“Did you make Christmas cookies with your mother?”
Claire squirmed in the straight-backed chair. She did not want to discuss her mother, nor did she want to volunteer she had attended boarding school in the state bordering Quebec province. “No, but I did bake them with friends.”
“What kind?”
A laugh escaped her at the memory of her inexperience leading to both burned and undercooked treats. “Snowballs?”
“Ah, Pfeffernüsse!”
“Well, these were Italian, and I didn’t really make them…I just rolled them in the powdered sugar.”
“They were delicious, no?”
“Oh, they melted in my mouth.” Another laugh bubbled up. “My friends told all their relatives that I made the cookies as a gift for them.” Her mouth dried. “It was the first time I spent Christmas with a family.”
Sister Georgette wiped her hands on her apron, left her paddle, and sat next to Claire. “How old were you?”
“Seventeen.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. It had been thirty-three years since that day. Strange she shared that memory and allowed this woman so close. But Sister Georgette reminded her of the nuns who’d loved and cared for her.
“What happened to your mother?”
“Oh, I had a mother, but...” She sipped her tea. “She enrolled me in a boarding school when I was about seven. She visited once a year, on Christmas. We had tea in Mother Superior’s office, and the nun did most of the talking. My mother answered all her questions with an economy of words. When Mother Superior pointed out how I embroidered the collar of my dress, or pleated my skirt, or hand-painted the buttons, my mother responded with a stiff smile and, ‘nice’ or ‘lovely.’” Claire ran her finger over the pink roses of the teacup. “I imagine the Christmas teas were as stressful to Mother Superior as they were for my mother.”
“I am so sorry. Your mother lost the opportunity of loving her beautiful daughter.”
The scent of butter and sugar caramelizing eased the ache in Claire, and a melting feeling coated her heart.
“What of your father?”
“I never met him.”
“But you had friends?”
“I had many friends at school. I loved sewing, and I taught the other girls how to make outfits for their dolls, and then we all sewed clothes for ourselves.” Her laugh surprised her. “We had fashion shows for the nuns. I guess our friendships were bonded in our sewing group. But I was the only one to go to college for design.”
“I would have liked to see your fashion shows.” Sister sipped her tea. “What happened to your mother?”
“She died when I was seventeen.” Claire stared at the brandy.
“I’m so sorry. What happened?”
Claire had no idea how her mother had died. Had she been too shocked to inquire? Had she not cared? “I don’t know the details, but my mother appointed a fellow attorney, Lucille, as executor of her estate. Lucille traveled all the way to my boarding school to tell me my mother died. She drove me back to Connecticut and helped me into my mother’s house.”
Claire wrapped her arms around herself. “The house was empty of life. Empty of memories because we’d never made any. And it was so cold. I asked Lucille if I could go back to the convent to be with the nuns for Christmas, as I always spent the holiday with them. Lucille seemed shocked. She wouldn’t hear of mynotspending Christmas with her and her husband and their families, so I packed a bag, and spent not only Christmas Eve with her and Carmine, but also Christmas Day, Christmas week, the New Year, and Epiphany.” The memory warmed her, but a tear dripped, and she swatted at it.
The memory was also like a train, racing ahead and, surprising herself, she got on board for the ride.
“They were so very kind. Carmine made dinner the night I arrived, and it was the best spaghetti and meatballs I’d ever tasted. And then he asked me to help with the cookies.” She looked up at Sister’s beatific smile. The convent kitchen changed into the Marconi family kitchen as she recalled that Christmas. Lucille and Carmine’s arms were wrapped around her. “When we arrived at Lucille’s in-laws’ home, Carmine announced, ‘This is our dear friend, Claire, and she made these herself for you all.’ Aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents all cheered, every one of them hugging me and kissing my cheek.” She basked in the memory of that kitchen, the people, the love. Claire looked up at Sister, wondering why she had trusted her with this memory. “I think I know why you bake cookies. It’s a gift of love, isn’t it?”
Sister nodded. “Your friends gave you a great gift.”
“Many gifts. My first Christmas with a family. They welcomed me, embraced me, appreciated me. I still feel their warmth.”
“Will you spend this Christmas with them?”
Claire puffed a sigh. “Lucille and Carmine sent Christmas cards inviting me and my husband to join them every year, but eventually I lost touch with them.” Why had she lost that relationship? In a way, they were her first family, something she should have nourished. She’d also lost touch with all the girls she’d sewed with at the convent. She would send Lucille and Carmine a postcard. Snowflakes mounded on fir branches outside the window, just as they had in Vermont. “David and I married, nearby here, in Riq—sorry, I don’t know how to pronounce the name of the town.”
“Riquewihr. In the tiny chapel?” Her eyes sparkled.
