Ben's Bakery and the Hanukkah Miracle

By Penelope Peters

Adam Bernard's love-life is on ice.

Adam gave up his dreams of professional hockey when his mom died ten years ago; now his only focus is being the Jewish son his dad's always wanted. Problem is, the pee-wee hockey team he coaches is in Boston for an international tourney the same week as Hanukkah. Now he's stuck in a foreign city without so much as a candle. Enter Ben Daniels, the super-cute owner of the local kosher-style bakery. All Adam wants is a chance to celebrate the holiday away from home – but sweet and sexy Ben could light more than just Adam's candles.

Ben Daniels's love-life is on the back-burner.

Ben hasn't stepped on the ice in three years. The official reason is that he's too focused on making his kosher-style bakery a success. Problem is, he's never kept kosher in his life, and internet searches only take you so far.  Enter Adam Bernard, in town for one week only, with all the cultural touchstones anyone could want. All Ben wants is Adam's Certified Jewish Opinion on his sufganiyot – but Adam could be the one to light Ben's desire for ice again.

This Hanukkah, Adam and Ben find their miracles aren't only on the ice.

Their fling was only meant to last for the holiday. But Adam's about to get the chance to rewrite his history – and Ben's dreams of business success are about to come true. Will they be so willing to extinguish their relationship in eight days – or will their Hanukkah miracle last for a lifetime?

Ben's Bakery and the Hanukkah Miracle is a m/m romance with a HEA ending. It features two sexy and sincere Jewish guys, match-making 12-year-old hockey players, and lots of yummy kosher donuts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penelope Peters
• Release date: Nov 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386821830

Book preview

A Word from the Author

In Jewish tradition , the name of GD is never written out in full (if at all). The reason is because you don’t want to accidentally throw out the name if you throw out the document. So often, authors will either abbreviate the name or leave it out altogether. One popular method I saw growing up was to abbreviate the name as GD, and I’ve chosen to use that phrasing here.

Prologue

It was one week after Thanksgiving on a balmy October day when Adam Barnard told his pee-wee hockey kids that they’d been invited to the annual Winter Classic Tournament in Boston that year.

"Do you mean it?!?" yelled Pierre, the smallest and fastest of the boys. Pierre was tiny for twelve, practically dwarfed in his pads and helmet, but lightning on skates.

I mean it, Adam assured him. Pierre let out a war whoop and swung his damp towel around his head in victory.

"Allez les Pingouins!" he shouted to the resounding cheers and responses of the rest of the team. The mix of Quebecois and English reverberated off the metal lockers and tile floors; Adam had no doubt the entire rink could hear their excitement.

Okay, okay! Adam yelled over the celebratory noise. Pipe down, you wildlings, we have to talk about the travel dates—

I think you’ve lost them, said Farida Mansour, his assistant coach and best friend since childhood. She leaned against the wall with her arms crossed, grinning at the boys celebrating in the locker room. Instead of her usual hijab, she’d chosen to wear a pink baseball cap that made her look much less tough than Adam knew she could be.

Yeah, sighed Adam, sitting down next to her. Well, they deserve it, anyway. They’ve worked hard this year.

Us too, Farida reminded him. She yanked the tournament paperwork from Adam’s hands and scanned them. Welcome to the Boston Winter Classic, blah blah blah. Please inform us of your travel itinerary and hotel reservations, blah blah blah. Plan to arrive by December... Farida frowned. You’re coming, right?

It was a ridiculous question, but Adam knew Farida didn’t tend to ask ridiculous things without reason. I – yes? I’m the head coach, of course I’m going.

Farida gave him a hard look. Okay, she said in the tone of voice that said she thought it should be anything but.

Adam didn’t figure out what she meant until later that night, when went to enter the camp onto the calendar in his kitchen, marking out the entire second week of December for the event.

The second week of December was also the week of Hanukkah – and Adam, son of a rabbi, scion of his congregation, once the most religious person in the world of minor league hockey, hadn’t just forgotten.

