Aunt Billieâs hand, which she held on to a little bit tighter.
âItâs okay, love. Shhhh . . .â Aunt Billie soothed. âLook!â she whispered a bit too loud. She tapped her puffy cornucopia appliqué. âPretty lights! Like Broadway!â
Â
8.
T he early morning sun beamed its gleaming brightness through the kitchen window, prompting Clara, immersed in the Saturday Chicago Tribune , to switch seats at the kitchen table to avoid a bothersome glare.
âWhat is this, musical chairs?â Leo inquired.
âIs it always so damn sunny in here at this hour?â
âOnly when youâre present.â He buried his nose in the entertainment section. âWhatâs that pasty chefâs name who you love so much?â
âWho? Alfred Guillaume?â
âBingo. Check it out.â He flipped the paper around so that it was facing Clara and pointed to a large black-and-white photograph of the popular French chef, appearing under the headline, âMove Over, Santa. Celebrity Chef Storms Into the Windy City!â
âLet me see.â Clara snatched the paper away from Leo and began reading. She gasped. âWow. Heâs teaching a one-day-only intensive class on advanced gingerbread architecture at the Cooking and Hospitality Institute of Chicago.â
âAdvanced gingerbread architecture ? Sounds like it requires an engineering degree. What is that? Like a Frank Lloyd Wright cookie?â
âIt means constructing houses and other edible edifices out of tasty spiced dough,â Clara replied, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. It dawned on her just then that she hadnât baked a single item since Sebastianâs accident. Although she used to wear it all the time, she didnât even know where her apron was.
âAh, like on your time capsule list of things to accomplish,â Leo said. âHow did you phrase it again? Build a gingerbread house without using a stupid farty kit?â
âSomething like that.â She soaked up the article.
âYou donât hear farty enough these days.â
âListen to this.â Clara read out loud: âReceiving rare, one-on-one guidance from Chef Guillaume â world-renowned pastry master and Oprah-endorsed author of the bestselling how-to book C Is for Cookie, Bitch!â each student will create their own unique, delicious, and 100 percent edible holiday gingerbread house guaranteed to wow even the grumpiest Scrooge. A scrumptious, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity not to be missed! Register now!â She put down the newspaper. âWow. How great . . .â
âDo it,â Leo suggested nonchalantly, leafing through the sports section.
âDo what?â
âRegister for the class. Youâre obviously gaga for Chef Guillaume. Youâre a terrific baker. And the subject clearly interests you. You just said it sounds great .â He gestured quotation marks.
âIâm not gaga.â
âSeriously.â Leo selected a muffin from the breadbasket on the table. âIt sounds like you would really enjoy this class.â
âYes,â agreed Clara. âBut itâs two weeks from today. I have to be in Boston the Friday before for work. Even if I wanted to register, itâs not feasible.â
âSo take a couple days off. Hell, take more than a couple days off. Itâs not as if youâre exactly invested in your career at Scuppernong at the moment. You said so yourself the other night,â Leo reminded Clara. âBesides, Mr. Franklin urged you to take a sabbatical. This could be just what the doctor, or, in this case, The Beer King ordered.â
âYeah. I donât think so.â
âThink about it,â he persuaded. âYou donât have anything else concrete or pressing keeping you in Boston right now. What if you were to take him up on his offer and spend some time back
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