MAËLLE #2
Tonight, he was the most beloved person in the room. In the coming days, we might have evidence proving he was a criminal. I couldn’t reconcile the man in the Geneva photographs with the one smiling, teasing, and handing out gifts.
My mother put her arm through mine.
“He waits all year for this,” she said. “Whatever else you remember about him, remember this too.”
“I will, Maman.”
For once, it was a promise that required no lie.
The last of the families left before ten, thanking my parents for their generosity. I tried not to think about how they could afford such extravagances.
Rémy drove my parents and Marthe to the village, and Dagger and I followed in the Peugeot. The air was clear and cold, and the church bells were ringing by the time we parked.
“I haven’t been to church since my mother’s funeral,” he said. “You’ll need to signal me when to stand.”
“Watch the old women in the front row. They always know.”
The church was full and warm when we went inside and found where my family was seated. We sang carols and listened to the priest as he told the story of Jesus’ birth the way his predecessor had told it before I left France, not knowing when I might return.
When the time for communion came, Dagger remained seated in the pew. My mother patted his knee on her way past, then took my hand to join her.
When the service ended and everyone was making their way out, I watched Dagger light a candle, then bow his head and close his eyes.
I had no doubt he was praying like I had that my maman would be here next year and the year after that to celebrate.
And that meant I’d be here too. I had to be. But would he? Why would he?
Our réveillon began when we returned to the house. The food I’d smelled cooking filled the dining table, and after the oysters were served, Marthe sat in the seat reserved for her beside my mother.
Between the escargots and the capon, my father left the room. He returned a few minutes later, carrying a double-magnum whose label had faded with age.
“This is from the year my daughter, Maelle, was born,” he said. “When she left for university, I set this aside, vowing to open it when she returned for Christmas. I had no idea at the time how long we’d have to wait. We missed you, ma chérie. So very much.”
I’d spent my life certain of what I was to him—a daughter instead of a son—and not someone to be missed.
He filled our glasses and raised his to me, and for the length of the toast, I saw him as nothing more than my papa.
Dagger’s arm rested along the top of my chair, and I leaned into him without thinking.
We sat and listened to my father and Rémy tell stories while we finished our meal with the b?che de Noel.
Maman and Marthe laughed at all of them, and I caught myself doing the same.
If only this were a real representation of our family rather than an act we put on for the holidays.
It was nearly three when Dagger and I climbed the stairs. He was asleep within minutes of the lamp going off, and I wasn’t far behind him.
We slept until nearly noon, dressed, and gathered in the salon in the early afternoon. Marthe had built the fire high, and the presents were stacked beside the crèche.
We took turns unwrapping one gift each while everyone watched, then gasped and cheered at each one’s perfection.
Marthe unwrapped her socks, turned them over, examined the seams, and announced that they would do. Dagger smiled as though she’d praised him at length. By Marthe’s standards, she had.
Rémy handed Dagger a flat package with the expression he wore when he was very pleased with himself.
It was a children’s picture dictionary, in French and English, with a cartoon rooster on the cover.
“You’ll need it,” Rémy said. “Maelle argues in two languages and wins in both.”
Dagger paged through it gravely and stopped somewhere in the middle. “There’s an entire section on cheese. This is the most useful book I’ve ever owned.”
While everyone laughed, Rémy looked at me over their heads. “It’s good to have you home, cousine.”
Dagger stood and presented my father with a box. He opened it and removed a corkscrew with a polished handle that looked old enough to have opened bottles before the war. My father held it up for the room and declared that Rourke was welcome every year for the holidays.
Maman’s gift from me was the santon Marthe had helped me choose—a vigneronne, a woman with a basket of grapes on her hip. My mother turned it in her hands for a long while. Then she carried it to the crèche and set it at the front.
“One figure a year,” she said. “For a lifetime.”
Before she returned to her seat, she set a small unwrapped box, worn at the corners, on my lap. It was tied with a ribbon so delicate I feared it would disintegrate in my hand. Inside lay a gold locket on a chain.
“This belonged to your father’s grandmother,” Maman said. “Open it.”
The photograph was smaller than my thumbnail. It was of a woman with dark hair but no smile. Her chin was raised.
“She looks like she’s about to give the photographer an earful,” I said.
Maman laughed, but then her expression softened. “She looks like you, ma chérie.”
I fastened the chain at my throat, kissed her cheek, and thanked her. It was exactly the gesture my mother had always made—the right thing, at the right moment, with the family’s history inside it. My father, beside her, said nothing. Not that I expected him to.
My gift to Dagger was a bottle of wine. “Ravel,” he said as he read the label, making note of the year. Similar to the one my father had opened during our meal last night, this one was from the year of Dagger’s birth.
He held it carefully and met my eyes. “We’ll drink it in May,” he whispered.
The last gift was for me from Dagger. The box he passed to me was small and heavy for its size. I opened the lid and removed the tissue. Beneath it was a serpette—a little pruning knife.
Dagger took it from the box, set it in my palm, and closed my fingers over the handle.
“A perfect fit,” he said, like he had when he slid his mother’s ring on my finger.
My maman gasped. “You remembered the story of my darling Maelle, pruning with a man’s knife,” she said to him as her eyes filled with tears.
“Thank you,” I whispered, because if I’d said anything more, I would have cried like my mother was.
“There’s a condition,” he said. “In spring, you show me how to use it, and if I ruin a vine, you take the blame.”
“You’ll ruin an entire row.”
“Then, we’d best start with your father’s least favorite.”
We spent the rest of the day doing little other than eating and telling stories. Rémy pushed Dagger until he finally told one about his favorite Christmas.
“I was eight and my sister, Alena, was seven,” he began. “Someone at school told her that Father Christmas sees you when you’re sleeping, and my sister decided she didn’t care to be watched by a man she’d never vetted.”
“Vetted?” Rémy repeated.
“She was a thorough child. On Christmas Eve, she spread flour across the hearth for footprints, hung bells on a string across the door, and told me we’d take turns staying awake. I fell asleep in twenty minutes.”
“And your sister?” Rémy asked.
“At two in the morning, the bells rang, and Alena switched on her torch and caught our father, in his dressing gown, filling the stockings.”
“Oh no,” Maman said. “Was she devastated?”
“Not Alena. She used it to her advantage. She negotiated an extra gift each year that she kept the secret of Father Christmas. She even asked our mum to draw up a contract that our dad had to sign.”
“And did he deliver?” I asked.
“Oh yes. He wouldn’t have dared face the wrath of his youngest child.”
By eleven, Rémy had fallen asleep in the chair by the fire. Marthe covered him with a blanket and said her good nights. Maman and Papa followed soon after. Then Dagger and I went upstairs.
I lay in the dark, beside him, trying to remember a time in my life when I’d felt more loved, more cherished, than I had today. I couldn’t recall anything that came close.
“Killian?”
“Yes, mon feu?”
“You told me to ask you on an ordinary day. A day when the ground wasn’t caving in underneath me.” I turned to face him. “Nothing caved in today.”
He drew in a deep breath. “Maelle, I told you what will happen if you ask. I will never let you go. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Oui.”