CHAPTER 19

Magali

As the middle sister, being neither the star, the son, nor the adored baby, I’d chosen to play the role of keeper of traditions. I made the holidays happen. I created space in my home and my life. My gaze swept across the house. It was perfect—well, as perfect as my Pennsylvania two-story colonial would get. The Christmas decorations were up. I had enough cookies in the freezer for the annual ice-skating fundraiser for school and all the bake sales, caroling parties, unexpected drop-ins. There was still the half-finished art project and occasional Barbie, along with Elly’s and Charlotte’s books lying around, but they were more or less contained. For the moment.

Nevertheless, today marked my “it” day. Waiting till after the New Year was a cliché.

I’d had half a grapefruit for breakfast and was feeling virtuous. I’d forgotten just how filling grapefruit and black coffee could be.

I was dressed all in black, my hair pulled back, a long silk scarf wound around my hair with the ends trailing over my shoulder, my glasses perched on my head. With better makeup, this would be my look for my jacket photo.

I flipped open my Mac, then stopped. I was at my kitchen desk, where I’d written all seven of my previous books. I needed to find another space. Great American Novels weren’t written in kitchens.

With mounting dismay, I realized I didn’t have a workspace of my own outside the kitchen. Leo had converted one of the four bedrooms into an office. He often holed up in there catching up on work. The other spare room would have been ideal but Art was still staying with us.

The dining room table?

Too formal and public.

Maybe building a fire and curling up in the soft leather armchair in the living room? That would be cozy and inspiring. I could be the Great American Armchair Novelist.

I set about building a fire, crisscrossing logs from the pile, adding dried twigs and newspaper. I lit last Friday’s New York Times front page, feeling a bit guilty for burning words—Fahrenheit 451 had had a huge impact in junior high.

Smoke promptly poured into the room, setting off the smoke detector. Gasping, I reached over, yanked the flue, then grabbed a pillow and fanned the device until it stopped shrieking.

Once everything seemed to be under control, I grabbed the accordion thingy—what was it called? A writer should know the names of things. Note to self: Google accordion thingy before starting novel. Soot flew into the room, covering me as well as a good portion of the hearth and floor. Merde!

At least the fire seemed to be catching. And I was wearing black, albeit with a nice smoky scent.

The alarm went off again.

“Shut up!”

I tried to open a window, then remembered we’d put in the storm windows three weeks ago—so I opened the front door instead, tracking soot all over the floor and my freshly-shampooed-for-Thanksgiving rug.

Leaving the door ajar, I fanned the fire detector until it quieted.

The fire itself was now roaring, but my perfect room and serious author clothes were covered with a fine layer of ash. I lugged the vacuum cleaner out of the hall closet and vacuumed the floor, then went up to take a shower and change clothes.

Back in the living room, in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt—note to self: buy more black—it was freezing. I’d forgotten to shut the door and the fire was dead.

Maybe the living room in front of a roaring fire hadn’t been such a hot idea after all. The metaphor made me wince. I should be better than that if I wanted to be a great novelist. More original. More something.

Anger fizzed as if someone had shaken a bottle of soda inside me. I slammed the door. There was no space for me. How was I supposed to dedicate myself to great literature without, to paraphrase Virginia Woolf, a room of my own?

In the kitchen I put on a fresh pot of coffee. I should run to the discount kitchen-supply store and buy one of those single-cup espresso machines. I think better with caffeine.

My stomach rumbled but I ignored it.

When the coffee was ready, I poured myself a cup and sat down. My stomach growled again. Giving up, I cut myself a large slice of the pumpkin cranberry walnut loaf to have with it. After all, pumpkin is a squash so technically a vegetable and everyone knew how good cranberries were. Besides, I’d burned tons of calories vacuuming.

I mentally scanned every room in the house: master bedroom, girls’ bedrooms, two spare rooms all occupied. Dining and living room, for everyone, which left me . . .

Out in the cold.

Or in the kitchen.

No.

But since I was here, I might as well check my e-mail and Google the accordion thingy.

A message from Terry d’Agostino, the boy-wonder agent, which I didn’t open. I knew I should. Ana kept pressing me to make a decision. One from Jacqueline telling me not to worry about Daddy, it was probably a midlife crisis.

I’ve heard of sports cars and hot blondes, but tea and scones to make yourself feel young? I answered.

