After years working in fancy French patisseries, Alex Blake thought he was ready for a change of pace with his new independent bakery, but the demands of a small village at Christmas mean earlier mornings than he’s ever worked before.
It’s still a shock when he walks into the kitchen one morning and finds a man asleep on his counter.
Brandon Walker only meant to sneak into the bakery his father used to own to have a look around. He definitely didn’t mean to take a nap and get caught by the new owner. But when Alex asks for help Brandon finds it hard to refuse… it’s the season of goodwill to attractive men, or something like that.
Anna Martin's Christmas story, Let is Sew from last year was one of my favorites so when I saw she had another one coming this holiday season I was all on board. I was not disappointed. Brandon and Alex have this awkward yet super cute first meet and though they have some bumps initially, it's pretty obvious the attraction is there. One of the things I really appreciated wasn't actually involving the connection between the two men, it was how Brandon was okay with his mom selling the family bakery. Some authors might have went for the typical son-hating-the-sale-to-create-drama route but Anna Martin does not and for this reader that was a definite plus. Speaking of Brandon's mom, I love her and though she may not fit the "matchmaker" bill exactly she "dabbles" in it and I gotta love that especially at the holidays.
We Whisk You a Merry Christmas is a delightful holiday tale that warms the heart and puts a smile on your face. Could this story have been better had it been longer? Perhaps. Would the story have benefitted from an epilogue letting us know what Brandon and Alex are up to next Christmas? Sure, I'm all for knowing more with characters I love. Sometimes, especially and most often with holiday stories, an author(intentional or not) tells us just enough so the reader can "fill in the blanks" with their imagination and for me that gives me an added connection to the characters. So frankly and simply put, We Whisk You a Merry Christmas is just the right size and makes for a lovely holiday gem.
RATING:
The walk from the train station to his mum’s house was normally about fifteen minutes, but tonight it took longer due to the amount of snow on the ground. A lot longer. But Brandon really didn’t want his mum driving out to pick him up, not in this weather.
Even if his shoes were wet and his toes were cold and the frosty wind kept getting stuck in his throat.
There was something very reassuring and very familiar about this trudge uphill through the village. Even though it was dark out—it got dark by four in the afternoon at the moment— Brandon was pretty sure he could make the journey with his eyes closed.
His mum still lived in the same house Brandon and his sisters had grown up in; a terraced house behind the High Street that almost backed on to the bakery. When they were kids, Brandon had thought of the alleyway that connected the shops to the houses a secret passage. Along with Saffron and Olive, he’d played many games of Super Secret Spies back here.
Brandon let himself in through the back door because that was just the way things were done. Knocking on the front door was for guests and the postman. And he already knew he’d find his mum in the kitchen, at the back of the house.
“Hi, Mum.”
He shut the door behind himself quickly to keep the cold out, then leaned down and hugged her close, not pulling away until she did.
“I’m so glad you’re home.”
“Me too.”
“Sit down,” she said, ushering him into a chair. He still took his shoes off first and left them by the door, and hung his coat up on the hook. His bag could wait until later. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes, but if you’ve got something you need me to get rid of…?”
That made her laugh. “You want a cup of tea and a bit of cake?”
“Mum,” he said seriously. “I really, really do.”
Letting himself be fussed over was easy. Brandon knew he didn’t come home as often as he should; partly because his mum came into London fairly regularly with her friends and she always took time to stop by and see him. But that meant coming home was always a treat, and despite being thirty four, Brandon didn’t mind the attention from his mum.
Within ten minutes of walking through the door Brandon had a cup of tea and a piece of yule log chocolate cake in front of him. His mum sat opposite him at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around her own mug.
“How’s things?” she demanded. “How’s work?”
“Good. Busy,” he said. “Always busy. How are things here?”
She stilled, and Brandon was suddenly nervous. “Bran, there’s something important I need to talk to you about.”
“Okay,” he said around a mouthful of cake.
“We sold the bakery.”
Brandon swallowed hard. “You sold it?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
His mum squirmed. “August. I’m sorry. I thought you were coming home in September, then you didn’t because of that big contract at work, and I didn’t want to tell you over the phone.”
“That’s okay.” He knew the bakery had been up for sale for a while, but he hadn’t thought to ask if anything had happened. That was probably self-preservation rather than self-interest. If he didn’t ask, he didn’t have to know. “Who has it now? Are they going to turn it into flats?”
