CHAPTER 1

Magali

Some families bred horses from one generation to the next. Others were rooted in the tradition of owning and managing land. In my Belgian family, survival skills consisted of going out into the world knowing how to make a perfect omelet and an infallible vinaigrette while sipping an apéritif and choosing the perfect wine. If you fed yourself well, with elegance, the rest would follow.

Let the plates be chipped, the platters mismatched, one would leave the table not just well, but superbly, fed. And this was never truer than at Christmas. It was all about the food. It always had been. Our mother taught my sisters and me all her secrets. We mixed and basted, roasted and sautéed. And later, we preserved and deglazed, creamed butter, beat eggs until they were white, whipped fresh cream and ourselves into a froth, in a frenzy to try to keep her alive.

When she died, our family deflated like a ruined soufflé.

 

Coming home after dropping my girls off at school, my morning resolve melted when faced with the pile of dirty breakfast dishes. For this I needed a Grand Diplôme from the Institut Culinaire in Lyon? The dishwasher needed to be emptied and everything put away, piled dangerously in my inadequate cabinets. I drummed my fingers against my mug. My nails were too short to make any sound. If I didn’t finish that chapter on main courses for the holidays this morning, I’d never make my deadline.

As usual, Charlotte, my four-year-old, had dumped two spoonfuls of milk-soaked Rice Krispies on the floor to share with the cat, who always obliged, but she would always leave a scrap or two. Her big sister, Elly, said it was to feed her pet mouse. A fairy-tale mouse, I hoped. Bippity boppity boo . . .

Oh, fairy godmother, I don’t mind staying home from the ball. I just want someone to deal with the kitchen, laundry, cleaning. I promise, fairy godmother, that this magical cleaning person will be given meals—great ones, in fact. And he or she can turn back into a pumpkin to rest or go out on the town and get plastered on pumpkin schnapps or whatever tipple magical creatures favor these days.

So, work or dishes first? The phone rang, making the decision for me. I wedged the receiver between my ear and my shoulder—a great stretching exercise as long as I remembered to switch sides before the muscles and tendons stiffened like plaster. Then I’d have to stay that way all day, a good position for checking on the roast or appearing charmingly quizzical, a look I haven’t been able to pull off since I was eight. “Hello?”

“It’s me.”

My father. I pictured him fully dressed as always, even before breakfast. Charcoal slacks, a pressed light gray shirt, a navy blue—no make that a slate-colored pullover, V-necked. His socks would be black and his shoes a soft gray. His hair, still full, but also gray as a November sky, would be perfectly combed. Even his eyes were gray. My father was in black-and-white.

When we were younger, on the way home from school, my older sister Jacqueline and I would play What Would Daddy Be Wearing? I always endowed him with a bit more color, a splash of whimsy. Jacqueline would win practically every time. Elegant to the tip of his buffed nails and polished leather shoes. Even his breath was classy: Courvoisier VSOP Cognac mixed with minty toothpaste.

I stepped on a trail of Rice Krispies, now stuck to the green-and-yellow swirled linoleum, and pulled open the door of the new stainless steel German dishwasher I’d bought when I got a royalty check from Australia, of all places.

“Hi, Daddy.” My head felt thick with guilt.

“You are well?”

“Yeah, what about you?”

“The usual. The children?”

I laughed, “The usual too. Elly brought her baby shoes to school for show-and-tell. She swears she can remember learning to walk in them. With her memory, she just might. And Charlotte decided that her new favorite princess is Slow White, the sluggish sister of the celebrity. Hard being in somebody’s shadow.” I swallowed. Tread lightly, Gali.

“And yellow is no longer her favorite color. She only wears green. Today she went off to school looking like a Christmas elf in pigtails.” Safer ground.

He chuckled. I offered up stories of my children on a platter, hoping for wholehearted approval, but knowing that in his eyes, we never quite made the cut. Why can’t you be more like your sister? He never said this out loud, but I knew.

“Have you given thought to the holidays?”

October fifteenth, the day following Columbus Day, was his holiday kickoff date. He spent Thanksgiving in Belgium visiting Maman’s family and my sister Jacqueline—forget that they don’t have Thanksgiving over there—but Christmas was mine. So, guilt notwithstanding, I couldn’t resist the urge to let him simmer.

“I don’t know how I’m going to dress, but Elly is going as Wendy from Peter Pan and of course Charlotte will be Slow White.”

Turn on the spit a bit, oh, ever-elegant father of mine. Who hated to ask.

“Maggie.” Only my father called me Maggie. It was a time machine: I was six years old and ever lacking. It was Gali to everyone except my godmother and the DMV, who used my given name, Magali. I twirled a strand of hair around my forefinger, then dropped it.

“Okay, Daddy. Christmas. Go,” I almost barked at him, feeling very military and take-charge. Roberts, we must have that hill, cheerio and all that. I slid a pile of plates back into the cupboard.

“Are you doing something else while talking to me? If you’re busy, I can telephone later.”

Busy? Who, me? “Uh, no, Daddy, the cat knocked over her dish.”

“Humph.”