A bellow. That was what that accordion-thingy was called. I sipped my coffee, feeling writerly.

Then it hit me. I snapped shut my laptop. A stroke of genius. The attic. I’d clear out a space in the attic, I could put all the boxes to one side, and take over the other as a writing space.

I went up, looked around, and sneezed.

It was dusty.

And cold.

And messier than I’d remembered.

I’d do it anyway. If I could tackle this, I could tackle anything.

I carried all the cartons and stacked them against the right wall, then pushed a trunk that had belonged to Leo’s grandfather in front of them. I used the trunk to store fabric and old clothes suitable for costumes. I opened it and pulled out a large oblong tablecloth with a paisley pattern and draped it over the cartons.

I shoved Tante Sola’s old table and a chair across the floor and by the dormer window, facing out.

I swept and vacuumed, cleaned the windows, polished the table and chair. I climbed on a chair and covered the naked bulb hanging in the center of the room with a faux-Tiffany lampshade.

In the kitchen, I grabbed a cobalt bud vase and plucked a gerbera daisy from the Thanksgiving bouquet Ana had brought and set both on my table. In the garage, I found an old space heater we’d used when the oil heater had gone on the blink six winters ago.

When I was done, I surveyed the result of my labors. My laptop sat in the center of the table flanked by freshly sharpened pencils, a spanking new notebook, and my Montblanc fountain pen—the one Leo had gotten me for my first cookbook signing. Something was missing. I ran back downstairs and grabbed three picture frames from the kitchen: one of Leo and the girls on a sailboat last summer; one of me and my sisters; and lastly, one of Maman, a candid, snapped as she was striding down the city street, a scarf around her head, oversized sunglasses and holding a clutch à la Jackie. Then I got out my mother’s diary and the photograph Daddy had given me.

I had created my very own writer’s garret. Sitting down, I drew a breath, feeling more than a bit like Colette. Author Colette, not kid sister Colette.

I flipped open my Mac and created a new blank document in Word. I typed Chapter One and centered it.

Then I began:

 

All her life, she’d known that she was destined for greatness.

 

Or was “for great things” better? No, “greatness,” definitely, “greatness.” Now what?

 

She would change the world.

 

A good start. A great one, in fact. This would be an Important Book. Daddy would sit up and take notice. Jacqueline would be envious of me for a change.

I pictured myself at my publication party, drinking champagne and wearing couture. Or even better, one of my sister’s original designs. I’d compare notes with Barbara Kingsolver, who would become a dear, close friend. I’d say something witty and Michiko Kakutani—whom I would call Michi—would laugh in delight.

Ana would wonder if retirement had been such a good idea after all. Daddy would be telling everyone that I was his daughter.

Colin Firth would star in the movie version.

Life would be perfect.

I looked at the clock and realized with annoyance that it was time to pick the girls up from school.

I saved my document and named the file “Novel One.”

On my way out, I realized I was starving so I cut myself another chunk of pumpkin loaf and, for once, didn’t set the table.

I ate it in the car.

Serious novelists don’t have time to eat properly. Besides, I hadn’t had that many calories today.

I found the note propped on the counter when I got home.

Bye, Sis,
Had to leave. Thanks for everything.
Merry Christmas. I love you,
Art.

Wringing my brother’s neck now topped my to-do list.

 

The food for our annual Christmas caroling party needed preparing. I couldn’t help but feel that it was my fault for not being able to hang on to my brother. At least Daddy never knew he’d been here.

And Colette, sounding oddly flat, had told me that she had exciting news. Also that she would be bringing Wayne. My heart sank at the thought. Not that I disliked him, I just basically couldn’t stand the guy. Especially for my baby sister. Of course I told her it was okay. I picked up my offset frosting knife and dipped it into the chocolate mousse.

Colette and I had decided to set aside the twenty-third for just the two of us. Which would go over big with Jacqueline, missing out on the sisterly reunion. I dusted the bûche with confectioner’s sugar, then added a few sugar mushrooms.

Although since she was flying in on the twenty-fourth and was staying with Tante Sola, it probably wouldn’t register.

I turned my attention to the appetizers. With a spatula, I slid the tiny cheese pastries onto a green tray.

