‘Good morning, my dears, what can I get you today?’ Mrs Rolph asks us. D and I are bundled up and ready for the Christmas fair, coins in our hands that our mums gave us for our Christmas fair breakfast tradition.
‘Please can I have a cinnamon twist,’ we say again in sync.
‘Sure thing,’ Mrs Rolph replies. She takes our coins and hands us our warm, delicious treats then eyes us suspiciously. ‘Have either of you seen Bonny lately? My old cat seems to have wandered off,’ she asks, peering over the counter causing both Devon and I to take a massive bite of our twists, shake our heads with our mouths full and run away.
*
My heart does another flutter at the memory as I watch Devon pouring the contents of the bag onto a plate. His tall and grown-up stature doesn’t seem out of place in my kitchen. He somehow, after only two visits, knows where everything is; which I can only attribute to him knowing how my brain works in regards to where I would keep things, and I find myself smiling at the thought as he takes a seat at the table.
My stomach rumbles, reminding me that the cinnamon twists are to be eaten and not admired. I immediately flush as that thought takes a naughty turn, making me avert my eyes from Devon and busy myself with the kettle to make coffee.
By the time I turn back around Devon has placed a cinnamon twist on to my plate but has yet to start eating. He’s just staring at me, holding his fork aloft, elbow on the table, dimple in his right cheek. I place our coffees by our plates and take a seat, grabbing my fork and diving in.
‘What?’ I say through a mouthful of delectable flaky pastry.
‘Nothing,’ Devon says, using the side of his fork to cut the twist, his head bowing down like he’s suddenly gone shy.
‘Your cheeks have gone red,’ I point out, smiling now because he looks kind of cute when his cheeks go red. There must be way too much sugar in this twist because I should not be thinking of Devon as cute.
He chews thoughtfully and then shrugs casually, a cheeky glint washing over his eyes.
‘Do you own a pair of pyjama pants?’ He chuckles and now it’s my turn to blush furiously and in front of him this time.
*
After we devoured breakfast in comfortable silence, I excused Devon to the living room first so as to not flash my knickers further from under my baggy tee and got ready in record time so that we would make it on time to the fair for early set-up. I was even more grateful for Devon’s presence this morning when he helped carry the gingerbread houses while I carried the plethora of bags holding my boxes and boxes of gingerbread cookies and pieces.
It was only a short walk but not having to make a dozen trips was appreciated with the snow falling heavier and the ice glistening from some precarious spots already in the early hours.
Hope and Jess were already milling about our booth, twinkling lights strung and an array of Village Gazette magazines expertly decorating one of our tables. Hope had left a space in the middle and placed a cake stand ready for our gingerbread house to take centre stage. I left the bags on top of the adjacent table while Devon helped set the house down to do the big reveal for Hope.
‘What’s in that box?’ Hope asks eagerly when Devon gently pops the other box next to my biscuits that I have yet to unwrap. Her cheeks are positively red from the morning air’s icy nip and no doubt her buzzing around trying to get everything perfect.
‘Hold your horses, I want to show you this one first,’ I say mock exasperated, but her excitement is contagious. The sunrise, the sparkling lights, the glittering Christmas trees huddled in every one’s booths, this morning’s throwback to childhood eating cinnamon twists with Devon on the best day of the year – sometimes the fair is better than Christmas Day, with all its joy and magic – and Hope smiling at me expectantly, I get a flurry of snowflakes whizzing around in my stomach. Hope gathers closer to me. Devon and Jess are stood back, hands in pockets watching us both in our giddy states with grins on their faces.
I take the lid off the box on the stand and carefully fold down the sides and slide the box from under the silver tray the house is iced onto for security measures. Hope gasps and I feel a swell of pride looking at my replica of our office building made in gingerbread form as all the intricate details are exaggerated with all the highlights and shadows caused by the sunrise and festive lights shining around it.
‘Oh, my goodness, look at that wreath and look at all the bricks, oh and you got the front door simply perfect. Didn’t I tell you she was amazing?’ Hope is walking around inspecting each side of the gingerbread building. Jess steps closer, putting an arm on her shoulder. I’m not entirely sure who she told I was amazing because she doesn’t look up; her eyes are trained on taking in the features of our centrepiece.
‘It’s awesome, Scarlett, everyone’s going to love it,’ Jess tells me with a smile.
‘OK, OK, I had another idea while I was baking.’ I start moving around to our other table where everyone will be able to decorate a gingerbread cookie; I made gingerbread men, houses and trees for them to choose from. Jess and Hope follow me; Devon is stood close by near the tree, a smile on his face watching my current performance. He’s quiet, which is unusual, and his eyes look a little misty but I’m wary of the time and that soon there will be giddy kids and cheery adults swarming our booth. We need to finish setting up and putting up all our signs. I will have to check in with him later and see if he’s all right.
‘So, I thought, when everyone comes to decorate a biscuit, that they could add some decoration to this house.’ I repeat the box number one process with box number two, to reveal a plain undecorated house. ‘That way at the end of the day we will have a house that has been created by the whole village. We could do a raffle to raise money for the Gazette and the winner gets to take it home for Christmas Day.’
I barely get the word day out of my mouth when Hope attacks me with a hug. ‘You are a genius – a festive, Christmas fair genius. I love it so much. The village is going to love it. Have I told you before, your creative genius is wasted being my personal assistant? Talk about village spirit, oh I can’t wait to see what everyone creates together,’ Hope says, clapping her hands, squeezing me again and then bouncing off to get our banner, tugging Jess with her to help. I adjust the communal gingerbread house on its silver tray, better to leave this one flat on the table so the kids can reach it, rather than on a cake stand. It will help avoids wobbles too. I begin to unpack the boxes of gingerbread cookies, icing and decorations and spread them across the table in an inviting way, when Devon wanders over.
‘I know I haven’t been around for your previous Christmas escapades, but I think you’ve outdone yourself this year. Everything looks awesome, Scar, way beyond awesome actually, like beyond awesome,’ he says, putting one arm around my shoulder and dropping a kiss on the top of my head as I step back to admire the table. From the top of my head right down to the tips of my toes I feel a rush of warmth. Such a kind and gentle gesture feels intimate coming from Devon. I automatically rest my head against his chest, a sense of contentment overwhelming me.
‘I was feeling extra inspired this year,’ I say smiling at him. It’s the truth. With Devon around my creative juices are flowing freely again. While baking last night, after finishing my first comic book, all the ideas I had as a kid came flooding back and then some. My hands are itching to get back to the drawing board again. But if I’m not careful, right now, I’m close to falling back to sleep nuzzled up in Devon’s parka. Saving me from doing so I feel a tug on my coat, which snaps me back to attention. Looking down I see two green eyes staring up at me.