CHAPTER 12
Colette
Thanksgiving
“The pumpkin is tender. And the apples look pretty good.” I poked them with a fork.
“Okay, throw in the cranberries and let it cook, uncovered, for about a minute.”
After hanging up, I took the apple-cranberry mixture off the stove to cool before using it to fill the pie. Gali, not bothering to hide her shock at my spontaneous desire to make pastry, gamely talked me through two pies. One of her Hopeless in the Kitchen books lay open on my counter, but I’d wanted to hear her explain it to me. Jacqueline’s voice from my iPod speakers provided the soundtrack to my culinary experiment. Caught in a bout of missing both my sisters, I made them a part of my day the only way I could.
I was wearing a short russet skirt over tights and boots with a tight long-sleeved black top with a segment of The House of the Spirits stitched in orange and yellow. Wayne always said it was one of his favorite outfits. I put my thumbnail up to my mouth, then stopped myself just in time. My nails had grown out a bit. I looked at them. In a week or so, I could maybe even polish them. Or get a manicure, something I’d never dared to do.
By the time Dante came in, wearing a nice pair of khakis topped with the shirt I’d made him, the pies were cooling on the table and I’d just finished an e-mail to Jacqueline. Her voice filled the room with glorious notes, coming from the iPod dock that I broke down and bought with some of my “earnings.” He sniffed the air, and when he spotted the pies, his eyes lit up with delight. How did he do that? His hair was damp from the light rain.
“You make these? And you listen to such beautiful music?”
I smiled. He always made me feel so good about myself. “Dante, have I ever told you about my sisters?”
Jacqueline provided the soundtrack to our drive to Sonya’s.
I was apprehensive about introducing Dante to Sonya. We’d fabricated a story about his being a friend of my Belgian cousin Max, in America for an extended visit. Max had urged Dante to look me up and I, not wanting to leave him on his own for his first American Thanksgiving, was bringing him to Sonya’s annual Thanksgiving of stray lambs, a motley collection of expats and far-from-homes.
Plausible, but Sonya was one of those people who could spot a nontruth from two towns away. Through thick fog. I was counting on her to be too busy with the party to question my story. Besides, she would probably be so bedazzled by Dante that there would be no room for anything else. She was, after all, in full possession of two X chromosomes.
The rain pelted down more seriously when we arrived at Sonya’s Carmel Valley house. Protecting the pies with the umbrella, which, as a true Belgian, I always had in my car, we hurried to the door.
We were engulfed in hugs and hellos, adults, kids, and two cats scampering around us in a fanfare of welcome.
I went into the kitchen holding one pie, with Dante on my heels holding the other, as well as the bottle of wine we brought. There was such a blur of people, I wondered if two pies would be enough.
“Colette!” Sonya hugged me as I set my pie safely on the counter. “You look beautiful!”
“So do you.” Sonya was all smooth skin, sleek hair, and green cat eyes. All offset by chunky jewelry and a wild silk print tunic belted over a fabulous pair of black satin pants.
“Such a shame Wayne—” At that moment, she spotted Dante setting down the second pie next to the wine and her mouth dropped open.
She recovered more quickly than I’d expected, and gave him a charming smile, raising her arm in welcome, her chunky bangles sliding down her arm. If I looked like her, I’d reproduce too, as often and quickly as possible. She held out her cheek for Dante to kiss, which, ever the gentleman, he obliged.
“Please, have a drink. We are all having champagne.”
I grabbed two flutes and Dante filled them from a dripping bottle of Mumm Cordon Rouge plucked from a tub of ice.
We clinked glasses and we made the rounds.
A hand grasped my arm and pulled me away from the group and into the kitchen. “So, this is the famous Italian friend of your cousin?” Sonya let go of my arm.
I nodded and gulped the dregs of my glass.
“He is magnificent! You didn’t say!” said Sonya, a hint of accusation in her voice.
“The place looks great, Sonya,” I said.
“If Val were here,” said Annick, who had materialized at my side, “she would be in instant love.”
“Again,” added Sonya.
I laughed good-naturedly but was suddenly glad Val wasn’t here.
“Do you need any help in here?” I again tried to steer the conversation to a safer course.
“And you made tarte aux pommes,” said Annick. “So uncommon for you to bake. And your cheeks are round. With good color.” Nothing physical escaped her eye. She built her whole fashion consultant business on her powers of observation.
