumbling.”

  “Oh, that’s easy.”

  “That doesn’t help us get the crumbs away from her. Though. She’ll just feed you some and take them back to the kitchen.”

  “Good point.”

  I shrug. “Think about it. I’m going to change.”

  The bathrooms are big and clean, at least. Rain is zipping up the skirt of her uniform. “This is the ugliest thing I’ve ever put near my skin,” she says, looking up at me like she’s about to cry.

  “It’s not that bad,” I lie. The uniform is pink and black with wide vertical stripes running down the blouse and a knee length, shapeless black skirt.

  “It is, too. And we evidently have to wear our own shoes,” she says, pointing to her feet.

  That could be a problem. She is wearing her customary clunky hiking boots, and I have on my white Nikes. “Gross,” I say.

  “Exactly.”

  I sigh. “Well, it sucks, but we’ve got bigger problems. Just wear what you’ve got. We have to get those crumbs back from Gabby, or there’s no point in doing any of this.”

  Ten

  We meet in the hallway again five minutes later and head for the kitchen. Angelo looks like a stick of gum in his uniform, which matches ours. I grin when I see it.

  “Just shut up,” he mutters.

  Everyone is still at their stations in the kitchen, working harder than ever, but no one is smiling.

  Agnes points to a stack of plates when we come through the door. “Put those on the buffet out front,” she says.

  “What buffet?” I ask.

  She turns and pulls a rope hanging on the wall behind her, and a hidden roller door slides up. From here, we have a clear view of the entire dining room. She points down, to the other side of the wall. “The buffet is there.”

  It’s kind of genius, actually. People can get their plates, silverware, and napkins, then step up to the window to be served before carrying their food to a table.

  She ticks off a list on her fingers. “First napkins, then plates, then silverware. In that order.” She points to Rain. “Do you know how to make coffee?” she asks.

  Rain nods.

  “Then you’re in charge of that, at the table along the back wall. Keep it hot and fresh, and these two -,” She points to me and Angelo, “- can pour for our guests as needed. Got it?”

  We all nod, but I’m trying to look around for the bags of crumbs. If we can’t find them, we can’t use them.

  “You two are also in charge of customer needs. If someone drops a fork, get them a new one. If someone spills syrup, clean it up for them. You get the picture. There is juice and milk for the kids... Are you all right, Trinket?”

  I nod, twisting back around to face her. As I do, I spot something I hadn’t seen before - the rack that holds all the toppings. It’s stainless steel too, and the top has small buckets in holes at the top. Each one is filled with a different kind of topping.

  I walk over to it and look down. One of the small buckets is filled with something that looks a lot like our cookie crumbs - coarse, lightly browned, almost sand-like consistency. Half an idea begins to form. I pray that Angelo and Rain can help me with the other half.

  “Trinket? Are you all right?” Agnes asks.

  I look around at her and smile. “Yes. This looks fabulous.”

  “Thank you.” Agnes beams. “Now get to work. We don’t have much time.”

  “We have hours,” Rain says quietly, then turns and heads for the main dining room.

  I shush her, grab a stack of plates, and follow. Angelo is close behind with a tray of silverware. We don’t have that much time, now that we have to rescue our secret topping from Gabby the Grabby.

  When we’re alone again, Angelo turns to me. “I saw what you were looking at. Are you thinking...?”

  I nod. “Yep - we should be able to grab whatever that was, change that topping to the cookie crumb topping, and fix everything.”

  “That’s what I thought, too.”

  “We just have to get our stuff back from Gabby, and we only have a little while before people start showing up.” I glance out the window. Its seven fifteen, and starting to get light outside. “They might even show up early.”

  “So what do we do?” Angelo asks.

  “Let me think,” I say, and get busy arranging the table the way Agnes wants it. That woman scares me a little, now that we’re in her domain.

  When we’ve made three trips to the kitchen with everything, I stroll over to see if Rain needs help. Four coffee pots are lined up on the table, along with three hot plates that hold warm, simmering syrup with little ladles. She’s leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, watching the coffee pot drip into the carafe with a thoroughly disenchanted look on her face. In fact, she looks like she might be ready to kill someone.

  People are starting to come in, getting their food and finding seats, but everyone seems quiet. There isn’t much happy chatter between the diners, even the ones who came in together.

  I explain to Rain what we’re thinking. “We need to get the cookie crumbs away from Gabby and switch them. Any ideas?”

  She shakes her head and looks away, out the nearby window. I’m not even sure she’s listening. Angelo comes up behind me and puts a hand on my shoulder. My body heats up immediately at his proximity, so I jerk away.

  He takes a step and does it again, dropping his hand to the small of my back this time. “Listen, Trinket, I have -.”

  My body reacts to him again, a tug inside that wants to pull me into his arms. I can’t do that. I can’t.

  And before I know it, without any warning, I snap. “Angelo, stop touching me!” I shriek, appalled at my own voice but unable to stop it. “You keep touching me and it’s driving me insane!”

  From the corner of my eye I see heads c
ome up as people look to see what the commotion is about. Angelo’s eyes go wide, but instead of moving away, he takes a step closer. “Trinket? I didn’t mean -.”

  “Yes you did! You won’t keep your distance, and that makes me...makes me want...” I realize that I’m crying, and I swipe at the tears on my face. People are looking through the little window into the kitchen with wrinkly frowns on their faces, but I don’t even care.

  Angelo comes even closer. “Want what?” he asks, real concern on his face.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want, but I can’t figure it out if you keep touching me like thi -i-is!” I sob.

  “Babe...?” He takes both of my hands, trapping them between his big ones. “This really isn’t the time...”

  “I know it’s not! I know this is bad. I can’t help it, and stop calling me babe!” I’m not sure what’s wrong with me, but I feel betrayed - by Angelo, by my feelings, by my own body. “I can’t think when you’re touching me like this, and I have to think, I have to fix this, and I can’t!”

  Behind him, I can see that the cooks and Agnes have come out of the kitchen now, and they.re headed our way.

  “But I care about you, Trinket.” He squeezes my hands. “I can’t help that I’m affectionate with the people I care about.” The poor man is as confused as I am scared of my reaction to him, and I don’t blame him a bit.

  “Angelo!” Agnes says. “You let her go right now!”

  “Shut up, Agnes. She’s hurting.” He never takes his eyes off me. “Leave us alone for a moment.”

  He pulls me into a hug, and it feels like I’m being caged. I panic, pushing him away with one hand and reaching for the table to help me pull away. “Angelo!”

  My hand doesn’t land on the table, though. It lands on one of the warm, tiny metal syrup ladles. Without even thinking, I grab it and smack him on top of the head with it. “Let go!”

  Then I realize what I’ve done and freeze, my mouth hanging open.

  He lets go. Takes a step back.

  Syrup is running down one side of his temples. I can’t take my eyes off it. The ladle slides down his cheek and falls to the floor.