1
Geneva is a dream at Christmastime. The end of November ushers in crisp blue skies, brisk alpine winds tinged with the hint of snow sweeping down the white-capped mountains, and the opening of the Christmas markets.
The old sophisticated city adopts an air of childlike glee. Glowing lights, evergreen wreaths, and garlands wind along the cobbled streets of Old Town, eclectic Carouge, and the Marché de No?l. The Christmas markets sparkle through the city and on the shores of the lake. Little wooden stalls dot the markets, brimming with the tempting cinnamon-and-clove scent of vin chaud. The mulled wine mixes with smells of fresh gingerbread and roasting chestnuts. There’s even skating in Parc des Bastions, where Mila and I grip mittened hands as we glide across the ice under the starry night sky.
On the weekend after the eleventh of December, Mila, Daniel, and I celebrate the fête de l'Escalade. In 602 our Genevois ancestors defended the city and Mère Royaume threw her boiling cauldron of soup on the invaders.
So we join hands and chant, “Ainsi périrent les ennemis de la République.” Thus perished the enemies of the Republic!
And then we lift our joined hands and smash a giant chocolate cauldron and cheer as marzipan vegetables and candies spill out. Daniel steals all the marzipan, chortling about younger brother rights, and Mila gobbles up the chocolate.
On a windless, moonlit night, Mila and I glide across the lake on a cruise, snug under wool blankets, warming ourselves with endless pots of bubbling cheesy fondue gathered on chewy squares of freshly baked bread.
At Christmastime there are lights, there are carols, and there is the most important tradition of all—the Abry Christmas Eve Gala.
This is the one hundred and fiftieth Christmas Eve Gala that my family has hosted, so of course, it’s a big deal. In fact, Daniel has hounded the marketing team, the events team, and the public relations team for the past year to make sure this gala is one that will go down in history.
The chateau, which is drafty and imposing on the warmest summer day, is lit up like a Christmas tree. The soft glow of thousands of lights twirl around the stone towers and span the steepled roof, transforming the harsh stone into a welcoming Christmas wonderland.
The chateau lights reflect in the black waters of the lake and brighten the night sky. I glance out my second-story bedroom window at the long drive below, watching a line of chauffeur-driven Rolls and Benzes snake along the lantern-lit driveway.
The gala has begun.
“Can you help with my clasp?” I ask Mila.
I shove aside my thick hair, brushing it over my shoulder. It’s auburn, tending toward mulled-wine red, and it’s my most identifiable feature. My eyes are a forgettable hazel, my pale skin is typical of the easily burned, and I’m taller than average, thin. Not because I exercise, but because I’m so busy I often forget to eat. I learned a few years back that if I want to eat I have to schedule a fifteen-minute block in my calendar. Otherwise my mealtimes are gobbled up by more urgent matters.
“I quite like this necklace,” Mila says, sounding very grown-up for an eight-year-old. This isn’t surprising though. I often think Mila was born grown-up.
“Do you?” I touch the cool gold links and the ruby and emerald stones. Max gave it to me as an early Christmas present and asked me to wear it to the gala.
A strange flutter kicks around my stomach as I think about the directness of Max’s gaze when he asked me to wear his gift.
“Uh-huh. I helped Max pick it out. Of course I like it.”
She manages to finally link the clasp, and the stones settle over my collarbone. They’re cold and heavy.
“I didn’t know that.”
She nods, but she’s already moved on from the thought of Max and necklaces. She skips across the bedroom, pirouetting around the gold satin ottoman, dancing past the walnut armoire, avoiding my pile of heels by the walk-in closet, and landing at the curtained window to peer at the arriving guests downstairs.
There are women in luxurious furs and long formal dresses, jewels glistening in the Christmas lights. Men in tuxes and top hats, their coattails blowing in the wind. Couples young and old. Dignified and not. Outrageous and staid. Old wealth and new. Politician and artist. Friend and foe. All gathered together to celebrate the season.