“No,” his mum said emphatically. “A man bought it—he’s your age, actually. His name is Alex. He just picked it up and kept going.”
“So it’s open? Like it used to be?”
She nodded. “Yeah. People around here are really pleased, too. Alex is a good person, and a good baker. He’s been able to keep the tradition going.”
“I mean…” Brandon knew he needed to reassure her. Selling the bakery had been a huge deal and had caused plenty of arguments. But his mum didn’t want to keep it open on her own and neither Brandon nor his sisters wanted to move back to Newton Green to take it over. “We’ve known for a long time this was going to happen. I’m not upset,” he said, reaching out to give his mum’s hand a squeeze.
Later, when the cake was gone and his plate washed up, Brandon wandered through the house. He couldn’t help but appreciate that his mum had decorated for Christmas, like she did every year, even though there was no one but her to appreciate it.
Then again, that was probably not strictly true. Brandon knew his mum had a busier social life than he did; she was the treasurer for the PTA at the local primary school, having never given up her spot even after all three of her kids had left. She worked with a local children’s charity too, and volunteered at the food bank, and had been a member of the local Women’s Institute for donkey’s years.
That was part of the reason why Brandon didn’t feel quite so bad that neither he nor his sisters lived in Newton Green any more.
Bits and bobs had been rearranged on the mantlepiece above the fire to make room for two wicker reindeer sculptures that Brandon had bought for her a few years back. In the middle of the two reindeer were a hodge-podge of different school and graduation photos, and in Olive’s case, a picture from her wedding.
He picked up the frame and smiled.
Brandon looked more like Olive and their mum than Saffron and their dad. Both Brandon and Olive had thick, dark hair that got frizzy when it was humid out, and brown eyes that had hints of hazel. Saffron, on the other hand, wore her wavy, strawberry-blonde hair almost to her waist.
Olive was practical, a born scientist, and it made perfect sense that she now worked for the Scottish government advising on climate change. Brandon hoped that one day she’d move back down here, but she’d made a life in Edinburgh with her husband. Brandon set the photo back on the mantlepiece and made a mental note to book flights to go see them soon. Maybe by the time he got round to it, the baby would be born.
That was another thing that got his stomach all knotted up—Ollie getting married was one thing, but having a baby so soon after the wedding was another. Brandon had thought that she would want to wait, to dig further into her prospering career. But Thomas loved kids, and it seemed like he was going to be the stay at home parent when Olive’s maternity leave was over. It was all very 2020 of them.
Both his sisters had big, exciting things happening in their lives; Ollie with the baby, and Saff out exploring the world, and Brandon couldn’t help but feel jealous. When he’d moved to London it had been such a big thing in their family—he was the first to go to university, the first in the family to get a degree, and it had felt, at twenty-two, like the world was at his feet. Having a flat in Lambeth meant he could walk to his job in Soho, if he wanted to, and London life suited him.
Now, twelve years later, the city was exhausting. The past year had been a lot, and he couldn’t help but wonder if there was something else waiting for him. A new relationship, a chance to move abroad and live somewhere exciting, maybe. Just… something.
He got out of bed around three in the morning when he really couldn’t pretend to sleep any more. Everything about being in this house was so familiar, and so strange at the same time. This bed—the one he’d slept in for the last few years before he left for uni—was nowhere near as comfortable as his one back at his flat. Things were quieter here than the constant hum of traffic he was used to; any noise muffled more by the falling snow.
Very quietly, Brandon got up and got dressed in jeans and a hoodie, thick socks, and a knitted beanie hat that covered his ears. He knew how to sneak downstairs and avoid the stair that always creaked, and, leaving everything else behind, he snuck down the alleyway to the bakery.
He didn’t have a key, but there was one behind the loose brick next to the door, and the new owner either didn’t know about it or had kept the hiding place because the old key was still there.
Brandon let himself in and carefully shut the door.
And found himself standing in his dad’s kitchen.
Nothing much had changed, and that was confusing to a part of his brain that knew this place belonged to someone else now. Technically he was trespassing. Brandon wasn’t sure what he was expecting… just… not this. Maybe a new lick of paint, or the old cookbooks on the shelf to have been taken down, or even for the aprons hung on the flour-dusty hooks to be different.
But it was the same as he remembered, right down to the little details, and his heart suddenly ached for all the things that he’d never be able to do again.
