Frosted Kisses

by Heather Hepler

  “Hey, Penny,” Mr. Fish says.

  “Hi,” I say. There goes the hiding-out-in-the-kitchen plan. Well, at least it’s only Mr. Fish. He props the door open and heads back outside to his delivery truck parked behind the shop. I walk over to the door to see if he needs a hand. Mr. Fish is loading crates of milk and boxes of butter onto a dolly. He balances one last crate of cream cheese on top, tips the cart, and starts pushing it toward me. He pauses and turns back.

  “I forgot the sour cream. Can you grab it?”

  “Got it,” a voice from inside the truck calls. Marcus. Well, so much for remaining unseen. I glance down at my apron. Gross. I look at my shoes. Double gross. I don’t even bother with my hair. After crawling around in the basement, there’s no telling what it looks like. Then I remember him hugging Charity on the street in Lancaster and him laughing with Esmeralda in the library and I tell myself I don’t care.

  Marcus jumps down from the back of the truck, holding two big tubs of sour cream. “Oh, hey,” he says, spotting me standing there. “I was hoping you’d be here.”

  I frown. This isn’t exactly how I thought this would go. I thought Marcus would be awkward or distant or something. “Hi,” I say hesitantly.

  “Where do you want me to put this butter?” Mr. Fish calls from inside the bakery. I’m grateful for the interruption. More than ever I don’t know how to be around Marcus. I head back inside and direct Mr. Fish to just leave the butter on the counter. We’re baking all afternoon anyway, so it won’t matter if it sits out. My mother comes into the back to help put everything else away and sign Mr. Fish’s clipboard.

  “Thank you for fitting us into your schedule,” she says. “The orders just keep stacking up. And with Winter Fest right around the corner—” She takes a deep breath. “Anyway,” she says. “We would have been up a creek without this.”

  “It’s no problem,” Mr. Fish says. Then he turns to me. “I’m looking forward to seeing the new holiday cupcakes.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, me, too.” The decorations are pretty lame right now. Snowflakes, gingerbread men, Santa hats. Not exactly original. “I’m open to suggestions,” I say.

  “What about bagpipes?” Mr. Fish asks.

  “Christmas bagpipes?”

  “Or Hanukkah,” Mr. Fish says. “Either way.”

  “Nothing says Merry Christmas like bagpipes,” Marcus teases.

  I see Marcus out of the corner of my eye smiling at me. I don’t look at him. I don’t want him being nice to me right now.

  Mr. Fish shakes his head. “You just wait. Bagpipes are making a comeback.” He accepts his clipboard back from my mother and grabs his cart. He rolls it toward the door.

  “See you later,” Marcus says, following him to the door.

  “Bye,” I say softly.

  He pulls the door shut behind him and I stand there for a moment, wondering what later means in guy-speak. In my limited experience, it can mean anything from an hour from now to next week. I wish they would be more specific.

  “Penny,” my mother says from the stove. I turn and look at her, thinking she’ll tell me how it’s obvious how much Marcus likes me or how it was so nice of him to come by to see me. Something supportive. “Does this buttercream seem grainy to you?” she asks, holding up a spatula full. Or maybe not.

  I help my mother crank out some big orders. Mostly holiday parties. Just before closing, Gram pokes her head into the kitchen and asks if I can help her. I walk out front, where there’s a line. Gram is taking care of the first order, so I look to who is next. It’s Mrs. Whippet, the mayor’s assistant. Gram says if you want something done in this town, she’s the one you need to go to. She’s on her phone. She pulls it away from her mouth just long enough to announce she wants to place an order. Then she’s back to talking with whoever is on the phone about something somebody said to someone that was unbelievable.

  I grab the order pad and wait while Mrs. Whippet walks down the counter, looking at all of the cupcakes. Mrs. Whippet finally orders. I write it all out. She makes me read it back to her to make sure I’ve got it right. She holds out her hand for the order pad and pen. She’s so intimidating that I just give them to her almost without question. She writes NO NUTS!!! and underlines it four times, pressing hard enough to emboss the sheets underneath. Then she hands it back to me.

