Work Text:
December 24th, 1946
It was like a flood rolling in. As soon as dawn broke on Christmas Eve, the matrons of Los Angeles' high society streamed into the I. Magnin & Co. department store on Wilshire Boulevard, Beverly Hills, threatening to sweep you away from your refuge and confinement behind the counter. The festive season was always a drag in customer service, a stressful, endless hassle amidst wreaths, baubles, and candy canes, but the bonus was sizeable enough to be unrefusable for a woman in your position and with your extravagant tastes.
The river of intricately styled heads and fresh blow outs split around the gigantic Christmas tree in the centre of the first floor and dispersed to look at the mannequins and glass cabinets displaying the most expensive articles that would make for a passable last minute gift. The other shop assistants sat their catches down on the loveseats and cushioned chairs scattered across the shop floor for some personal attention and persuasion. Yet you remained rigid at the cash register, pretending to count change until the first sale would come to leave their money with you.
You wrapped up a few, buying lavish hats and diamond earrings and silk scarfs, and saw them on their way with the toothiest smile you could muster in hopes of a tip, wishing them a "Merry Christmas" and not once receiving it in return. Your feet hurt from standing around for hours, you were in need of a coffee, and you had a chipped nail with no way of accessing the file in your locker downstairs. You thought your day couldn't get any worse—but then she walked in.
Her mere appearance gave you pause.
A small woman, exceptionally dressed in a burgundy dress and fur coat that had collected a dust-layer of snowflakes, who made heads turn in whichever direction she breathed. Apart from her fierce brown eyes it was her nose that stood out to you; prominent, curved, fashionable in its own right. Your eyes met the moment she passed the Christmas tree. She shifted her stride straight towards you, one heeled foot in front of the other as if on a runway; effortless grace, measured flamboyance.
Before she even reached the counter, she narrowed her eyes, said, "You," and beckoned with a crooked finger. "You look like you've got nothing to do. Come with me."
"Ma'am, I'm not allowed to leave—"
"Ah, poppycock," she interrupted, grabbed your wrist and pulled you from behind the counter.
"Ma'am!" you protested.
The woman stopped abruptly, making you bump against her, and, with a tight-lipped smile, asked, "Honey, do you know who I am?"
"I—um…?" You felt like she was mocking you, your head was empty as if struggling to comprehend what your eyes couldn't get enough of. Her lips, wide and so red glossy; her eyes gleaming with unrelenting passion—she rolled them—her brows arched, sceptical, testing.
"When a woman becomes a wife she becomes invisible to the world," she scoffed, then cocked her head. "Ever heard of Ace Amberg?"
"The head of Ace Studios? Of course, Ma'am."
"Well, I'm his wife," she said with the hint of a threat in the lightness of her voice. "We own this town, for all intents and purposes. So—are you coming?"
The shift in tone, her voice now tense, low, rough, made you shiver, swallow hard and manage not more than a nod. It was enough for her to grip your arm again and drag you towards the jewellery section.
"I need a necklace for my daughter," she said as she let go of you and perused the contents of the glass cabinets. "She's younger than you, but you'll do." She made a lazy gesture with her hand; deep brown leather. "Won't look good on my old, wrinkly neck if I try them on."
Her words drew your attention to her neck, partially hidden beneath the fur of her coat as she studied the displayed items. The skin was aged but appeared soft, smooth, delicate, carried her sharp, gardenia-scented perfume well. Miss Dior? It had only recently entered I. Magnin's stock.
"You, on the other hand… pretty, young thing," she considered, appraised you, winked, and turned back to the glass cabinet. Took her gloves off, slapped them on the glass and tapped a sharp, red nail at a necklace inside.
"I'll get it for you, Mrs. Amberg," you stammered, fingering at the keys around your neck until you found the right one to open the cabinet and take the necklace out.
When you tried to hand it to Mrs. Amberg, she blocked you off. "Didn't you listen? I need you to try it on!"
