Chapter 24 Amanda

Chapter 24

Amanda

For how Dane and I spent last night, every cell in my body should be chill as an ice-cream cone.

But all my afterglow has disappeared before I’ve been at the Gingerbread House for a full thirty seconds.

It doesn’t help that I’m alone. Lorelei called to request Dane’s assistance with a playlist for the DJ for the wedding.

Which is tomorrow.

But not.

Which no one knows yet.

So my fake fiancé is off picking a playlist for the wedding that won’t be happening while lying to his sister, who would probably understand, but who will find out with the rest of the town whenever we tell them.

Which needs to be soon.

Soon soon.

But I’m not announcing the breakup the same way I announced the engagement. I need a plan, and Dane needs to be in on it this time.

“I heard you and your fiancé stormed out of his grandparents’ anniversary party” is how Grandma greets me.

Glee?

Glee has nothing on her attitude this morning.

This is so far past glee that there might not be a word in the English language to express how thrilled she is.

“Don’t be a dick,” I tell her. “Dane’s hurting. Family shouldn’t be assholes about love.”

Her jaw hits the fake-gingerbread floor.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” Mom flies into the kitchen and smothers me in a hug. “You okay?”

I don’t have to look at her to know she’s glaring at my grandmother. Probably mouthing a few things behind my back too.

Likely this is the last one you have left to take over so I can retire one day, too, don’t fuck it up .

Everyone’s getting more profane in my head right now.

Yay.

“I’m tired,” I answer honestly.

Exhausted is more like it.

Not because I was up all night having sex with Dane, but because trying to convince our families to get along is draining.

So is the idea that I have to ask Grandma the hard questions today.

Winning over parts of our families has come with highs, but if we can’t convince all our family members to get along, will that truly leave Tinsel better?

Or will it lead to infighting in our families along with more fighting with the other’s family?

My head hurts.

I don’t know if we can do this.

“I’m sorry you slept poorly,” Grandma says. She doesn’t add if you were sleeping with someone better, you wouldn’t be , but I swear I hear it.

Mom makes a noise.

Grandma pfft s at her.

I’m still being smothered in a hug.

“I have good news for you, Amanda,” Grandma announces. “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

“Technically, every day is,” I counter as I shake my mom off.

“Bah. Today , you learn the family secret that keeps this gingerbread shop running. Today, you get inducted into the secret society of gingerbread magic.”

“Did she fall and hit her head?” I whisper to Mom.

Mom pinches the bridge of her nose and inhales heavily.

“Mock all you want now, but in four hours, you’ll be a brand-new woman,” Grandma says.

“Vicki. It’s a gingerbread recipe ,” Mom says.

“And it’s magic. Amanda. Come. I considered not showing you, seeing as you seem to be turning your back just a little on your family, but your mother insists that I let you make your own mistakes. It’ll likely correct itself within a few years.”

“ Vicki ,” Mom says again.

Grandma ignores her as she bustles around the kitchen, pulling the blinds on the windows that let people look in from the hallway to watch the gingerbread being made during normal business hours and locking the kitchen door.

That’s not ominous.

“It’s not magic,” my mom whispers. “And I’m sorry she’s stressing you out the day before your wedding.”

My stomach follows where Grandma’s jaw just was to rest on the fake-gingerbread floor.

We have one more day to convince our families to make peace, to get along, to maybe even find something to like about one another, before we have to either break up or go through with the wedding.

There’s no chance we’re going through with the wedding.

We might like each other, but getting married tomorrow ?

No.

No way.

“It’s time,” Grandma announces.

“For . . . ?” I ask.

She hits the lights and plunges the kitchen into darkness. She flicks on her phone’s flashlight, and then she produces and lights three Christmas candles that I’ve never seen before.

All three are shaped like gingerbread men, except they’ve been used enough that their heads are caving in.

And they’re old.

You can smell it.

“Does the fire marshal know about those candles?” I whisper.

“Quiet. Don’t disturb the ceremony.”

I glance at Mom.

She’s rubbing her temples and sighing.

Guilt hits me in the sternum. Again.

Mom’s been trying. She’s been working on Grandma all week. And she’s going to find out it’s all been fake very soon. Or at least for nothing when Dane and I “break up.”

Will she feel betrayed?

Or will she understand?

Also, I’m supposed to be asking Grandma about her own grandfather. I did a little digging, and I’m sure George Anderson is my great-great-grandfather. But I don’t know what Grandma might know about him and his romantic history.

“How far back does this ceremony go in our family?” I ask.

Look at me. Impulsive but smart this time.

“Shush. Be present. ” Grandma hands me one of the gingerbread candles. The wax is thick and hard, with a texture that feels like years of grime has worked its way into the candle itself. Mom is handed a second, and then Grandma uses hers as a light to lead us in three circles around the main prep table in the center of the kitchen as she speaks.

