Of course the church was cold, but the clamminess had been offset by a space heater borrowed from old man Lacrois and lugged across the street by a much subdued Josephine Lacrois, whose face was puffy and who did not look at anyone directly. The extension cord snaked up the short center aisle to the side door. If she had followed the trail, Katherine would have found herself on the hard-packed ground, standing next to a small generator, lent by the mayor from one of his many businesses. It made some noise but the old people who made up most of the one-day congregation didn’t mind.
Marie and Raoul were sitting as close to the heater as they could, baby Juliette swaddled and cozy in a knitted cap Mme Robilier had presented that morning. “Our Christmas present,” she explained to Katherine as the two women stood smiling down at the tiny face. “I mean Juliette is the present. To us all.”
Jeannette’s brothers were fascinated, reaching out to touch the infant’s cheeks. This morning, while she was scraping the baby Jesus’s face paint off her palette, she had come up with an idea. Remembering those boys sitting in front of a blaring TV, she decided they could use a little attention. Maybe art lessons down by the river next summer? With lunch as an incentive? Surely, she could do that without taking on any responsibility for their welfare. After all, everyone should be exposed to art.
“Don’t,” Jeannette said, reaching out to slap her brothers’ jacket sleeves. “You’ll scratch her, and your hands are dirty.”
“It’s fine,” Marie said, “really, she’s not made of glass. You’ll find that out when you start helping me care for her, cherie.”
“She’s almost four kilograms,” Raoul said, beaming. “A strong petite femme already.”
“You’d think he had the baby,” Marie’s mother said to Katherine, lowering her voice and chuckling. “Truth is, he thinks that baby is as delicate as the most fragile piece of porcelain ever produced. I don’t think he’s slept in two days. It’s as if he thinks she’ll vanish if he takes his eyes off her.”
“Isn’t that the way?” Mme Pomfort said. “Men, what do they know?”
Katherine had walked over to Château de Bellegarde to invite her old friend Adele, and Sophie and Yves, to join the carol singing and the potluck at the mairie, but they had gone. The housekeeper was locking up until New Year’s Day, she explained, because the Bellegardes and M. Yves Saverin had decided to spend Christmas in Paris and then stop to pay their respects to Albert in the family’s chapel in Nemours.
The sounds of two guitars began the melody of a favorite French carol, and people hurried to take their seats. Voices, some not too steady, some off-key, came together. “Petit papa Noël,” they sang. There was a sharp twang from one guitar and Katherine winced. Emile had convinced Michael to perform a duet.
“Heck, it’s his town and it’s only for one day. Life is too good for me to act like Scrooge,” Michael had said, grinning at her, an unlit cigarillo rolling around between his teeth and his Stetson perched far back on his head.
It was too bad that Pippa wasn’t here, but she was undoubtedly basking in the comfort of being with her father after her ordeal, eating Punjabi takeout and shepherd’s pie. Basking, too, from the attentions of Philippe, which went far beyond what his boss required to clear up the last bits of the investigation. It was kind of cute that he was as charmed by her tendency to trip and knock over things in her orbit as he was impressed by her standing as a writer of crime fiction à la his favorite Maigret.
Katherine had been surprised and pleased to get a note from Cat, the American nurse who had helped during the moment of deepest crisis in the museum visit. The note came courtesy of Reigny’s mayor, who walked over to the Goffs’ house with an envelope one morning. “Wasn’t sure of your address, but knowing these small towns, I am betting your mairie will forward this to you. Sorry I couldn’t get back down, but I hope I might visit the next time I’m in France. Maybe a day’s wine tour? You live in the heart of great vintages. And I’ll keep a lookout for your husband’s tour. I did wonder how the mystery at the museum turned out. Do write and tell me. Happy new year!” Yes, thought Katherine, she hoped so too. It would be fun to spend time with an American, someone her own age who loved Burgundy as much as Katherine had come to love it.
The newly painted Jesus looked in his mother’s direction, probably wondering why she looked so grouchy. Mme Pomfort had approved her repainting the faces so they looked less like figures from Grimms’ Fairy Tales, and Katherine would get to work on that unhappy face in the new year, so that mother and child were in sync. As she gazed up, considering what color blue the virgin’s dress should be, one voice in the church began to sing a different carol entirely. Katherine recognized it as the befuddled M. Robilier. His voice was unexpectedly sweet, joyful, and why not? Reigny-sur-Canne had a new life to celebrate, and the winter solstice had passed. The days would get longer, and spring would come again, hallelujah.