He hadn’t even realized.

IT WAS ONE WEEK AFTER Thanksgiving on a windy, blistery November day when Benjamin Daniels told his best friend, Sheldon, to mind his own business.

Yeah, see, that’s the problem, Benny, said Sheldon patiently, watching as Ben pulled a tray of cupcakes out of the industrial oven. "Watching out for your finances is my business."

Then you’re fired, snapped Ben. The tray landed on the wire rack with a clang.

You can’t fire me, you don’t even pay me, said Sheldon. "Which is good, since you don’t have any money to pay me with."

"I will rob a bank, and then not pay you."

Yeah, ‘cause you’re gonna need to pay the lawyer who keeps your butt out of jail for grand theft instead of the accountant who keeps you out of jail for tax evasion, said Sheldon. "Look, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news and chocolate sprinkles, but it’s serious this time. You have to make the minimum in December, or you’re going to default on the loan."

Benny sighed and absently started to flex his ankle, stretching his calf muscles to feel the achy burn – or at least, he did until he saw Sheldon’s raised eyebrows. He abruptly stopped the stretch and turned back to the cupcakes. I know. I’m trying not to think about it too hard.

"Just... a couple of poinsettia-decorated cakes. Some Santa-themed cookies. It’s fucking December, you know people are going to buy that shit."

Which was true, as much as Ben hated to admit it.

I have a Jewish bakery, Shel, Ben reminded him. "Just once, I’d like to celebrate a Jewish holiday without having the Christian ones encroach on it."

Says the man who’s had an entire shelf of fruitcake soaking in rum and brandy since October, said Sheldon dryly. Or is fruitcake a traditional Hanukkah treat now?

"I’m not saying I’m going to completely skip Christmas, snapped Ben. I’m just saying – I’d like one week where I don’t have to look at Christmas in my own business, okay? What do you think Mrs. Liebowitz is going to say if I try to hand her a Christmas tree in the middle of Hanukkah?"

"She’s going to say, Yum. Ben, you need the money."

Ben breathed in as deep a breath as his lungs could stand.

He did need the money – and Santa cookies weren’t that bad. He’d done them before. He’d made confirmation cakes and baptism cookies and Easter trifles right along with the Bat Mitzvah cakes and bris cookies and Pesach meringues.

But I’ve never put them on display, Ben reminded himself. They’ve always been special orders. I don’t mind making them. But... that’s not the point. That’s not what I want my bakery to be. I’m never going to be able to afford proper kashrut certification, let alone hiring someone for the sole purpose of keeping everything kosher. But I can at least make sure I’m as close to kosher as I can be, even if I’m only ever going to be kosher-style.

Ben glanced at the calendar. Hanukkah is the second week of December. If my sales don’t pick up, that gives me plenty of time for Santa cookies. And the fruitcakes won’t be ready until then, anyway.

Ben—

Sheldon looked like he was about to groan himself into a puddle. Ben ignored his theatrics and instead started to remove the cupcakes from the tray to let them cool the rest of the way.

That’s my final decision, said Ben. Hanukkah or bust.

Sheldon sighed and stole one of the cupcakes. "Or isn’t the right word," he said ominously, right before he took a bite of the too-hot cupcake and burned his tongue.

Chapter One

On the first night of Hanukkah...

Almost every storefront in Cambridge’s Central Square was decorated for Christmas. Red and green lights hung on each awning; single candles shone from each window. There were holly wreaths on the doors, and some of the restaurant lobbies featured tiny Christmas trees decorated to the nines. There were even gaily-wrapped fake presents featuring bows that never existed on actual boxes intended for someone to eventually open. All it really needed was a soundtrack provided by Nat King Cole and Perry Como to round it out.

Gently falling snow completed the picture when Benjamin Daniels finally came out of the kitchen to open his bakery. It was just a light, puffy dusting that wouldn’t cause any distress in a town known for putting up with a great deal of snow, but Ben was a small business owner in charge of sweeping his own stoop. He found the sight of falling snow equal parts gorgeous and horrifying.

