Page 58
—A Christmas Story
Before the sun rose Sunday morning, Nona, arms full of materials from The Market for the annual Gingerbread House Contest, knocked on our door. Leo had already been awake for over an hour, too excited to sleep and desperate to get started on our contest entry. This was his favorite part of Mullings Creek’s Holly Days—probably because of the sneaking of treats while we constructed our design rather than the competition part.
“Buongiorno, my dears,” Nona said, giving us each a kiss on the forehead before heading to the kitchen to lay the supplies on the table. “Can you two carry in the gingerbread? It’s in the crate in the back of my car.”
“On it,” Leo said before practically springing through the front door and leaping off the front porch, then he stumbled onto the sidewalk in his boots.
“So will James be joining us today?” Nona asked from the kitchen.
I slipped back into my boots. “No, he’s going to be doing an entry with his dad, actually.”
“Interesting.” Nona rummaged through one of our drawers. “Donna said she saw you and Sam last night at the diner.”
My finger froze on the doorknob.
Did she see the moment with the earmuffs before we left?
Then again, could we really even call it a moment?
I made my voice as casual-sounding as possible. “We eat there all the time.”
Nona’s head popped out of the kitchen. “I’m just surprised you ate there with him, when you’re dating that other person—”
“James. And it was one date,” I corrected. “You literally just asked about him, Nona. You know who he is.”
“I’m just making sure you do, too.” She shrugged before disappearing back into the kitchen.
My God, that woman is going to give me an ulcer before I’m twenty.
After Leo and I carried the large gingerbread house into our kitchen, we stepped back with Nona and started brainstorming our design. Every competitor received the same basic house structure, since not everyone had the time or money to make their own gingerbread. We were also allowed to use any of the candies and supplies laid out in The Market with the houses, but we had to use our own frosting, which was where Nona famously came in.
“I feel like we should do something different this year,” I said, tying my apron around my waist. “But I’m not sure what.”
Leo cocked his head from side to side and then clapped his hands. “I got it!” He hurried closer to the table and crouched down next to the house. “What if we make ours The Market and add some of the other fun stuff from town around it?”
“That’s perfect.” I hugged him and then folded his apron down so it wouldn’t loop behind his neck—he hated that feeling—before tying it around his waist.
“Nona, can you make—”
“Red frosting for the poinsettias and wreaths and green for the roof? I’m on it,” she replied, already dumping powdered sugar into a mixing bowl—no measuring necessary when Nona was in charge.
Leo and I began sorting the candy into different piles, taste-testing for quality purposes as we went. We pulled gumdrops to line the roof, Pull ’N’ Peel Twizzlers to line the windows, and candy-coated chocolate chips for the walkway.
Leo then grabbed a box of Rice Krispies cereal and a bag of marshmallows. “Let’s mix these to make our Christmas trees and barrels.”
“You are a genius!” I grabbed a stick of butter from the fridge to melt before we’d add the marshmallows.
A couple of hours later, with our mouths and fingers sticky from the marshmallow treats, Leo and I had finished molding our barrels and Holt Christmas trees for outside our gingerbread Market. Nona had successfully tweaked her recipe so that the icing would harden faster, which she then cut out into the shapes of the shutters and metal sheets for the roof. I piped white frosting onto the top of the gable, and Leo pressed the gumdrops into it, creating a pattern of green, white, and red.
Nona always said Italians were meant to celebrate Christmas in a big way, since our flag had the same festive colors.
While we separated the Twizzlers into smaller ropes to outline the windows and shutters, the doorbell rang. Leo hurried to answer it, and a moment later he was followed into the kitchen by Sam.
“Smells amazing in here,” he said, taking off his gloves and then his beanie, which had made his hair stick up at all angles.
My heart skipped a beat at the messiness of it and the brightness of his eyes before I forced it to chill out.
He is your friend, Gianna.
