“You!” Gaston ordered, pointing at a gangly teen, sweeping up the bits of powdered sugar and cookie crumbs.
The blood drained from the kid’s face. “Yes, chef?”
“Assist this woman and her daughter. Brigette needs to tend to the cakes.”
“Merry Christmas, Bridget Vixen,” the little girl said with a wave, again, mixing up the reindeer.
“Same to you. And keep an eye out for the Christmas fairies when you’re in Minnesota,” she added, then glanced at her scowling boss before making a beeline toward the back of the shop.
The swinging door closed behind her, but not a second had passed before she was hit with another barrage of people who needed her.
“How many plum tarts for the Holbert order?”
She caught the eye of a young man whipping up a batch of frosting. “Four dozen,” she answered, plucking a tasting spoon, sampling the creamy vanilla confection, then nodding her approval.
“Do you want me to make another batch of the chocolate Bûche de Noel cakes?” another baker called.
She assessed the table, lined with the French yule logs. “Let’s make another dozen. We’ve only got a few left in the case.”
A part-timer waved to her from the back of the kitchen with the bakery phone in her other hand. “Mrs. Miller’s on the line. She wants to pick up her daughter’s wedding cake an hour early.”
Bridget glanced at the clock. “Then it’s a good thing I finished it last night.”
“That’s in fifteen minutes! Are you sure?” the woman pressed.
“It’s ready, and I’ll make sure to greet Mrs. Miller myself,” Bridget replied when her phone pinged in her apron pocket.
“Is that your boyfriend calling?” Della, a sassy sixteen-year-old seasonal hire, chimed from where she stood, sliding a batch of puff pastry into one of the industrial ovens.
“I doubt it. Garrett is pretty busy at the hospital,” she replied as unease rippled through her chest.
When was the last time she’d actually seen her boyfriend?
They’d texted a few times this week, but with work and wedding planning, she’d barely had a second to herself over the last month.
“Dating a fancy doctor,” the teen clucked, but Bridget frowned.
This young lady needed to learn that, in the kitchen, the focus was on the food. Her grandma Dasher had instilled that in her from day one. But it wasn’t a gloomy attention to task that she’d prescribed—quite the opposite. Grandma Dasher believed in the magic of positivity.
Always bake with love.
And how had she infused her confectionary creations with the emotion?
By singing and dancing.
Oh, how they had loved to dance as the sweet scent of a soufflé or a lemon tart lured Lori to join them in the kitchen—especially during the holidays. They’d sway to Bing Crosby crooning “White Christmas,” laughing and twirling in the warm, cozy space.
Bridget schooled her features. “Watch what you’re doing, Della. You do not want to burn anything in this bakery. Especially with chef right up front,” she warned, gesturing with her chin toward the door leading to the bakery’s retail area.
The teen cringed, then saluted her acknowledgment before turning to observe the delicate pastry as it grew crisp in the heated oven.
“And don’t forget to dance,” she added.
The girl huffed as she did a little shimmy, followed by a twirl.“ I know. I know. Always follow Grandma Dasher’s advice. Dancing spreads good karma to whatever you’re baking.”
Bridget suppressed a grin. Her grandma Dasher would be proud. But before she could fall back into her memories, her phone pinged again. She pulled it from the apron pocket, and now she couldn’t hold back her smile.
“I’ll be in the alley taking a five-minute break,” she announced to the bustling staff before heading out the back door.
She sat down on a crate, then answered the call. “Hey, little sis! How’s Colorado?”
“Birdie, Kringle Mountain House is amazing. It’s exactly how I remembered it when we used to come here with Grandma, Mom, and Dad. I can’t believe I’m getting married here! There are so many big changes on the horizon.”
All the anxiety Gaston Francois had whipped up inside her melted away at the sound of Lori’s voice. Her sister still called her by her nickname, Birdie—given to her by her parents, who said when she was a wee little thing, she’d pop her head out of the crib like a little bird. Lori was the only one who called her that now—the two syllables a salve for her heart.
“So, you made it in okay last night? Tom’s family, too?” she pressed.
“We sure did. And the SUV they sent from Kringle Mountain