Claire nodded. “On Christmas Eve.”
“Where is your husband?”
An ache pierced Claire. “He passed…six-, no, seventeen months ago.”
Sister’s hands gentled Claire’s.
The ache in Claire’s heart cracked open. Tears tumbled, and she let them roll down her cheeks.
“You’ve suffered so many losses.” Sister offered a paper napkin.
Claire accepted the napkin and blew her nose. “Father Matéo sent me to speak English with you, and here I am crying.”
“We’re speaking English, aren’t we?” She reached for the bottle. “Would you like a brandy?” She poured it into Claire’s teacup.
“You drink while you bake?”
“Oh, heavens, no. I soak the dried fruit in it and pour the remainder into the batter.” She poured a splash for herself and held up her teacup. “Brandy is the only good thing in fruitcake, so I borrowed that ingredient for the cookies.” She giggled like a teenager and clinked her teacup against Claire’s.
“May I try one?”
“Certainly.” Sister retrieved a brown box tied with red-and-white twine and placed it before her. “For you.”
“Merci.” Claire opened the box, and the aroma of cinnamon swaddled her. She plucked up a lumpy golden-brown cookie and took a tiny bite. Nutmeg and cinnamon teased her tastebuds, and the crumbly dough melted on her tongue. “It’s light as an angel. The dates are the silkiness?”
Sister nodded.
Claire took another bite. Chewed a soft raisin, hinting brandy. “The slight tang of apricot, tart fresh cranberry, rich dark cherry, a nuttiness.” She rolled her tongue, chasing a hint of spice—cloves. She swallowed. “This is the most delicious cookie I’ve ever tasted.”
Sister Georgette’s face glowed. “I’ve been working on the recipe for more than thirty-five years. I’m so glad you like them.”
“But cranberries are North American. And they are such a surprise. Just when you think you’ve tasted something tart, the taste flees, and you must take another bite to find the tartness again.”
Her tinkling laugh was like a silver bell. “We had them in Quebec. I must order them here.”
Claire reached for another cookie. “How do you make them so light with all the fruit and nuts in them?”
“The egg whites and baking soda are doing their jobs.” She looked deeply into Claire’s eyes. “You have a remarkably sensitive palate.”
“My husband trained me. He studied as a sommelier. If you can taste things in wine, you can taste them in food, even in the air.” Claire took another cookie and offered one.
“Oh, no. I’ve become inured. I’ve been baking since the beginning of November, and I think I’ve begun to smell like them. I’ll get a craving for them around Easter.”
They laughed together.
“That’s not such a bad thing,” Claire said. “May I buy a box?”
Sister put her hands up. “That is my gift to you.”
“I mean I’d like to buy another box…for the owners of my hotel. They’ve been keeping an eye out for me, and I’d like to bring them a gift.” She thought that was a plausible excuse. She couldn’t tell Sister she hoped to give the cookies to the uncle of her husband’s son.
“I’ll take you to the stall where the Sisters sell them. It’s right outside the back of the church.”
This kind woman mothered her as the nuns of her childhood had. Claire didn’t want to lose contact with Sister Georgette, as she had with Lucille. “May I come back, before I return to the States, and visit you?”
“You are always welcome here.” She sat next to Claire. “Before you leave, may I give you a blessing?”
Tears threatened, but Claire bowed her head and held her hand.
