Chapter 15
A petite woman with eyes bright as a robin’s peered around the massive wooden door. “Père Mathéo!”
“Sister, I’d like you to meet an American who would love to have a chat in English in exchange for some of your delicious cookies.”
The woman brought her fingers to her mouth to hide her smile and blushed like a teen despite her graying hair. “Will you join us, Père?”
“No, I am expected at the stall to sell those cookies for a few hours. Enjoy yourselves.”
Claire’s heart buoyed with her realization that she would not be chatting with two people of the cloth.
As the door closed, the woman’s gnarly hand grasped Claire’s. “Welcome. I’m Sister Georgette, and I’m nearly done with the batter. Won’t you join me for a cup of tea?”
“Thank you. I’m Claire.” She pressed the balls of her feet into the cold stone floor, wishing she could flee.
She was barely holding onto her emotions, couldn’t identify all of them, and feared that if this nun was as gentle and kind as the nuns at the convent, she’d no longer be able to dam up her feelings.
Sister Georgette led her to a rickety chair before a long, scarred wooden table laden with bowls of flour, eggs, butter, brown sugar, nuts, dried cherries, apricots, and raisins. A dark brown bottle of alcohol sat in the center of it all.
“Do you like fruitcake?”
Claire’s teeth ached at the thought. She rested her hand on the back of the chair and readied to make a run for the door. “Uh…”
Sister’s laughter tinkled like glass wind chimes. “Yes, I mean those dense bricks of sickeningly sweet glacé fruit studded with rubbery nuts.”
Claire laughed. “No, I don’t.”
Sister whispered, “Neither do I.”
Claire smiled and sat opposite the bowls of dried fruit.
Sister placed a cup of tea before her. “Sugar?”
“No, merci.”
“Where in America do you live?”
“Seattle.”
Sister Georgette washed her hands, dried them, and returned to a huge bowl sitting on the end of the table. “Ah, the Pacific Northwest. I lived in Quebec, very mountainous, like Seattle.” She dragged a wooden spoon, nearly the size of an oar, through the stiff batter. “What brings you to France?”
Claire wished for a cup of the brandy. So many feelings were cartwheeling through her, she feared they’d erupt.
The nuns at her boarding school always wiggled out what was troubling her, and that was exactly what this one was doing with her kind voice.
Claire didn’t want to have an emotional breakdown with this poor woman. “The Christmas markets.”
“Just magical, aren’t they?”
The memory of the puppet man’s jovial demonstration of the dog brought a smile. “Very magical.”
“Did you make Christmas cookies with your mother?”
Claire squirmed in the straight-backed chair. She did not want to discuss her mother, nor did she want to volunteer she had attended boarding school in the state bordering Quebec province. “No, but I did bake them with friends.”
“What kind?”
A laugh escaped her at the memory of her inexperience leading to both burned and undercooked treats. “Snowballs?”
“Ah, Pfeffernüsse!”
“Well, these were Italian, and I didn’t really make them…I just rolled them in the powdered sugar.”
“They were delicious, no?”
“Oh, they melted in my mouth.” Another laugh bubbled up. “My friends told all their relatives that I made the cookies as a gift for them.” Her mouth dried. “It was the first time I spent Christmas with a family.”
Sister Georgette wiped her hands on her apron, left her paddle, and sat next to Claire. “How old were you?”
“Seventeen.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. It had been thirty-three years since that day. Strange she shared that memory and allowed this woman so close. But Sister Georgette reminded her of the nuns who’d loved and cared for her.
“What happened to your mother?”
“Oh, I had a mother, but...” She sipped her tea.
“She enrolled me in a boarding school when I was about seven. She visited once a year, on Christmas. We had tea in Mother Superior’s office, and the nun did most of the talking.
My mother answered all her questions with an economy of words.
When Mother Superior pointed out how I embroidered the collar of my dress, or pleated my skirt, or hand-painted the buttons, my mother responded with a stiff smile and, ‘nice’ or ‘lovely.’” Claire ran her finger over the pink roses of the teacup.
“I imagine the Christmas teas were as stressful to Mother Superior as they were for my mother.”
“I am so sorry. Your mother lost the opportunity of loving her beautiful daughter.”
The scent of butter and sugar caramelizing eased the ache in Claire, and a melting feeling coated her heart.
“What of your father?”
“I never met him.”
“But you had friends?”
“I had many friends at school. I loved sewing, and I taught the other girls how to make outfits for their dolls, and then we all sewed clothes for ourselves.” Her laugh surprised her.
“We had fashion shows for the nuns. I guess our friendships were bonded in our sewing group. But I was the only one to go to college for design.”
“I would have liked to see your fashion shows.” Sister sipped her tea. “What happened to your mother?”
“She died when I was seventeen.” Claire stared at the brandy.
“I’m so sorry. What happened?”
Claire had no idea how her mother had died.
Had she been too shocked to inquire? Had she not cared?
“I don’t know the details, but my mother appointed a fellow attorney, Lucille, as executor of her estate.
Lucille traveled all the way to my boarding school to tell me my mother died.
She drove me back to Connecticut and helped me into my mother’s house. ”
Claire wrapped her arms around herself. “The house was empty of life. Empty of memories because we’d never made any.
And it was so cold. I asked Lucille if I could go back to the convent to be with the nuns for Christmas, as I always spent the holiday with them.
Lucille seemed shocked. She wouldn’t hear of my not spending Christmas with her and her husband and their families, so I packed a bag, and spent not only Christmas Eve with her and Carmine, but also Christmas Day, Christmas week, the New Year, and Epiphany.
” The memory warmed her, but a tear dripped, and she swatted at it.
The memory was also like a train, racing ahead and, surprising herself, she got on board for the ride.
“They were so very kind. Carmine made dinner the night I arrived, and it was the best spaghetti and meatballs I’d ever tasted.
And then he asked me to help with the cookies.
” She looked up at Sister’s beatific smile.
The convent kitchen changed into the Marconi family kitchen as she recalled that Christmas.
Lucille and Carmine’s arms were wrapped around her.
“When we arrived at Lucille’s in-laws’ home, Carmine announced, ‘This is our dear friend, Claire, and she made these herself for you all.’ Aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents all cheered, every one of them hugging me and kissing my cheek.
” She basked in the memory of that kitchen, the people, the love.
Claire looked up at Sister, wondering why she had trusted her with this memory.
“I think I know why you bake cookies. It’s a gift of love, isn’t it? ”
Sister nodded. “Your friends gave you a great gift.”
“Many gifts. My first Christmas with a family. They welcomed me, embraced me, appreciated me. I still feel their warmth.”
“Will you spend this Christmas with them?”
Claire puffed a sigh. “Lucille and Carmine sent Christmas cards inviting me and my husband to join them every year, but eventually I lost touch with them.” Why had she lost that relationship?
In a way, they were her first family, something she should have nourished.
She’d also lost touch with all the girls she’d sewed with at the convent.
She would send Lucille and Carmine a postcard.
Snowflakes mounded on fir branches outside the window, just as they had in Vermont.
“David and I married, nearby here, in Riq—sorry, I don’t know how to pronounce the name of the town. ”
“Riquewihr. In the tiny chapel?” Her eyes sparkled.
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.
Sister draped the rosary hanging from her belt over their hands and whispered in French. A ray of sunlight poured over them. Warmth drenched Claire. She had not felt this comforted since David’s death. She hoped she was healing.
But the memory of the day she arrived at her mother’s empty house clawed at her. Pain seared her heart, and it was Sister’s loving concern for her that had opened a wound Claire hadn’t consciously thought about in more than thirty years.