His dad had died eighteen months ago, just weeks after his diagnosis with prostate cancer. Brandon sometimes thought it was a good thing that his dad had never really suffered or been in any pain, but losing his dad was one of the hardest things he’d ever experienced. Their family had owned the bakery—this bakery—going back generations.
Brandon had worked here ever since he was tall enough to reach the counters. After school he’d come back and help his mum clean down the shop area and then help his dad set up for the next day, earning his pocket money. His early life had been lived in these rooms, and the relief that someone hadn’t decided to rip it all out and start over sank deep into his bones.
He didn’t bother turning a light on; the moon was bright outside and he could move around in here with his eyes closed. There was a big island in the middle of the bakery that had a marble top—for making dough and pastry and cake decorating. The ovens lined one side of the room, all off now, and the racks for cooling and preparing were filled with the stock for tomorrow.
Brandon moseyed over and had a look. A lot of it was familiar and predictable: gingerbread biscuits, gingerbread cake, stollen, mince pies… no, two different types of mince pies, already filled with glistening, jammy fruit.
He wasn’t entirely sure why he was breaking and entering into the bakery in the middle of the night. There was nothing stopping him coming by in the morning, and if the new owner was as nice as his mum seemed to think he was, Brandon might even get an actually legal tour back here.
But that wasn’t really what he wanted.
When he was really little, and “helping” his dad mostly meant just getting in the way, Brandon would sit where two counters met in the corner of the room, right next to the window. It meant a huge waste of counter space, but it kept him out of the way and meant he had a good view of the tree outside and the birds that lived in it.
For very childish, heartsore reasons, Brandon toed off his shoes and hoisted himself up onto the counter. He closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his knees, and tried very, very hard not to cry.
Alex often thought of this time of day as “ungodly o’clock” in the morning. And he was a morning person.
Sometimes, during the very peak of summer, he would walk to work when the sun was coming up, and that was a nice feeling. He liked the idea of starting his day when the world was stretching and yawning and coming to life with him. Those days were long gone though, and wouldn’t be back for a while yet.
There was something very satisfying about midwinter too. Just not when he started work at four in the morning and at this time of year, put in a solid twelve hour day.
He let himself into the bakery and stopped short.
Because there was a man sleeping on his counter.
There was a man, asleep, on his counter.
A few things flashed through Alex’s mind at the same time: stranger! Thief? Homeless person looking for shelter? Runaway? Stranger!
He froze, entirely unsure of what to do next. But he must have made some kind of noise, because the man looked up, and jumped out of his skin.
“Holy shit!”
“Woah.” Alex held his hands up and took a step back. “Are you okay? Do you need me to call anyone for you?”
“Shit,” the man said again, and pressed his hands to his face. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Alex carefully took a step back, towards the door, just in case the guy turned violent and he had to run. “It’s okay.”
“I’m so embarrassed.” He slid off the counter and looked around for his shoes. “I really am sorry.”
Now Alex could see him better, the stranger didn’t seem so intimidating. He was tall, with thick dark hair, and very deliberate stubble on his jaw. He didn’t look like a homeless person. He was wearing nice clothes and a heavy hoodie.
“I should go,” he said.
“You want anything first?” Alex gestured to the stacks of food. “Help yourself.”
He ran his hand over his face. “Shit. I suppose I should explain.” He cleared his throat. “I’m Brandon. David’s son.”
Suddenly everything clicked into place. “You’re Brandon,” Alex echoed. “Oh.”
“Yeah. I won’t do this again, I promise. I suppose I just wanted to come in here one last time, before….”
“It’s fine.”
Alex really wasn’t awake enough to fully process everything that was trying to find space in his head. It was still so damn early.
“You want a coffee?” he said quickly.
Brandon froze. “Coffee?”
“Yeah. Hot bean juice. I need some.”
Author Bio:Anna Martin is from a picturesque seaside village in the southwest of England and now lives in the Bristol, a city that embraces her love for the arts. After spending most of her childhood making up stories, she studied English literature at university before attempting to turn her hand as a professional writer.
Apart from being physically dependent on her laptop, Anna is enthusiastic about writing and producing local grassroots theater (especially at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, where she can be found every summer), going to visit friends in other countries, and reading anything thatís put under her nose.
Anna claims her entire career is due to the love, support, prereading, and creative ass kicking provided by her best friend Jennifer. Jennifer refuses to accept responsibility for anything Anna has written.
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