The kitchen is a mess. Gingerbread pieces litter the counter. My fingers are sticky with icing that has the structural integrity of wet tissue paper. And the house, if you can call it that, lookslike it survived a category five hurricane and is one strong breeze away from total collapse.
One wall keeps sliding off. The roof refuses to stay on. And the whole thing leans to one side like the Tower of Pisa’s uglier, cookie-based cousin.
“Why won’t you just stay together?” I groan at it, holding two walls in place while waiting for the icing to set.
The moment I let go, the front wall slides off again, taking half the roof with it.
I glare at the gingerbread wreckage. The pictures on the box made it look so easy. “Put icing on edges, hold for thirty seconds, release.” What they didn’t mention was that those thirty seconds are apparently just long enough to give you false hope before everything falls apart.
Half the candy has been eaten directly from the package because, as it turns out, constructing a gingerbread house alone is surprisingly stressful.
“That’s it,” I announce to the empty kitchen. “I need reinforcements.”
I’m out of candy canes, low on icing sugar, and my patience has run out.
A trip to town seems in order. Fresh air might clear my head, and I can stock up on supplies and start over again.
I pull on my boots and coat and head out into the snow, purposely leaving my phone on the nightstand. The air is crisp, so cold it burns a little with each breath, but it feels cleansing somehow.
Snowflake Valley’s main street is a Christmas dream. Storefronts are draped with twinkling lights, wreaths on every door, and soft music playing from speakers mounted on lampposts. People mill about, shopping bags in hand, greeting each other with the easy familiarity of small-town life.
A woman with silver-streaked hair wearing a white jacket waves as she passes. “Hello there, dear! Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
I blink in surprise. I didn’t even make eye contact with her. In the city, that would be an invitation for someone to try to sell you something, or worse.
“Um, yes. It’s lovely,” I manage to reply before she passes.
I stop to admire a window display of handcrafted ornaments, only to remember that breakfast was just that single cold pancake hours ago, and my gingerbread disaster consumed the rest of my morning.
I spot Mistletoe Bakery across the street, its windows fogged with condensation from the warmth inside. A hand-painted sign advertises “Candy Cane Scones—Limited Time Only!” My stomach rumbles in enthusiastic approval.
Icing sugar can wait.
Scones are clearly the priority here.
As soon as I walk in, I’m enveloped in a cloud of buttery, sugary warmth. Christmas music plays softly overhead, something jazzy and low-key. The bakery smells like heaven distilled into desserts: vanilla, cinnamon, chocolate, and something minty, which must be those candy-cane scones.
Glass cases display rows of pastries, each looking more delicious than the last. Gingerbread cookies stand at perfect attention, their icing details immaculate and, I note with a touch of bitterness, completely intact.
“Be with you in just a minute!” calls a harried voice from somewhere in the back.
“No rush,” I call back, content to breathe in the intoxicating aromas while I wait.
The candy cane scones catch my eye immediately, swirled red and white with a glossy sugar glaze that makes my mouth water. Beside them sit plump cinnamon rolls dripping with icing, chocolate croissants with their flaky layers visible eventhrough the glass, and an array of cookies decorated with such precision they look too perfect to eat.
I narrow my eyes at a tray of gingerbread houses: miniature versions, but still standing tall and proud without a hint of structural failure.
A plump woman emerges from the back room, wiping her hands on her apron. Her curly hair is pulled back in a messy bun with several strands escaping, and dark circles under her eyes suggest she hasn’t slept properly in days. Despite this, her smile is genuine as she approaches the counter.
“Sorry about that,” she says. “Holiday rush is no joke. What can I get for you today?”
“One of those candy cane scones, please,” I say, pointing to the display. “And a cup of Reindeer Fuel, extra whipped cream. And maybe your secret for making icing that actually works.”
She laughs, the sound brightening her tired face. “That last one’s gonna cost you extra.” She moves to pour the coffee. “You visiting? Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”
“Just here for the holidays. I rented the Grand Cabin at Perfect Pines.”
Her eyes light up with recognition. “Oh! You’re Everett’s guest.” She winks conspiratorially. “Some customers were talking about you yesterday. Something about the mayor and a llama?”