Shelly stepped beside Ivy. “Ginger’s a tough judge,” she whispered.
“Not tough, just high standards,” Ivy said.
The threesome moved on to Leilani and Roy, who had created a gingerbread house, Hawaiian-style. “This is a hale,” Leilani explained, gesturing to their colorful creation trimmed with a toasted-coconut thatched roof, tiny strings of candied lights, and Hawaiian flowers made of sculpted fruit. A gingerbread surfboard rested on a sandy beach made of crushed graham crackers. “This is a small replica of my grandparents’ home, where our family gathers for celebrations.” Leilani and Roy shared iced gingerbread slabs with the judges.
Next, Imani’s loaves were lined up and ready to slice. “We use old-fashioned molasses and cream cheese frosting,” she explained while Jamir distributed thick slices. “This recipe has been in my family for more than a century. You’ll find nothing better.” She shot a triumphant look toward Mitch.
“I think I should have run twice as far this morning,” Bennett said.
“Pace yourself,” Ginger said. “We have a long way to go.”
Next, Jen and George had created a gingerbread roll, held together with fondant nails in a nod to their shop, Nailed It. Ginger nodded, clearly amused at the presentation.
Moving on, Nan and Arthur served old-fashioned gingerbread pudding topped with gingerbread ice cream. “We used an antique recipe from an old cookbook we have in the shop,” Nan declared.
More Summer Beach residents stood with their offerings on the long table. Darla had whipped up crispy ginger snaps with frothy gingerbread eggnog, Police Chief Clarkson brought gingerbread whoopie pies, and Fire Chief Paula Stark presided over sweet gingerbread cupcakes topped with chocolate reindeer. Carol Reston scooped out a fluffy, layered gingerbread trifle with layers of cream cheese, gingerbread, and cranberry-orange sauce.
Ivy cut in behind Bennett and whispered to Carol, who was wearing strands of jingle bells around her neck and a Santa hat over her jazzy red, henna-colored hair. “Is Rowan coming?”
“I’ve been trying to reach him, too,” Carol said. “He’s so impertinent, but that’s his charm, isn’t it?” Just then, her phone in her pocket jangled. She pulled it out. “Speaking of that devilish charmer…he’s in the kitchen, and he says he needs your help.”
“Tell him I’ll be right there.”
Ivy tugged Bennett’s sleeve. “Rowan just arrived. I’ll help bring out whatever he brought.”
Bennett raised his brow. “This should be interesting. Haven’t seen him since he tried to buy your affection.”
“And it didn’t work, did it?” Ivy chuckled. “Relax, I know what he’s all about.” Last summer, Rowan had made a play for Ivy, professing his undying devotion, which turned out to be short-lived. He’d even had a new sports car delivered for her, but Ivy had firmly declined the car and Rowan. She hadn’t been interested in fifteen minutes of fame or passion.
“Let me know if you need help,” Bennett said, squeezing her hand.
Ivy appreciated that Bennett trusted her to handle Rowan, although she knew he’d have her back if needed. Ivy cut through the crowd. Rowan would be the last entrant, and she wanted to make sure he wasn’t left out. Many of the parents were probably big fans.
When Ivy walked into the kitchen, Rowan looked up, his silver-screen eyes taking in every bit of her as before.
“If it isn’t the loveliest woman in the world,” Rowan said, crossing the kitchen to her with his arms outstretched. A lock of hair fell over his forehead like a silent film swashbuckler. “How have you been, my kitten?”
Ivy sidestepped Rowan and managed to catch his hand to shake it—and avert any potential fully-intended accidental touching. She did a quick waltz step—slide to the right, step back, slide to the left, step forward—which left him lunging into thin air.
Ivy suppressed a triumphant chuckle. “It’s wonderful to see you again. Bennett and I have missed you.”
Rowan’s face fell with disappointment, but only for a moment. “My real woman, and one heck of a swimmer, thank heavens. I can think of no one I’d rather have guard my life than you.”
“Is this your gingerbread entry?” Ivy asked, steering him back to the present. She eyed several bottles of alcohol on the counter with skepticism.
“Indeed,” Rowan replied, his eyes flashing. “A well-kept secret in all the best circles is my specialty, The Flaming Gingerbread Martini.”
Ivy narrowed her eyes. “As in spice or actual flames?”
“Don’t worry, my dear. I’m well-versed in the art of pyrotechnics. Why, in one of my last films—”
Ivy interrupted. “You get the liquor, and I’ll bring glasses. You’re at the last spot on the table, and the judges are making their way toward you right now. You don’t want to miss your opportunity to shine. And don’t you dare give anyone under the legal drinking age a martini, or I’ll have your hide.”
“Spoken like a true western woman. Do you remember the film I did in Texas, called—”
Ivy snapped her fingers. “Rowan, your public awaits.”
“Well, then, it’s showtime, my lovely.” Rowan waved a hand in a grand gesture.
Ivy groaned and hurried to the butler’s pantry for martini glasses. Fortunately, Amelia Erickson had all sorts of barware. Ivy plucked four glasses and followed Rowan, who was making a grand entrance to applause.
Ivy positioned Rowan under large pine boughs arched into a wreath. Shelly had made this wreath and trimmed it with glittery painted burlap fashioned into a floppy bow. People would take photos, so Ivy had selected that spot especially for him. With Rowan’s peppermint candy cane vest, it was a perfect photo op.
Ivy placed the martini glasses on the table and stepped back a few feet to make way for the judges.
Rowan began working deftly with the dexterity of a professional bartender. An accomplished showman, Rowan kept up the banter as he poured his ingredients for Ginger, Bennett, and Cookie—and one for him.
“This is of my holiday specialties,” Rowan began, projecting his baritone voice to hold the audience in sway. “My world-famous Flaming Gingerbread Martini. I start with Irish cream liqueur, a generous pour of gingerbread vodka, and a splash of simple syrup made with brown sugar.”
Ivy watched as Rowan held the audience in rapt attention.
Raising a hand to his mouth as if he had a secret for them, he lowered his voice in a conspiratorial manner. “And here’s the trick. A drizzle of spiced rum, like so…” He tilted a bottle, gently pouring rum over the back of the spoon. “Rum is the most flammable spirit, so it must float delicately on top.”
At the word flammable, Ivy’s ears pricked up, and she held her breath. That meant high alcohol content. Not a favorable mix with Rowan Zachary.
“And now, for the flambé.” From his candy cane vest, Rowan withdrew a long-nosed lighter similar to the one Ivy used to light the fireplace. Brandishing it with a flourish, he ignited the rum layer in the glasses.
Blue flames sprang to life, and the crowd applauded. Ivy let out a sigh of relief.
“Voilà,” Rowan cried in triumph. He threw up his hands, holding the lighter above his head like a torch.