by Leslie Meier
“Merry Christmas,” I said, offering my gloved hand. “Julia Snowden. I’m a neighbor of your husband’s aunt.”
She took my hand with a firm grip and shook it. “My name is Julia too. Julia Woodward. You’d better come in.”
I smiled as I crossed the threshold, remembering how Mrs. St. Onge had described Mrs. Woodward’s first name as “soft and unmemorable.”
“Let me take your coat. Richard! Company!”
While Mrs. Woodward hung my coat in the closet in the small front hall, I had a moment to look around the living room. It was, if possible, even more Christmasy than the yard. A tree that reached to the ceiling dominated the space, decorated with expensive-looking, one-of-a-kind ornaments and white lights. An elaborate train track circled the base of the tree twice, and two trains chugged away, passing each other with perfect timing at the switchover. One train was driven by Santa, its cargo cars laden with presents. The other train had passenger cars filled with townspeople in Victorian dress.
Every shelf on the built-ins around the fireplace held a Victorian Christmas scene of people, houses, and trees; and on the base cabinet nearest me was a large crèche with the infant Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the Three Kings, and more shepherds, donkeys, and sheep than I could count. I stepped forward to examine it. The figures were made of wood and the individuality of their features and expressions made me sure they were hand painted. Joseph was the tallest at about a foot. Mary held the infant Jesus in her arms. Her expression wasn’t that of a virgin or a saint. It was the look of a new mother, exhausted, elated, suffused with joy.
“I made them,” Mrs. Woodward said. While I’d been dazzled by the show in the living room, Mrs. Woodward had evidently slipped into the kitchen because she emerged with a tray holding three Santa mugs, a Santa pitcher, and a small plate of Christmas cookies.
Quickly I put Mary back in her place in the crèche. I’d been so entranced, I hadn’t realized I had picked her up. “You painted them? They’re lovely.”
“Carved and painted.” She put the tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa. “When Richard retired from the Navy, I thought he should have a hobby. I bought him all these wood-carving tools and such. He never showed the slightest interest, so rather than waste the money, I took it up.”
“You’re very talented.”
“Thank you. Richard turned his hand to this.” She gestured around the room, taking in the tree, the Victorian villages, the trains.
“It’s amazing.”
“He’ll be happy to hear that. He is quite traditional about Christmas. We were about to have some lovely hot chocolate. Please join us. Richard! Cocoa!”
Her husband came down the stairs into the room. He held himself erect and didn’t use the handrail. Like his wife, he was tall and trim and dressed in wool, in his case gray slacks and a bright red pullover. He had a most impressive mustache, gray like his thick head of hair.
“What ho,” he said, greeting me. “Who have we here?”
“Julia Snowden,” I said, offering my hand as he came toward me.
“Julia is a neighbor of your aunt’s,” his wife informed him.
“Oh.” His smile vanished, replaced by two deep wrinkles over his nose. “Her.” He welcomed me nonetheless, gesturing that I should sit on the sofa. His wife poured the cocoa and they took the chairs on either side of me. We were all a little crowded in the space, and I sensed that the arrangement of the furniture had been condensed to make room for the tree.
“Which house do you live in?” Mrs. Woodward asked, her tone neutral and polite.
“My mother’s house is number forty-three, next door on the right as you face Mrs. St. Onge’s house from the street.”
“The beautiful yellow house with the mansard roof and the cupola. I’ve admired it often,” she said.
“What brings you here?” Richard Woodward sat ramrod straight in his chair. His friendly demeanor had vanished.
“My mother and I had noticed your aunt was well-looked after over the summer and fall. She had a caregiver from elder services who called on her several times a week, and a man—your son, I believe—who visited often.”
“Our son, Bradley,” Mrs. Woodward confirmed.
I cleared my throat. “But since Thanksgiving, the situation has changed. The caregiver has quit her job and elder services has been unable to replace her. And your son seems to have stopped checking in.”
