44. Sinclair
Sinclair
I’ve been sending Elyse almost-daily missives for the past month, penned on Voss-headed notepaper and stamped with our century-old seal.
In the end, forgiveness comes in the shape of a five-year-old’s glittery handiwork.
It’s the most precious thing I’ve ever owned, made more precious by the dress code in capitals—CHRISTMAS SWEATERS MANDATORY—and the fact that Elyse has written along the bottom:
RSVP - I’ve unblocked you. Please come (don’t bring anything) x
Obviously, I RSVPed with indecent haste, pulling up her number and texting her:
Thank you. I would love to come xx
I then promptly informed my parents that I wouldn’t be available to attend Senator and Mrs. Thorne’s Christmas Eve drinks, at which holiday sweaters would most definitely be frowned upon.
I’ve been in a state of panicked excitement ever since, staring at the invitation propped up against my bedside lamp by night and shopping desperately for appropriate gifts by day.
What do you buy the woman who doesn’t want your money and the family that probably despises you takes holiday gift-giving etiquette to new levels of complexity, especially when she’s told you not to bring gifts?
In the end, Fleur was the easiest to buy for, if you worked on the basic assumption that she was easily impressed and nonjudgmental.
For the adults, I played it safe and opted for nice wine and a nice candle—the kinds of hostess gifts you’d bring, wherever you were invited. I don’t want to embarrass anyone.
Now here I am, standing outside the Wards’ home once again, my car parked on the sidewalk. It looks far more festive than on my last visit, with a jaunty wreath on the door knocker and colorful lights twinkling on the tree that stands inside the front window.
It’s six o’clock on the dot when I walk up the ramp and ring the doorbell, prompting some excited barking. As I wait, I pray hard that it’s Elyse who answers and not Sylvie.
It’s Elyse.
She stands there in the light like a mirage that a man as parched as myself might conjure up from nothing but his own desperate imagination.
Her hair is loose, she’s wearing skinny jeans and a scarlet-colored holiday sweater with jingly bells hanging from it, and her face is the loveliest thing I have ever seen or will ever see until I lay myself down to rest. Best of all, she’s smiling at me, and it’s shy, and hopeful, and—I think—pleased?
“Merry Christmas,” she says, taking a step toward me, even though it’s freezing out here.
“Merry Christmas,” I manage through the torrent of emotion that’s hitting me at the sight of her.
I can’t stand here and not touch her. I set down the paper bags and my coat and step forward, taking her in my arms. She comes willingly, wrapping her arms around my waist and pressing her face to my chest, and I band my arms as tightly around her as I can as I dip my head to inhale the scent of her hair.
She smells like heaven, and the relief of it is staggering: this moment I thought I would never have.
Her generosity of spirit is just as staggering. After everything I’ve done, she and her family have invited me into their home, to be their guest for a holiday that I’m guessing must be super important to them.
“I don’t want you to get cold,” I say, and she pulls back a little so she can look up at me.
Her mouth is painted scarlet to match her sweater, and the pull of it is so strong that I can barely resist kissing her.
But I’m not about to jump the poor woman on her doorstep within seconds of seeing her for the first time in weeks.
Baby steps, I tell myself. You’re here—that’s enough for now.
“Better come in, then,” she says with a grin, and I release her, bending to pick up my bags and bundling my coat over one arm. The dog is still barking through the open front door, so I assume someone is holding him back to allow us our brief reunion.
The Ward family home may be on the humble side, but there is nowhere on earth I’d rather be.
I will take an evening here over turgid drinks at Senator Thorne’s Georgian-style monstrosity of a mansion every single time.
As soon as I walk through the door, I’m engulfed in warmth and merriment and the most delicious smell.
But it’s also a moment of reckoning, because I’m pretty sure most of these people would prefer if I wasn’t here.
As soon as I’m through the door, the dog launches himself on me, his paws going to my chest so he can gaze into my eyes as if I’m the second coming of Christ. He’s no spring chicken, but he’s gorgeous.
I chuckle softly and tell myself to enjoy the warm welcome.
It may be the only one I get. “Hey, buddy,” I murmur as I use my free hand to scratch behind his ears.
Sylvie is the first human I encounter. She’s out of her chair and on crutches today, wearing jeans and a green sweater with the Grinch on the front.
