Finding old friends
Raucous music blared from the Ipod docking station filling the nearly empty bakery with wild celtic rock music. It had been bouncing back and forth between Flogging Mollys and Great Big Sea for the past four hours as Gil worked along building one of his quasi-famous gingerbread houses. He wasn't exactly sure what it would be when he was done, but that's usually how he worked. He didn't have specific design, but let the gingerbread tell him what it wanted to be. Batches of icing were hardening as he worked the piping hot gingerbread with his bare hands. A pile of gumdrops were slowing disappearing as he popped them as he worked. He had picked up his mail from his PO box that morning and found the letter. He didn't know what he was going to do about it. He didn't know what he would tell Granny. He needed to think.