“Bradley is on a business trip,” Mrs. Woodward said. “He’s a CPA with Jenkins and Anton downtown. They’ve sent him out to California to do a job. It’s not clear how long he’ll be there. He’s working long days and with the time difference we haven’t spoken. I’m sure he would have told his Aunt Odile all this. He’s quite fond of her. He wouldn’t have left her wondering.”
“Perhaps she’s gone gaga and forgotten he’s told her,” Richard suggested. “Or more likely, she’s complaining to you about Bradley for the sake of complaining and knows perfectly well he’s away on business.”
I didn’t have anything to say to that and we all sipped our hot cocoa in silence for a moment. It had a rich, chocolaty flavor and the heavy Santa mug kept it warm.
“You’re concerned about Aunt Odile,” Mrs. Woodward said.
I hesitated. It wasn’t my family, or truly any of my business. “With both the caregiver and your son gone, I’m worried about your aunt’s well-being. Of course, my mother and I are happy to look in on her. She’s teaching me some baking, which will give me an excuse to go over every day for the next few days, but after that, and with the holidays approaching. . .” I let the rest of the sentence hang. Surely, there were few people more invested in Christmas than the Woodwards. And surely, Christmas was a time for family.
“Aunt Odile is my late mother’s sister,” Mr. Woodward said. “When I retired from the Navy and we moved back to the area, we tried”—he hesitated—“to have a relationship with my aunt. She made it clear she wasn’t interested. Finally, after several years of miserable holidays and visits, we gave up. Bradley, for whatever reason, persists. He likes her and finds her stories of growing up speaking French at home, and whatnot, fascinating. I find them tedious. She’s hypercritical. Hates everything we do. Everything we care about.”
“We did have a few lovely holidays together,” Mrs. Woodward said. “Thanksgivings and Christmases. She used to bring the most beautiful Bûche de Noël.”
“Except the last time, when it practically killed us,” Mr. Woodward reminded her.
“You don’t know it was the Bûche,” his wife cautioned. “There were lots of dishes that day.”
“You and I were the only ones who ate dessert. Bradley said he was too full. Aunt Odile said she’d already had plenty of cake at home. They were fine, and you and I were so sick with intestinal distress we didn’t even have the strength to go out by New Year’s. I know it was the cake.”
Mrs. St. Onge’s cake had made them sick? I didn’t need her mentoring to achieve that. History suggested I could do it on my own.
Mrs. Woodward sighed. “In any event, during that visit, things were said that cannot be unsaid. By either party. Bradley will be back before Christmas. We’ll make sure he calls on his great-aunt.”
Her husband grunted his agreement. “Funny you’re the one who’s conciliatory,” he said to his wife. “She treated you worst of all.”
I hadn’t thought the reference to Whatshername had been a memory lapse.
“What are you going to do?” Mrs. Woodward raised her hands, palms out. “She’s old and she’s alone, and Bradley cares for her.”
I said my good-byes, assuring them I’d look in on their aunt until their son returned.
Mrs. Woodward walked me to the front door. As I struggled into my coat in the small front hall, I noticed the wall opposite the coat closet was covered with dozens of photos of boys at all ages and stages. “Do you have other children?” I asked.
“No. They’re all Bradley.”
I looked more clo
sely and indeed they were. Every single one. The wall was like a shrine. I said good-bye, left the house, wove my way between the eight flying reindeer, and got back in the Subaru.
* * *
I was late getting to the restaurant. Gus had left for the day after lunch service, leaving the place meticulously clean, as always. Chris and I tried to meet his standards before we closed up every night, but we usually failed in some way only the hawk-eyed Gus could notice.
Chris had gotten there ahead of me and the smell of slow-cooked short ribs filled the open kitchen. It was important for the two of us to do as much prep ahead as possible. We had a strong list of reservations, and the stores on Main Street would be open late for holiday shopping as well. And who knew, maybe some of the people going to the Illuminations at the botanical gardens might find their way to our door.
“Hey, beautiful.”
I went to Chris, presenting my cheek for a quick kiss, mindful that his plastic-gloved hands were arranging halibut cheeks for seasoning and baking later. “Salad station prep?” I checked on my assignment.
“Please.”
