Page 159 of Again, In Autumn

“You’re a stranger.”

Just then, the Food Network man announces, “Okay, competitors and spectators, thank you so much for coming out to Rose Bakehouse’s opening day! I’m so proud to be a small part of this family business for which, I’ll be honest, I’m an investor.”

Well, that answers one question.

“My friend’s fiancée started this bakery. She’s hustling around here somewhere with a giant rock on her finger, so be sure to congratulate her!” He continues, “And now it’s time to begin our first annual gingerbread house competition!”

That answers question two.

He cheers for a moment into the microphone, briefly clapping his hands, then says, “We just have one problem, though. One of the registered families bowed out a little early, and we now have an opening at station number eight. So…is there anyone in the audience who would like to compete before we begin?”

Not a second passes before Santa raises his arm. “I’ll do it.”

My head snaps to his in surprise.

“All right!” The announcer cheers. “We’ve got a contestant! Looks like, uh, Santa Claus and his lovely companion are going to participate.”

Santa walks toward the table.

“Me?” I recognize I was gestured to and must be the Mrs. Clause in question. I call out, “Oh no, he’s on his own.”

“You don’t want to help?” Santa wonders, turning around. “You don’t have the Christmas spirit?”

“I have Christmas spirit,” I tell him and everyone else, who inexplicably listen. “I just have to get back to my job.”

No one really seems to care about my protest. Now that Santa is at his station, the Food Network guy announces the beginning of a sixty-minute timer. Christmas music begins to play from an invisible speaker. The ten groups of competitors begin divvying up assignments and assembling their structures. The bakery continues to bustle with customers.

Santa pushes up his sleeves to reveal tan, strong arms. His hands have the large grip of a mountain climber.

He says, “I guess I’ll just do it myself.” He holds up a bag of icing. “What’s this for?”

“For gluing the walls together,” I say.

“Oh.” He inspects a wood slice. “Is this edible?”

“No, it’s for building on.” I watch the other teams moving as though only seconds remain, meanwhile Santa checks out every gumdrop and toothpick like they’ve been shipped in from Mars. I sass, “Can you handle this? Don’t you have children to make presents for?”

“That’s the elves job,” he answers. “Don’t mock my ability to make a gingerbread house if you know nuthin’ about Santa Claus.”

I cross my arms and sink my hip, watching with horror as he sets up two rectangles of cookie. His eyes drip down to the piping bag. He pinches the house’s walls with one hand and tries to pick up the icing with the other. Both hands occupied, brow furrowed. He’s very confused. The bag splits open and icing squeezes out, down his wrist.

“Oh my gosh.” I rush forward. “Wait, put the cookies down.”

He sets the gingerbread pieces back on the table as I reach for a piping bag and hand him one as well. I whisper, “Decorate before you assemble.”

A smile curves the corner of his lips. He drops his voice. “Why are you whispering?”

“So no one will steal our strategy.”

He nods slowly, licking off the icing on his hand. “Our strategy,” he mutters with a laugh.

“It was just painful watching you struggle.” I begin decorating one of the walls with swirls and dots, outlining the edges. “You needed help. And it’s Christmas.”

“Well, um, I could use some help with something else, too.” He holds his hands up in the posture of a doctor scrubbed for surgery. “It’s a little warm out here in the sun. Can you help me get this sweater off?”

I pause. “You can’t do this shirtless.”

“Why not?”

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