Christmas Chocolat

I glanced at Dante behind the wheel of the Toyota. If Art could have seen me now. Our family’s danger junkie probably never tried this. Though with him, you never knew.

I wondered if anyone would come visit me in prison if it came to that. Gali. With files hidden in chocolate éclairs so I could break out. Wouldn’t it serve Wayne right, though. Driven to a life of crime by a louse. The stuff of great novels.

I steeled myself against thoughts of paternal disapproval. Where had being a good girl gotten me? And Daddy thought so highly of Wayne. Well, maybe not of Wayne himself, but certainly of his family.

I was dressed in the same clothes as on Halloween, black jeans and black sweater, minus the boa and turban. I figured stealth would not have benefited from extravagant headgear, even in Southern California. My feet were clad in soft-soled flat ankle boots in a deep black suede. Interestingly enough, I didn’t feel short and I could walk so easily. Maybe it was time to rethink my devotion to heels.

“Ready?”

I nodded but my insides trembled. He squeezed my hand. “You will see. It will be the breeze.”

“A breeze,” I whispered back.

It was two-thirty in the morning and the streets were empty. I could see my breath in the chilled November air. Before living here, I’d imagined that Southern California was balmy, like Florida. But the climate was mild—never too hot, nor too cold, as if it were afraid of undue extremes. Of course, on occasion, it would shudder at being so constrained and buildings would tumble, roads would crack. Nothing came for free, nothing could be easy all the time.

We crept through a backyard, careful not to bump into the patio furniture. Dante passed me a black balaclava. I thought he was kidding. But when he slipped his on, I did the same, feeling silly. Then, his magician fingers worked the lock on the door. He had beautiful hands. I curled my fingers in, hiding my nails, though from whom, I didn’t know. He’d made sure there was no alarm and he’d seen the owners leave with packed bags earlier in the evening. I felt a pang at the thought of them returning home from a carefree weekend jaunt to discover they’d been burglarized.

The lock sprang open with a soft click and we stepped in. It was eerie to be in someone’s house in the middle of the night.

He nodded and I headed down a hallway off the living room, looking for the master bedroom, while he went over the living room, office, and kitchen. I passed by a smallish room with a bed and paused, then continued on my way. The furniture looked staged. A guest room offering hospitality for the owners’ friends and family. I felt myself chickening out as my heart pounded in my ears. Too late now, whispered a voice in my head. These people would be fine. Dante’s instructions were specific. No personal computers or cell phones. No digital cameras unless we could easily pop out the memory card. Nothing with information that couldn’t be replaced. On the other hand, any jewelry, cash, expensive accessories like designer bags, scarves, or even high-end shoes, if they weren’t too bulky. One of his friends, a master whiz-geek, hacked into insurance companies to glean information on policies. Dante only hit houses with plenty of coverage. I took a breath. He also checked out the targets and ruled out anyone who came from a lower-income background. That’s how he hit us. Wayne’s family was Main Line aristocracy.

The couple who lived here were Texas oil money.

In the bedroom, I hit pay dirt. A jewelry box sat open on an antique vanity table. I emptied it into my black canvas mailbag—a twin to the one Dante carried. A few great scarves were draped over the mirror and I stuffed them in the bag, too, pushing them around the jewelry so it wouldn’t jingle. It was hard to catch my breath. My heart pounded against my ribs. On the shelf of the closet, I spied four designer bags, a Chanel clutch, a Chloé, a Hermès—though not a Kelly or Birkin—and a ubiquitous Vuitton. I saw a gorgeous shirt in a plastic bag. Saint-Laurent. In it went. My bag was just about full. I spotted an iPod on the nightstand, hesitated, then, tossed it into the bag. It was all insured, I kept repeating to myself. Replaceable.

When I got to the back door, Dante was waiting for me. His teeth gleamed in the dark. Together we crept through the yard and down the alley to his car, parked a few blocks away.