I washed up and got to work. “I made the base of a Bûche de Noël with Mrs. St. Onge this morning,” I told him, making conversation. “‘I made’ is a bit of an exaggeration. Mostly I watched.”
“The woman who lives next door to your mom?” His tone was skeptical.
“Do you know her?”
“She and her husband used to go to our church,” he answered. “When I was a kid, I was terrified of both of them. Always with the sour expressions on their faces.”
“I don’t remember him. I think he died before we moved to our house. I was terrified of her as a kid. Livvie, Jamie, and I used to dare each other to run to their porch, tag it, and run away. Did your family know them well?”
“Not well. I think my dad was friendly with them, or maybe it was my granddad. Or maybe they worked together or came from the same village in Canada. You know how that is.”
The conversation fell off. Chris concentrated on his prep. As I rinsed and chopped, filling the stainless-steel bins with the salad fixings, I thought about my visit to the Woodwards. Had they really become sick from Mrs. St. Onge’s Yule log cake? Their digestion woes were more likely psychological than physical, a long-sought excuse to end an unhappy relationship. But would that have affected them both?
My mind traveled to their son, Bradley. Jenkins and Anton was a fine accounting firm, the biggest in the area. They took care of the taxes and other accounting needs of many local businesses, including the Snowden Family Clambake. They also did the personal taxes for lots of wealthy retirees. But what business would they have that would send a junior associate like Bradley Woodward to California for a weeks-long stay? Perhaps some kind of continuing education course? A local retiree who still had a business in California? Either explanation felt like an improbable stretch.
Impulsively, I stepped away from my salad prep, walked into the bar, and took my cell phone out of my tote. I found the number for Jenkins and Anton and placed a call.
“Jenkins and Anton, CPAs,” the receptionist chirped.
“Hi, Joan. It’s Julia Snowden. Can I speak to Mr. Anton?”
“I’m sorry, Julia. He’s not here. He and Mrs. Anton are in Hawaii.” This, I knew. The accountant went away for the first three weeks of December every year, grabbing the last days of leisure before his busy season began on January 1, and roared on until the middle of May. “Is there someone else who can help you?” she asked.
“Mr. Anton said if I ever needed anything while he was away, I could speak to his associate, Bradley Woodward.” This was a total lie. I didn’t know if Bradley had ever worked on our account. I held my breath.
“I’m so sorry,” Joan said. “Bradley’s on vacation too.”
“On vacation?” Not on a business trip, as his parents had told me.
Fortunately, Joan took the surprise in my voice to have another meaning. “Normally, we coordinate vacation coverage,” she assured me. “But Mr. Woodward had a sudden opportunity to use a friend’s house in Costa Rica, and you know how crazy our winter season will be.”
So he wasn’t in California, as his parents had said, either. “That’s okay. It isn’t urgent.”
“I’ll leave Mr. Anton a message you called.”
I thanked her and ended the call, hoping that by the time the accountant called me after his return, I’d have thought up a reason for placing the call in the first place.
Chapter Five
I felt some of the old feelings of trepidation as I walked up the flagstone path at Mrs. St. Onge’s the next morning, but I shook them off. A lovely—okay, maybe not lovely—but certainly a harmless old woman was helping me learn to do something important to me. The only feeling I should have was gratitude.
Mrs. St. Onge answered the door on my first knock, blinking at the sunlight through her thick glasses. “Come in, come in.” Her tone was almost cheerful. “Best get started.”
She had all the ingredients and equipment we would need laid out on the kitchen table, as well as a double boiler sitting on the stove. I shrugged out of my coat and hung it in the back hall. By the time I returned to the kitchen, she’d already started. I whipped out my notebook and stood behind her, hastily writing down everything I saw.
“Melt -?- ounces chocolate with two tablespoons of water in the top of a double boiler,” I wrote. While Mrs. St. Onge was occupied with the stove, I snuck over to the trash and found the wrapper for the chocolate I’d bought the day before. “Four ounces, semisweet chocolate.” I amended what I’d written. Meanwhile, Mrs. St. Onge had moved relentlessly on. She put six tablespoons of sugar and three tablespoons of water in a saucepan and put the heat under it. She stirred it with a wooden spoon as the sugar dissolved. She popped a candy thermometer into the mixture and left it to boil. I documented every step.