She stops in front of me and leans on one crutch so she can extend her hand to me as Elyse quickly grabs the other crutch before it falls.
“Holiday do-over?” she asks, and I grin, grateful for her no-nonsense intro.
“I would like that very much. Merry Christmas.”
“Excellent,” she says quickly, as if she’s embarrassed, and turns to grab her crutch back. I get it. This is all pretty excruciating, given how things went between us last time I darkened their doorstep.
Elyse and Sylvie’s father is standing in front of the gas fire with a couple of people.
He breaks away and comes over to greet me with a firm handshake.
“Kurt Ward. Happy holidays, Sinclair. You’re very welcome, son.
” It’s exceedingly gracious of him, given the good cause he had to chase me off his land just last month.
Clearly, Elyse’s strong sense of compassion is no genetic accident.
“Thank you for having me, sir,” I say as I shake his hand.
I’m introduced to the other adults in the room, Reggie and Gloria, a Black couple that I’d put at a similar age to Kurt.
I recognize their names instantly. “I believe I have you to thank for letting Elyse get away with me for the weekend a few weeks back,” I say to Gloria with what I hope is a smile of genuine gratitude as I shake her hand.
After all, if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have the happiest memories of my life.
She breaks into the widest grin that any of them have given me so far and pulls me into a floral-smelling hug.
She’s wearing a white sweater that’s dotted with tiny crystals arranged like snowflakes and which is insanely fluffy.
“Aren’t you a cutie? So we’re finally meeting Elyse’s boyfriend, huh? Just look at you!”
I break away with a self-conscious laugh, my eyes darting to Elyse, who I’m not sure will appreciate Gloria’s use of the B-word. Clearly, Gloria is not up to speed. But she simply shoots me a Don’t make me regret this look and says, “Yeah, I guess you are.”
I pretty much die of happiness on the spot.
Reggie has kind brown eyes and a knuckle-crusher of a handshake. “That’s a hell of a sweater,” I tell him, with a nod to the beauty that features an intarsia image of who I assume is Rick Astley and the slogan Never Gonna Give Yule Up.
“It’s a warnin’,” he says. “The Ward family yule is legendary. I’m stakin’ my claim.”
“Smart. I wish I’d known.” I look down at my own sweater, a navy Ralph Lauren one bearing a festive teddy bear. I panic-bought it on Madison the other day upon seeing the dress code. It’s already covered in white fluff, courtesy of Gloria.
“You’ll wanna leave space,” Kurt says. “We take our b?che de Noel real serious around here.”
“It’s a little more cracked than when Maman used to make it,” Elyse says. “But buttercream covers all sorts of sins.”
“I can’t wait,” I tell her. “I’m excited to see your traditions.”
“You’ll be more excited to taste ’em, believe me,” Gloria says.
“Fleurie!” Sylvie calls, and, a few moments later, a little girl scampers out of the back room. She’s small and slight, with long dark hair and big brown eyes. Her family resemblance to her mom and her aunt is unmistakable. She eyes me with what looks like misgiving.
“This is Sinclair,” Sylvie tells her. “Can you come say hey?”
Fleur approaches cautiously and stands right in front of her mom.
“Hey, Fleur,” I say, bending down. “It’s so nice to meet you. I, uh—I got you something.” I look up at Sylvie. “Is that okay?”
“Sure,” Sylvie says. “That’s so nice of you.”
I rummage through the bag I’ve set down and pull out a couple packages wrapped in red-and-white holiday paper.
I enlisted my sister-in-law Charlotte’s help to find something age-appropriate but not over-the-top.
In the end, I opted for a small purse shaped like a unicorn and one of those t-shirts you can draw on with fabric markers.
She rips them both open and holds up the purse as we adults look on.
“Look, Mommy! It’s a unicorn!”
Elyse shoots me a You did good look, and I exhale. I’ve survived the first five minutes and no one has asked me to leave yet.
Dinner is delicious and, apparently, very much a traditional French Christmas Eve menu.
The seven of us sit, tightly packed, around a table set for eight, the final place setting being in honor of Elyse’s absent mother.
It’s a gesture that makes me a little wobbly, while also underscoring in my mind how far superior the Wards’ approach to preserving their family’s memories is to the Vosses’.
I’m sure it must almost feel to Elyse and Sylvie as though their mom is here with us, what with her recipes and rituals being so lovingly preserved and so heartily enjoyed.