Heidi and Gisele went to bed at the same time the kids did, as they’re still wrestling with jet lag.
“Thomas asks her wherePoocomes from.” Aksel is telling a story about Latika, who’s lying against him, looking amused and content. “She tells him about digestion and toxic waste andshit.”
“Aksel,” Mama protests. “It’s uncouth to talk about…well, you know what.”
My brother ignores my mother. “So, Thomas, our little Tank Engine, considers what she said thoughtfully, and then looks at her and asks, ‘And what about Tigger?’”
We burst out laughing.
Latika shakes her head. “Honestly, parenting is bloody hard.”
Born and raised in London in a close-knit Indian family, Latika speaks with that unmistakable British-Indian lilt and has a lifelong love of Indian street food—something I’ve grown to love, too, thanks to her dragging me through Hounslow forpani puriandtikka chaat.
“I’m looking forward to hearing how you’re going to explain the birds and the bees to the kids,” Aksel teases.
“Let’s not let her,” Freja suggests on a yawn. “Poor kids will be turned off sex forever.”
Aksel gives it a thought. “I’m okay with that for Anika.”
“Men!” Freja grumbles. “You’re such hypocrites. You’d be fine with Thomas sleeping around, but Anika? Oh, no, she needs to stay a virgin and pure.”
“Please!” Papa groans. “Don’t use the word virgin and my granddaughter’s name in the same sentence.”
Mama laughs. “Like father, like son.”
Thegazebo nighthas been a tradition since I was a child; something we always do, snow or shine, during our Chamonix sojourn.
It’s always the same—mulled wine, rum, and cognac passed around in heavy mugs.
Thick wool blankets are draped over shoulders like capes. The fire pit blazing at the center, sending up thescent of charred pine and citrus from the orange peels Mama always tosses into the flames.
That’s Mama for you.
“Smoke should smell like a memory, not firewood,” she says every year. And every year, she’s right.
When we were younger, our grandparents were with us. Aunt Tanya and Uncle Bob were a permanent fixture, along with their son, our cousin, who now lives in Australia and is not always able to make it for Christmas, but we do see him in the summer. Mama has rituals for August, too, but in their home in the Hamptons.
Freja sits up and spears a marshmallow— ours are handmade, courtesy of Chef Pascal—before holding it up over the open flame.
This is ritual as well.
Outdoor fire. Christmas. AndCroque-Nuit—the Rousseau version of s’mores. A made-up name which came into existence when Freja couldn’t remember what acroque monsieurwas and mashed it together with “nuit” because we always made them at night.
Obviously, our s’mores are loftier than the usual, so instead of graham crackers, we use delicate Breton galettes. The chocolate is always dark, always French, always at least 70% cacao.
I prefer the real s’mores, but I wouldn’t dare tell Mama that.
“Isn’t that awfully sweet?” Calypso wonders as Ransom sticks hiss’moreintothe fire.
“That’s the point,” he replies cheerfully. “You’ll love it. Trust me.”
“I do,” she says, her eyes bright in the firelight.
I look away. Talk about torture. This is it. I should’ve found a way not to come—or asked Mama not to invite Ransom.
Right. Because that wouldn’t have raised any eyebrows at all.
I suppress a sigh and tip my head back to look at the stars overhead. They are brilliant, like cut glass flung across navy velvet.
