A Winter's Tale

Gingerlady Luck

Gingerlady Luck

Several Days Later, 8 am, En Route and Within Café SM, Spruce Hill Village

Treat her like a colleague. Her older sister's words echoed in her head as she trudged to her café, braving the December winds to bring a bevy of mixed beverages to her fiercely loyal customers, a handful of which had already lined up at the pine-wreathed door.

"Morning, Celeste," she called out to an older woman, her short curly hair lined with silvery grey strands.

"Is it?" came the sarcastic reply. "Had no idea," as Mel, rolling her eyes, unlocked the door, allowing her clientele to stream through while she unwrapped her own scarf and jacket, draping them over a nearby coat hook. Dark coffee, no sugar, a pinch of Splenda, and a shot of cinnamon to keep the circuit court judge on her septuagenarian toes.

8:10 am, Café SM, Spruce Hill Village

"Your usual," Mel handed the piping hot beverage to Celeste who gave a curt nod of approval.

"Change is for the young—no pleather nonsense—no boozy whatsits—I like my drinks how I like my soul—dark, snappish—"

And extremely bitter, Mel mused to herself, biting back a smile as she prepared her cappuccino machine for an influx of Italian tourists, eager to see the trappings of a real American Christmas village. Amaretto and tiramisu syrups at the ready.

8:58 am, Café SM, Spruce Hill Village

Once the early morning crowd had departed, she checked her phone's calendar and realized it was time to order her annual holiday gingerbread from her local wholesaler. After dialing, she burst into full conversational ease—"oh hi, Charity!—not much, quiet day, yours? Right, yeah, so, just calling about my yearly order, organic vegan gingerbread, the usual—"

Mel's mouth dropped in horror. "Wait—what? A shortage? B-but—how?" She began pacing, running her fingers through her hair. "Ok, I know it's not company policy to divulge your other clients—but—" she grumbled under her breath, as she continued listening to the opposite line, knowing she was being fed empty promises of "it's only temporary," and a conciliatory "I'll put you on backorder—" quickly hanging up after a quick, business-like goodbye.

My order's been cancelled, Mel realized in shock.

Great. Now what? Massaging her temple, she took a few deep breaths, a silent concession to her youngest sister Maggie, who often worried about the tension and stress her middle sister often carried upon her shoulders.

How would she create her signature Gingerlady latte...without Charity's gingerbread? Or her usual Gingerbread cupcakes?

Sourcing someone else this time of the holiday season was impossible due to having to compete with waiting lists and decades-long baker-to-shopowner friendships. To make things even more complicated, her commitment to local businesses—in this case, the gingerbread sort, meant it was Charity's gingerbread, or nothing.

Mel quickly did the math. Perhaps, if she sacrificed her cupcakes, and went with Gingerlady lattes instead, she could use less gingerbread. As for sourcing said gingerbread, she could take a risk and make her own, using Marisol's old cookbook stowed in Vera Manor's attic. It was worth a try, right?

9:30 am, Café SM, Spruce Hill Village

Mel turned around, having heard the door open and shut. "Macy, what's up?"

Her oldest sister, curls surrounding her visage akin to a halo, smiled apologetically. "Can I borrow your fancy printer again? Got a presentation in a few..." Mel nodded, and Macy walked toward the back, in the general direction of the oversized printer. After fifteen or so minutes passed, she returned, stacks of meticulously-stapled papers in hand. "You're a lifesaver."