Okay, great. Now he thought even my cat was clumsy.

“I think I’d like to celebrate it here at the house this year.”

“Your house?” I stopped, a glass midway between the dishwasher rack and the shelf.

“Yes. Where I live. Don’t be dense, Maggie.”

I put down the glass and sat. “Are you sure? You know we can host it here. Or at Tante Solange’s.” My heart pounded.

“No, your godmother isn’t well. We won’t burden her.”

Right. But we couldn’t—not in our childhood home. Not since we lost Maman. “My house is open. And since we’d closed in the back porch—you haven’t even seen it yet—and put in a great fireplace, we have lots of room.” My words were coming out too fast. Breathe.

“No,” he said. Wide open to discussion as usual. How could he ask us to have Christmas in our old home?

“Will it just be us?” I wondered if his latest companion, what was her name? Leigh . . . Lee . . . no Lea pronounced with the “a” at the end, would be there. It was hard to keep track. Since Maman died there had been two wives and a companion, as he called her, between the two. Then a couple of years of serial dating, and now, a new one. He hadn’t married her. Yet.

“Just family. I expect all of my children to be home for Christmas this year.”

What? All of us? But that was impossible. “But how—”

“This is important, Maggie. Is that clear? I will rely on you to invite your sisters and your brother. You are good at that sort of thing. And naturally, you girls will help with the cooking.”

Oh crap! Here it was again. Maybe he wanted to present Lea to the family before sweeping into another round of ’til-death-do-us-part nuptial bliss. Or miss.

“Of course. Look, Daddy, I’m in the middle of something. Could I call you back?”

“In the middle of . . .”

“I have to work.”

“Work?”

“You know what I do.”

“Oh yes, the cookbooks.”

So, Daddy wasn’t proud of what I did. Nothing new. He thought they were frivolous, my chatty little cookbooks. But the Hopeless in the Kitchen series paid a lot of bills even if it didn’t earn me star billing in my father’s eyes. They were a collection of funny stories with recipes to get people away from their microwaves and play in the kitchen. Make memories, create traditions.

“I’ll call you back,” I said, hoping he couldn’t hear my voice wobble. I forced a smile, knowing from my friend Syd that a smile could be heard through a microphone or telephone. “Keep in mind, before we decide on Christmas, that it will be a huge upheaval, you know, with the kids, the mess.”

“I know fully well what a Christmas feast entails. It’s already been decided. Don’t let me keep you from your work. Good-bye, Maggie.”

Coffee, make more sparkled on the marquee of my mind. I picked up the pot.

I sat down at the desk I had built in to the corner of my kitchen, and flipped open my kitchen Mac.

How did he expect me to get my sisters—not to mention my little brother—home to Pennsylvania for Christmas? I drummed my fingers on the desk. Not that we never saw each other, but all of us, together in one place? In our old house? That hadn’t happened since . . . well, since Maman’s funeral. Never mind that Colette had been avoiding coming home altogether for years. Not enough money was her excuse. I was always the one who had to go to California. And Jacqueline? Leave Belgium for Christmas? She probably had a performance or something. And she’d never leave our grandmother alone for the holidays. I looked at the clock. No way was I going to sit here with this on my own. Who first?

I picked up the phone, then realized Colette was probably still asleep. I’d have to time my call to get her after she woke up and before she went to the beach, or jogged to yoga, or whatever you did in San Diego.

Jacqueline would be getting ready for the theater. Not a propitious time to talk to her.

A gray cloud, the exact same shade as the bulk of Daddy’s wardrobe, fell over me. I put the rest of the dishes away. There was nothing I could do right now about Daddy’s request. It was more of a command, actually. A summons. Very royal. Maybe printing out formal invitations would do the trick. Monsieur Philippe Arnaud requests your presence . . .

I sighed, then turned to the screen, losing myself in a piece on how to make friends with your butcher, bypassing counters with meat packaged in plastic—not the easiest thing to make friends with, unless you were an alien and could communicate with shrink-wrap.

The phone broke into my thoughts. Maybe Colette’s sixth sense had kicked in.

But it was Ana, my agent, calling to arrange a lunch date. I’d been wondering when she was going to get around to returning my call. I’d left several messages over the past few weeks and was feeling neglected, which I realized made me about as mature as a petulant first grader. We made plans to meet the next day.

She’d been acting strangely these past few months. I’d finally get to know what the big secret was.

Ana believed in my books. She felt people needed them because the world had become so alienating. Drive in, drive up, drive thru, pick up, and nuke.

So many grew up with moms whose idea of homemade was heating frozen lasagna in the conventional oven rather than the microwave.

Or others, whose mothers threw themselves into cooking and presenting food as if it were a life-or-death matter, tossing enough butter and cream in every dish to make even Julia Child cringe in her grave, while smiling graciously as their guests keeled over from massive coronaries, their whole identity wrapped up in what was on the plate and how it looked. No disrespect to Julia, of course. She was the queen.

Lately, a big crunchy trend had surfaced. Which was fine. I was all for farm-to-table, but it had to taste good. And be simple. Easy to make and delicious.