  “I’ll pick them up on Friday at five twenty.” I nod and write that on the order. “P.M.,” she says. I nod again and she waits.

  “Oh,” I say. I write that on the order, too, although I’m not sure why. I look up again, but she’s already back on her phone and heading out of the shop. Yikes. By the time I’m finished, Gram has cleared out the rest of the customers.

  “How was Mrs. Whippet?” Gram asks.

  “Intense,” I say. I pass her the order pad.

  She looks at it and laughs. “Yep,” she says. “That’s Mrs. Whippet for you.”

  “Call me if you need any more help,” I say. I head back into the kitchen, where my mom is working, hoping for a little less intensity. My mom is at the sink scrubbing cupcake pans. Mrs. Whippet’s intensity should be sort of familiar. In the not too distant past, my mom was like that. But in the last few weeks, she’s been way more relaxed, so I guess I’ve forgotten what it’s like. I ask my mom if she needs any help.

  She narrows her eyes at me. “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Can’t I just offer to help my mom?”

  “Of course,” she says, handing me a scrub brush. I understand her incredulity. I’ve probably announced a hundred times how much I hate cleaning the cake pans. It’s my least favorite job. Oh, wait, it’s my second-least favorite. Cleaning the grease trap is my new number one.

  We work in silence for several minutes. The bell on the front door rings occasionally, announcing new customers. Gram will call if she needs us. But I’m hoping she doesn’t call because I have some questions for my mother.

  “So,” I say. Mom cuts her eyes at me. Suspicious. I press on in spite of the look she’s giving me. “The phone call and the envelope,” I say.

  “What about them?” she asks.

  “Well, the last time someone delivered an envelope I had to sign for—” I don’t finish. I still can’t really talk about my parents’ divorce without feeling like I’m going to cry.

  Mom looks at me for a moment. Then her face softens and she puts her brush down. “Oh, Penny,” she says. “I’m sorry. Of course you’d think—” She sighs. “Well, I’m sure you didn’t know what to think.” She turns and looks at me. “The envelope and the phone call aren’t about you. Or about your dad and me.”

  “Then what is it about?” I ask.

  She frowns. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Is it bad?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “Well, if it works, it won’t be. If it doesn’t …” She glances down at the soapy water. Then she looks back at me. “But things look good.”

  “Are you ever going to tell me what’s going on?” I ask.

  “At some point,” she says.

  “I guess that will have to be enough,” I say. I put down my brush. “So, I’ll just—” I start to back away from the sink. I mean no sense in me washing pans anymore, right?

  “Oh no,” Mom says, picking up my brush and handing it back to me. “You’re in this now.”

  “Fine,” I say. I plunge my hands back into the water and start scrubbing again.

  Mom starts singing a goofy song about cupcakes and cabbages and crabgrass and kumquats and other things that start with the letter c. I point out that kumquat starts with a k, which she says is precisely why it’s so tragic. My mother is so weird.

  * * *

  On Friday it’s finally dry enough for us to finish decorating Gram’s house. Everyone except Tally and me and Gram are working or have soccer practice or have unknown things keeping them busy, which Tally says is perfect. We still need to convince Gram to help with the Pudding Plunge. We know Dutch wi
ll be on board, but getting my grandmother to agree is going to be difficult.

  I’m tacking the last of the lights to the side of the house, and Tally is tying new bows for the reindeer. I think about the folded piece of paper I have stuffed into the pocket of my jeans. I keep trying to find a moment to give it back to Tally, but it never seems right. She’s going to think I looked at it even though I haven’t. I can’t very well give it back in front of Gram, so I guess I’ll just wait.

  “Tell me again why Dutch can’t help us?” I ask my grandmother. I glance over at Tally, who smiles at me. It’s the third time I’ve asked. The first time Gram didn’t actually answer at all. She just left the room. The second time she made a vague statement about him—and this is an exact quote—He’s busy with that thing.

  “Penelope Lane,” Gram says. She’s exasperated, which means Tally’s and my plan to get her to call Dutch is moving along nicely. “Will you please drop it?”

