Page 76 of The Holiday Whoopie
Audrey
By nine o’clock the next day, I’m officially losing it.
The ovens have been running since dawn. The counters are lined with neat rows of fresh whoopies, buttercream fluff piped with ridiculous precision, boxes stacked and waiting by the register. Business as usual—except it isn’t.
Because not a single customer has walked through my door.
Not Mrs. Wexler with her cranberry scone order. Not the electrician who usually grabs a gingerbread whoopie on his way to the office. Not even Skippy, who tends to wander in to nap across my stoop like an unpaid security guard with selective hearing. The bell hasn’t jingled once.
I wipe the case glass anyway—slow circles that squeaklike I’m trying to buff out a bad mood—then straighten the stacks of napkins that are already straight.
My reflection in the metal trim looks like I lost a fight with sleep and then decided to double down.
I glance outside to appraise the weather (no storm), flip through my copy ofThe Almanacto check for today’s town events (nothing listed), and check my pulse (present, erratic).
“Okay.” I slouch over my prep table, head in hands, and talk to the various-sized whisks all neatly hung on hooks on the wall. “If you know something, now would be the time.”
The bell jingles.
I straighten. But before I even take two steps toward the counter, it jingles again. And again. Until I’m standing there, watching my door become a turnstile that spits out bodies like confetti.
A veritable flood of coats, boots, and laughter. The sound ricochets off stainless steel and tile like a marching band discovered sugar.
Mia is one of the first to reach the counter, camera already up, ponytail swinging. “Look alive, whoopie girl.” The camera clicks and flashes before she slides sideways to make room for the tide of customers—neighbors, friends—all leaning over the display case and calling out orders.
“What is happening?” I manage even as I pop the register and grab a stack of boxes by instinct. Because if there’s one thing the holidays have taught me, it’s to keep moving when the universe tries to bowl you over.
Mia snaps the crowd, checks her screen, then points her lens at me again. “Community event.” Her mouth curves,and I pray she doesn’t use whatever picture she just took of me. “Trust me, you’re going to love this.”
One by one, people I know step forward, bearing offerings like it’s some kind of whoopie coronation.
The owner of The Perfect Package glides up first, a discreet little display cradled in her arms like a newborn. She sets it on my counter with reverence. “Our newest: whoopie pie–flavored lube.” A wink. “Two for one if you promise not to ask me how we nailed the flavor profile.”
“Uh, thank you.” But she’s already gone before I can finish, Portia sliding in with her own contribution.
“Whoopie pie taffy.” She sets her tray next to the lube. “Swirled chocolate and vanilla cream.” She assesses her goods like the candy pro she is. “Chewy but soft enough not to pull a filling.”
“Thank—”
“Make way!”
The crowd parts to reveal the crew from Chowder House Rules muscling a tray that takes three people to carry. “Cornbread bundt cakes, sliced, slathered with honey butter, stacked into whoopie pies.”
Whoopie pies the size of hubcaps.
Collectively, the town inhales. The smell alone could start a religion.
And from next door, Eileen bustles in, fireman Hudson hot on her heels with a large coffee urn he plants beside the lube display.
“Limited-run whoopie pie coffee,” Eileen announces, addressing the crowd like a mistress of ceremonies. “And there’s more where that came from.”
“This’ll be my workout for the day,” Hudson mutters, shaking out his arms.
I blink, brain still struggling to catch up. “Thank you?”
Amanda, somehow beside me now, leans in. “What do you think?”
“It’s amazing.” And it is. Itsois. Emotions I’ve been wrestling for days surge up for an entirely different reason. “But, uh…whatis it?”
