The smell of the ginger was incredibly distracting, especially when mixed with Miriam’s skin, so very soft and very near Noelle’s own. The heat of her thigh radiated through her leggings and into Noelle’s jeans. Frosting covered her hands. Noelle was concentrating very hard on not grabbing and licking her fingers.

Finally, Miriam’s leaning tower of cookies had been covered in an improbable number of candies. It was not the scale model of Carrigan’s Christmasland she’d proclaimed she was making, but she seemed content with it.

“This,” Noelle said judiciously, eyeing it with her head turned sideways, “would be improved by trees.”

“You’re a farmer,” Miriam reminded her. “You think everything would be improved by trees.”

“I run a Christmas tree farm. Everything literally is. What in this world cannot be made better by a Christmas tree?” Noelle gestured out the window at the brilliant green acreage.

“I’ve never decorated a Christmas tree. Am I going to get kicked out of Carrigan’s?” Miriam teased.

Noelle almost fell out of her chair. “You grew up spending Christmas at a place called Christmasland.”

“I’m Jewish! And don’t give me that ‘they’re a secular symbol that comes from paganism’ line,” Miriam warned her. “No one believes that.”

“Oh no,” Noelle shook her head, “they’re definitely not. What they are is very, very shiny. You know you would have fun making sure everything is exactly, perfectly placed.”

Miriam ducked her head, but Noelle could see her tearing up a little.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, alarmed. Great job, NoNo, make the pretty girl cry. “What did I say?”

“It’s just…you see my work as art, and you like it. You think it’s important.”

“Your art is important to you, and you’re the person who matters most,” Noelle said, annoyed at everyone who had made Miriam feel inferior. Instinctively, she squeezed Miriam’s leg under the table, and Miriam let out a small and very satisfying gasp.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” she hissed, “or we are going to give our guests more than they paid for.”

Noelle couldn’t stop herself from grinning. “Sorry. Well, not really sorry. You were giving me that look, with those big eyes. What were you saying about Christmas trees?”

“Before Christmas is over, I will decorate one tree,” Miriam said, clearing her throat. Noelle was sad to see the lust leave her face as she composed herself. “I promise. It will be kitschy and garish and extremely loud. And then I’ll probably never decorate another one.”

They did not win the contest. One-hundred-and-one-year-old Mrs. Finn won with a gingerbread Eiffel Tower that Noelle could have sworn was held together with superglue.