Page 8 of Blame it on the Mistletoe
“Let me ring you up and—”
“No!” Ester was back to looking around the diner as if she were Miss Marple stuck in an Agatha Christie novel. “I’m sorry. I don’t want the cookies on the bill. I’ll pay cash for those. I was told that’s the way these transactions go.”
“Then what kind of cookies can I get you?”
“Yourcookies.”
“Oh.” At the comment, a rush of pride swelled in Faith’s chest. Ester wasn’t merely a cookie connoisseur, she also happened to be the head of this year’s bake sale committee, so she knew her baking. She also knew that Faith dabbled in cookie creations at the diner.
It was another source of desperately needed income. Especially around the holidays.
Holidays had never meant much when she’d been a kid. Her mom struggled to keep them fed, let alone buy a tree and presents. Having her mom home on Christmas morning was a luxury since Hope often volunteered to work any shift that paid time and a half. When her brother was born, Faith promised herself Pax would have a different kind of childhood—the kind Faith had always dreamed of.
She was determined to give Pax an extra special Christmas this year—only the top item on his list was way above her pay grade. Which was why she’d been working extra shifts and siphoning tip money away from her MAMANEEDS ANEWMIXERfund into WHAT’SA NEWMIXERCOMPARED TO AKID’SCHRISTMASfund.
Six months ago, McKinney had approached Faith with an amazing opportunity. Viola would bankroll the operation, Faith would do the baking, and they’d split the profits fifty-fifty. With her own student loans to pay off and Pax only seven years away from college, accepting was a no-brainer.
Except on days like today, when Shelby was watching Pax and Faith was nearing her second shift of a fourteen-hour marathon on her feet. She had to admit she was running on fumes.
So it felt good when someone validated her hard work.
“Thank you. You kind of made my day.” So much so that she felt tears prick her eyes. “If you don’t have anything specific in mind, I highly recommend the peppermint bark cookies.” She did a Vanna White move, displaying the tray of dog-shaped cookies with peppermint bark icing on the paws. “Or my ginger bear cookies. They come individually wrapped and make a delicious holiday gift for a neighbor or the postman. And perfect stocking stuffers.”
And dang it, Gina was right. It hadn’t been just tingles. The reminder of a particular stocking stuffer had parts of her, she’d thought long ago closed for the winter, whipping up a blizzard of flutters.
“No, dear, yourspecialcookies.” Ester lowered her sunglasses to peer over their rims, giving Faith aYou got me, right?wink.
The only kind ofspecialbaked items Faith had ever heard of were still illegal in the great state of Texas. And she’d only done one illegal thing in her life—the repercussions of which were so horrifying she’d vowed to never again find herself on the wrong side of the law.
“Mrs. Rayborn, are you asking if there’s marijuana in my cookies?”
Ester gasped, her hand going to her pearls. “Heavens, no. I’m looking for the cookies with the Viagra icing.”
Faith choked. “You think I’m grinding up Viagra and sneaking it in my icing?”
“That’s the word on the street.” She wrapped her scarf higher as if the flimsy disguise would distract from her bright red canvas RAYBORNMORTUARY: TAKE THATFINALRIDE INSTYLEbag hanging off her shoulder. “Last night at Bea’s Quilting Barn, I was getting some yarn to knit a baby blanket for Mable’s granddaughter. She’s expecting her first. And I overheard Luella talking to Bea about these cookies she bought for Mister. Said it was like they were teenagers again.” Ester leaned all the way in and whispered, “Six hours. Feet to Jesus-style. Only taking a break to find Mister’s dentures when things got a little spicy.”
“Those must be some cookies.”
“Cookies to get yourcookies,” Ester clarified as if Faith wasn’t uncomfortable enough. “It got me thinking. What gift do you get the man who says he has everything?”
“Cookies to get your cookies?” Faith guessed.
Ester clasped her frail hands together in excitement. “So you do have some?”
“I’m sorry,” Faith said. “I swapped out the traditional icing for my maple cream frosting, but these days that’s as spicy as I get.”
“Oh.” Ester looked disappointed. “This will be my and Woodrow’s fifty-fifth Christmas together and I was hoping to get the spark back. Maybe go sledding, then sit by the fire and have some hot cocoa spiked with peppermint schnapps like we did on our first date. And when the sun went down, we’d have a cookie and well . . .” Ester wiggled her brows.
Listening to Ester’s plan had Faith feeling a little disappointed, too. An eighty-year-old woman was planning to seduce her husband of more than half a century with some pharmaceutical-aided romance. And the spiciest Faith had gotten lately was swapping ingredients.
She wasn’t interested in Viagra-spiked cookies, but she’d welcome a little romance in her life. Someone with whom to share her day or watch the occasional movie. Someone to give her a desperately needed cookie—or two.
There wasn’t space in her calendar to date. It was a stroke of luck if she had a spare five minutes to swipe on lipstick and mascara. Relationships, as far as she could tell, took a lot of time—and trust.
Two things she was short of.
Faith handed over a cookie and Ester took a big bite.
