S i n c l a i r ’ve been sending Elyse almost-daily missives for the past month, penned on Voss-headed not epaper and stamped with our century-old seal. In the end, forgiveness comes in the shape of a five-year-old’s glittery handiwork. It’s the most precious thing I’ve ever owned, made more precious by the dress code in capitals—CHRISTMAS SWEATERS MANDATORY—and the fact that Elyse has written along the bottom: RSVP - I’ve unblocked you. Please come (don’t bring anything) x Obviously, I RSVPed with indecent haste, pulling up her number and texting her: Thank you. I would love to come xx I then promptly informed my parents that I wouldn’t be available to attend Senator and Mrs. Thorne’s Christmas Eve drinks, at which holiday sweaters would most definitely be frowned upon. I’ve been in a state of panicked excitement ever since, staring at the invitation propped up against my bedside lamp by night and shopping desperately for appropriate gifts by day. What do you buy the woman who doesn’t want your money and the family that probably despises you takes holiday gift-giving etiquette to new levels of complexity, especially when she’s told you not to bring gifts? In the end, Fleur was the easiest to buy for, if you worked on the basic assumption that she was easily impressed and nonjudgmental. For the adults, I played it safe and opted for nice wine and a nice candle—the kinds of hostess gifts you’d bring, wherever you were invited. I don’t want to embarrass anyone. Now here I am, standing outside the Wards’ home once again, my car parked on the sidewalk. It looks far more festive than on my last visit, with a jaunty wreath on the door knocker and colorful lights twinkling on the tree that stands inside the front window. It’s six o’clock on the dot when I walk up the ramp and ring the doorbell, prompting some excited barking. As I wait, I pray hard that it’s Elyse who answers and not Sylvie. It’s Elyse. She stands there in the light like a mirage that a man as parched as myself might conjure up from nothing but his own desperate imagination. Her hair is loose, she’s wearing skinny jeans and a scarlet-colored holiday sweater with jingly bells hanging from it, and her face is the loveliest thing I have ever seen or will ever see until I lay myself down to rest. Best of all, she’s smiling at me, and it’s shy, and hopeful, and—I think—pleased? “Merry Christmas,” she says, taking a st ep toward me, even though it’s freezing out here. “Merry Christmas,” I manage through the torrent of emotion that’s hitting me at the sight of her. I can’t stand here and not touch her. I set down the paper bags and my coat and st ep forward, taking her in my arms. She comes willingly, wrapping her arms around my waist and pressing her face to my chest, and I band my arms as tightly around her as I can as I dip my head to inhale the scent of her hair. She smells like heaven, and the relief of it is staggering: this moment I thought I would never have. Her generosity of spirit is just as staggering. After everything I’ve done, she and her family have invited me into their home, to be their guest for a holiday that I’m guessing must be super important to them. “I don’t want you to get cold,” I say, and she pulls back a little so she can look up at me. Her mouth is painted scarlet to match her sweater, and the pull of it is so strong that I can barely resist kissing her. But I’m not
about to jump the poor woman on her doorst ep within seconds of seeing her for the first time in weeks. Baby st eps, I tell myself. You’re here—that’s enough for now. “Better come in, then,” she says with a grin, and I release her, bending to pick up my bags and bundling my coat over one arm. The dog is still barking through the open front door, so I assume someone is holding him back to allow us our brief reunion. The Ward family home may be on the humble side, but there is nowhere on earth I’d rather be. I will take an evening here over turgid drinks at Senator Thorne’s Georgian-style monstrosity of a mansion every single time. As soon as I walk through the door, I’m engulfed in warmth and merriment and the most delicious smell. But it’s also a moment of reckoning, because I’m pretty sure most of these people would prefer if I wasn’t here. As soon as I’m through the door, the dog launches himself on me, his paws going to my chest so he can gaze into my eyes as if I’m the second coming of Christ. He’s no spring chicken, but he’s gorgeous. I chuckle softly and tell myself to enjoy the warm welcome. It may be the only one I get. “Hey, buddy,” I murmur as I use my free hand to scratch behind his ears. Sylvie is the first human I encounter. She’s out of her chair and on crutches today, wearing jeans and a green sweater with the Grinch on the front. She stops in front of me and leans on one crutch so she can extend her hand to me as Elyse quickly grabs the other crutch before it falls. “Holiday do-over?” she asks, and I grin, grateful for her no-nonsense intro. “I would like that very much. Merry Christmas.” “Excellent,” she says quickly, as if she’s embarrassed, and turns to grab her crutch back. I get it. This is all pretty excruciating, given how things went between us last time I darkened their doorst ep. Elyse and Sylvie’s father is standing in front of the gas fire with a couple of people. He breaks away and comes over to greet me with a firm handshake. “Kurt Ward. Happy holidays, Sinclair. You’re very welcome, son.” It’s exceedingly gracious of him, given the good cause he had to chase me off his land just last month. Clearly, Elyse’s strong sense of compassion is no genetic accident. “Thank you for having me, sir,” I say as I shake his hand. I’m introduced to the other adults in the room, Reggie and Gloria, a Black couple that I’d put at a similar age to Kurt. I recognize their names instantly. “I believe I have you to thank for letting Elyse get away with me for the weekend a few weeks back,” I say to Gloria with what I hope is a smile of genuine gratitude as I shake her hand. After all, if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have the happiest memories of my life. She breaks into the widest grin that any of them have given me so far and pulls me into a floralsmelling hug. She’s wearing a white sweater that’s dotted with tiny crystals arranged like snowflakes and which is insanely fluffy. “Aren’t you a cutie? So we’re finally meeting Elyse’s boyfriend, huh? Just look at you!” I break away with a self-conscious laugh, my eyes darting to Elyse, who I’m not sure will appreciate Gloria’s use of the B-word. Clearly, Gloria is not up to speed. But she simply shoots me a Don’t make me regret this look and says, “Yeah, I guess you are.”