“Ancestors, we come to you today with joyous news,” she intones. “The next generation of gingerbread bakers is here to continue the work you’ve honored us with. May her spoons be accurate. May her mixer never lose power. May her frosting never melt. And may her molasses never crystallize.”

Ben was supposed to do this. I wonder what my brother would say to Grandma’s ceremony.

He’d probably be amused but hide it.

I’m just plain stressed. “Grandma, I have to tell you something,” I say.

She ignores me. “From this day forward, one more generation of Andersons will benefit from the glorious gift passed from mother to son, father to daughter, grandparent to grandchild. But with this gift comes the duty to provide for the good of all of the town of Tinsel through baking, charity, and volunteer work. Amanda Elizabeth Anderson, are you ready to take your rightful place in our family and in our hometown?”

“Grandma, I don’t think—” I start, but she cuts me off.

“Wonderful. We shall now proceed with the presentation of the recipe.”

I start to speak again, but Mom grabs me by the arm and shakes her head at me.

Don’t interrupt?

Or we’ll fix this later?

Grandma leads us to the desk in the corner, still going on about how our family founded this town, about leading it into the Christmas years, about gingerbread being the root of everything.

It’s overkill.

Mom keeps wincing.

I want to ask if she did this ceremony. If she was here with Dad. Or if this is something Grandma’s making up the same way she fakes her heart attacks.

But I force myself to stay quiet while Grandma opens the top desk drawer, hits something inside, and exposes a secret compartment beneath the drawer organizer.

“Behold,” she whispers reverently. “The original family recipe.”

She removes a piece of paper that looks older than dirt, and I don’t think that’s just the flickering candlelight. The handwriting is old. The paper is nearly transparent. Smudges suggest it’s had ingredients spilled on it over the years.

“Maybe enough with the candles now?” Mom blurts. “That’s the only copy.”

“As the family secret has been exposed, we now fall into darkness.” Grandma blows out her candle.

Mom quickly extinguishes hers, then pinches mine out too.

“Amanda,” Grandma says in the darkness, “this recipe has been a family secret for generations. Generations. It is now your duty to continue in the tradition, to share this recipe with no one , not even your ridiculous—”

Mom clears her throat.

“To include anyone to whom you’ve been married for fewer than fifteen years,” Grandma amends, “and to use it to make the world’s best gingerbread, from now until retirement.”

“But—”

“There is no one else, Amanda. It must be you, or this town will fall apart. This is not just gingerbread. This is the glue that holds Tinsel together. The core of everything that makes our community run. It is our origin, and it is our future. Come. Come take the recipe, and continue the work of our family.”

For the love of New York pizza. The only thing about our family uniting this town is that they all wish we’d stop fighting with the Silvers. “Grandma, I can’t bake .”

“The recipe will fix you.”

“ Vicki ,” Mom says, sounding just as frustrated and sad as I feel.

“It fixed me. It will fix my granddaughter.”

Grandma couldn’t bake?

“When I married your grandfather, I couldn’t operate a stove. I once served him spaghetti with raw hamburger and burnt noodles. Burnt noodles. But this recipe—once I was given this recipe, everything changed.”

“Grandma—”

“The first batch of gingerbread I made with this recipe was perfect. So was the next batch. And the next. With this recipe stored in my heart and in my brain, I have never— never —ruined a batch of gingerbread. And I once set fire to a chicken casserole inside my oven. This recipe works. It’s magic. It worked for me, and it will work for you.”

“Even if it does—” I try, but she interrupts me again.

“Then I get to retire in peace and you find that this is what you’re meant to do. Just like I did.”

Stab stab stab. Guilt guilt guilt.

“Okay,” I blurt. “Okay. I’ll make the gingerbread.”

Dammit.

Not okay.

Not okay.

What happens if the recipe is magic?

What if I do bake good gingerbread with it?

How is this different from the coded recipe on the wall by the mixer?

A recipe can’t make me fall in love with running a bakery in my hometown.

But I’m starting to realize there’s no way out of it.

No matter what Dane says about letting my family figure this out themselves.

They need me.

“I knew you could do it,” Grandma says.

The lights flicker on.

Mom’s watching me like she knows I’m on the verge of tears, but Grandma shoves the delicate yellowed paper at me. “Let’s get started. We open in an hour.”

My pulse is hammering. My mouth is dry. My throat feels thick.

I didn’t have any problem standing up to Dane’s uncle earlier this morning, but I can’t tell my own grandmother that I don’t want—that I can’t run her bakery.

I keep messing this up.

And I don’t know if there’s any way for me to fix it.