I clambered in and he turned the ignition. Suddenly, I was flooded with a surge of adrenaline or endorphins or whatever it was that made you feel fantastic. I pulled off my damp balaclava and took a deep breath. Then, before I could stop myself, I squealed, like a three-year-old let loose in Barbie’s palace.

“That was . . . beyond description!” I said.

He grinned. “So you see, it is easy. And no one is hurt.” He drove easily through the dark streets, keeping well within the speed limit. By the time he dropped me off in front of my house, my heartbeat had slowed down to almost its normal rate.

“Go inside,” he said. “Go to sleep. I will be back in a few hours.”

But I was so keyed up, I couldn’t sleep. I felt like telling someone. My mind relived every moment of the heist, over and over. I sat at my sewing machine but my mind was too full to leave room for anything else. I stepped outside to smoke.

It was after seven when Dante came back, still wearing the same clothes, carrying two takeout cups of coffee. I’d changed into a short denim skirt and UGG boots, topped with my deep purple Dostoevsky top. In a mixture of black silk thread and black-and-white appliquéd letters shot through with fine gold thread, was the quote: Why am I going there now? Am I capable of that? Is that serious? It is not serious at all. It’s simply a fantasy to amuse myself; a plaything! Yes, maybe it is a plaything.

He set the coffee down on the table and pulled a roll of cash out of his inside coat pocket. He handed it to me with one of the lattes. I took a sip before counting the money. There was almost five thousand dollars.

I started to split it in half but he stopped me. “La tua parte,” he said, removing a similar wad from the other pocket of his coat. “I look like I have breasts, yes?”

“Not really.” But I was still staring at my share of the money.

“My ‘connection’ he is very happy. Soon, we will be rich.”

“If we don’t all burn in hell. What’s the penalty for stealing in Dante’s Inferno?” I tore my eyes away from the money and looked at him.

“Ah, yes. Very bad.” He shook his beautiful head. “The eighth circle, thieves go to the ditch of serpents.”

“A snake pit?” I shuddered. “That’s cheerful.” I put my hand to my mouth, about to start biting my nails, when he stopped me.

“But that’s a different Dante.”

“Thank God. What are you going to do with the money? Go home?”

“No. It will be redemption, redemption by sinning, but still, redemption. A friend from Italy, his family makes wine. They buy a small vineyard near to Sonoma. The son, my friend Domenico, comes to America to take charge of it. He offer me to be a partner. Better for business and more conviviale for life, no?” He held up two fingers and pressed them together.

“Yes.” My coffee was smooth, almost nutty.

“Mio padre tells him I have money. So I need to get the same amount back,” he said. He rose and went to the window. The morning glory vine clinging to the fence was blooming with fat violet flowers. “Bello,” he said.

“How much?” I asked.

“Three hundred thousand dollars.”

I almost dropped my cup. “That’s how much you lost? Were conned out of?” I gulped.

“Si. But I have a little bit more than half, now. I invest in winery, become a real partner, not just a worker with salary. We will make beautiful wine. And I will go home a hero.” He turned back to me. Backlit by the morning light coming through the window, he looked as if he were surrounded by a golden aura.

“Your father . . .”

“Will be proud, si.” He came back to the table, sat down, and drank his latte. “To make wine is noble.”

“But Dante, what if you . . . we . . . get caught?”

“It will not happen. We are too careful, si?”

“I hope so.”

“And you, what will you do?” he asked.

For a moment I wondered what it would feel like to return home, married and wealthy. I would show Daddy what a success I’d made of myself. But then what? “If I don’t end up in jail or in a pit of snakes, I’ll . . . I don’t know. Buy a small house somewhere affordable, make a new life. I won’t be dependent on Wayne when he comes back.”

“You think he will come back.”

“Absolutely. He always does. We’re soul mates. It’s destined. But I won’t take him back unless he marries me.” I stood and paced around the small room. “And I won’t let myself be financially insecure ever again.”

