Things started to feel a bit hectic under the big tent. The crowd of onlookers ebbed and surged at various points, while us bakers darted around our stations, checking ovens and jostling the ever-growing supply of baking sheets and gingerbread slabs. It seemed like we were all quickly running out of space to breathe, much less work. I referred to my notebook for my check list. Every step of this process was meticulously planned and plotted, to make sure I could get everything done in the time allotted, while giving each component the time they needed to bake, set, and cool.
Next up on the list were my copious ornaments that would accompany the primary structure: dozens of green rock candy trees, fondant snowmen dusted in shaved coconut, and an absurd amount of tiny sugar furniture. Just thinking about constructing them nearly made me regret this whole idea.
“Looking good, chef.” Charles approached my station just as I began mixing up a batch of white fondant. “I see you managed to escape after all, huh?”
My exhaustion all but evaporated at the sight of him carrying a brown paper takeout bag and two smoothies.
“Thanks to your sister. Amelia was gracious enough to run interference with your mom. Please thank her again for me.”
“Sure,” he laughed. “When I offer, it’s a conflict of interest. When she does, Amelia’s a hero.”
I rolled my eyes, smiling to myself as I concentrated on rolling out my sugar sheets. “It’s not the same thing, and you know it.”
“Is there anything in the rules that says I can’t bring you lunch?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said, gratefully putting aside my rolling pin. I was starving. “What’d you bring me?”
“A berry smoothie and aBLT. Would you prefer honey mustard or spicy?”
“Spicy.”
I dragged the large, long cooler over from the back of my station and positioned it under the front table, so it was long enough to give us each a place to sit.
“You sure you have time?” he asked, handing me a sandwich and unwrapping his own. “I don’t want to throw you off your schedule.”
I took a big bite, digging in. “I can spare a couple of minutes.”
Glancing down the line, I could see several bakers step away from their stations for bathroom breaks, or to scarf down some quick food.
“So, who’s our competition?” Charles asked.
“Hard to tell so far.” No one had begun building yet. We were all still in the preliminary stages of baking and just getting our odds and ends sorted. “Mia from the marketplace kind of got goaded into a side bet with this guy, Tom—”
Charles laughed, nodding. “Oh, yeah. I know Tom. We all go way back. He’s a pretentious try-hard, who likes to remind everyone how successful he is.”
“Yeah, well, Mia hates his guts. And apparently, he’s brought in some fancy French pastry chef, so the mission today is to just finish better than that guy.”
Honestly, Mia seemed to have beef against all rich businessmen in general. But at least Charles had the good sense to leave her alone. It seemed like Tom was a glutton for punishment. Or else he had some masochistic crush on her.
“Can I see what you’re planning to build?” Charles asked.
“Uh-uh,” I mumbled, my mouth full. “It’s a secret.”
“Come on. Just a little peek. I promise I won’t tell.”
I sighed. Those puppy-dog eyes were awfully potent. And he did bring me lunch. Suppose that earned him a reward.
“Okay, but don’t laugh at my drawing.” I pulled out my notebook and flipped to the sketch page. “I promise I’m better with cookie than pencil.”
He glanced down at the sketch and back up at me, eyes widening. “Woah. Really?” Charles flipped to the next page. “Holy shit, Elle.”
I quickly closed the notebook and tucked it away again to hide it from prying eyes.
“That’s incredible,” he said.
“If I can pull it off. I have no idea how much time it will actually take to put together. I might’ve sabotaged myself from the get-go. But I thought about what you said, about reflecting the town and the holiday spirit.”
“This is a winning design for sure,” he told me, emphatic. “I know you can do it.”