It was one of the reasons I’d not been unhappy to leave the restaurant. Too much effort went into presentation and finding new and interesting ways to incorporate the chic food du jour into everything from appetizers to dessert and every course in between.

I still had almost two hours before it was time to pick Charlotte up from the Jewish preschool she attended. I got down to work and finished the draft. It felt good.

So, I wasn’t about to win the Nobel Prize. They didn’t even have a Nobel Prize for cooking, though sometimes I think they should. After all, a good meal can keep, even create, the peace.

I made a mental note to write to the committee.

After a lunch of leftover ratatouille, reheated and eaten at my desk, I called my godmother to have her pick Charlotte up from school tomorrow. I hated to do it, much as I did love Tante Solange. She would unfailingly tote out the Virgin Mary medallion she’d gotten in Lourdes the year Maman got sick.

I rubbed cream into my hands. Someone could retrace the story of every meal I’d ever made just by reading the scars on my hands and forearms. I applied lipstick, then headed out. The day was too warm for a sweater.

What to say to my sisters to make sure they would both come out for the holidays? Maybe that I was having a baby? Or that I was ill? No, strike that. Bad idea.

And Art? None of us had a clue as to how to reach our baby brother. Jacqueline used to call him King Arthur, the adored, long-awaited male child. But he’d quickly morphed into the Artful Dodger. He’d disappear for months—sometimes even years—taking wildly successful photographs of wars and other disasters. Then he’d pop up as if nothing had happened. I’d gotten used to it over time. Though right now, I wished I’d secretly implanted one of those microchips under his skin so I could track him down. Forget that I didn’t have the slightest idea how to go about doing that. There had to be ways.

Why was it always up to me to deal with family matters?

Naturally, if they didn’t come, it would be my fault. If I could make this happen, I bloody well deserved the Nobel Peace Prize.

I parked in the school parking lot while visions of siblings at Christmas danced in my head.

My spirits lifted. Tomorrow I’d finally find out what Ana had been cooking up these past months. A sharp northern breeze swept over me, giving me goose bumps. I should have brought my sweater. When would I learn not to trust unseasonable weather?

 

I parked my car in front of Ana’s place so we could walk to the restaurant. Chestnut Hill looked like it had jumped right out of a storybook and settled itself in northwest Philadelphia.

Ana was waiting outside, her face tilted to catch the almost-warm rays of the October sun. Another one of those deceptive days that tempted you to leave the house without a coat, the sun almost too bright in a sky whose hue was normally associated with summer but belonged to autumn. The leaves dazzled, the maples red as blood, warring with the oranges, golds, and browns of the chestnuts and oaks. Touches of green from the fir trees that would soon proudly sport glistening Christmas lights, but were, for now, overshadowed by the last gasp of brilliance from the deciduous trees.

“It’s so perfect for you to live here,” I said.

“What happened to ‘Hello, Ana, how are you, what a glorious day.’ You know, what normal people say when they see each other?” She laughed.

“Of course, by all means, all you just said.”

“Hello. Fine. It is a spectacular day indeed! So, why is it perfect for me to live here?” She kissed me once on each cheek.

There were two types of people in the world: the huggers and the kissers. Ana was the latter. Me, I could go either way. A switch hitter, a bisexual of physical greetings. Or would I be considered a hermaphrodite? So, I guess there are three kinds of people in the world.

“A storybook street in a storybook village. You’re like a midwife for our books. Without you, they’d never see the light of day.”

“Nonsense! You are all wonderful writers. If it weren’t me, it would be someone else.”

“No, it’s all you. Let’s go. I’m starving.”

Ruth and John’s was about a ten-minute walk from Ana’s. I reveled in being outside on this glorious day, last year’s boots crunching in the fallen leaves.

“You look beautiful,” said Ana.

I smiled. I’d dressed a bit for the occasion, something I did only rarely. But today, my mother’s Hermès scarf was knotted around my throat, and I wore a calf-length gray knit dress in wool so soft, I wanted to cuddle up and sleep next to it whenever Leo went away on business. A supple black leather belt and a long rust-colored sweater that everyone said brought out the reddish highlights in my tangle of hair completed the ensemble. I’d even applied a bit of eye makeup in addition to my usual lipstick. I felt good. I was doing my favorite thing with one of my favorite people, and it was even a tax write-off.

“So do you, Ana.” In her black-and-white Chanel jacket and skirt, she looked a little like Grace Kelly. Only shorter.

Before this woman, agent, and friend, had taken me under her wing, I’d been adrift, starved for a mentor, my thirst unquenched by repeated stabs at becoming allies with Tante Solange, my godmother. Solange would run hot and cold like a faulty tap. Just when I would begin to bask in the glow of acceptance, she would turn around and slice me open with a remark she must have spent days sharpening.

Christmas. All of us together this year at the house. With Tante Solange. Trying to ignore the ghost of Christmas past at the table.

I pushed away the thought, couldn’t sustain it right now, didn’t want to. I zenned myself back to the postcard I was currently the star of. Well, costar. Ana was the star but in that Meryl Streep–deep way, not the Julia Roberts of-course-you-recognize-me-behind-these-glasses glam Hollywood way.