Honestly, it really did look picture-perfect, about as Currier and Ives as they came. Mass Ave in early morning dawn, the falling snow coming up golden under the yellow streetlights, the distant sound of cars swishing on the street, the faint crunch of boots on salted-and-sanded pavement. Ben could even see a group of children playing down the street, their voices and laughter crisp through the morning chill.

Christmas lights glistened in nearly every single window.

Ben glanced back at his own window display, which he’d spent an hour working on the night before. No green and red for him: blue and white lights outlined the window frame. Ben had laid out a glittery white fabric with a shiny silver length of silk running like a stream through the cake stands that would eventually hold the day’s offerings. He’d sprung for brightly colored dreidels of every design and scattered them on the fabric: intricately carved wooden dreidels, beautifully colored glass dreidels, even some of the silly plastic dreidels that Ben remembered playing with as a kid, ones that never spun right and always ended up with nun showing.

It looked dignified, classic, luxurious even. Ben thought it was a cool and cheerful oasis in the sea of green and red surrounding them. He just hoped customers would agree.

The shuffling on the snow grew louder. Morning, Ben! You’re open early.

Good morning, Hank. If you’re here, I’d say I’m open right on time, said Ben, turning to the old man bundled in a heavy coat and a ball-cap marked Security.

That’s the truth, said Hank. You need a coat. You’re going to catch your death, and then where will I get my coffee?

Just unlocking the door, Ben assured him. He held the door open as Hank shuffled inside. It’s really warm back in the kitchen.

Boiling up some bagels?

Among other things. Sure I can’t tempt you with a donut? They’re special for Hanukkah.

Hanukkah already? Thought that was the same time as Christmas.

Sometimes, said Ben, moving to the back of the counter. The Jewish calendar goes by the lunar cycle. So it changes from year to year.

Hmm. Hank peered at the fried donut in the display and patted his somewhat rotund stomach. Maybe next year. Gotta watch my waistline.

Ben grinned at him. Hanukkah’s eight days, I’ll have them all week. Your usual?

Yep.

Ben only caught glimpses of the crowd going by the window, between slicing and schmearing Hank’s morning bagel with butter and jam. Early morning crowds weren’t exactly typical on winter mornings, and this crowd was far from typical seeing as Ben could hear a deep voice calling out in French as a pair of teenaged boys pushed open the door.

"D’accord!" one of the boys shouted back, right before the door slammed shut again. The bell rang out a scolding for his attitude.

Hank went on guard-dog status immediately, watching the boys with a keen eye. Ben wasn’t sure he could blame him; the boys were young, loud, and full of the type of exuberant energy that tended to erupt into broken bones and squashed displays. They jabbered amongst themselves in a mix of French and English, making it impossible to tell if they were excited or just happily insulting each other.

Ben was wrapping up Hank’s bagel when the smallest went up on his toes, resting his chin on the top of the glass display case.

Excuse me, he said in lightly-accented English. Do you have chocolate donuts?

You can’t have chocolate donuts, hissed another boy. You’re gonna throw up on the ice, you idiot!

Ice? wondered Ben, right before he saw the heavy bags over the boys’ shoulders with tell-tale hard edges protruding from the sides. Oh, that kind of ice.

I’m not going to throw up! the boy hissed back.

No chocolate donuts yet, said Ben. But I’ve got some jelly-filled ones.

Where? asked the boy eagerly.

Ben pointed to the top row in the case. These, covered in powdered sugar.

That’s not what the sign says, said the boy doubtfully.

"They’re sufganiyot, explained Ben. They’re a type of Jewish donut for Hanukkah. But it’s the same thing, sort of. These have raspberry jam in them."

Okay, said the boy eagerly. "I’ll have six. Since they’re so small."

Ben laughed. "And I’d give you that many, but I think you really would throw up on the ice. How about start with two?"

