With an apron covered in flour, I set the book I’ve been down reading on the counter, and pull the pan from the oven. The bakery is filled with the most classic Christmas smell known to man: gingerbread.

Sheets and sheets of it in fact, as they are necessary to my plan. Over the next few weeks, as we lead up to Christmas, I’m going to make the most adorable gingerbread village for the bakery’s display window.

Maggie, my sister and business partner, has told me a hundred times this plan is insane--that as a single mom I have enough on my plate this time of year. But as she sweeps into the kitchen, still practically glowing from her recent whirlwind wedding, she isn’t so negative about my December-endeavor.

“Oh my gosh, it smells amazing in here,” she groans. “Can I taste?” She raises her eyes pleading with me.

I twist my lips into a frown, not wanting to waste a morsel of these perfect rooflines.

“Come on, Greta,” she begs. “You can’t deny a pregnant woman her cravings.”

I scoff, knowing a thing or two about pregnancy myself. “It’s not for eating--I mean it. I baked it extra long so the pieces would be sturdier for when I assemble the walls.”

She groans. “Gah, you’re so lame.”

Laughing, I turn off the oven. “I won’t argue with you there. Look at me, I’m in the bakery on a Friday night, rereading my favorite book for the twentieth time. Not exactly the poster child for a good time.”

“Does that make me lame, too?” Maggie asks. “Because in that case, I’m outta here.”

Smiling, I use a spatula to move the pieces of gingerbread to a cooling tray. “Yeah, you’re lame by association. I’m pretty sure that’s how it works.” A piece breaks as I move a rectangle and Maggie grins like it’s payday.

She opens a fridge and grabs a bowl of cream cheese frosting. Using an inverted knife she smears a hefty layer on the broken piece and moans obnoxiously as she inhales it.

“It’s AH-MAY-ZING, Greta.”

I smirk, and take the knife from her hand, making my own nighttime snack.

“Where are the kiddos?” Maggie asks, chewing with her mouth open like an absolute child.

“With Hazel and Clive. She promised them a movie night, they’re doing a whole sleepover thing.”

“That’s sweet,” Maggie says. “But shit, does that mean she’s a better auntie than me?”

Hazel married our brother earlier this year and she couldn’t have fit in better with our family if she’d been a special mail-order bride. While Mags and I own Two Sisters Bakery, Hazel owns the candy shop a few doors down on Main Street in the Bavarian-themed village where we live.

Finding a distinct, older sister thrill in ruffling my sister’s feathers, I say, “I think she’s in the running. She even knit them gloves for their stockings.”

“What?” Maggie’s eyes bug out of their sockets. Then with a cocky shrug she adds, “Well, I planned on getting them candy. I’ll still win Auntie of the Year.”

I laugh out loud. “You mean candy you bought from Hazel’s shop? I think she’ll still win.” I roll up my sleeves and begin assessing phase two of my gingerbread village. “Besides, you know Lucy and Milo love you to pieces. You were their second mom when I was putting my life back together after Luke died. Even if Hazel joined our family going one hundred miles an hour, you have a pretty good track record, Mags.”

Maggie shoves the mixing bowl of frosting back in the fridge and I look at the time. It’s eight o’clock and I either need a cup of coffee or a glass of wine.

As if reading my mind, Maggie says, “In that case let me take my older and wiser sister out to dinner. I’m starving and Charlie is on a snow shoe thing for the next three days.”

I swallow, whenever I think about Maggie’s husband Charlie or my brother Clive taking people out on the mountain, my mind goes to Luke.

Every. Single. Time.

To his fatal accident. To the night I lost my husband, the love of my life, much too soon. Charlie and Clive were Luke’s business partners, they co-owned an outdoor expedition company. So I can never get very far from the mountain. And truthfully, the fact that I live at the base of it probably doesn’t help. Every time I look up, I’m reminded of what I lost.

“Earth to Greta,” Maggie says looking at me as if I’ve gone to outer space. “Come on, let’s go. You need to eat something besides sugar and spice and everything nice.”

“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “Maybe I’ll stay here and make another batch of gingerbr--”

Before I can complete my sentence, Maggie’s shaking her head and covering my gingerbread with plastic wrap. “No way, you have a kid free night, you ought to enjoy it.”