"I'm not exactly al—"
"—allowed, yes, yes," Mrs. Amberg finished, and snatched the necklace from your fingers, spun you around, laid it around your neck. "Hold still…"
Your heart thumped in your ears as her fingers brushed your collarbones and nape, closing the clasp and running her hands down your shoulder blades after. You turned back to her, cheeks red, like a doll you let her play dress-up with.
"My… aren't you a sight," she said with a smug click of her tongue. "What do you think?"
"Me? Uh…" You took a glance in the nearby mirror and had to admit that two karat diamonds looked awfully good on you. "I like it."
Mrs. Amberg chuckled, dark and sultry. You ran too hot in your long-sleeve shirt, sweaty palms, an electrifying throb in your blood. "Good." She stepped up to you, ran her forefinger along the rows of diamonds just below the base of your neck as if to inspect every individual sparkle. You held your breath, didn't dare move anything except your eyes that followed her until hers snapped up, catching your gaze, making your heart stumble. "Sold," she said, grinning like a devil, and sauntered off toward the cash register.
***
It had taken you a good while to recover from Mrs. Amberg's visit. You'd stood behind your counter, dumb-founded, not even noticing until much later that she'd left her brown leather gloves on the glass cabinet that had previously held the necklace. For the remainder of your working hours, you'd been staring at them, weighing them in your hands, slipping them on and off.
During your lunch break, you had scoured the telephone directory for a home address of hers but came up empty-handed. Later, Roberta from accounting told you where she lived. "Are you kidding? Everybody knows where the Ambergs live!" Until the end of your shift, you couldn't think about anything other than returning the gloves to her. Seeing her again.
It was dark when you left the department store. The snow had turned into muddy slush on the side of the street, the sidewalk was frozen over and slippery, the night starry. In the cone of light the street lamp cast, snowflakes were falling like large specs of dust, coating the street with a thin layer of icing sugar.
You took a cab to the address Roberta had given you, paid the driver, and rang the bell at the tall-rising front door, ornately framed, a lamp post on either side. You heard the click of heels on the tiled floor before the door opened. Mrs. Amberg froze, her eyes widened a little, but then she cracked a smile. "My, my, look what the cat dragged in," she drawled as you clutched her gloves to your chest.
"Mrs. Amberg, I—" you wrung your hands around the gloves, then lowered them and held them out to her, "You forgot your gloves at Magnin's. Here."
She took the gloves from your hands, fingers brushing against yours, and stroked them out, thoughtful, then huffed a laugh as she met your gaze again. "How sweet of you."
It occurred to you then how peculiar it must seem to her, coming all this way to her home on account of a pair of gloves that could've easily been mailed. You hoped she didn't think you some kind of maniac now. But her expression was soft, lazy blinks, her earlier perfect hair come loose a little. She must've been busy before you arrived.
"You're freezing," she said after a moment of awkward silence. "Why don't you come in?"
"Oh, no, no. I've already imposed enough." You averted your eyes sheepishly. "… I shouldn't have come here."
How you'd get home, however, you had no idea. The cab had driven off and you hadn't really thought that far. It was too cold to walk, too dark, too far from home.
"Shut up," Mrs. Amberg said, startling you with her sudden sternness. "You can give Gertie your coat."
It was clear she wasn't asking, so you followed her inside. Gertie was the maid, as soon became apparent, and she took the coat off your shoulders. "Thank you," you said and caught up to Mrs. Amberg heading down the hallway. She still wore the burgundy dress that hugged her figure just right; tight at the waist and falling loose from her hips to her calves.
"You must excuse the chaos—I was decorating when you came," she said, leading you through an arched doorway into the vast living room that was anything but in disarray. Sure, there were a few boxes here and there with baubles and wreaths peeking out, Christmas lights draped across the backrest of the sofa, but it still looked neat.
"It's fine, honestly. You're making more of an effort than I do with these things."