“My goodness, you are good at this,” I said, trying to keep up.
“Time was when I used to make six or seven of these a season,” she answered.
I wasn’t confident I could make even one of these complicated cakes. “My mom said you used to bring a Bûche de Noël to the Festival of Trees. She said it was breathtaking—beautiful and delicious.”
For the first time since I’d been coming, Mrs. St. Onge smiled, obviously pleased. “That was one. The rest were for family.”
The chocolate had melted. She turned off the burner and took the top pot off the double boiler. “We’ll let that cool.” She separated three eggs, putting the yolks in the big ceramic bowl with the blue band around it, which we’d used the day before. She handed me the bowl and a whisk and said, “Have a go.”
I beat the yolks with the whisk until Mrs. St. Onge grabbed the bowl from me, tsk-tsk-tsking as she did. She put it in the crook of her arm and used the whisk at about twice the speed I had managed. I wondered about her upper-body strength. Mrs. St. Onge had been old all my life. Or at least it seemed so. I’d never not thought of her as the old lady next door. I was in good shape. The Snowden Family Clambake demanded hard, physical work, and schlepping trays full of dishes and sacks of Maine potatoes around Gus’s Too was no picnic, either. But elderly Mrs. St. Onge had me beat on this whisking thing by a mile.
A few minutes later, when the egg yolks were thick and pale yellow, she handed me the bowl and whisk. “You go at it now,” she said. “This next part is about your speed.”
She checked the candy thermometer, nodded in a satisfied way, and took the sugar and water mixture off the stove. She fed the hot sugar ever so slowly into the eggs while I whisked.
“Why did you stop making Bûches?” I asked.
“Used to make one for my cousin Annie Grenier and her husband,” she answered. “Nasty piece of work he was. She never said, but I think he used to hit her. Felt so bad for her, I thought she should have something to brighten her holidays. She always loved my Yule log cakes.”
“But you don’t make one for her anymore?”
I was semi-prying, but she’d brought it up. She could have easily pleaded old age and avoided my question.
“She moved to Florida. He’s dead. Heart attack. At Christmastime. They say the last thing he ever tasted was my Bûche de Noël. Died with a smile on his lips.”
“Well, um, er . . .” What could I say to that? It was a shame he was dead? Maybe, if he did hit his wife, it wasn’t. The whole upper part of my arm was numb by that point. I didn’t know how much longer I could go on whisking. The cake-making exercise had taken on a crazy tilt. Doing the complicated recipe with hand tools felt like an insane degree of difficulty added. Just across the driveway, my mother had a perfectly good standing mixer with a whisk attachment.
“I used to make a Yule log cake for my husband’s brother, Claude. Never married, and no wonder. I never met a more miserable miser. Al and I asked him for some help with the down payment on this house. Turned us down flat. Said Al was shiftless and useless.” She sighed. “Of course, he was. But that’s another story.”
“But you no longer make a Yule log cake for your brother-in-law?”
“Dead,” she said. “Dead as a doornail. Massive stroke. Over the holidays. He was such a miserable SOB it took them a week to find him. Good riddance, I say. I save the money I used to spend on the ingredients for cake for the so-and-so.”
I was momentarily left speechless by her holiday horror stories. “Still, I’m sure there are people who used to get your cakes who miss them,” I finally ventured.
“Then there was Auntie Amalie,” she said. “Terrible person. Lived in a big house out on Mussel Point with about a hundred cats. Mistreated them, she did. Neglected them. The last time I went there was to deliver her Bûche. I felt so bad for those cats. I called the Humane Society and reported her and they took them all away. She died right after. Gastrointestinal distress, they said. Soaked in her own evil juices, I said.”
I had nothing to say to that.
Finally she signaled I could stop whisking and I gratefully set the heavy bowl on the table with the whisk in it. I pumped my arm three times to get some feeling back.