Okay, said the boy eagerly.

Me too!

Me too! chimed in one of the other boys.

I didn’t know donuts were Jewish, said the second boy as Ben plated the donuts.

Well, it’s more the preparation, explained Ben. This is a Jewish bakery.

Is that why there’s no Christmas decorations? piped up another boy around his donut.

That’s right, said Ben. Okay, that’ll be three dollars for each plate.

Uh... The first boy had a stricken look on his face. He slid the untouched plate of donut back up on the counter. All I’ve got is Canadian money.

The other boys seemed to be equally frozen. Hank sighed from his post in the corner and reached into his back pocket.

I knew it, he grumbled.

The smallest boy went pale. "Please don’t arrest me! I’m sorry! I swear I didn’t touch the donut! He can sell it to someone else! I’m so sorry don’t tell my coach he’ll bench me for the rest of the week!"

"Bench you? said Hank, instantly on guard. What’s that mean?"

It means we can’t play, explained another boy, looking guilty with jam and powdered sugar all over his mouth.

Play what? asked Hank, still suspicious.

Hockey. It’s a tournament, we were invited special to be here.

Called it, thought Ben, thinking of the tell-tale line of hockey blades shoved in cloth bags.

"Please don’t arrest us, begged the smallest. Our coach will kill us if we’re arrested."

Don’t say that! hissed another boy. He’ll arrest Coach for intended murder!

Ben tried not to laugh. Hank’s not going to arrest anyone, because if he does, I won’t give him any more bagels. And definitely no more than two donuts each for you guys. I don’t want your coach mad at me – or at you.

No donuts anyway, said the oldest boy glumly. Not if we can’t pay for them.

You know what? said Ben. I forgot, store policy is one free pastry to each international customer on their first visit. Well, two for these, on account of them being so small. I didn’t realize you were from Canada, or I would have said in the first place.

Hank sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. Three of the boys looked instantly relieved, but the tallest didn’t look so reassured.

Are you sure?

Absolutely, said Ben firmly, giving the smallest back his plate.

Can we get it to go, please? asked one of the boys. We have to catch up with the others.

The boys grabbed up their donuts with handfuls of napkins and were out of the door like a flash – no doubt hurried along by Hank’s distrustful glare.

Oh, stop that, Ben scolded him. You’re scaring my customers.

They aren’t customers if they don’t pay, said Hank. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. What’d you say it was, three dollars apiece?

Put it away, Hank, said Ben firmly. Store policy.

Hmph, snorted Hank. I know your store policies. I didn’t think they extended to free treats for international hooligans.

They’re kids, Hank. At least they didn’t try to pawn off Canadian quarters on me.

Only because they didn’t have the chance. Hank threw another glare out the door, as if his glare had the power to follow the kids down the street and into their ice rink. Wait until tomorrow morning when they show up hoping for another freebie.

Now, Hank. You know nobody ever expects a second free pastry.

"Only because you hand out so many first. I don’t know how you stay in business, Ben, I really don’t. I swear, it might actually be store policy to give out freebies to internationals, but only because you’ve already given the whole damn city a free donut and there ain’t more of us to take ‘em."

Ben laughed. Got you to come back, didn’t it? Anyway, either they’ll show up tomorrow with American cash in hand, or not. I gave ‘em a good story about their trip, anyhow. I could use the good mojo.

Guess mojo is about as Jewish as donuts, said Hank wryly, right before he shoved a twenty into the tip jar.

Aw, Hank, said Ben, pleased. You don’t have to do that.

No, I don’t, agreed Hank. See you tomorrow, Ben. Thanks for the bagel.

See you tomorrow, Hank, said Ben. If he’d been hoping for a respite to fill the case with more things, hope was dashed as Hank left and four more customers came trooping in out of the cold, stamping damp boots onto Ben’s welcome mat and bringing a rush of chilled, damp air.