We turned onto Chestnut Hill’s main shopping street, more charming than ever with its fall festival decorations.

“I am going to miss this,” she said.

“Oh, me too. I can’t believe this weather.”

“No, I mean all of this.” She swept her arm around her in a gesture that encompassed me.

My throat closed. I felt dizzy as I grabbed her hand and whirled to face her, my eyes and mouth open like a carp. Not my best look.

“Oh no, no, no. Don’t worry. There’s nothing wrong with me. As a matter of fact, there is something right with me.” She gently pried my fingers from hers. “I’m retiring.”

I must have misunderstood. My eyes focused and there it was, that look, the one she’d had periodically all during last spring and summer. I remembered it from my annual Fourth of July party. It wasn’t just the cat-that-swallowed-the-cream look, it was more the cat who had gotten up during the night when everyone was asleep, sneaked down into the kitchen, opened the freezer, and downed a whole pint of Ben & Jerry’s Sweet Cream & Cookies. I’d thought she’d met someone, had fallen in love. Since the death of Charles, her second husband, a little over six years ago, she’d been alone. Recently she’d dated this or that eligible divorced man or widower, usually an editor or someone involved in the arts. Last year, there had been a hand surgeon. Ana was far too attractive and full of life to grow old alone. Not for the first time, I wondered how old she was. She was that timeless age that only some women reach, between forty-seven and sixty-three, when they aren’t a dewy-eyed twenty-five, but are more beautiful, the lines on their faces tell the stories of their lives, the laughter and tears, the quiet and loud.

My voice had returned. “But you can’t retire. You’re much too young!” For her to drop us like this, it had better be monumental.

She linked her arm through mine and steered me in the direction of the restaurant. The world suddenly took on a garish feel, like a carnival in an expressionist painting, or a play by Ödön von Horváth. I rummaged through my bag for my sunglasses only to realize I was already wearing them.

“I wanted to tell you under the best possible circumstances.”

“It’s a man, right?”

“Nope. A woman.”

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Why was it that in situations that took me by surprise, I could never think of great and wonderful words. Why couldn’t I be Anna Karenina? Lady Macbeth? Even Scarlett O’Hara? I needed to hire someone to write my lines. I wondered if Amy Sherman-Palladino was busy?

“She’s a lucky woman,” I said. “When can I meet her?”

“Gali, you are funny. No, the woman I am referring to is the muse . . . my muse.”

This time I was sure I’d misunderstood. We started walking again, Ana’s arm linked through mine. Ana was the nexus for a lot us, her stable of writers, which of course made us sound like a bunch of horses that are in the race, hoping not to be retired, or worse, sent off to the writer’s equivalent of the glue factory: corporate America, with its demand for total commitment and the resulting death of the free spirit.

Ana was the cornerstone of my career, if you cared to call it that—which I did, only not in front of my father.

I’d met her through Syd—tall, blonde, stunning, brilliant Syd. I should have hated her, but she was my best friend, so that made it kind of hard. She worked in public radio as a researcher and knew everyone in the artsy crowd.

Syd was brilliant, but for one tiny detail: she couldn’t cook.

Then she met Adam, and felt that, for once in her life, the relationship was serious enough for her to learn how to make a meal that didn’t involve the excessive use of the microwave, with the preparation limited to carefully pricking plastic wrap with a fork.

“It’s terrible. One of the most basic human skills and I have no clue as to how to even start. Even my mother could cook a little,” she’d said.

I’d laughed, “Honey, I ate at your house a couple of times a month all through high school. For me it was exotic to have Dunkin’ Donuts and Coke for dinner.”

“Oh, but she cooked sometimes. Okay, so her idea of a home-cooked meal was Rice-A-Roni, at least she used an actual pot and a utensil or two.”

We’d both started to giggle.

“Can you see me serving up Mom’s specialty to Adam? The beautiful woven tablecloth I brought back from Greece, candles, soft music . . .”

“And mini-marshmallow-studded Hamburger Helper,” I’d finished.

“Could I borrow your white Limoges? You know, to set off the marshmallows.”

So, I’d e-mailed her some recipes.

I’d told her everything: where, when, and how to choose her meat, fruit, vegetables, and step by step, as if I were talking to her, “walked” her through the meal via e-mail. She’d prepared the easiest basic dinner I could think of that still said you are special: boeuf bourguignon, because it could be made the day before, and beef was an aphrodisiac of sorts, a mixed green salad with vinaigrette, spring beans, and new potatoes sprinkled with parsley and coarse sea salt. For dessert, fresh orange slices marinated in mint and Cointreau with a dollop of real crème fraîche. She nailed it and asked for more. We kept it up for about a year. Her love for cooking simple, elegant food never wavered, even if her love for Adam had, and he’d gone the way of the rest of her lovers.

“I can’t believe I actually learned to cook for that jerk,” she’d exclaimed, waving a glass of Bourgogne Aligoté in the air.