Done. I just had to clean up the kitchen and change. I looked around and spotted my new boots waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. I’d bought them at Saks during a whirlwind Christmas shopping spree with Tante Sola. I couldn’t wait to show them to Colette. They were Collection Privée, black, low-heeled, supple as if elves had hand-stitched them for my feet. I also paid way too much for them, a fact that Leo waved off with a “You deserve them.”

These were boots made for walking . . . into my new life. Serious writer boots. Boots that made a person worthy of notice, of respect. Boots that said, “Now look here. I expect to be taken seriously.”

Tante Sola had offered to pay for half but I’d refused. She was always generous. I wondered if she would ever be content. My godmother was the person you could count on to phone on June twenty-third to lament the fact that the days were now officially growing shorter and winter was on its way.

As I finished wiping the counters, my thoughts turned back to my brother. I’d bet Syd knew something. Maybe tonight when everyone had gone home, I’d corner her.

I’d wear my new boots with new jeans, also from Saks. I’d never believed the rumors about how well-cut designer jeans could transform your derrière, but seeing my ass in these made them worth every cent. I was spritzing on perfume when I heard the back door open. Leo. Right on time.

I needed him to build a fire. Following Monday’s fiasco, I’d decided to delegate this duty for the rest of my days.

He came into the bedroom. “Everything looks great. And you look amazing.” He grabbed me and put his hands on my ass. “Do we have time? Where are the girls?” he murmured into my hair.

“With Tante Sola. At Saks. She took them to buy Christmas dresses.”

“Sweet.” He kissed my neck.

“But they should be here in about ten.”

“Enough time. Let’s get you out of these jeans.”

“But I just got dressed.”

“Then you know how. Won’t be hard to do an encore.”

The phone rang.

“Let it ring.”

“I can’t. We’re having a party, need I remind you? It might be important.” But suddenly my body wasn’t cooperating with my head. After all, voice mail had been invented for a reason.

Afterward, I really did look good, for me. My hair was just a little bit tousled and my face glowed. All the creams and facials in the world couldn’t replicate that.

I checked my messages.

It’s Syd. I’m sorry Gali, but I have to cancel for tonight. I’m sick. She coughed. Don’t want to contaminate everyone at the party. Sorry. Love you.

Merde! I’d have to corner her some other time. We had plans to go out on Tuesday. If she cancelled, I’d march over to her house with a gallon of chicken soup (or maybe a nice beef bouillon) and have it out.

Tuesday. Syd, plied with alcohol, and grilled.

There was a missed call from my father. I’d call him back tomorrow.

Downstairs I saw that Leo had already gotten the fire blazing. The door burst open and in bounced the girls followed by Tante Sola, laden with bags from—where else?—Saks.

“Momma, we got the prettiest dresses!”

“Really? Let me see.”

They pulled red velvet and lace from the bags, held them up in front of themselves, and twirled. Dresses from a storybook. Plus shoes, ribbons, and tights.

Leo whistled.

“It’s too much,” I told my aunt, kissing her cool cheek.

She waved away my protest. “They are angels. Absolute angels.” There were a lot of iffy things that could be said about my godmother. But I loved that, as far as she was concerned, my girls could do no wrong.

“You should have more children, Magali, you do it so well. The world needs more beautiful children.”

I was in shock. A compliment. I waited for the backlash, the sting, but nothing. Her eyes were shining at my girls who preened before their captive audience of one.

“Come now. We will choose the perfect clothes for tonight.” Charlotte put her hand in her great-aunt’s. Elly gave me a kiss and galloped up the stairs behind them.

I turned to Leo. “That was Syd. She cancelled.”

“Interesting.”

“What’s interesting about it?” I was more than a little annoyed.

“Art is gone and now Syd is sick? Two plus two . . .”

“Doesn’t always equal four.” I felt hot and pushed up my sleeves.

“Hey, take it easy.”

Tagged onto my nagging worry-worm about my brother and Syd was an ever-underlying fear that Simon would show up again—though he should be working at the theater on a Friday night in December. I still couldn’t accept that he was a shady character. It was one of the topics I’d been wanting to rehash with Syd.

It would have to keep until Tuesday. Sick or not.

My aunt and the girls came down. They looked beautiful. Their hair was freshly brushed and held back by new barrettes. Each one had on a pair of jeans and a Christmas sweater. Elly’s was red with a Christmas tree appliquéd on it, Charlotte’s green with Rudolph.

