The man chuckled like Santa himself as he charged her card and tied a ribbon around the box. “Joyeux Noël, Madame.”
“Joyeux Noël, Monsieur.” She picked up her card and the box. “Did I say that correctly?”
“Bien sûr. Happy Christmas.” He rubbed his aproned belly and ho-ho-hoed.
Her water-resistant running shoes slid on the cobbles. The temperature had dropped, and snow was falling. She felt like she was inside a magical toy store. Every window box featured a unique Christmas tableau: reindeer with silver bells hanging from their antlers, Raggedy Ann dolls with red-and-green plaid ribbons on their braids, carved storks wearing red scarves around their necks, puffy gingerbread people and gnomes baking cookies. All adorable, but where did people store all the stuff—or did they keep it up year-round?
Snowflakes drifted lazily, muffling clanging church bells. She’d been happy for the few moments she’d been with the Santa-like vendor, but the heaviness of guilt and betrayal weighed on her. She needed to sit down.
Following the sound of the bells, she came upon a narrow curving street which she followed to a square. Medieval buildings towered around her. A pyramid of Christmas trees twinkling with white lights filled the fountain. A clutch of nativity statues stood in a nook, a soft drift of snow filling the empty cradle awaiting the Christ child.
The tall wooden doors of a church loomed beyond the fountain. She blew into her hands, warming them. She hadn’t been honest with David, but it was time to be honest with herself.
Chapter 14
Althoughitwasasmall church in the old part of town, its carved wooden door was as grand as the cathedral’s. Claire slipped into the still darkness where flickering candles reminded her of fireflies in the meadows of Vermont.
Incense burned the same aroma as it did in America, reminiscent of burning fall leaves. Rows of red and green glass votive candleholders glowed at the feet of a statue of the Virgin. Claire dropped a coin in a metal box and lit a candle in a green glass—David’s favorite color. She knelt, made the sign of the cross. The flames flickered. She whispered, “I pray Luca did not inherit your condition.”
Just to her right stood a confessional with dark red curtains covering the cubicle door openings.
Claire sat on a nearby wooden chair, remembering she felt just as cold in the Vermont church. A brass bookstand and candleholders glittered on the altar, and, in an ornate vase, a bouquet of flowers seemed to be shivering. White lights blinked on the two Christmas trees behind a nativity scene of life-sized statues.
She hugged herself and sighed a puff of steam. She’d come in here to be honest with herself, certainly not to get warm. Despite the kind nuns and all the friends she’d made, she was always lonely during the holidays—until she met David. Now she’d lost him, her job, and possibly her home if David’s estate wasn’t settled when she returned. Who was going to hire a fifty-year-old woman who was obsessed with a life-preserver swimsuit design? The pain she’d stowed in her heart leaked out, leaving sticky guilt in its tracks. She longed to understand why David hadn’t told her about his son. In the deepest part of her heart, she knew he hid Luca to protect her, but that fact didn’t dull her sense of betrayal.
The pain mounted, and she knew she was to blame. Why had she not given him children? Having kids was his dream. But as the years passed, he spoke less and less about them. Until he ceased mentioning becoming a dad. Was that because he had become one, and she didn’t know about it?
An elderly priest poked his head out of the confessional and looked about. He spotted her, smiled, and hooked his finger at her, indicating he was ready to hear her confession. He pulled his head back behind the drape.
The lump in her throat grew larger. Being honest with herself required courage she didn’t have, but she needed to know her own truth. She grabbed the chairback and, checking to ensure no one else was waiting for the priest, she picked up her box and strode to the confessional, pulled open the curtain, and slipped into the empty cubicle.
She knelt before the dark screen, behind which sat a tall male figure. She blessed herself and erupted. “Bless me Father for I have sinned, it has been so many years since my last confession, I have no idea when it was, but these are my sins, I lied—”
“You do not speak French?” The man’s voice was gentle yet gravelly with age.
“I’m afraid not.”
“You are from America?”
“Is that another sin?”
He chuckled. “No. If you speak slowly, I will be able to follow you.”
“Okay.” She made the sign of the cross. “Bless me Father for—”
“You do not have to do all that again. You said you told a lie?”
“A big one.”
“To whom?”
The priests in America followed the Bless-me-Father formula; none asked for specifics. “I lied to my husband.”
“About?”
Claire gripped the edges of her coat sleeves. The truth poked at her like a sharp icicle. “I told him I wanted children. He really wanted them, and I told him I did too.”
“And you don’t?”
