“Do I ever,” said Lucy, who had a round face and a shining cap of hair cut in a practical style. She was casually dressed, wearing a plaid shirt-jacket and a pair of well-worn jeans. “It was like biting into a little piece of heaven.” She paused and sipped her coffee. “Whatever happened to her?”
“She moved away, to North Carolina, I think,” said Sue, who provided an elegant contrast to her friend in her hand-knit designer sweater and tailored flannel slacks. “And that’s exactly my point. A lot of the old regulars have moved away. And things have changed. Getting together to compare recipes and swap cookies isn’t as appealing as it used to be.”
“It is to me,” said Lucy. “I’ve still got a family to feed, and they don’t think it’s Christmas without cookies. Lots of different kinds. I don’t have time to bake five or six batches. And to be honest, I don’t want to have that many cookies around the house.” She bit her lip. “Too much temptation. Too many calories.”
“I know,” Sue said with a sigh. “With the exchange you just had to bake one double batch.”
“But you ended up with twelve different kinds, a half dozen of each.” Lucy started counting them off on her fingers. “Your pecan meltaways, my Santa’s thumbprints, spritz, gingerbread men, Franny’s Chinese-noodle cookies, shortbread, and Marge’s little pink-and-white candy canes….”
“Marge probably can’t come this year,” said Sue, with a sad shake of her head. “The lumpectomy wasn’t enough, and they’ve started her on chemotherapy. She feels lousy.”
“I hadn’t heard,” said Lucy, furrowing her brow. “That’s too bad.”
“I thought you newspaper reporters thrived on local gossip,” teased Sue, referring to Lucy’s part-time job writing for the weekly Pennysaver.
“Actually, I’m so busy covering historic commission hearings and stuff like that, I never have time to call my friends.” She smiled at Sue and glanced around at the restaurant, which was festively decorated with artificial pine garlands, ribbons, and gold balls. “This is fun—we don’t get together enough. So what else is new? Fill me in.”
“Have you heard about Lee?”
“Lee Cummings? No. What?”
“Well,” began Sue, leaning across the table toward Lucy, “she and Steve have separated.”
“You’re kidding.” Lucy was astonished. Lee and her husband, dentist Steve Cummings, had seemed a rock-solid couple. They went to church together every Sunday, and Steve had coached his daughter’s T-ball team.
“No.” Sue’s eyebrows shot up. “Apparently Steve is finding marriage too confining. At least that’s what Lee says.”
“She tells you all this?”
“Oh, yes. And more. Every morning when she drops Hillary off at the center.” Sue directed the town’s day-care center, located in the basement of the recreation building. “It’s all she can talk about. Steve did this. Steve did that. His lawyer says this. My lawyer says that. The latest is who’s going to get the stove.”
“They’re arguing over the stove?”
“I think it’s a Viking,” explained Sue, with a knowing nod. “But that’s just the beginning. They’re also fighting over the books and the CDs and the china and the stupid jelly glasses with cartoon characters.”
“So you think they’re going to get a divorce?”
“It sure looks that way.”
“And that’s all she talks about?”
“Yeah. And if I have the cookie exchange, I’ll have to invite her, and if she comes, she’ll turn the whole evening into a group-therapy session. Trust me on this.”
“I can see that’s a problem,” admitted Lucy, picking up the check. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.”
Leaving the restaurant and entering the shopping area, the two friends joined the throng that was flowing past the gaily decorated craftsmen’s booths. It was crowded, but people were in good humor, aided by the Christmas carols playing on the sound system.
“Tra la la la la, la la la la!” warbled Lucy, unable to resist singing along. “Isn’t it nice to hear the carols? They always take me back to my childhood.”
“You’ll be sick of them soon enough,” grumbled Sue. “You know which one I hate? That one about the little drummer boy. Talk about insipid!”
“You’re really having an attack of Grinchitis, aren’t you?” asked Lucy, stepping into a booth filled with baskets of potpourri. “Look at these,” she said, picking up a package of three padded hangers. “And they smell so good. Do you think Bill’s mom would like them?”
“Sure.”
“Are they enough? It’s kind of skimpy for a Christmas present.”
“Add some drawer paper, or sachets,” suggested Sue, as a smiling salesclerk approached.
“They’re handmade, and filled with our unique blend of potpourri,” said the clerk, with an encouraging nod.
Lucy examined the price tag, and her eyes grew large.
“I don’t know,” she said, hesitating. “What if the scent clashes with her perfume?”
“You wouldn’t want that,” agreed Sue, who loved to shop but rarely paid full price, preferring to keep an eye out for sales. She could spot a markdown a mile away.
Lucy gave the clerk an apologetic little smile, and the two left the stall. In the walkway outside, Lucy grabbed Sue’s arm.
“Did you see the price?” sputtered Lucy. “Thirty-five dollars for three hangers. I can’t afford that.”
“You’re not the only one,” said Sue glumly. “I don’t think this is going to be a very happy Christmas season. Money’s too tight.”
“Isn’t it always this time of year?”
“This year’s worse,” said Sue, pausing to examine some hand-crafted wooden picture frames. “I’ve never seen it so bad. I’ve already gotten a restraining order, and it’s only Thanksgiving.”
“Restraining order?”
“Yeah. The moms at the center get them when the dads and boyfriends start acting up. There’s always one or two during the holidays, but I’ve never had one quite so early.”
“But the economy’s supposed to be booming.”
“Not for some of the families using the day-care center. I keep hearing about the lobster quota.”
“The state had to do that, or there won’t be any lobsters left,” said Lucy. “They have to protect the breeding population. I wrote a story about it for the paper.”
“I know,” agreed Sue, replacing the frame and moving on to the next booth. “But a lot of people in this town depend on lobsters for a living. They’re really taking a hit.”
“Hi, Franny!” exclaimed Lucy, waving to the woman in the next booth. “I didn’t know you’d gone into business.”
Franny Small, a fiftyish woman with tightly permed hair, beamed at them proudly from behind a display of jewelry.
“Well, you know, the hardware store finally closed—couldn’t compete with that new Home Depot. I was cleaning out the place, and I didn’t know what to do with all the bits and pieces—you know nuts and bolts and stuff like that—and