One snowy morning, a few weeks before Christmas, Syd arrived at my door, playing hooky from the station. She’d do this on a regular basis. Being a researcher she had to be out in the field quite often and would sometimes just research whatever was happening in my kitchen.

“This,” she said, pulling off her wool cap, making her blonde hair stick out like an electric halo, “is a book.”

“That is a stack of personal correspondence, much the worse for wear. This”—I held up the latest Barbara Kingsolver novel—“is a book.”

“You don’t get it. Do you think I’m the only one who never learned how to cook? You can call it, I don’t know, something like The I Wish I Knew How to Cook Cookbook.”

“Catchy.” I turned back toward the kitchen, where I’d been washing leeks for soup.

By now she had removed her woolen muffler, mittens, and faux-fur-lined jacket and followed me into the kitchen. I served her coffee with sugar, no milk. Syd, even with her nose red and slightly chapped, her eyes watering and cheeks raw from the cold, looked like a model.

“I know what you’re thinking.” She was one of the few people privy to my secret ambition to become a novelist. To write fiction. Or rather Fiction. I pictured myself winning the National Book Award or the Pulitzer and casually dropping over to my father’s house with a signed copy of my award-winning novel, rather than my usual offering of raspberry-filled genoise covered in Belgian chocolate icing or tarte tatin—never my famous spiked tiramisu, no sense in bringing coals to Newcastle. I could taste this image as strongly as the coffee I’d just brewed.

“This”—she waved the stack of papers at me—“is no impediment to that. Writing is writing.”

“They’re just silly. And kind of personal, you know?”

“Exactly. Just, you know, change the names to protect the guilty and all that.”

I shook my head. “I don’t have the time. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m with child.” I placed my hands on my belly, smoothing Leo’s old Princeton sweatshirt over my bump.

She stared at me.

“Okay, I do have the time. But . . . do you really think?”

“Would I be here in this weather if I didn’t?”

“You’d come over during a hurricane.” I returned to rinsing the grit out of the leeks.

“Point taken. Do it for me.” She leaned against the counter and took a sip of coffee.

It took me about five months to pull the narrative together and turn it from a hodgepodge of messages to a friend into something fit for public consumption.

Then Syd introduced me to Ana and my life shifted subtly. Or not so subtly. A shift more along the lines of a small earthquake. By the time Elly was one, I had a contract.

 

Ana and I were just across the street from Ruth and John’s. The light was red and we waited for the green WALK sign to flash on.

A car honked, capturing our attention.

“Hi, Maggie!” My father waved as he drove by in his black Mercedes. I lifted my fingers in reply, but he was gone before I could say anything. My father, honking and waving?

“Still a handsome man, your father. How is Philippe?” asked Ana.

“About the same. Probably on his way to lunch or something.” Something like a bar. The storefront for his antique business was a few blocks from here. I should stop by one of these days, but there were always so many other things on my agenda. “Wants to have Christmas at his house this year.” I sighed.

The light turned green and we crossed. I turned my attention back to Ana.

“It might be time,” she said. “You look like you could use a drink.”

I nodded, “Or three.”

We were quickly seated, settled, and Chablis-ed. That was one of the best things about this restaurant; they were attentive like loving family, but not overbearing, obsequious, or at the other end of the spectrum, haughty. Ana twirled her full glass on the tablecloth. I willed her to meet my gaze but she was staring into her wine.

“Let me explain. I’ve always wanted to write—”

“But you never said—”

“Let me finish. I never said anything because I’m terrible at it. I’m much too good at recognizing quality writing when I see it.” Here her eyes rose and met mine and I saw such kindness there, I almost dissolved.

I busied myself draining my glass of Vaillons—a premier cru and quite nice—and refilling my empty one and Ana’s almost full one.

“But even if I am bad at it, I still want to do it. So, I have bought a small house in Vermont and . . . you remember Charles had that condo in Dallas that he’d bought so we could visit my son, his wife, and the grandchildren? When I’m weary of the green or the cold, I will go to Dallas.”

“But”—and here I wanted to cry What about me?—“What about us? I thought you loved your job.”

“I love all of you, and your writing.”

“But then how can you?” I bit my lip.

“Because it’s time to move on, as they say.” Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were pink, as if she’d just drunk from the fountain of youth.

“What kind of books are you planning to write?” I tasted my sole and noticed in the back of my mind that it was truly excellent. It actually deserved my full attention, but I couldn’t concentrate on food. I pushed my plate away.

Ana pushed it back. “If you eat, I’ll tell you everything.”

She had me there. Not one to resist any exhortation to eat, I picked up my knife and fork and cut another piece of fish. The flesh was firm without being rubbery and the lobster and cream-based sauce was delicately perfumed with truffle. It was so light, I could have used a spoon and fed it to a toothless six-month-old. I felt a pang of regret at no longer working at a restaurant, but it was dispelled at the thought of someone else raising the girls. This might make a good fish course for Christmas dinner.

I put my fork down. “See? I’m eating.”

“Good. You already know I was an English major in college and, of course, I wrote. A lot. Notebooks filled with dreadful poetry and naïve-though-heartfelt short stories that I’d stay up half the night working on, but that would never bear the light of day.” She waved her hand as if to dismiss these early efforts, then skewered a piece of fish.

