Sommerville holidays too

By Vicki Batman

Love blossoms in the small town of Sommerville in these heartwarming holiday tales, filled with fun and forever possibilities.

The Great Fruitcake Bake-off: When a five-time baking champion teams up with her new neighbor for The Great Fruitcake Bake-off, they discover baking a prize-winning entry is complicated, bad guys are plotting to take the crown, and first prize isn't just about a ribbon.

Christmas Romeo: When two feuding co-workers win Christmas river cruises at the company holiday party, they discover each other isn’t so bad after all.

Twinkle Lights: When the owner of a Christmas tree stand has a heart attack, a do-gooder and a reformed high school delinquent turned lawyer meet the challenges of running the establishment; yet, when revenue goes missing, fingers are pointed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vicki Batman
• Release date: Jan 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005494667

Vicki Batman

Vicki Batman’s stories are full of her hallmark humor, romance, possibilities, and will delight all readers. She has sold many romantic comedy works to magazines, several publishers, and most recently, three humorous romantic mysteries. Along the way, she has picked up awards and bestsellers. Avid Jazzerciser. Handbag lover. Mahjong player. Yoga practitioner. Movie fan. Book devourer. Chocaholic. Best Mom ever. And adores Handsome Hubby.

Book preview

Dedication

To Handsome:

Every second, every minute, every hour

of every day.

The Great Fruitcake Bake-off

When five-time champion Samantha Greene teams up with new neighbor, Dixon Roberts, for The Great Fruitcake Bake-off, they discover baking a prize-winning entry is complicated, bad guys are plotting to take the crown, and first prize isn’t just about a ribbon.

Chapter One

I’m not entering this year. I pinned an unbreakable stare on Bethany, my co-worker and long-time friend, who lived in the same apartment complex as me. We arrived early for work and piddled over coffee in her cubical like we always did before diving into the nuts and bolts of company business. Standing firm, I crossed my arms. Period.

Bethany rolled her eyes in the I’m so not believing this fashion and tweaked the Santa garland decorating her cube’s walls. Why not, Samantha? You should be proud to be the five-time winner of The Great Fruitcake Bake-off. You’re a-a—her words trailed off as she searched the ceiling for the ultimate in descriptive—legend.

I twitched my black skirt in place, and then I tucked my shoulder-length hair behind my ear. I let loose a long exhale. Is being a legend in the fruitcake world a good thing?

What’s your point? Bethany asked.

Alright already, it’s exhausting. Finding the perfect recipe, then bake and exhibit it. The tension comes close to killing my holiday enjoyment. Besides—I shoved my finger in her direction—shouldn’t the love be spread around? Shouldn’t somebody else win the Bake-off?

Oh, by golly, Sam. Bethany covered her eyes. A few seconds passed, then she clasped her hands to her chest, inhaled, and composed her annoyance before saying, We’re talking fruitcake here. It’s not groundbreaking like-like the Declaration of Independence. Or the Pyramids.

I set my palm to my breastbone. "I’m shocked, shocked to hear you, my very best confidant since dance school days, belittle fruitcake. It is the cake of all time, dating to—"

I know. I know. Bethany’s chin slumped to her chest. To the sixteenth century.

I raised my finger. It gets a bad—

Rap. She sighed, a soul-searching blow of breath which told the world, I’ve heard this argument before. You always say that. You also always say you love participating; yet, you’re not defending your title this year. Why? She bored a laser-like glare into me.

I tossed my hands skyward, sending a plea to the universe to bring forth an answer. None there. I’ve used all of Grammie’s recipes. I don’t know where to find a new one.

Couldn’t you start over with the first confection you entered five years ago?

I suppose I could. I pulled my lower lip. But in a weird way, it seems like cheating. And I don’t cheat.

You’re a shining example of excellent values.

Bethany plopped in the ergonomic lime green chair and spun about to face her desk. Drumming her fingers from the littlest to the index, she considered. Like a flash of lightning, she brightened. I’ve got it! Why not check online and find a recipe? A new creation to bake. There has to be something somewhere.

They don’t call you brainchild for nothing. A speck of excitement blossomed within me. I can do this one more time, that is, if I find the perfect recipe. I rubbed a finger along the divot below my lower lip. If.

If I’m participating, I’ll need a brand-new fruitcake. I wouldn’t want to be like Crazy Wanda, who enters the same freakin’ lump of dough every freakin’ year.

It never hurts to expand your repertoire, even if it’s by collecting fruitcake recipes, Bethany said.

Then let’s get to work. Propping my hand on the laminated desk surface, I stood by Bethany’s side and studied the screen over her shoulder while she set her fingers to her keyboard.

Bethany started the quest by typing in the search engine Fruitcake Recipes. Pages of alternative recipes appeared.

Wow. So far—she scrolled lower to the page numbers at the bottom of the screen—there are more than twenty-six pages worth.

Surprised, I said, I had no idea fruitcake would be this popular. I thought most people hated it. We can’t go through all of them. Let’s start at the top.

I skimmed the first recipe. Nah. Chocolate chips in a fruitcake… It’s sacrilegious.

You need to recheck your memory because four years ago, you dipped fruitcake cubes in melted chocolate. They were a humongous hit. Even though fruitcake is a Christmas tradition, like most Americans, I hate it, but I tasted your entry. Reminded me of…candy.

Noting my frown, she returned to the listing. Here’s another.

I scanned the recipe. Apricot Delight. Made it two years before.

Okay. Bethany clicked on the next in the queue and squinted. How about—

Brazil Nut Fruitcake with dates and cherries. Baked it three years prior.

Well, rats. Bethany pushed her lower lip into a semi-frown. Isn’t there something you haven’t made?