  “Absolutely,” I say. “But—”

  Gram sighs. “But what?” she asks.

  “I’m just not sure the three of us are going to be able to get the reindeer up on the roof by ourselves. And it’s going to be dark soon.” I nod at the sun slowly sinking toward the hills. Gram looks over at the herd of wooden reindeer leaning against the side of the house.

  “And the weather is supposed to get really sketchy later in the week,” Tally says.

  I cut my eyes at Tally. I really have no idea what the weather forecast is. And I’m willing to bet that Tally doesn’t either, but I just go with it, hoping Gram is as ignorant of the weather as we are.

  “Really sketchy,” I say. Gram sighs again. I know I almost have her. “I’m just thinking of all of those disappointed children who are expecting to find your house all lit up for Christmas.”

  Gram looks at me. “I’m sure,” she says. She looks over at Tally, who is trying to look like she’s thinking about the poor children, too. Gram throws up her hands and heads toward the house. “Fine! I’ll call him.” Tally leans over and gives me a fist bump. “I saw that!” Gram says.

  Tally and I finish the lights that Poppy and I were working on while Gram is making her phone call. We start wrapping the porch railings with lights, striping them red and white like candy canes. I’m still trying to find the courage to give Tally the paper when she stops and stares at something over my shoulder.

  “Wow,” Tally says. I turn to see what she’s looking at. Gram is stepping out of the back door. She has traded her stained barn coat for the bright green one I bought her for her birthday. And if I didn’t know better, I’d think she put on some makeup.

  She walks over to us and looks at us. “Not one word,” she warns. There’s the sound of someone pulling into our driveway. Then we see Dutch’s pickup through the trees.

  “Whoa,” I say. “He sure didn’t waste any time getting here.”

  “Hush,” Gram says. But when she thinks we’re not looking, I see her smile.

  “Hello?” Dutch calls.

  “Back here,” Gram says. He comes around to the back of the house and climbs the steps up to the porch. He’s holding something square and black in his hand.

  “Joy,” Dutch says, smiling at Gram. “Ladies,” he says, nodding at me and Tally. “Thought you two might have fun with this,” he says, handing me what he’s holding. I take it from him and turn it around. It’s an old Polaroid camera. The kind that spits out the photo as soon as you take it.

  “Cool,” Tally says. “A vintage camera.”

  Dutch looks at Gram and they both laugh. “I guess vintage is better than old,” Dutch says.

  We spend the next hour mounting all nine reindeer on the roof along with Santa and his sleigh. We also use up three packages of film taking photos of one another. We finish just as the sun finally disappears behind the hills. Finally Gram calls it Christmas and we go inside for tea and homemade blueberry muffins.

  “If Blake were here, I know what he’d say,” Tally says.

  “Best day ever?” I ask. I look at the photos spread on the table between us and pick up one of Tally and me. Our heads are scrunched side by side so that we can both fit into the photo. I grab a Sharpie out of the jar on the bookshelf behind me and write in the white space below the photo. Best Day Ever. Then Tally and I proceed to write the same thing on all of the photos. Even the one she accidentally took of her foot. Dutch picks up one of Gram looking out at the ocean. Her eyes match the green of her coat and the green of the water. He reads our caption and nods. Best Day Ever.

  “Speaking of best days,” Tally says. She nudges me with her foot under the table. We agreed I should approach them about the Pudding Plunge. By agreed I mean I lost at Rock, Paper, Scissors. (Three out of five.)

  “Tally and I were thinking of putting together an event for Winter Fest,” I say. Gram nods and sips at her tea. “You know, as a fund-raiser for the ARK.” I take a deep breath. “And we were hoping that you two would help us with the organization. We’re just so busy with school and the bakery and painting—”

  “Really busy,” Tally says. “Tests and art projects and papers. Not to mention the science fair.”

  I frown at her. The science fair is in April.

  “What are you planning for the fund-raiser?” Gram asks. That’s a good sign. At least she’s asking for more details. Tally quickly outlines her idea for the Pudding Plunge.

