His blessing sounded like a soft carol. When he finished, he wished her a happy Christmas.
“Joyeux Noël, Father.” Her wish sounded like an apology for not visiting Sister Georgette.
Claire hurried down the side aisle but stopped before David’s candle. She knelt and watched the flame waver. Returning to his image in her mind, she asked him: Do you know why I lied to myself? His smile glowed with compassion and empathy and love.
Figuring out that part was going to hurt—she knew it.
She rose, blessed herself and headed to the door, just as a tall priest, buttoning his cape, arrived beside it. He smiled. “Are you looking for Sister Georgette?”
She recognized the priest’s voice. Was this man a mind reader? Did he know she planned to do the opposite of what he’d asked? She was a terrible person, lying to a priest. She swallowed her guilt and nodded.
“I’ll show you the way.” He touched her elbow and gently guided her out into the snow.
Chapter 15
Apetitewomanwitheyes bright as a robin’s peered around the massive wooden door. “Père Mathéo!”
“Sister, I’d like you to meet an American who would love to have a chat in English in exchange for some of your delicious cookies.”
The woman brought her fingers to her mouth to hide her smile and blushed like a teen despite her graying hair. “Will you join us, Père?”
“No, I am expected at the stall to sell those cookies for a few hours. Enjoy yourselves.”
Claire’s heart buoyed with her realization that she would not be chatting with two people of the cloth.
As the door closed, the woman’s gnarly hand grasped Claire’s. “Welcome. I’m Sister Georgette, and I’m nearly done with the batter. Won’t you join me for a cup of tea?”
“Thank you. I’m Claire.” She pressed the balls of her feet into the cold stone floor, wishing she could flee. She was barely holding onto her emotions, couldn’t identify all of them, and feared that if this nun was as gentle and kind as the nuns at the convent, she’d no longer be able to dam up her feelings.
Sister Georgette led her to a rickety chair before a long, scarred wooden table laden with bowls of flour, eggs, butter, brown sugar, nuts, dried cherries, apricots, and raisins. A dark brown bottle of alcohol sat in the center of it all.
“Do you like fruitcake?”
Claire’s teeth ached at the thought. She rested her hand on the back of the chair and readied to make a run for the door. “Uh…”
Sister’s laughter tinkled like glass wind chimes. “Yes, I mean those dense bricks of sickeningly sweet glacé fruit studded with rubbery nuts.”
Claire laughed. “No, I don’t.”
Sister whispered, “Neither do I.”
Claire smiled and sat opposite the bowls of dried fruit.
Sister placed a cup of tea before her. “Sugar?”
“No, merci.”
“Where in America do you live?”
“Seattle.”
Sister Georgette washed her hands, dried them, and returned to a huge bowl sitting on the end of the table. “Ah, the Pacific Northwest. I lived in Quebec, very mountainous, like Seattle.” She dragged a wooden spoon, nearly the size of an oar, through the stiff batter. “What brings you to France?”
Claire wished for a cup of the brandy. So many feelings were cartwheeling through her, she feared they’d erupt. The nuns at her boarding school always wiggled out what was troubling her, and that was exactly what this one was doing with her kind voice. Claire didn’t want to have an emotional breakdown with this poor woman. “The Christmas markets.”
“Just magical, aren’t they?”
The memory of the puppet man’s jovial demonstration of the dog brought a smile. “Very magical.”