I crooked my head and considered. There is. Lemon butterscotch grapefruit poppy seed—

You’re making that up.

I twitched my lips. Yup.

Bethany manipulated the mouse to reveal the next recipe.

The word orange drew my attention. What can orange be? Tilting closer, I tapped the monitor. Check out this one.

She opened the file. Huh. Orange Slice Fruitcake by someone named Aunt Nellie.

Never heard of her.

Say… She reclined in her chair and narrowed her eyes into thin slits. After she rolled back her white shirt cuffs, she swiveled from side to side on the tips of her toes. I think I’ve seen an Aunt Nellie on public television. She’s a, a whatchamacallit—a chef, cook, you know, a baker. That’s it, a baker. A famous one.

You watched a cooking show? Notify the press. I giggled. I think my sister gifted Mom an Aunt Nellie cookbook for Mother’s Day.

If I remember right, someone in marketing served her ham and pear puff pastry—

Saints alive! You said puff pastry, I commented.

Puff—Bethany scowled—pastry appetizer at the Thanksgiving potluck. One bite, I died and ascended to heaven.

I snickered. How was heaven?

Bethany clenched her hands in a prayerful gesture. Heavenly.

Ham and pear appetizer sounds beyond delicious. Make it for me.

Ah, but you forget. I’m an awful cook. With a sniff, she reached around me and took a tissue from a box. She pressed it her nose. Allergic to the kitchen.

Bethany was not an awful cook. More like…lazy. Time after time, I heard her refer to her cooking as food assembling. Take-out from Super Saver Grocery decorated with sprigs of parsley seemed to be her favorite go-to meal. Everyone knows you’re the worst cook imaginable.

She sent the balled tissue to the trash can. Gee, thanks.

Now, let’s see if Aunt Nellie has the recipe listed on her website.

A couple of subsequent strokes and we found a listing that appeared promising. Bethany tapped the screen. This one looks like a contender.

I scanned the ingredients. Who would have thought to put candy in a fruitcake? I guess candied orange peel is sorta like candy orange slices. Straightening, I overlapped my arms. Print it, will you?

Bethany clicked a few options, sending the document to the printer. As she reached to snag the page from the tray, she said, Wonder who else will enter? Who will be your competition this year?

Crazy Wanda, we said in unison.

She always does, Bethany said.

I shook my head. She never improves. Does she believe lots of almond extract will taste good? Every year, it’s the same ol’, same ol.

Bethany passed me the printed-out recipe. I know. Maybe her approach is to wear down the judges. Some century, they’ll feel sorry for her and vote her in.

I giggled. More like poison them.

Say, what about the new guy? Bethany shook her finger at me. You know, the handsome hunky one we met by the pool this past summer? Think he’ll enter?

The tall blond with the gorgeous green eyes? I have one word for him—Va Va Va Voom.

That’s four words, rather, four syllables.

You know math isn’t my strong suit.

Yet, you studied accounting, Bethany said, sending us into hysterical laughter.

I sobered to correct her. Not accounting. Finance. There is a difference.

"He is pretty hunky."

Dreamy. Something about the scent of lemon furniture polish reminds me of him.

I like guys who smell like citrus. What if I make a play for him?

From the nonchalant way Bethany doodled circles with her finger on the desk’s tabletop, I knew she kidded me to see my reaction. Tweaking my snowflake pin fastened to my collar, I said what she expected me to say, You can’t. You’re married to Mr. Wonderful.

That I am. With her mouth shaping a self-satisfied smug expression, Bethany wobbled her head. I’ll look, or in this case, smell, but not touch. What about you?

Walking to the office partition, I trailed my finger along the chrome trimming. Why did Bethany assume I was ready to date the millisecond after a break-up? Do you recollect two weeks ago?

Absolutely. My sister’s birthday was two weeks ago. You should remember you were there. She studied her fingernails.

And besides that?

Oh—her hands waved in a dismissive gesture—thaatt. Who could forget The Creep? After the big dump, you sobbed and sobbed like a two-year-old. Affectionately, she patted my arm to convey her support. Just kidding—again.

Overcome with sentiment, I let her friendship fill me, making me feel whole. However, Bethany had a way with words, and the ones she used perfectly described my ex. The Creep—what an accurate label. Or The Liar. Or The Cheater. And FYI—I. Did. Not. Sob.

Righty-o. If you say you didn’t sob, you didn’t sob.

You know I didn’t. I was furious because The Creep was such a jerk. I wanted to kick his keister. With a swing of my leg, I demonstrated precisely how I’d execute the deed kung fu style.

No joke. I’d aim for his VIP areas, Bethany said.

My eyes rounded in a faux shocked mode. Setting my splayed hand to my cheek, I said, I had no idea you were so violent.

You should be grateful the relationship is finito. Standing, Bethany gripped my upper arms, giving me a tiny shake. You know The Creep didn’t treat you special. Shake. Didn’t do the little things like…buy you donuts. Shake.

How I wished I had identified The Creep’s incompatibility from the get-go. Breaking from Bethany’s grasp, I pointed at her. Nor rub my feet. God, I love foot rubs.

She pointed back. Or bring you lunch or flowers for no special occasion.

Exactly. I shrugged and threw my shoulders back like a Marine at attention to convey how I had moved on. A primo reason for why I wasn’t invested too much emotionally.

You were invested in—Bethany ripped a neon orange sticky note off a desk drawer and read—exactly six months, twenty-eight days and forty-one minutes, and you broke up fourteen days ago.

My eyes went wide. I hadn’t expected my friend to memorialize the moment. "You remembered exactly how long The