Page 29 of Grump Hard
Ignoring the sacrilege that has just slipped from Marge’s lips, I do my best to throw off the conspiracy theory and focus on fixing the problem. If I let myself tumble down that rabbit hole, I might end up going after Hattie’s gingerbread library with a baseball bat.
I am a very nice person.
I am also very competitive.
It’s a problem, one I’m reflecting seriously on in my morning journal entries, but won’t be fixed today.
I clap my hands together, forcing cheer into my voice as I say, “Okay, new plan! We’ll cover the entire front of the town hall in a thin coating of icing to hold it all together. Then, once it’s dry, we’ll have Timmy jam in there with a few extra flourishes to disguise any visible imperfections. Sound good?”
Timmy, who is a boy of few words, gives a thumbs-up.
Marge nods fast enough to make her ample bosom ripple.
Paulie also nods, but I’m pretty sure he’s also still plotting revenge.
Which is fine. He can plot all he wants as long as he erects gingerbread walls while he’s at it.
The next twenty minutes are a tension-filled masterclass in escalating chaos. Timmy, apparently as stressed as the rest of us, despite his silence, starts biting his nails, prompting Marge to order him to the bathroom to wash his hands every two to three minutes. Paulie continues to shine, but unfortunately, the cookies also continue to crack. Marge, convinced more frosting is the answer to everything, tries to sneak the store-bought out from under the table to “help.”
I am no longer a competent leader.
I am a firefighter in a burning bakery, armed with nothing but gasoline and shattered dreams. My perfect town hall replica has been downgraded to “structurally unsound mansion haunted by the losses of Christmas past,” and it’s quickly becoming clear we will not be taking home gold this year.
Still, I try my best to keep a cheery smile on my face for the team.
Even when Marge finally succeeds in spackling store-bought garbage onto the east wall while my back is turned, resulting in a slow, dramatic implosion that summons a collective gasp from our table, I will myself to hold it together.
“Oh, no,” Marge whispers. “I guess it really was too heavy and thick. Like you said.”
“Told you,” Timmy whispers before promptly returning to chewing his nails to bits.
Paulie heaves a tragic sigh for the ages, and then we all just…stand there. Speechless in the wreckage. The entire front wall is gone, leaving a gaping hole and a pile of frosting-smeared rubble.
We have failed.
Utterly and completely.
I’m considering face-planting into the center of the mess to hide my shame, when a voice rumbles from behind me, “What in God’s name happened here?”
I turn to see Luke hovering at the edge of our disaster zone, looking like he just stepped out of an issue of Sexy Businessman Relaxing on the Weekend Monthly. In a grey cashmere sweater that hugs his broad shoulders and dark designer jeans, he is the kind of yummy that would soothe a girl’s soul if she weren’t currently lost in the haunted gingerbread house of despair.
“You’re early,” I finally manage, my voice emerging as a squeak. “Clean-up isn’t for another hour.”
“I meant to be here earlier. To cheer you on or…whatever one does at an event like this,” he says, making my battle-weary heart perk up a little. “But there was a sleigh ride traffic jam on Main Street. Half the Santas apparently never learned to drive.” He surveys the carnage of our workstation, his gaze moving from the collapsed wall to Marge’s frosting-smeared hands. “What can I do to help? It looks like we need to address some structural issues?”
I blink, certain that he’s joking.
Surely, this is sarcasm at its very driest.
After all, this is a man who hates Christmas tomfoolery, and it doesn’t get much more foolery-filled than this.
But when his gaze shifts my way, all I see is a sincere desire to help pull me and my band of misfits back from the edge.
I nod, rolling my shoulders back. “I think we need some help regrouping. We got stuck with a crappy batch of cookies.” I motion to Paulie, on my right. “Paulie’s a professional baker, so he’s doing a fantastic job with assembly. But our raw materials aren’t up to snuff. So, we’re shoring them up with a thin coat of my fast-drying homemade icing.”
“Not the store-bought icing I used without permission,” Marge pipes up with a sheepish smile. “I learned from my mistake. I promise I did.”
“And I’m putting the decorations on,” Timmy whispers almost too softly to hear, pointing to the rear of the structure. “I already started.”