The door opened, and the noise level in the restaurant went up a few notches. Ana put her fork and knife down, and we both turned.

Aidan Thomas, local news anchor and current darling of half of the greater Philadelphia area, walked in propelling a heart-stoppingly beautiful woman toward a corner table. It was Syd in that blue dress I liked so much, probably researching a show. I waved but she didn’t see me. I’d go over later. I wouldn’t mind a closer look at the hottie that had caused Channel Six’s local news ratings to burst through the stratosphere.

“Syd and Aidan Thomas?” Ana raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, Syd knows everybody.” I took a sip of my wine.

“Hmm. Well, I don’t know.”

“What?” I sat up a bit straighter. Ana’s insight was sharp.

“A feeling. Did you notice how his hand was placed on her back as they walked through the room?”

“He’s probably just a control freak.” He wouldn’t be the first overly handsome man to belong to that group.

“Look at her,” Ana said.

I turned. She looked great, but she always looked great. However, there was a definite glow. “Not good. He’s bad news. Hey, that’s pretty good . . . the news anchor . . . bad news.”

Ana smiled. “Syd can probably take care of herself.”

This I wasn’t so sure of. “Should we go over?”

“Let’s wait until we’re finished. Everyone is staring and trying not to show it.”

“Playing cooler than thou. Okay, so what you are telling me? You’re a terrible writer, yet you have decided to devote yourself to writing? What am I missing?”

She took a sip of wine and smiled. “Yes, I’m terrible. At least I was. But I’ve decided to use my time to do only the things I love. A privilege that comes with age and luck.”

“You’re probably better than you think,” I said.

“I hope you’re right. But Gali, much as I bask in your high opinion of me, I do not walk on water. If there is one thing I know, it’s good writing.”

“So, you are going to devote your life to writing crappy—sorry, I mean bad novels.”

Our server, John-Paul, came over and asked if we’d like dessert.

“Let’s split a crème brûlée. It’s not as good as yours, but . . .” She raised her eyebrows.

I gulped the rest of my wine. “And coffee . . . espresso,” I added.

“Make that two. And the check.”

I played with my pink linen napkin, folding it again and again. I looked up and spotted a jagged crack in the molded ceiling. “But Ana, what’s going to happen to us? To me?” I could hear my father now. You lost your agent? Great Christmas dinner conversation.

“You will be just fine. This might do you some good.” She sighed. “I’ve made up my mind,” she said so softly I could barely hear her over the din of the restaurant. I glanced over at Syd, absorbed in something the beautiful Aidan was saying. Odd that she hadn’t noticed us sitting here. It’s as if she were encased in a bubble—

Uh oh! The first heady throes of love, no one else existed except the love object. I’d seen her this way before. Anchors aweigh.

“I have also arranged”—now Ana’s voice was more forceful—“for you to get in touch with two agents I think would be good for you.” Before this lunch, I hadn’t imagined a tempest would storm through my professional life.

I let her pay the bill.

Then, putting both hands flat on the table, I leaned forward. Time to pull out all the stops. “What about your godchild?”

“I’m not dropping off the face of the earth, Gali. I’ll still be in her—and your—life.”

We stood and, as we made our way across the crowded restaurant, I saw that Syd and Aidan had left.

We spilled out into the bright autumn sunlight. By the time I’d reached my car and we’d said our good-byes, my head was pounding. What was it about me that made everyone I loved leave me? My mother, my sisters, and now, Ana. Was it an aura I gave off, like a bad smell? Was there some sort of cosmic deodorant I could buy to protect myself against it?

The day I’d found so beautiful a few hours ago now seemed strident, overdone. “Shut up,” I whispered to the colors.

 

That evening, once the girls were in bed, Leo and I cuddled up on the couch.

“Well”—he scratched his head—“could be worse.” He took a sip of wine.

“Could be raining,” we quoted. I smiled.

“Seriously. You don’t have to do your Dad’s bidding, you know. If he wants to have a big family Christmas at his house, why doesn’t he take care of it?”

“Have you met my father?” I wiggled my toes in my favorite fuzzy striped socks that looked like they belonged on one of my daughters. “Remind me to introduce you.”

“Just tell him you’re too busy.”

“Right.” I pushed my hair back off my forehead. I’d never understand how some people got away with ignoring their parents. For me, the bond went beyond reason, beyond logic. I’d never stop trying to please him, to gain his approval. He was my father. End of story. I forced a smile. “It’s fine. It’s what I do. Besides, I think I might have a better shot at getting everyone to come than he does.”

“Right. Well, coming to bed?” I felt him shift.

“In a bit. I still have a few more things I want to finish up.” I got up off the couch and picked up our glasses. In the kitchen, I rinsed them out and loaded them in the top rack of the dishwasher. Leo came up behind me and encircled me with his arms. I leaned back into him and felt my muscles loosen a bit.

“Don’t be too long,” he said.