“Thank you. I just felt like making dessert. Contributing something other than alcohol for once. Not that big a deal.”
“Oh no. Not big at all.” They exchanged a look.
“I’m standing right here and I can see you.” I picked up a bottle of chilled champagne and raised it. “Refills?” They both held out their glasses.
Sonya handed me a tray of blinis topped with thick cream and caviar and sent me into the living room. Annick trailed me with another tray, this one laden with crackers spread with her famous salmon rillettes. The fire crackled, people were talking, and there were candles everywhere. The rain made the house feel cozy and warm. Annick’s and Sonya’s kids looked spiffed up shiny in their good clothes. I loved that they had their children dress for special occasions.
Svetlana, Sonya’s daughter, came over to me brandishing a sketch pad.
“Oh, have you got new ones?” I asked.
She nodded. “Would you like to see them?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Let’s sit.” I set my tray down on the coffee table and settled on the couch, pulling the eight-year-old close. I opened up the pad full of drawings of different garments and exclaimed over her sense of style and color. She turned rosy with pleasure.
“Do you see how one sleeve is longer than the other, and they are different colors?” she asked.
“It’s very original, I love it,” I said.
“I have to go make some more. I need to work on a winter collection.” She dashed off.
Annick sank down in the spot vacated by Svetlana. I watched Dante, who was now chatting with the Spaniards, displaying the kind of ease you were either born with or had to do without. Wayne had excellent breeding but always remained just a tad aloof. If you didn’t know him like I did, it wasn’t even noticeable. But it was often as if he felt he was talking to someone below his social stature. Dante, on the other hand, flowed around people like a warm bubbling brook, easy and loose.
“So,” said Annick. “I notice he is wearing one of your creations.”
Drat. “Yes. It’s a welcome-to-America present.”
“Is he just here on vacation? You never said. What does he do exactly?” she asked.
There were a lot of things I never said. “Oh, this and that. He was working in a restaurant. Now he’s . . . exploring his options.”
“Is he legal?”
In our world, legal didn’t mean old enough to drink but rather in possession of a valid visa.
“Gee, I don’t know. We’re not really that close.” I shrugged.
“Yet you made him a gift?” she pressed.
“It was the polite thing to do. Why do you want to know about his visa?”
She sighed. “It would be a shame to lose such a man over a technicality. How is Wayne, by the way? Does he say when he will be back?” She helped herself to a blini.
I did the same. “He will probably stay through the holidays.”
“So many things you don’t know. I had no idea he was such a devoted son.” She bit into the blini.
I glanced at my friend; the ironic smile on her lips didn’t escape my notice. She wasn’t buying a single word of my story.
And if Annick wasn’t swallowing the story, neither was Sonya.
The rest of the day passed quickly. I ate a lot, talked with maybe a dab too much animation. Dante was adorably attentive to my slightest desire. And throughout the entire meal, my two friends exchanged knowing looks and cocked eyebrows. Very smooth.
By the time pie and coffee had been devoured, and vodka offered and refused by all but a few diehards, it was almost nine. I couldn’t help feeling a degree of satisfaction at the empty pie plates. Wait till I told Gali.
At the door, Sonya whispered in my ear, “And tomorrow, you will tell me the truth. Yes? All of it?”
“Okay.” I pretended to concede defeat, wondering what story I would conjure up. One that she wouldn’t see through.
Because the truth?
Out of the question.
Friday passed in a blur of snoozing, reading, dreaming up new designs in my sketchbook—Svetlana, like most children, served as both inspiration and motor to get on with my own “winter collection”—and dodging calls from my friends. I pushed thoughts of my impending trip home for Christmas to the back corner of my mind.
Around eleven on Saturday morning, there was a knock on the door. Please not Annick or Sonya. Or worse, Annick and Sonya. I hadn’t yet come up with a credible story. Plus the change in decor would surely elicit a barrage of questions.
I opened the door to find Dante standing in the sun, wearing a big grin, and holding up a blue spruce.
I laughed. “What?”
“I know that in America, Natale comes directly after the Thanksgiving. So . . .”—he gestured toward the tree with a flourish—“Christmas!”
“How do you know that?” I was glad I’d felt good enough this morning to dress in something decent. With my blue-and-black retro sixties tunic over black leggings and white boots, I felt like a go-go girl. I even had on a bit of mascara and lip gloss.