I pretty much die of happiness on the spot. Reggie has kind brown eyes and a knuckle-crusher of a handshake. “That’s a hell of a sweater,” I tell him, with a nod to the beauty that features an intarsia image of who I assume is Rick Astley and the slogan Never Gonna Give Yule Up. “It’s a warnin’,” he says. “The Ward family yule is legendary. I’m stakin’ my claim.” “Smart. I wish I’d known.” I look down at my own sweater, a navy Ralph Lauren one bearing a festive teddy bear. I panic-bought it on Madison the other day upon seeing the dress code. It’s already covered in white fluff, courtesy of Gloria. “You’ll wanna leave space,” Kurt says. “We take our bûche de Noël real serious around here.” “It’s a little more cracked than when Maman used to make it,” Elyse says. “But buttercream covers all sorts of sins.” “I can’t wait,” I tell her. “I’m excited to see your traditions.” “You’ll be more excited to taste ’em, believe me,” Gloria says. “Fleurie!” Sylvie calls, and, a few moments later, a little girl scampers out of the back room. She’s small and slight, with long dark hair and big brown eyes. Her family resemblance to her mom and her aunt is unmistakable. She eyes me with what looks like misgiving. “This is Sinclair,” Sylvie tells her. “Can you come say hey?” Fleur approaches cautiously and stands right in front of her mom. “Hey, Fleur,” I say, bending down. “It’s so nice to meet you. I, uh—I got you something.” I look up at Sylvie. “Is that okay?” “Sure,” Sylvie says. “That’s so nice of you.” I rummage through the bag I’ve set down and pull out a couple packages wrapped in red-and-white holiday paper. I enlisted my sister-inlaw Charlotte’s help to find something age-appropriate but not over-the-top. In the end, I opted for a small purse shaped like a unicorn and one of those t-shirts you can draw on with fabric markers. She rips them both open and holds up the purse as we adults look on. “Look, Mommy! It’s a unicorn!” Elyse shoots me a You did good look, and I exhale. I’ve survived the first five minutes and no one has asked me to leave yet. D INNER IS DELICIOUS AND , apparently, very much a traditional French Christmas Eve menu. The seven of us sit, tightly packed, around a table set for eight, the final place setting being in honor of Elyse’s absent mother. It’s a gesture that makes me a little wobbly, while also underscoring in my mind how far superior the Wards’ approach to preserving their family’s memories is to the Vosses’. I’m sure it must almost feel to Elyse and Sylvie as though their mom is here with us, what with her recipes and rituals being so lovingly preserved and so heartily enjoyed.
We kick off with a couple oysters apiece from a local fish market, which is apparently a thing on Christmas Eve, or the réveillon. Kurt apologizes for his shucking skills, but they seem pretty good from where I’m sitting. Fleur refuses to eat them—not a huge shock—and gifts hers to her mom and her grandpa. Then it’s on to boudin blanc, an ultra-smooth French veal sausage blended with milk and spices, that is fucking delicious and is served with apples baked in butter and the most sublime mashed potatoes. “Those potatoes are at least half butter, just so you know,” Gloria says at the expression of pure bliss on my face. “That’s why they taste so darn delicious.” “I can confirm that,” Elyse says. Reggie pats his sweater warningly. “Just remember, pace yourself, my boy.” I laugh, but his advice falls on deaf ears. This food is far too good for pacing. I brought along both a red and a white Burgundy pinched from the Fairwater cellar. I was a little worried that bringing French wines would be too on the nose, but everyone seems to be enjoying them. “What’s the significance of the réveillon?” I ask as our collective eating slows. “Well, we’ve messed with the religious parts of it, just like we have with Christmas Day,” Kurt says, chuckling to himself. “No Midnight Mass for us these days. Just a whole lot of food.” “Sounds about right to me,” I say. “The feasting is supposed to happen after mass,” Elyse says. “Back in the day, French Catholics fasted for Advent, just like Lent. So you often started the evening with seafood—because that wasn’t considered breaking the fast. Then folks would come back from Mass and dive in to the rich stuff—the boudin blanc, foie gras, capon. That’s what réveillon means: the meal you stay awake for.” “And you leave your shoes out for candy,” Fleur pipes up, having warmed to me considerably since I produced those gifts. “I’m very interested in that part,” I tell her, and she laughs, showing a row of sweet, pearly-white teeth. “Fleur—the girls’ mom—always told us that, generations before she was a kid, people would come back to their homes, cold and tired and starving after Midnight Mass, but the table would already be laid and the meat would be cooking, and they’d get stuck in,” Kurt tells me. “The joy of it, of course, was all that excess after the fasting.” “Seems to me we’ve all got very good at expecting the excess part without bothering with any of the fasting that goes before it,” Reggie observes. “Makes me wonder if we’re doing it wrong.” “I’m pretty sure you’ve just summarized everything that’s wrong with our society,” I tell him, and everyone laughs. “I think you’re both right,” Kurt says, holding his glass of Domaine Leroy Chambertin Grand Cru in mid-air, “but, here in this household, we’ve had a few lean months, alright, and it feels pretty good to be eatin’ oysters tonight without worrying. I don’t know if Lees told you,” he says to me, “but we’ve had some very good news recently. Last month, every last cent of Sylvie’s medical debt was forgiven, thanks to some incredible charity, and when I tell you that the axe is no longer hangin’ over our heads...” He bows his head for a moment.