“Do you not have another dream? You look like someone who dreams.”

“Well . . .” I’d already bared my inner secrets to him, why not go all the way?

“So there is something more.”

I nodded. “There is. I love to make, design, clothes. I’d like to have my own line one day. My own business.”

“And this makes you happy?”

“Yeah, it makes me happy.”

“Are the clothes you wear of your own?”

“A lot of them are. Not the skirt. But the top.”

“All the ones you wear with the words and the designs and layers?”

I grinned. “Yeah, those are mine.”

“Ma, è squisito. Straordinario. Superiore. Tu sei bravissima.” He punctuated each word with his hands.

My Italian, far from adequate, was still good enough for his words to register. “Not all that.”

“Yes, Nico, you will bring joy and beauty into this world.”

“And you will bring a marvelous wine.”

We clinked cardboard cups.

“To the future,” I said.

“May she smile.”

I willed myself to sleep, to be still. I kept twisting and turning in my bed. It was too hot. Then a few minutes later, too cold. Finally I got up and opened my closet. I grabbed a plastic bag full of brand new men’s T-shirts that I got for a song at Costco last summer. They were simple, soft, and, most of all, unadorned. I selected a black one. Next I pulled out a box full of fabric scraps and trim from under the bed. I found what I was looking for: a shiny black silk, the kind you usually see on tuxedo lapels. I cut and sewed a crescent moon and stars and appliquéd them onto the stretchy cotton. Next I picked over my plastic box of multicolored spools of thread and chose a silvery one, with just a touch of the palest yellow in it.

I studied the shirt and thread.

I plugged in my laptop. It only took Google a few minutes to pinpoint exactly what I was looking for.

In the shape of a triangle on the lower left-hand corner of the front of the T-shirt I embroidered in flowing script:

Remember tonight . . . for it is the beginning of always.

Tomorrow I’d look up the original quote in Italian and put it on the back.

After all, Dante wasn’t only about poor souls drowning in mud, or with their heads screwed on backward, or being trapped in a pit of writhing snakes. It was also about Beatrice, his feminine ideal, and love that defied all boundaries.

I finally fell asleep.

When I awoke, it was late afternoon and I felt displaced. Maybe I should get a cat to have a focal point outside of my own head. At loose ends, I went outside to check the mailbox. A few flyers, the water bill, and a letter. My heart skipped a beat, but although the handwriting on the envelope was familiar, it wasn’t Wayne’s. Not that he was the letter-writing type. Inside, I dumped the rest of the mail on the table and opened the envelope.

I drew out a letter and a photograph. It was a snapshot of my parents and a baby. My mother was looking directly into the camera, a smile on her lips. My father was gazing at the bundle in my mother’s arms, one finger on the baby’s cheek. His eyes crinkled at the corners and his mouth curved with some private joy. The baby’s big blue eyes were wide open and it was staring up at my mother’s face. The picture was taken on the porch swing of my parents’ house.

The letter was short.

Dear Colette,

I came across this photograph the other day and I thought you might like to have it. It’s you the summer you were three months old.

I’m looking forward to seeing you this Christmas. It’s been too long.

I’d never seen this picture before. I stared at it while minutes ticked by. Then I went to the bedroom. From the closet, I pulled out a fat album. It was where I pasted anything I came across that reminded me of my mother. There were pictures of my sisters and a few of Art when we were children.

I took the album and a tube of glue over to the bed. I sat down cross-legged and pasted the photograph on the first empty page. On the opposite page, I glued Daddy’s letter.

I stared at them until the light dimmed. Then I put the album back in the closet.

Since that first time, my life had taken on an otherworldliness. Nothing felt familiar yet I spent my days as usual. I taught, joked with my students, saw friends, sewed Christmas presents, went to movies, listened to problems, and offered solace. But it was as if I were packed in cotton. If anyone noticed, they didn’t say. Nobody asked about Wayne anymore either, not since the “he went home because his mother is ill” explanation. Only witchy Sonya ticked. She kept telling me how good I looked and asking me for my secret.

