8. Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
DUFFY
M y mother bursts through the door and exclaims, “You found the mistletoe!”
A flush creeps up my neck toward my ears. Nothing like being back home, huh?
Pop Tart lets out a happy yelp.
Flustered, Maddie smooths her hair.
“As you were,” Mom says.
I offer a pathetic little shrug and stammer, “Sorry about that.”
“I should, um—” Maddie turns in a slow circle.
When facing me again, we both burst into stifled, snorty laughter like two teenagers who were caught and are now on Santa’s naughty list.
For once, I haven’t done anything wrong. Our kiss at the party felt right, even if under fake pretenses. All the same, I’m not sure what to think. Embarrassed at being caught? But I like Maddie a lot. So much that I can’t be upset about her keeping quiet about being my VA.
I walk Maddie and Pop Tart to the car. We say a lingering goodnight. I’m counting down the hours until I see her again.
I t’s the day before Christmas Eve, and Madeleine is at the Nicholls’ kitchen baking, leaving me to do some chores for my mother around the house—and hiding the step ladder. There will be no more climbing or moving the mistletoe.
While in the garage, I find my old toboggan. I clean it off as I formulate a plan. Last night, Maddie and I agreed to forget about my attempt to make coal cookies and regroup later today. After scouring the internet for ideas, I came up with one. While I’d like to do it myself and surprise her, I’ve proven that I’m a kitchen menace, so I’ll need her help.
First, I bring her a red, white, and green panini during her lunch break—a woman cannot live on cookies alone, though I imagine she’d argue that, especially this time of year.
Because this is a Covert Cookie operation, I try to be stealthy, channeling James Bond, but she spots me through the crack in the door, whisks it open, and tugs me inside.
“No one can see you since you’re technically the competition.”
“The charity auction isn’t cutthroat.” I jiggle the paper bag. “I brought you lunch.”
She peers inside. “It smells divine.”
The corner of my mouth twitches toward a smile. “If only I could take credit. The wizards at Buon Natale Deli made it.”
“Do you mean elves? After all, this is North Pole.”
This year, my heart is a little softer, less grinchy.
While she eats the sandwich, I survey the trays of cookies. “You’re making good progress.”
“Nicole added a couple dozen. She wants this to be a big, splashy comeback for the candy cane store.”
I sit on a counter stool. “Why do you keep your cookie business a secret? ”
“It goes with the territory. The whole brand is built around discretion.”
“Don’t you want to be a famous baking star like on HLTV?”
Maddie wipes her fingers on a napkin. “No, I want to do my part to help pay my grandmother’s medical bills. My sisters all contribute. One is a single mom. Another has huge student loans and the third was recently laid off. Tough times for everyone.”
An idea floats into my mind like a snowflake and melts into the one I had earlier during my cookie research.
Maddie fiddles with a measuring spoon. “I only feel capable when I’m making cookies. Those I get right. Like how peanut butter and chocolate go together. Baking and I are the perfect match. If you disagree, we can still be friends.” She smiles thinly, but the humor doesn’t meet her eyes. “I should get back to work.”
I tip her chin up with the crook of my finger. “ 00M , you’re good at more than baking. Can you spare a half hour? Five minutes is hardly a break.” I want to show Maddie how much I appreciate her.
She bites her lip. “Is this Cavell speaking or?—?”
“It’s a guy who likes cookies, especially peanut butter and chocolate chip. Our errand is for the gala, which is part of the charity event. First, there’s dinner, then the auction, followed by dessert and dancing. I was hoping you’d be my date.”
Her lips quirk with a grin. “Is this Duffy talking?”
“Definitely.”
“If I combine the errand with dropping by the Sleigh Bell Lodge to check on Pop Tart, I can spare thirty minutes, not a second longer, otherwise, I’ll fall behind.”
“After our stop, I can bring Pop Tart back to my house. My mother would love some company.” As we walk through town, I tell Maddie about Mittens, our old Saint Bernard. “After Dad passed away, she started making Mittens homemade meals. That dog was spoiled.”
“Your mom is the sweetest. She reminds me a bit of Gran, but younger.” Maddie tells me about how her grandmother is in a memory care center. “My sisters and I were all foster children that she adopted.”