Ben put on his best smile. Guess that mojo’s working already, he thought to himself, and got back to work.

THE LOBBY TO THE SKATING rink was only vaguely warmer than it was outside, likely because it was also packed to the gills with people checking into the tournament. Adam left most of the team sitting on the benches outside while he went in to collect their badges and schedules. It might have been cold for Boston, but it was downright balmy for Montreal, and the boys didn’t mind the snowfall, either. They were too busy trying to scoop up enough snow for snowballs to throw at each other.

Try not to hit anyone else, Adam had warned them, fully aware that telling them not to throw snowballs at all was a lost cause. He caught the glares from a few passing pedestrians, who no doubt disapproved of his laissez-faire style of parenting/coaching, but whatever. They were good kids. Most of the time.

Name, said the woman behind the folding table.

Adam Bernard, coach for the Montreal Penguins, said Adam.

The woman scanned the check-in sheet. First time here?

As a coach, yeah. I came as a player ten years ago.

Well, I don’t think you’ll find that much has changed. There’s a cell phone policy now – all electronics have to be in the locker room during ice time, both practice and games. That goes for coaches, too.

Adam was used to such rules, and even understood the need for them. Still, every time he left his phone in the locker room or turned it to silent during a game gave him a knot in the back of his head, a tiny little worry that this time, one of the nurses might have to reach him. Mssr. Bernard, I am so sorry, it’s your father...

Makes sense, said Adam, even though the words grated. It wasn’t as if he could answer in any other way.

Adam Bernard! There you are, I’ve been waiting for you all morning.

Adam recognized the voice immediately and tried not to cringe. The woman clearly recognized it too, given how her eyebrows went up into her bangs. Adam could see how she glanced between him and his papers, trying to figure out how that voice knew him by sight.

Hello, Nilsson, said Adam politely, turning to the suited man who had appeared next to his elbow. Good to see you again.

Hugo Nilsson grabbed Adam’s hand in a shake, pulling him in for a strange, bro-like hug. It felt more like punishment, given the way Hugo hit Adam’s bicep. What’s it been, three years? What’s a guy have to do to get you to reply to an email once in a while? How’s your dad?

Adam’s stomach twisted. He’s fine, he’s doing great, said Adam, feeling the anxiety in his gut. Sorry about the email, it’s been really busy the last few months—

It’s fine, it’s fine, said Nilsson, waving it away. You’re here with your kids, right? I saw tape of the final from last season – fantastic stuff, Bernard, really exciting.

You saw the game? Adam couldn’t keep the incredulousness out of his voice. What the fuck is the supervisor for the Junior Hockey Leagues doing watching the final from a pee-wee hockey game? he wondered – but then, remembering the email, didn’t really wonder at all.

Nilsson leaned in. Bernard. You really think I wouldn’t, when I’ve been trying to get you on my payroll for the last two years? You tell me. You think your kids can go all the way this year, too?

Maybe, said Adam cautiously, but it was hard to concentrate. Dammit – I thought he’d have given up on me long ago. If he’s still keeping tabs on me... It was an older team, though, and a lot of my players aged out over the summer. I’m kind of starting from scratch.

That’s the way of things, even in the big leagues, said Nilsson sympathetically. Train ‘em up and then someone offers more money.

Ironic, thought Adam wryly. Since that’s what you’re trying to do to me.

Can’t wait to see them in action, continued Nilsson. You were always amazing on the ice in person. Would’ve liked to have seen what you did with all that potential – but that’s life.

Thanks, said Adam weakly, just as he felt someone tug on his jacket sleeve.

Hey, Coach, Pierre and the rest showed up, said Tom, one of the older boys on the team. Tom was clearly trying to pretend he wasn’t checking out Nilsson in an attempt to size him up. We checked in yet?

Not yet, Adam told him. I’ll be done in a minute.

This one of your boys? asked Nilsson. He stuck out his hand to shake. Hugo Nilsson. Nice to meet one of Adam’s kids.