Page 28 of The Christmas Box

Standing back up, he walks closer and inspects my gingerbread at length, his gaze skeptical. “Your problem here,” he finally says, “is poor workmanship.”

I blink, drawing my eyes from the gingerbread up to the man across the counter. “Huh?”

“Your icing is your mortar, but you’re not using enough. Look at all these gaps.” He begins pointing. “Even if you get a roof on it, it’s gonna cave in on itself before you ever make it to the bakery. And if this is a contest…well, why aren’t you doing something more original than a common house?”

Now I’m the one squinting. Is he serious? “Like?”

Still studying the disastrous pile of gingerbread, he suggests, “How about a gingerbread version of…this building? Your shop.”

My jaw drops at the wondrous notion. Only…“That’s an amazing idea, but if I can’t build a house, what makes you think I can recreate the Christmas Box?”

He gives his head a pointed tilt and reminds me, “Well, you just happen to know someone who’s pretty good at building things.”

The idea of playing with gingerbread with Travis all day appeals more than I want to admit to myself, or certainly to him. But I still feel obliged to give him an out, in case he just pities me for being so bad at something a child can usually do. “Are you sure you don’t mind? I mean, aren’t you supposed to be building important things like cabinetry instead of silly things like gingerbread shops?”

“Guess I feel the same way about building things as you feel about Christmas—there’s nothing too silly to build. Building stuff is in my blood.”

I don’t point out that he pretty much just said he got the skill he most cherishes from his father. Nor do I touch on the fact that he’s just offered to help me with a full-on Christmas craft. Instead I say, “Well, in that case, I’ll take you up on the offer.”

By six o’clock, several inches of fresh snow have accumulated on the sidewalk outside, I’ve had exactly zero customers, and we’ve built a truly exquisite gingerbread replica of the Christmas Box. With a red-icing ribbon that circles the building, tiny squares of tin foil for windows (on which we’ve writtenThe Christmas Boxin red felt-tip pen), and gum drops lining the roof, it’s truly a work of confectionary art.

Of course, when I saywebuilt it, I mostly mean him. He’s a master with the piping bag, and indeed has pieced together a structure so sturdy that perhaps itcouldwithstand a tornado. I ran upstairs and made us chicken salad sandwiches for lunch, and I occasionally held a piece of gingerbread while he iced, but mostly I enjoyed watching the artiste at work.

“It’s incredible, Travis,” I declare as we both step back to take in the finished product.

“Yeah, turned out good,” he says easily, his casualness telling me he creates wonderful things all the time and this is just one more. Then he glances outside. “You might be the only entry, though. It’s still snowing like crazy out there.”

“They’re all coming from Main Street,” I remind him, “so I suspect they’ll still show.”

“Well, have fun,” he says, reaching for the coat and winter scarf he dropped over a stool hours ago.

ThenI’mthe one peering out the window, reminded that the weather outside is indeed frightful. “Wait,” I say as he starts for the door. “What if I drop it?”

He turns to look back. “Huh?”

“I know it’s less than a block away, but it suddenly feels like a long hike to the bakery on a snowy sidewalk. Could you help me get it there?”

He flashes a suspicious look, as if he thinks I’m trying to trick him into attending a holiday party. And maybe that’s true. But I reallyamworried about dropping his gingerbread masterpiece, too.

“Tell you what,” he concedes. “I’ll carry it and you hold the doors. But once it’s inside, I’m outta there.” He hikes a thumb over his shoulder. “Deal?”

I give a short nod. “Deal.”

And so after I lace my snowboots and we both wrap up in coats, scarves, hats, and gloves, we set out in the cold for Janie’s. We stick close to the buildings, using awnings as partial protection where they exist. At the end of the block, we tromp through slushy snow to cross the street and reach the bakery.

It’s cheery and bright inside, already filled with friends and fellow shop-owners I’m looking forward to socializing with. A Christmas tree glows in the front window and a live wreath hangs on the door. When I hold the door open and Travis steps inside, the greetings begin.

“Well, as I live and breathe, is that Travis Hutchins?” asks Andrea Pike, Janie’s mother, who must have known Travis as a boy.

“Hey Travis, what’s up?” comes from Dara, who then introduces him to her mother, Judy. I’m impressed Dara rolled her here in the wheelchair, but I know Judy was excited about the outing, so I guess Dara refused to let a few inches of snow stop her.

“Well, hello there, Travis,” says Helen. “Didn’t expect to seeyouhere.”

“Neither did I,” he answers, “but I got tapped for delivery duty.” He lowers the gingerbread shop to the long table where other sweet creations reside, then turns to go. “You ladies have fun now.”

“You don’t think you’re actually allowed to leave,” says Mrs. Burch, literally rolling her chair into his path.

And before he can even open his mouth to answer, Mrs. Pike adds, “Of course he’s not. The more the merrier and I want to hear what you’ve been up to since you left.” She hooks her arm through his. “Come on over to the refreshment table.”

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