“She sounds like an amazing woman.”
“She and Carol would be best friends, given their shared love for all things Christmas.”
We stroll down the sidewalk and approach a rustic sporting goods store that was one of the first three shops in town from the frontier days.
“Outdoor Outfitters probably won’t have what we’re looking for. But Mary’s Ribbons & Threads will do the trick.”
The space between Maddie’s brow wrinkles as we enter.
Mary, one of my mother’s matchmaking elves, practically croons, “It’s North Pole’s latest couple. That kiss under the mistletoe was so romantic.”
My ears heat. “Hi, Mrs. Woodward. I take it you remember Madeleine.”
“How could I forget.” She lowers her voice to a whisper, “She outshines Lexus by a mile.”
I don’t want to think about my ex. “Maddie needs something to wear to the gala, but she’s short on time. It’ll have to be quick.”
Mrs. Woodward squeals with delight. “That’s Christmas music to my ears, but you can’t rush these things. Duffy, be on your way. I’ll take good care of our Maddie.” Turning to my fake girlfriend, she says, “Welcome to the family. We’re glad to have you.”
Madeleine peers over her shoulder, eyes wide.
I wave because she’s in good hands. “See you at six for dinner.”
Stopping at Kringle’s Market, I pick up a few items, place a pizza delivery order for six-thirty, and then grab Pop Tart before heading home .
When the doorbell rings a few hours later, I startle, having given my full focus to the jigsaw puzzle Mom and I are doing. Pop Tart beats me to the door, turning in happy circles.
My mother calls, “I adore the pitter-patter of little feet.”
“Doesn’t that saying apply to children?”
“A grandmother-to-be can only hope.”
Like the puzzle on the table, a future with Maddie takes shape, one I wouldn’t mind piecing together with her.
Mom and I get an earful from Maddie about Mrs. Woodward’s insistence that the colors burgundy and cream are her best friends. Then she turns to me. “You didn’t have to get me a dress.”
My mother asks, “Did you pack anything for a gala?”
“No, but I can’t have my bo—” Madeleine goes quiet and swallows the rest of the word boss . “My boyfriend, um—” Her eyes dart my way.
“I’m glad to hear my son is a gentleman. It can be hard to accept the generosity of others, but it’s Christmas, the season for gift-giving. I have dinner with the ladies, so I’d better get ready.”
This is the first I’ve heard about my mother’s plans tonight, but she scurries off.
“Sorry, I almost blew it,” Maddie whispers.
“I’ll tell her the truth.” But it’ll break her heart.
“Maybe after I leave?”
Ignoring the ever-looming future, I usher us into the kitchen.
Maddie rubs her hands together. “Ooh la la. You know how to woo a woman. You got the finest vanilla and gourmet chocolate available. What’s the plan?”
“For the auction, I need to bake these.” I point to the cookbook with the Madeleines recipe.
She surveys it. “I thought you wanted to make cookies?”
“I do. These are cookies.”
“They’re cake.”
“Cookies,” I repeat.
She shakes her head. “My name is Madeleine, I’d know.”
“You have a dog named Pop Tart. I hardly think that makes you an authority on naming conventions,” I say with a playful smile.
“What’s wrong with Pop Tart? She bounces like a pastry cake coming out of the toaster.” Maddie demonstrates.
I laugh. “I even got a couple of the custom pans.”
Arms across her chest, she says, “What if I don’t want to? You’re not the boss of me.”
Then we both laugh because actually, I am or was.
“Why don’t you want to make them?” I ask.
“It’s just that my Gran used to on my birthday.” Her chin trembles. “It’s not the same this year. On the Christmas meter, Gran was a ten. I’m like a seven, verging toward an eight. Your mom tops Gran, which says a lot. On second thought, she’d be glad I’m here and want me to make the Madeleines.”
The doorbell rings, interrupting what might very well be our first argument turned heart to heart.
“Do you like pizza?”
“That was customary every Friday along with a board game at the Tinsel residence, so yes.”
When I open the door, the scent of dough and cheese fills the house.
When we dig in, Maddie says, “That settles it, you do know your way to a woman’s heart.”
Maddie’s heart? I sure hope so.