  “What flavor?” Dutch asks. It’s his only question.

  “Chocolate,” Tally says. She grins. “Obviously.”

  “What do you say, Joy?” Dutch asks. “It is for the animals.”

  Gram takes another sip of her tea and then puts her cup on the table. “I’ll do it,” she says. “For the animals.”

  Tally grins at me and I smile back. I glance over at Gram, who is shaking her head slightly. She knows what we’re up to, obviously, but she’s not mad, which is a very good sign.

  We sit and pass photos back and forth in between bites of muffins. Gram and Dutch start making a list of things that they need to do for the Pudding Plunge. Dutch leaves first, saying he has to stop by the feed store. (Which is weird since he doesn’t have any animals.) Tally leaves right after, saying she’s on dinner duty since Poppy’s slammed with last-minute Christmas orders. I still have the piece of paper in my pocket when she leaves. I wimped out.

  Gram says she needs some Penny Time. Maybe for some people, hanging out with their grandmothers would be boring, but Gram isn’t like most grandmothers. First she shows me how to make a projector using her cell phone, a shoe box, a magnifying glass, and some odds and ends from the junk drawer. Then we move the furniture, stretch a white bedsheet across the wall, and set it up. I make popcorn while Gram gets the movie going. She picks an old Alfred Hitchcock movie, which she swears is scary. I’m skeptical. I mean, how scary can an old black-and-white movie be? But when the wind slams the back door open, I jump about a foot and spill half of my popcorn on Oscar, who was sound asleep on my lap. Gram just gives me a self-satisfied smile. I figure after Tally and I snookered her into working with Dutch, I probably deserved it.

  The phone rings just as I’m getting into bed. I hear Gram answer and then hear her coming upstairs. “Penny?” she says. “It’s for you. It’s your dad.”

  “Oh,” I say. I sit up on the edge of the bed and Gram hands me the phone. I sigh and put it up to my ear. “Hi,” I say.

  “Hey there, Bean,” my dad says. He’s doing that thing he always does where he’s overly enthusiastic. It might have worked when I was five, but not so much now. I just let the silence grow. “So, how was your Thanksgiving?” he asks.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Good,” he says. “Mine was good, too,” he says. “I had sushi.” He pauses, waiting for me to respond, but I don’t. “Listen,” he says. “Sorry about having to cancel on you.”

  I start to say it’s fine like I always do, but it’s a lie like it always is. “It’s not okay,” I say.

  “What?” he asks.
>
  “It’s not okay,” I repeat. My stomach churns. I hate confrontations. But I also realize that I hate getting walked over constantly. I take a deep breath. “Dad, you do this all the time. You bail on me and then apologize like that’s going to make it all right.” I close my eyes. “But it doesn’t,” I say softly. The silence stretches out between us. “Well, say something,” I say finally.

  “I’m not sure what to say,” he says.

  I shake my head in frustration. All he has to say is that he messed up. That he was wrong. And that he won’t do it again—and actually not do it again.

  “I should go,” I say. “It’s late.”

  “Oh,” he says. “Of course.” Then there’s a pause. “I love you,” he says.

  “I love you, too,” I say. I say goodbye and hang up. I sit and stare at the phone in my hand for a long time before I get up and carry it back downstairs. Gram looks up from her book. I can feel her gaze on me, but I don’t look over. She stands up, walks over to me, and puts her arms around me. Then she just hugs me.

  On the way to school on Monday, I tell Tally about hanging out with my grandmother. She makes me describe the projector in detail. “Your grandmother is so cool,” she says.

  “I was thinking we could have a movie night on the beach next summer. We could hang a sheet up near the dunes and have s’mores and a fire. I mean, the picture quality wouldn’t be awesome, but it would still be pretty good,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Tally says. She’s a lot less enthusiastic than I thought she’d be.

  “Or not,” I say.

  She puts her hand on my arm. “It’s a great idea,” she says. “I was just thinking about last summer before I met you. And how I’m really happy we’re friends.”

  “Me, too,” I say. I glance over at her. She definitely doesn’t seem happy. More like wistful and a little sad.