I turned and kissed him full on the mouth. A real boyfriend kiss is how Elly would put it. “I won’t. I just need to get in touch with at least one of my sisters and figure out a battle plan to keep Ana here.”

Plus the thorniest problem of all: how to pin down my mercurial brother?

I watched my husband of fifteen years leave the kitchen. I’d done my share of stupid things, made a gaggle of wrong decisions, but the day I said yes to the life I was sharing with this man, I’d gotten it right. I should forget about this whole family bash thing and go climb into bed with Leo.

But deep down, a secret part of me yearned to re-create the kind of Christmas we’d had when Maman was alive.

I grabbed a clean wineglass from the rack over the counter and uncorked the bottle of Crozes-Hermitage we’d started at dinner. With my glass half full, I sat at my desk. This was the only way left for me to have a drink “with” my sisters. One ritual we tried to keep in spite of the time differences. I dialed Colette’s mobile. It was still relatively early in San Diego. Pick up, pick up. Voice mail. Damn. Leave a message or not? Leave one. Maybe I should send them e-mails, but it wasn’t direct enough. I didn’t want them to have any time to think up excuses. Ideally I would confront them in person, but the cost of two plane tickets just to get a face-to-face with my sisters seemed a bit much.

It was Alexander Graham Bell or nothing.

“Hi, baby, it’s me. I need to talk to you. Call me. Love you. Bye.” That ought to do it.

It was only eleven-thirty, which would make it . . . I used my fingers. . . five-thirty in Brussels. I didn’t want to go to bed without breaking ground on Daddy’s Christmas extravaganza, but Jacqueline would be no fun if I woke her up. It was always better if I were the one with the coffee and she the one with the wine. In the meantime, I had other problems to solve. My sisters, my brother, Ana.

I’d make a cake for Ana. A luscious chocolate cake full of life and love with a crème pâtissière lighter and creamier than a dream. A cake so good she wouldn’t be able to bring herself to leave. The power of a truly outstanding dessert should not be underestimated.

I poured myself the last of the wine and placed the empty bottle in the recycling bin.

I put on my chef’s apron and tied back my hair. Then, I pulled eggs and butter out of my stainless-steel fridge and the dry ingredients from the pantry. My hands knew what to do, my mind wasn’t engaged. Some people meditated. Some did yoga. Some even ran. Me, I baked.

From a tin, I removed a slab of Côte-d’Or extra dark chocolate. It was impossible, even for the most inexperienced kitchen klutz, to ruin a dessert made with Côte-d’Or. I set the oven to 350 degrees, then melted the chocolate and butter in a double boiler, stirring constantly. The rich velvet filled my head with the smell of happiness and good times. Making a cake is the easiest thing in the world. Didn’t we say “it’s a piece of cake” to describe something easy and sweet and good? So, if a piece of cake is good, an entire cake could only be better.

If all I had to do was cook, Christmas would be a snap. I grabbed a spoon and tasted the batter. Wonderful. I washed the spoon, then tasted some more.

But Daddy expected perfection. If it didn’t work out, the blame would be on the one he designated for the task. Leo was right. I should give it up. Refuse outright.

The heat from the oven warmed my face as I slid the filled cake tins inside. I tried to imagine what it would feel like to refuse to do Daddy’s bidding. I could almost smell it, like mountain air. Freedom. I broke off a piece of chocolate and let it melt on my tongue.

Seated at my desk, I opened the bottom drawer. Concealed beneath a folder of random recipes and notes was my mother’s diary. I didn’t need to open it, I could probably recite it word for word. I’d filched the book from her nightstand right after she died, feeling guilty but never regretting the theft because, barely one week after the funeral, all of her personal belongings—clothes, jewelry, bags, letters—had disappeared. We each got a Hermès scarf and Daddy gave Art her worn volume of Rilke’s Lettres à un jeune poète.

I’d planned on making copies for my siblings, but never got around to it. Maybe this year, as a Christmas present. I could have them bound.

The diary was thick. It related, in my mother’s slanted European cursive, the years before she and Daddy were married. It stopped when she’d been pregnant with me. If there was a second book, I never found it, though not for lack of searching.

One last time. I would try one last time to make him proud of me, of what I could pull off. And maybe, just maybe, the man from the diary, the man my mother had fallen so in love with, would come back.

I whisked the pastry cream so hard it almost whimpered. Once done, I polished off what was left in the bowls before washing everything.

It was still too early to call Jacqueline in Brussels. She was the grumpiest morning person I knew. To her credit, she did go to bed late every night but Sunday and Monday. This being Friday, she’d had a performance last night. I toyed with my favorite fantasy, the one where I could slip into her skin at whim and live her life.

My gorgeous older sister with the sheaves of silky blonde hair and the lustrous voice, singing opera at night, going out to eat after the show because a large meal before singing, as she had repeatedly informed me, was bad for the voice and tended to make her sleepy. She lived off sweet lemony tea and then, after the show, with makeup stripped off, she’d hit a restaurant with the rest of the company. This in a city where it was almost impossible to get a bad meal. It was so glamorous, especially compared to my life. No wonder Daddy was proud of her. Even when we were kids, she’d been his favorite. Not that he would shower her with compliments. But when she’d master a challenging aria or dress with a certain flair, he’d give her a small smile and nod. “Pas mal.”