“What I really mean is that it feels like a miracle to be sittin’ here tonight, feeling light as a feather. Don’t it, girls? Your mom did good, rest her soul.” With that, he raises his glass heavenward. “To Fleur,” Gloria says, doing the same. “God rest her clever, stringpullin’ soul.” I raise my glass, too, but I can barely speak for emotion. I expected that this might happen, of course; I’d already primed myself. But seeing the sheer relief, the gratitude, on Kurt’s prematurely lined face is another thing altogether. I feel humbled to be here, humbled to have had my presence in his daughter’s life count for one good fucking thing. That he thinks his late wife is responsible is a detail I didn’t foresee, but it makes it all the lovelier. I realize I need to react as if this is big news because, of course, Elyse has not told me. “Wow—that’s incredible!” I say. “That’s— I’m so happy for you all. Congratulations.” I daren’t look at her as I say the words. As nine thirty rolls around, Fleur grows sle epy, and I consider the grim but unavoidable fact that soon I will have to take my leave of these good people and drive out to Long Island. I am stuffed full of sausage and potato and—admittedly delicious—yule log. Reggie has managed three slices. He wasn’t lying about saving space for it. I don’t want to leave, but I have to. My heart is so full, yet I’ve had no time alone with Elyse to say anything. “I’m goin’ potty,” little Fleur announces, swaying with tiredness as she stands up. “Dad,” Sylvie says with a pointed jerk of her head toward the far wall. He looks over there, too. “Oh, yeah. Sure.” I’m unclear what is happening until Fleur goes off to the bathroom. Kurt rises from the dinner table and takes the big clock down off the wall, winding it forward until it’s showing midnight. Then, with a satisfied grin, he remounts it as the rest of us chuckle. I’m pretty sure that, for a man like Kurt Ward, this is as far as he ever takes his dec eptions. “Look, honey!” Sylvie says when she comes back. “It’s midnight already! See how the two hands are pointing to the twelve? You wanna put Baby Jesus in the manger?” We all get up from the table and head over to the wooden nativity, which is arranged on a small table next to the tree. Fleur kisses the Baby Jesus statue on his tiny forehead and lays him tenderly in the manger. Next, she puts her shoes by the front door so that Santa will fill them with candy. The kid has the right idea, embracing traditions from every place she can. While Sylvie puts her to bed, whispering promises that the sooner she goes to sle ep, the sooner it will be Christmas morning, the rest of us pitch in, clearing the table and loading the ancient-looking dishwasher to within an inch of its life. Kurt washes up the overflow, Elyse and I dry, and Reggie and Gloria, who know their way around this kitchen to an impressive extent, put things away. Gloria also insists on resetting the table for breakfast tomorrow. I wish I were staying; I wish I were Fleur, waking up to a household full of love and magic and Elyse.
After Reggie and Gloria have headed home with yet more yule, I turn regretfully to the Wards. “I should get going. I’ve impinged enough on your time.” “You going far, son?” Kurt asks. “I’m driving back to Long Island. Traffic shouldn’t be too bad, though.” I smile to show that it’s not a problem, but Sylvie frowns. “That sounds like a total pain in the ass. You can sle ep on the couch, if you like, and head over in the morning.” “Not a bad call,” Kurt says, cocking his head. “Oh, no, honestly,” I protest. Perhaps, given Sylvie’s history (and mine), they doubt my suitability to drive. “I’m absolutely fine. I only had half a glass of wine, and that was at the start of dinner.” But I can feel Elyse’s eyes on me. I look down to where she’s standing beside me, and my heart cracks open once again. Such a beautiful human, inside and out. “Stay,” she whispers.