Tante Sola sidled up to me and whispered, “It’s Saint Nicolas, I assume you are ready? Where are the carrots for his ass?” I put down the tray of glasses and mugs. There would be eggnog, both spiked and unspiked, hot wine, and a nice Crémant de Bourgogne for those who didn’t like sweet drinks. And for the children, sparkling apple cider and hot chocolate.

“His donkey.”

“It is the same.”

“So it is. We don’t celebrate,” I whispered back. In Belgium, children put out their shoes at night after the parents had set out a glass of cognac or schnapps, and a few carrots for the donkey who carried the children’s gifts. Not as PC as Santa with his milk and cookies, but if given the choice on a cold December night, I’d probably choose a nice warming brandy too. Good children would wake up to toys and candy while those who weren’t so good would find coal in their shoes, left by the Père Fouettard—a character used by parents to scare children into good behavior. Saint Nicolas was also the patron saint of teachers and students, so it was a big deal in Belgium.

“Why not?”

The girls had disappeared safely into the kitchen. “It’s just complicated. I told the girls that since Santa is always so very generous with them, we’d instructed Saint Nicolas to give their share to poor children who aren’t as lucky.”

“It is a nice story. But the tradition.” She raised an eyebrow.

 

The party was a success. Once all the savory appetizers were devoured and everyone had had a drink, we went around the neighborhood singing carols. Syd’s house remained stubbornly dark through a rendition of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” that probably registered on the Richter scale.

Once back home, I put out the desserts: tarte au Maton, a meltingly delicious pastry from Grammont whose recipe has been classified as part of our national heritage and is protected by the EU; as well as traditional galettes from my grandmother’s recipe; and some homemade speculoos, a spicy biscuit eaten in Belgium during the holidays. And the bûche, of course. The desserts disappeared gratifyingly quickly. I loved friends who ate.

When everyone had gone home and the house was cleaned up, I sat on the sofa with a glass of hot wine. Leo was in his study. I was always a bit wired after a party and it was only ten-thirty, normal when a party included children. The warm wine would help me sleep.

Leo walked into the room cradling a two-inch stack of paper.

“What’s that?”

“Something I’ve been working on.”

“A big something.”

He seated himself next to me. “I’ve been working on it for a long time.”

I looked at the sheaf of paper in his arms. He put it down on the coffee table, wiping the already clean surface with the sleeve of his sweater before laying it down.

“It’s something I’d like you to read,” he said.

“Because I know so much about the law. Good choice. Commendable.”

He stood and squatted before the fire, poking the embers. “It’s a novel,” he said to the grate.

“A what?”

He turned to face me, a bashful grin on his face. “A thriller.”

“You wrote a novel? You wrote a novel?” I felt a stab of emotion I couldn’t put my finger on.

“I know it’s a cliché. Lawyers writing novels.” He laughed.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Betrayed. That’s what I was feeling. I was the writer, the aspiring novelist. That was my dream.

“Aw, Gali.” Suddenly he was beside me on the couch, pulling me close. My limbs were novocained. “I didn’t know if I could. If I could finish it, you know?”

I did know. I stared at the stack of paper as if it were about to jump up and attack me.

I pulled away. “How long has this been going on?” I couldn’t help it, I felt as if he’d cheated on me.

“A year give or take. Look, it’s probably lousy. I need you to tell me if it’s any good.” He looked at the manuscript, then at me.

I swallowed. “Sure.” I forced a smile. “When? Now?”

He looked hopeful.

I laughed in spite of myself. “I’m exhausted. I need sleep.”

“Of course. Of course. But this weekend?”

“Sure,” I repeated.

My thoughts drifted over the week I’d just had. Though I’d visited my garret several times, I hadn’t written a word. How could I already have writer’s block after just two sentences? There were so many things going on in my life, my head was brimming. Maybe I should take up yoga? But how would that stop all the demands that kept calling me away—calling me away from my calling. If I could just sort it all out, I could clear enough mental space to get the book done. The cookbooks had been so easy and . . . fun. I sighed. I grabbed my laptop and tiptoed up the stairs to the attic. I switched on my lamp, noticing the fine layer of dust that had resettled on my table. I ignored it and opened my computer, then stared at the screen.

“Write! Just write it! Write something profound!” I willed myself. But nothing came.

I went down to the kitchen. I opened a cupboard and stared at the pans and tins. But for once, I didn’t feel like baking.