My senses sharpened only when I was on a job with Dante. The adrenaline rush, the joy of finding treasures that brought us closer to our goals, was intoxicating. I barely drank at all but oddly enough, I was eating. I must have needed the strength or stamina. Even my nails looked better.

On the Friday before Thanksgiving, I invited Dante over to dinner. Over the phone, Gali talked me through a pot-au-feu. She was thrilled, the desire to cook always a beacon of mental health in her book. I pretexted a dinner party with some of Wayne’s colleagues.

After triple washing and peeling turnips, carrots, and potatoes, and slicing onions, I browned the meat and covered it in cold water to seal in the juices. I really didn’t have a proper pot to cook the dish in but I made do. It took me hours to prepare and even longer to cook but it made the house smell just like my sister’s. A pang of what could only be homesickness coursed through me.

When Dante arrived, he was astonished but in a delighted sort of way. I’d even broken into the fund, as I’d come to call my ever-increasing pile of cash, to buy a really good bottle of Gigondas recommended by my sister.

We ate and laughed and drank. It was all easy and comfortable.

After the pear gelato, I pulled out the package containing the finished T-shirt. He unwrapped it with gentle fingers, then stared at the shirt without saying a word.

“You don’t like it,” I said flatly. “That’s okay.”

He looked up and met my gaze. “No,” he said, “I don’t like. I love.” He stripped right there in the living room. I could have charged admission. His chest and back were as perfectly chiseled as his face. My mouth went a bit dry and I took a sip of wine to give myself something to do rather than gawk. He pulled the T-shirt over his rippling muscles and spread out his arms.

“How do I look?”

“Good,” I said, nodding several times in quick succession. It wouldn’t do to start gushing and drooling, very gauche.

“It is the most lovely present from the most lovely lady.”

I’d never been called a lovely lady before. He stepped close to me, our bodies almost, not quite, touching. My eyes locked on his. He leaned in and placed his lips on mine. At first, his kiss was soft, tentative. He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me more firmly, with intention. I opened my mouth and welcomed his tongue, tasting him. I put my arms up around his neck. Without breaking our kiss, he led me to the couch. My legs buckled and we both sank into the cushions. He began to stroke my body with his magician’s fingers. Every pore, every cell sang at his touch. He slipped his hand under my shirt and I gasped at his fingers on my bare skin. I arched into him, wanting his mouth all over me, wanting all of him.

Suddenly he stopped and pulled gently away. His eyes were unfocused and his breathing heavy.

“Don’t stop,” I whispered.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I should not have.”

“Yes! You should!” I panicked like a raft cut adrift from the boat it had been tethered to.

“No, you are a woman in love with another man.” He moved away from me on the couch.

“Who isn’t here.”

“But you still love him?”

I looked down. I couldn’t deny it. Wayne was a part of me. And had been for so long, I couldn’t fathom not loving him. Even now, as furious as I was.

“I do not want to be how you call it, the rebounce?”

“Rebound. But you wouldn’t be. You’re not.”

“Too soon for you to say.” He sighed. He planted a light kiss on my forehead. “Grazie mille for this most beautiful present.” And just like that, he slipped away.

I stared at the door, biting my nails. Then I did the dishes and cleaned the kitchen. Afterward I sat some more.

But he never came back.

The next morning I awoke, steeped in humiliation. There was a job tonight and for once, I dreaded it. See masterpiece of a man, a man who comes from a country that arguably has the most beautiful women in the world. See Colette throw herself at said man. See Dante run. Run Dante run. See Colette make a spectacular fool of herself. Silly, silly Colette.

