Page 29 of Holidate Scramble
"She's not just a chicken," Maisie corrected, sounding mildly offended. "She's Henrietta, the Little Red Hen's mascot and unofficial taste tester. She was at the vet for her seasonal check-up and a bit of a cold when you were here last. That's why you haven't met her properly."
Henrietta sidestepped past me, her head bobbing with each step, one beady eye fixed on me as if assessing my worthiness.
"She's very discerning," Maisie added, a hint of pride in her voice. "Fair warning: she pecks strangers she doesn't like."
Before I could process the concept of a discerning, potentially hostile chicken, the café door opened with a cheerful jingle. My heart lifted at the sight of my mother, guided by Lenora's steady hand at her elbow. She looked better than she had in weeks—her silver hair neatly styled, wearing the winter-white Christmas sweater she'd owned for at least a decade, her eyes clear and present.
"Mom," I said, crossing to her. "I didn't know you were coming."
"Of course I'm coming, Everett," she said with a hint of her old impatience. "I've judged this competition for thirty years. Just because I'm not official this year doesn't mean I'd miss it."
"It's a good day," Lenora murmured, her meaning clear. The good days were becoming rarer, the moments of clarity more precious.
"I'm glad," I told them both, bending to kiss my mother's papery cheek. "You can help me. I'm out of my depth here."
My mother patted my arm. "You'll be fine, dear. Just trust your instincts. And watch out for too much nutmeg—it's a common mistake."
Piper approached, clipboard in hand, the consummate professional despite the secret smile she flashed me.
"Mrs. Thornton! I'm so happy you could make it." She leaned in to hug my mother, who returned the embrace with genuine warmth. "We have a special seat reserved for you—honorary judge emeritus."
"Such a fancy title," my mother said, clearly pleased. "And please, I've told you to call me Virginia, or Ginny if you prefer."
"Ginny, then," Piper agreed, leading her to a cushioned chair beside the judges' table. "You're just in time. We're about to begin."
As if on cue, an elderly woman with the same ginger-freckled skin as Maisie entered the café, surveying the scene with the air of someone who'd seen it all before.
"Gram!" Maisie called out, waving. "You made it!"
"Wouldn't miss it," the woman—clearly Maisie's grandmother, Nora O'Malley—responded, unwinding a colorful scarf from her neck. Her sharp eyes caught sight of my mother. "Ginny! Good to see you looking so well."
My mother brightened further. "Nora! Come sit with me. We can critique Everett's judging technique."
As the two older women settled in, chatting like old friends, I felt a rush of gratitude toward Piper and this community that embraced my mother so completely despite her unreliable memory. Here, she was still Ginny—baker, friend, respected community member—not just "that poor woman with Alzheimer's."
"Attention, everyone!" Piper's voice cut through the chatter as she stepped to the center of the room. The buzz of conversation dimmed as contestants and spectators turned toward her. "Welcome to the Annual Starlight Bay Christmas Cookie Competition! This year's proceeds benefit the Alzheimer's Foundation's research initiatives."
She continued with acknowledgments, explaining the judging process with clarity and enthusiasm that had everyone engaged. I found myself captivated by the way she commanded the room without dominating it—drawing people in, making each person feel included and valued. This was Piper in her element.
"And now, I'd like to introduce our judge, Dr. Everett Thornton. Dr. Thornton has graciously stepped in after Chef Romano's last-minute cancellation, and we're thrilled to have him." She gestured toward me. "And of course, we're honored to have Virginia Thornton with us today as our honorary judge emeritus."
Applause rippled through the café, accompanied by the clinking of coffee cups and encouraging murmurs. I inclined my head in acknowledgment, surprised by how comfortable I now felt among these people who had quickly become friends instead of strangers.
"Let the judging begin!" Piper announced, and the room erupted in excited chatter.
For the next hour, I made my way around the competition tables, tasting cookies ranging from traditional gingerbread to avant-garde concoctions involving chili peppers and white chocolate. I dutifully recorded scores on my rubric, occasionally conferring with my mother, whose palate was clearly more refined than mine when it came to baked goods.
"Too much nutmeg," she'd whisper, confirming her earlier warning.
"Underbaked," she'd murmur at another station, tapping the cookie's bottom with her fingernail.
"Now this," she said, sampling a rosemary shortbread from contestant number seven, "this is exceptional. Perfect balance. Note how the rosemary complements rather than overwhelms."
Throughout the process, Henrietta stalked the perimeter, her head bobbing with each deliberate step. When I reached contestant number ten, the chicken abruptly changed course and marched directly toward me, fixing me with an unwavering stare.
"She likes you," Logan remarked, refilling coffee cups nearby. "That's rare for her."
"I'm honored?" I replied, unsure of the proper response to chicken approval.
