Page 7 of Holidate Scramble
"Come on, the gingerbread station is already getting busy." She grabbed my arm the moment I stood, tugging me through the crowd with determination. "The market opened fifteen minutes ago and we already have a line. This is going to be huge!"
The gingerbread station occupied a double-wide tent that smelled like a sugar factory. Tables stretched along three sides, covered in white cloth and loaded with enough candy to send half of Massachusetts into diabetic shock. Pre-cut gingerbread pieces sat in organized rows, while bowls of colored icing and a myriad of utensils waited like surgical instruments for a procedure nobody had properly explained to me.
"Welcome to the madness," Piper announced, holding up a green apron that had 'Official Elf Helper' spelled out in what appeared to be glitter glue. "Put this on."
I stared at it. "That's not happening."
"It's part of the experience. Besides, it matches your eyes."
"My eyes are brown."
"With green flecks when you're amused." She tilted her head, studying me like I was a particularly interesting specimen. "Which happens more often than you'd probably admit."
Heat crept up my neck—an involuntary vasodilation response I chose not to analyze. I took the ridiculous apron, tying it on with the same resignation I'd felt putting on my firstset of scrubs as a medical student. At least those had served a purpose beyond public humiliation.
"So what am I actually supposed to do here?" I asked.
"Help kids—and adults—build gingerbread houses. Think of it as surgery but with frosting instead of sutures."
"That comparison is medically inaccurate on multiple levels."
She laughed, bright and unrestrained. "Just go with it. Here, let me show you the technique."
For the next twenty minutes, she demonstrated gingerbread house construction with surprising attention to detail. The icing needed to be the right consistency—too thin and it wouldn't hold, too thick and it wouldn't spread. Walls had to set for exactly ninety seconds before adding weight. The roof required support at a thirty-degree angle for optimal stability. She explained it all with the focus I typically associated with medical residents presenting cases.
"You've really thought this through," I observed, watching her sort gumdrops by size and color into separate containers.
"Events like this matter." She adjusted a bowl of peppermints that had been perfectly fine where it was. "They create connections and build memories, as well as raise money for research. Speaking of which—" Her whole face transformed, lighting up from within. "Yesterday's children's story time was incredible! You should have seen it."
"The second event in the challenge?"
"Yes! We had over sixty kids at the library, all in pajamas for 'Bedtime Stories at Breakfast.' Local authors read, we served cocoa and cookies, and every child left with a free book." She practically vibrated with excitement, her hands moving as she talked. "We raised eight hundred dollars in just two hours."
"Impressive numbers."
"And we're just getting started." She pulled out her phone, showing me a schedule that looked like a cardiac surgeon'sOR board—color-coded, time-blocked, annotated with multiple contingencies. "Look, we've got the gift wrapping contest tomorrow at the community center—that's from two to five. Then Monday is technically a rest day, but Tuesday is the ornament crafting workshop at the library, four to six in the evening."
She continued scrolling, her finger tracing down the list. "Wednesday the nineteenth is movie night at Town Hall—we're showing 'It's a Wonderful Life' and I'm running concessions. Thursday the twentieth is the ice skating fundraiser at the harbor rink, Friday is caroling in the town square, Saturday is the knit-a-scarf class—though you probably don't need to come to that one—Sunday is the snowman competition if we get enough snow, then Monday the twenty-fourth is your big moment with the cookie contest before the hospital gala that evening."
I found myself leaning closer to see the screen, telling myself it was about the schedule and not about catching the vanilla scent that seemed to follow her everywhere. "Which ones need coverage?"
"Well, I can't require you to attend everything. This is supposed to be mutually beneficial, not indentured servitude."
"I'm on call tomorrow, but Tuesday's ornament workshop works. Wednesday's movie night too, barring emergencies."
"The ice skating fundraiser Thursday?"
"I'll be there."
Her eyes widened. "Can you actually skate, or will I be scraping you off the ice?"
"I played hockey at Dartmouth."
"Of course you did." She shook her head, grinning. "Let me guess—aggressive forward, lots of penalty box time?"
"Defense, actually. Spent four years keeping other people from doing damage rather than seeking glory."
"Why does that not surprise me?" Her expression softened. "Always protecting people, even then."