“Because, bella, you tell me.”
“Oh, right. It must have slipped my mind. Don’t just stand there, come in.”
“You have the balls and garlands?” He was standing in the middle of the room still holding the tree.
“You bet.”
We set the tree up in the corner by the window and hauled four cartons of Christmas stuff in from the garage. Around one, we took a break.
“We are working well,” he said. “Let me take you to a ristorante.”
“You know how I feel about eating out.” I was placing red votives in small glass jars.
“But this place is very different. I promise. Very clean, all fresh. Italians directly from Italy.”
“I don’t know.” I turned to him.
“Dai! Per piacere.” When he started speaking Italian with the look of a hurt puppy in his eye, every particle of will I could conjure just zipped out the window.
“Okay.” I felt so happy right now. I wanted to make him happy too. Wayne hated holiday decorating. It was so much fun to have a partner to do this stuff with.
He took me to Caffè Bella Luna, a restaurant I’d passed by hundreds of times, but being me, had never entered, much less eaten there.
The modest exterior was deceiving. Inside it was modern and quirky, with gauzy fabrics draped artfully from the ceiling and partially covering the windows. Two richly textured tapestries adorned the walls, saving the decor from the clinical chill of many trendy restaurants.
Dante ordered for me.
Our server brought the wine almost immediately and I was grateful for the warmth and courage it gave me.
Soon, she returned with two steaming bowls of soup.
“Minestrone della casa!” she announced, as if she were heralding the arrival of royalty in our midst. “Is organic.”
I took a spoonful of the vegetable-laden broth and blew on it a bit. Both the waitress and Dante leaned in toward me. The pressure was crucifying. I swallowed. “Wow,” I said, “this is . . . delicious!” I took another spoonful. The broth was rich but light, not greasy, and somehow the vegetables retained both their texture and flavor. They both relaxed, the waitress smiled and left.
“You see, Nico. You should always trust me.” He broke off a piece of bread.
Because I didn’t? How much more proof did he need? Before I realized it, I’d drained the bowl.
“Brava!” said our waitress. “It will be a while for le pizze, va be’?”
“Si, si, va bene. Non si preoccupi.” He turned to me. “I tell her not to worry, to take time.”
Our long lazy lunch was like vacation. Two services came and went, and still we lingered.
“Americani,” said Dante. “Eat too fast. Do not savor.”
“I’m going to get fat if I keep hanging around you.” But I knew there was no danger there because our relationship was on a timer.
“No. Sei bella! You should not be so skinny. And the body and the soul need great food and wine to be happy.” He punctuated his words with a dessert spoon.
“I suppose.” I scooped up the last of the tartuffo nero we shared for dessert and took a sip of smoky espresso.
We returned to my place. Dante strung the outdoor lights while I fiddled with the details inside, placing branches of holly and tree clippings on the windowsills, the mantel, and above the kitchen counters. It was dark by the time we finished and turned on the lights. They obediently twinkled against the inky sky.
“Magico!”
“It is.”
“Ma . . . ?” He tapped his index finger against his chin.
“What?” I looked around. It looked perfect.
He was frowning. “Dov’è . . . where is the crèche?”
I shrugged. “Haven’t got one.”
He looked horrified. “But it cannot be Christmas without a crèche! Come.”
“Where?”
“To buy crèche.”
We were in the car when he asked, “So, where do they sell crèches?”
“I don’t know. But when in doubt . . .”
“Si?”
“Target.”
Just like everything else, shopping with Dante was easy. Fun. It felt as if I’d known him all my life. We found a decent wooden manger and figurines. I loaded up on candles and we headed home.
“Dante, don’t we have a job tonight?” I asked, when we’d finished setting up the crèche. I had a sudden flash of my father handing me the figurine of the baby Jesus and telling me to place it in the manger. Growing up, it was a magical moment.
He sighed and his shoulders drooped a bit. “Si. It is almost the last. Soon we can stop. Do not worry.”
After a walk on the beach, he went home for a nap and a change of clothes. I tried to rest but couldn’t help pacing.
At a little past two he pulled up in a car. Each time it was a different vehicle, with different plates, remarkable only for their blandness.
“Are you all right?”
He seemed jittery, unlike himself. “Si. Do not worry.”
We headed north to Del Mar.