Why they weren’t closer today was anybody’s guess.

I tried Colette again, but no luck. I kept my voice light as I left another message. I imagined her out with Wayne-the-jerk. I wished she would just come home. And Art? I didn’t have a clue about how to reach him.

My thoughts turned to frosting. Whipped or ganache? I could forgo the pastry cream mixed with raspberries altogether and cover the cake with ganache. I’d use an orange cream filling instead. I uncorked another bottle of wine and poured a glassful. Two cakes. A genoise with the pastry cream mixed with raspberries, frozen ones in this season, covered in ganache, and the chocolate with orange cream and whipped dark chocolate frosting. I broke off another piece of chocolate and popped it into my mouth. When it was almost gone, I took a sip of the wine and swirled it around my tongue. My heart smiled.

At two-thirty, I had a clean kitchen and two cakes. Now what? I needed another half hour at least before calling Jacqueline. Maybe a batch of brownies? With dark chocolate chips. I could freeze them then take them to school on Monday for the volunteers and office staff.

Once they were in the oven, I sat down with my wine and punched in the long string of numbers that belonged to my sister in Brussels. No answer. I got up, accidentally knocking my mother’s diary to the floor. I placed it back in its drawer. I called again when the brownies were cooling. Still no luck. Fuming, I scanned my immaculate kitchen. What was the use of having sisters? Not only did they live on opposite ends of the earth, but it was also impossible to get them to answer their phones. Out of fashion though it was, the phone was my lifeline. I needed to hear their voices.

Chocolate mousse. Making mousse au chocolat would be a good use of my time.

When the last of the ramekins was in the fridge, I slumped down on a chair. Just fifteen more minutes and I’d give it another try.

The next thing I knew, Leo was shaking me. I opened my eyes and groaned. I’d fallen asleep. The mixture of batter, chocolate, and wine were churning in my belly and my head felt like it was going to explode. I rubbed my eyes.

He took in the two cakes, the brownies, then checked the fridge and whistled. “Cake or death?” My husband could get in touch with his inner Eddie Izzard at whim.

“Death, definitely death.” I untied my apron and pulled it over my head.

“Go to bed. I’ll take care of the kids.”

“But what about school?”

He raised his eyebrows at me.

“Oh yeah, right, today’s Saturday.” I pulled my hair out of its ponytail and ran my fingers through it, in a pointless attempt to smooth out the tangles.

He helped me up and walked me to our bedroom, undressed me, then pulled the covers up around my shoulders.

“How did it go with Jacqueline?” he asked.

“It didn’t. Love you,” I murmured. “Monday I’m going on a diet.”

“Whatever you want.”

I don’t remember him leaving the room.

Mousse au chocolat belge
BELGIAN CHOCOLATE MOUSSE

A truly superior mousse au chocolat is always welcome. It’s perfect for any occasion, or even for no occasion at all. Use the best quality ingredients and take your time. The quantities seem a bit wacky due to the conversion from metric. If you have a metric scale, by all means use it.

 

7.5 ounces (200 g.) high quality dark bittersweet Belgian chocolate, like Côte d’Or (70% cocoa is perfect)
½ cup (125 g.) heavy whipping cream 5 fresh organic eggs (room temperature)
2 tablespoons, plus 1 teaspoon (20 g.) granulated sugar
¼ cup (30 g.) powdered sugar
¼ teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons coffee extract or 1 tablespoon very strong espresso
1 tablespoon coffee liqueur, like Kahlúa (optional)

 

For the chantilly cream topping . . .

 

1 cup heavy whipping cream
1–2 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract (or you can use vanilla sugar instead of these last two ingredients)
Dash of salt
Chocolate for grating

 

Break the chocolate into pieces and melt it over very low heat or in a double boiler over simmering water. You may also use a microwave. The safest method will always be the double boiler. Once melted, slowly stir in the cream and remove from heat. Let cool a bit.

In the meantime, beat the egg yolks and sugar until the mixture becomes pale yellow and creamy. This may take longer than you think. Don’t skimp on this step.

Beat the egg whites with the confectioners’ sugar and salt until stiff and glossy.

Add the slightly cooled espresso or the coffee extract (and coffee liqueur, if using—I generally don’t) to the chocolate mixture.

Pour the chocolate into the egg-sugar mixture, scraping the bowl with a spatula. Mix well.

Very delicately, using a wooden spoon, fold in the egg whites, a spoonful at a time, being careful to not deflate them.

Pour into a large serving bowl, individual ramekins, or glasses, and cover. Chill for at least two hours, though your mousse will set better if you leave it overnight. This is a great dessert for a dinner party because you should make it the day before.

Just before serving, beat the remaining cream with the sugar, vanilla, and pinch of salt until it forms soft peaks.

Top each serving of mousse with a dollop of the chantilly cream and grate some dark chocolate on top.

There are many variations on this recipe and they are all delicious. But sometimes, simple is better.