No wonder Wayne kept dumping me. Around two, I hauled myself out of bed, threw on an old pair of jeans and my faded blue-and-red hooded Shippensburg sweatshirt. Not my style, but at the time Wayne had pressed me to buy it. I headed out to the beach, hoping the air would clear my head. I had to cut ties with Dante. But the money was a promise. He’d planned a long weekend in Vegas in December, a time where I’d be singing carols and sipping hot chocolate or eggnog before heading to the skating rink with my nieces if I were still living in Pennsylvania. Maybe I should move back home, live the seasons I loved, be part of my family again. It could even be temporary. I could stay just long enough to figure out my next step.

Tonight I’d play it cool. Pretend I’d been drunk. After all, I wasn’t in love with him, it was pure lust. I loved Wayne, always would. Dante was right. I’d been using him. Shabby.

Later, as I was dressing in what I’d come to consider my cat burglar costume, I realized that being in costume and going on heists when I would have normally been asleep was what made it so easy for me to slip into this criminal persona. None of it felt real. It was like being in a movie.

The money was real, though.

At one, Dante slipped quietly inside. I told him not to bother knocking anymore, but now I wondered if that had been such a bright idea.

He smiled at me and I looked away.

“Look,” I said. I was about to apologize but seeing him brought such a lump to my throat that I could hardly breathe. I felt like an annoying gnat that he’d had to swat away.

“I . . .” I didn’t know what to say.

He came over to me. “I am so sorry. It was my fault. Your beautiful gift.”

“No need to apologize,” I said, surprised at how cool I sounded. “It was a mistake, could happen to anyone.”

“But I need to say something—”

I stepped back. “Dante, please. Please let’s not talk about it. It’s past, okay?” I knew I sounded desperate but I couldn’t believe how easily I was off the hook.

We had two houses tonight, nice ones, in La Jolla. According to Dante, it was rare to find places in the community with no serious security.

The first one, halfway down Mount Soledad on a street perpendicular to Via Capri, went off without a hitch. We got an astounding haul.

We drove south to Ocean Beach and I stayed in the car while Dante grabbed the grocery bags from the trunk and disappeared into a bungalow. It never looked suspicious to carry groceries.

I never knew what happened to the merchandise after the drop. Mexico? eBay?

While he was inside, I tried to figure out why all this taking from the rich was so satisfying, so easy. He was Robin Hood with a corrupt Maid Marian. Except that Robin Hood loved Maid Marian, of course.

There were only a half a dozen or so more jobs before stopping and going to Vegas.

Dante got back in the car and started the engine.

“Dante?”

“Si.” He was still a bit cold but at least he gave me a hint of his old smile.

“Why stop now? Why not keep going until you have all the money rather than run the risk of losing it all in Vegas?”

“Because, Nico,” he said, “the lady of the luck, she may leave like that.” He kissed his fingertips. “You must walk away before she does. Same in Las Vegas, know when to walk.”

It made a wacky kind of sense. But what if I became completely addicted to this double life?

“So after Vegas?” I was blinded for a moment by the headlights of an oncoming car.

“I go to Sonoma. In January, I will start my new life. And you?”

“I’ll start one too.” Gali had guilted me into going home for Christmas and I was almost looking forward to it. My main problem was explaining Wayne’s absence. What if he spent Christmas in Pennsylvania with his mother? It seemed likely. I could corner him. But the prospect didn’t fill me with seasonal cheer. Holidays were such a problem when living a sham.

I’d been invited to spend Thanksgiving with Sonya and her family, but my friends were going to start to find it odd that Wayne was still gone. I didn’t know how much longer I was going to be able to keep up the charade.

And as much as I loved Sonya, her family, and the other waylaid expats that were always a part of her bashes, it was always hard to be in the middle of other people’s families when you were on your own. Val, whom I depended on to be single and present, was going home to Ireland to spend a week with her family. Her brother was getting engaged. Which left Sonya and Annick, and all their children and husbands. And yet, the thought of spending Thanksgiving alone in my little house made me too sad.

“Dante, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”