Page 77 of The Holiday Whoopie
“Whoopie Pie Appreciation Day!” Eileen and Amanda shout, complete with jazz hands as if they rehearsed ahead of time.
And knowing the two of them, they probably did.
“Whoopie pie what?”
“Appreciation Day,” Eileen repeats, already steering the crowd into an orderly line.
Portia materializes again, snapping like a paparazzo on a sugar bender. “Chin down, eyes up—yes, sell me the frosting.”
Amanda obliges, tray of Fa-La-La-La-Filled balanced like a couture clutch.
“When did this happen?” I ask Mia as she hovers at the front of the line. “It wasn’t inThe Almanac.”
“It wouldn’t have been a surprise if it was.” She grins, pointing at a stack of Naughty List Nibbles. “A dozen for the newsroom, please.”
Hands on autopilot, I pack her order.
Amanda pauses her photo shoot just long enough to chime in. “And Jack said if you knew, you’d spend so much time prepping you wouldn’t enjoy it.”
“Jack?” His name slips out of me, sharp and startled.
“This was his idea.” Eileen smiles, steadying the urn as she fills paper cups.
A warm weight presses at my elbow. Lucy slides in, cheeks pink, hair in a businesslike knot, planting a to-go cup in my hand. “Chai latte. Extra dirty.” Her grin is so wide her eyes nearly disappear. “Can’t believe we kept this under wraps for almost a week.”
“A week?” My heart stutters.
“Carb reinforcement!” Eli Bennett pushes through, tall and unbothered by the storm of people. He sets a paper bag that smells like bagels on the counter and surveys the chaos like he’s seen stranger. “Wasn’t sure what the Vet Clinic could contribute to Whoopie Pie Appreciation Day, so I figured breakfast.”
“Oh.” My voice snags. “Thanks.”
He waves it off. “No—thankyou. Those dog-safe cookies and cake crumbs you send over?” He gives the counter a happy knock. “My patients barely notice the shots. Or the thermometers up the rear.”
“Glad to be of service,” I murmur, stunned.
Eli leans closer. “By the way, where’s your guy? There’s a bagel for him too. Wanted to thank him for the help with my lease contract and the clinic relocation advice.”
“Oh, um.” I glance toward the empty corner where Jack usually parked himself. “He left.”
“Left?”
“For the airport. Yesterday morning.” My throat tightens.
Eli frowns. “Well, he better get back quick. The realtor he put me in touch with said those houses he was looking atalready have offers. Fenced-in yards don’t stay on the market long in Hideaway.”
The room tilts. It doesn’t fall—I’ve glued this place together with willpower and powdered sugar too many times for that—but it tilts. “Houses?”
But Eli’s already waylaid by a pet owner with questions.
The line trundles on, people laughing and buying more than I’m sure they meant to because this is Hideaway and restraint is for January. I run out of Jingle My Berries and Sleigh Me Softly and nobody complains; they simply pivot, as if joy were a menu with options.
“Uh, you okay?” Portia asks, apparently having taken enough pictures for Amanda’s social media accounts. “You haven’t moved for over a minute.”
I manage to nod. “Uh huh.” But the room is buzzing, not only around me, but inside my head.
People keep stepping forward—customers who became regulars who somehow became friends—dropping dollar bills in the tip jar like they’re investing in stock that always pays dividends. Neighbors salute me with their purchased whoopie pies and say the things you don’t expect to hear in public:Your whoopies got me through chemo.Your cookies are what my kids think Christmas tastes like.Your Maple Me Moans saved my marriage—don’t ask.
I don’t. I never do. Never found the time to.
