“Bon.”
“See? You learn very fast.”
She would never tire of his bubbling giggles, so vibrant and joyous. He must have inherited his laugh from Sophie, for David’s laughter was much deeper. Claire opened the menu and held it close to her face. She’d do anything to have David here with her, delighting in this beautiful child. The more she knew of Luca, the angrier she grew at herself for being afraid, and not giving David the happiness he deserved. He should be here with his son. This joy should be his, not hers.
“Onc! We have Flammkuchen?” Luca leaned close to Claire. “Sounds terrible—like it will catch you on fire,” he snatched her sleeve, “but it is like pizza, only better, with French cheese.” He let go of her and smiled.
Her laughter burst.
“But she might wish the specialty, choucroute?” Gilbert asked.
“Oh, no. No, no, no. The flaming pizza sounds perfect.”
Luca slapped his leg. “I knew it. Americans love French pizza.”
Gilbert laughed with her and ordered wine, salads, and Flammkuchen.
Luca lifted the saltshaker. “Le sel.”
She was grateful he started with a word she remembered. “Le sel.”
Gilbert lifted his napkin.
Luca whispered, “La serviette.”
Claire repeated words until the food arrived. Then she learned words of appreciation, like magnifique and délicieux. Wanting no more lessons, she longed to change the conversation. “What did you ask Santa for?”
Luca’s face crumpled. He dropped his fork. Gilbert patted her hand and rubbed Luca’s back.
What had she done? “I’m so sorry. American children—”
“It’s all right. Just a bad memory, eh, Luca?”
He nodded fiercely, as if the action would stop his tears. Gilbert pulled him onto his lap and hugged him. Luca gripped Gilbert’s shirt and buried his face between Gilbert’s shoulder and chin.
Claire’s heartbeat thundered. How could she make this better if she didn’t know what she’d done? Her heart squeezed. She was a terrible person to hurt this child. Shewouldhave been a terrible mother. She should leave. She watched Gilbert, figuring it was grief etching deep lines on either side of his mouth and clamping his jaw tight, like a lock, as he rubbed circles on Luca’s back. Why had she brought up Santa? Was he not part of French Christmas? She’d seen plenty of them in the markets. Whatever the reason, she was sorely lacking in mothering skills.
Luca quieted. Gilbert kissed his forehead and handed him a handkerchief. Luca blew his nose. Gilbert whispered, “Would you like to tell Claire about your maman?”
Luca nodded and looked at Claire. She thought her heart would cleave, witnessing the pain afflicting this joyous boy. Although Luca had handled the news of David’s death better than she had, she now fully grasped why Gilbert didn’t want to tell him. How could she make this better for both of them?
“Last year I wrote a letter to Santa and asked him to make Maman better—she was very sick. But he couldn’t do it.” His cheeks reddened. “Maman said God couldn’t make her better either, so she had to go to heaven and tell God how angry we were. I don’t believe in Santa anymore.” He kicked his foot out. “And I’m still mad at God. You, Onc?”
“Oui.” Gilbert’s voice was gruff.
She cleared her throat. “I don’t believe in Santa either. I just pretend.”
Luca sat up. “You do?”
Claire nodded. “And I’ve been angry at God many times. I still am.”
A quiet calm settled over them like a cloud sent from heaven. Claire wished she knew how to help Luca be happy again. They’d been having so much fun before her Santa mistake.
Luca leaned against Gilbert, breathing deeply. “Onc, can I take the rest of the Flammkuchen home for Remy?”
Claire jumped to change the subject and pretended she didn’t know about their dog. “Who is Remy?”
Luca pulled Gilbert’s sleeve. “Onc, show her photos. Remy, he is our dog, the best dog in the entire universe.”
