Instead, I browsed the Maplewood Creek town Instagram account for photos from last year’s Thanksgiving Throwdown. As expected, those bakers didn’t skimp on the grandeur. It was likeHoliday Warsrun amok. There wereHome Alonehouses with working booby traps, and life-size reindeer on snowboards. Every new image exploded my preconceptions of what was possible to construct from sugar and flour. Enough that I started to feel a little jealous. And a lot inspired. Even if I couldn’t rig up a fully articulated Charlie Brown out of chocolate, I wanted to be part of the experience.
That evening before I started prep for dinner service, I found Ali in the dining room arranging the place settings.
“The family should be back by seven,” she said, wiping spots from the wine glasses with a microfiber cloth.
“Actually, I wanted to ask about the schedule next week. There’s a baking competition in town and I was thinking about entering. It’s about six hours. I could leave right after breakfast service and still make it back in time for dinner. If the family planned to be out for lunch.”
They usually were.
Ali paused, holding up a glass to the light to inspect for more spots or errant specks of dust. “I suppose that’s alright. As long as it doesn’t interfere with your event prep. I’ll reconfirm the family’s plans with Mrs. Hawthorne and let you know tomorrow.”
“Thank you. I’d really appreciate it.”
She placed the glass down on the table and moved on to polishing the next. “Of course, if the family did suddenly come home early, you’d have to accommodate them.”
Meaning drop everything and haul my ass back up the mountain to push out a gourmet meal on zero notice.
“Understood,” I told her, already fizzing with ideas. “Thank you, Ali. I’ll get back to it.”
“Okay,” she said, nodding indulgently. “Off you go.”
Between obsessing about the ramifications of my day with Charles, and wondering how to top a scale model of the Overlook Hotel complete with film-accurate hedge maze, I decided that after dinner service, the best cure for my rampantly accelerating imagination was a night out with the girls. So, I finally took Mia up on her invitation to hang out in town. After dinner was complete and washed up, I texted her and got a reply to meet her at The Goggle, where she was already a few drinks deep with Bea and Delilah.
Entering the bar, I shook the snow from my shoulders and shrugged out of my jacket while I scanned the room for the trio. The place was packed, with sports on the several overheadTVs mingling with the noise of conversation, glasses clinking, and the crack of pool balls in the billiards area.
I quickly spotted Mia and the twins, who waved me over to their high-top table sandwiched beside a group of ski bros playing beer pong on a purpose-built table.
“Look who made it,” Mia announced, kicking out a chair for me while she downed the last of a beer and whistled to an unseen waiter for another. “Finally!”
Her wavy red hair was down and blow-dried, flowing like lava around her shoulders to compliment her V-neck sweater that put her own set of twins on full display.
“Thought we’d never get you down the mountain for a drink,” Bea said, sliding over to make room for me.
“I know,” I said, sitting. “Sorry. My schedule’s a little unpredictable at the moment.”
“What are you drinking?” Delilah said when a young waiter with shaggy hair reached our table with Mia’s refill.
As usual, the sisters couldn’t have been more different in their fashion choices. Bea was rocking a simple blue flannel shirt tied at the waist—clearly her signature—while Delilah wore a pink check crop top and coordinating leggings.
“Shots!” Mia exclaimed, throwing her arms up.
“Definitely not.” I glanced up at the waiter. “Something cheap. Anything but the mulled cider.” That stuff was dangerous.
“Bring her the Face-plantIPA,” Delilah told the waiter.
“I don’t know if I like the sound of that,” I laughed, a little nervous.
“You’ll like it. From a local brewer. Trust me.”
I suppose they’d earned the benefit of the doubt.
“Hungry?” Bea asked.
“Starved, actually. I spend all day around food, but constantly forget to eat.”
“Hazard of the job,” Mia said, nodding. “Not easy being a boss bitch.”
“Let’s do two dozen hot wings, grilled, and some potato skins, please. And more waters all around,” Delilah said to the waiter, who jotted down our order and scurried away.