This is Mila’s first gala. I went to my first gala at eight and now she will too. She’s in an icicle-white dress flecked with strands of gold and silver. It poufs around her like the snowflake of a ballerina’s skirt. My heart squeezes at the way she clutches the skirt in her hands and absently swings the fabric back and forth as she stares out the window.
I smile at her reflection in the glass and the little puckered line between her brows.
Her hair is bright, holly-berry red, and her cheeks are covered in freckles. I think she has freckles to remind her that life doesn’t always have to be serious.
I imagine it’s the same reason my mum named me Moonbeam Clover Fiona Abry. I must’ve been born serious too, and my mum, being my mum, decided to do something about it.
I have to admit, her strategy worked. You have to acknowledge that life can tend toward the absurd when you’re handed a name like that.
At age eight I declared I would only answer to Fiona.
Moonbeam and Clover were no more.
As of now, Mila has yet to disown her much-bemoaned freckles. Maybe it’s because Daniel has freckles too. Granted a lot less, but that’s beside the point.
I lean into the mirror of my dressing table and apply a final coat of wintry red lipstick. It matches the deep burgundy of my floor-length velvet dress. From the front the dress is modest, tight but covering every inch of skin from my ankles to my breasts to my wrists. But then the back is wide-open from my shoulders to the base of my spine.
I wanted to look splendid. It’s a one-hundred-and-fifty-year celebration after all.
And me and Daniel? We’ve managed to keep the company solvent, even thriving. When we inherited Abry Watch Co. Ltd, neither of us were certain the family business would even see the end of the year. I was quite terrified that after more than one hundred and eighty years of watchmaking in Geneva, Daniel and I were going to be the generation to lose it all.
We’d lose our legacy, our history, our home. We’d be known for generations to come as the siblings who failed the family.
Yet here we are.
With a whole lot of willpower, desperation, and sheer daring, we held onto Abry. Barely. But now we’re thriving.
“Is Uncle Daniel coming to escort me downstairs?” Mila asks, turning from the window, her lips pinched with worry.
Daniel’s late. Which isn’t a concern—he’s almost always late. He’ll be chatting up an elegant woman in some corner or posing for the press, who are drawn to him like hungry tourists to chocolate shops.
“Of course he’ll be here—” I begin, but there’s a knock on the door.
Mila runs across the room, dodging my bed. She flings the door open. “Uncle Daniel!”
She hurtles at him, giving him a tight hug. Over their embrace Daniel grins at me, one eyebrow quirked high.
He’s in a black tux, his dark blond hair smoothed back, his blue eyes filled with laughter.
He’s tall and solid, and when in a tux he looks just like our dad. Except softer and kinder.
“Merry Christmas, ma choupinette,” Daniel says, squeezing Mila.
I hide my smile, already aware that in less than two minutes we’ll be walking down the grand staircase, entering the fray.
For me, this isn’t a party. It’s business.
Plus, Max will be downstairs, and I’m not quite sure what to expect from him.
Mila steps back, realizing she just displayed a vast amount of glee unsuitable for such a monumental and grown-up occasion. She smooths her hands over her frothy skirt then lifts her pointed chin, giving her uncle a firm stare. “You’re late.”
“Sorry, Mila. I was waylaid by the press on my way in.”
She thinks about this, tilting her head. “Did you mention the new line we’re launching? Did you kiss a beautiful lady and flash your watch for the camera?”
Daniel laughs, long and loud. His laughter echoes around the stone hall, merging with the violins and cellos drifting up from the ballroom. “You know me too well.”
Mila nods solemnly then glances back at me. “Coming, Mummy?”
“Fi?” Daniel asks, holding out his arm.
I give in and smile at them both, my little brother and my baby girl. “Of course.”
I lift a crystal bottle from my dressing table and spritz myself with a Christmas perfume—vanilla, sugar and spice, glowing stars, and snowy nights.
Then I take Daniel’s offered arm and Mila’s hand.
We’re off to celebrate Christmas Eve.