"I'm a terrible housewife. Last minute gift shopping, decorating on the day of Christmas Eve…" She picked up a pack of French cigarettes from the small, round side table and put one between her lips while she fingered with the lighter. "The tree should arrive any second," she mumbled. "Dick said he'd bring one over at 6."
Your train of thought stopped moving as Mrs. Amberg inhaled smoke and expelled it from between her lips. The regal stretch of her neck, the certain movement of her head, the purse of her lips—you were fascinated, like an art critic bowing to Rubens, infatuated, like a photographer was with his muse.
"You look like you need a drink, girl," Mrs. Amberg said, amused at your coyness. "What's your poison?"
"Gin?" you said, as it was the only one of the bottles you recognised on the cart.
"I'll make it a double," she said and went for the bar cart, pouring two glasses from a crystal decanter; a matching set. She came close, so close you felt her breath fan your face, and held the glass up to you, whispering, "Relax, baby," in your ear.
She wasn't exactly making it easy. The feelings and reactions she stirred within you were confusing, to say the least, and you didn't know what to make of it. What you did know was only that you wanted to stay; an unlikely outcome to hope for. She had a family, a husband. The night would end with you returning to a tree-less two-room apartment without heating, let alone expensive gifts.
On her way back, she said her goodbyes to Gertie and wished her a Merry Christmas. You took the drink from her hands and brought it to your lips—cold glass, burning gin. She watched you take the first sip, watched you swallow it with satisfaction. The moment was ruined by the doorbell. "That'll be Dick," she said, stubbing her cigarette in the ashtray and hurried away, leaving you alone in a living room larger than life.
There was a grand piano. You'd learned to play when you were little but hadn't had the money to get one once you'd moved out. It had been years, but this might be the only opportunity you had to tickle the ivory again. You should ask first, but a rare Bösendorfer was simply too inviting to pass up and Mrs. Amberg would likely take a moment at the door anyway. You approached with the care one might approach a wild animal with, circled the glossy-shining instrument, and sat on the stool in front of the keys, your drink forgotten about. Was it Mrs. Amberg who played? Her husband? Her daughter?
You struck a few chords, drowning out the conversation at the door, and settled into the familiar melody of La Vie En Rose, surprised you could play it by ear save for the odd wrong note. You'd been quite good as a child, but had wasted your youth and potential—or so your parents used to say.
The idle play of your fingers against the keys entranced you, so much so that you missed Mrs. Amberg returning, only looking up when she swept into the room and huffed. You startled, thought at first she were furious at you for tainting her expensive piano with your touch, but once she recognised the tune you played, the tension left her shoulders and her lips curved into a smile. Awkwardly, you kept playing as she dropped her hands from her hips, picked up your drink, and came closer, watching the movements of your fingers intently.
Her perfume wafted through the air as she came to a halt behind you. The hairs on the back of your neck stood, aware of her looming presence, the warmth rolling off her. Her nails clinked against the glass, she sipped, and began to hum along to your melody—deep, sultry, sonorous. Her knuckles grazed the goosebumps at your nape, and to your shoulder, where her hand settled just briefly. Your cheeks warmed, your heart sped up, but you willed yourself to focus.
With a dramatic sigh, Mrs. Amberg left the space behind you cold and leaned against the grand piano with your drink, where you could see her. There, her hum burst into song, full and vibrant and trance-inducingly beautiful. Your eyes trailed along her neck as she straightened, how it accommodated her voice, how her chest moved with every breath. You lost your rhythm first, then your ability to play altogether. The piano fell silent before her note had rung out.
She looked at you in question. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I… got distracted," you said, shrugging your shoulders apologetically.
"You're talented." She moved closer, leaning on her arm. "Who taught you?"
"My father, mostly. And myself." You kept your hands in your lap as if forbidden from touching the keys and looked at anything—the picture frames decorating the piano top; a photograph from her wedding, a portrait of a young Mrs. Amberg, one of her husband and a couple with colleagues or friends—but her. "Was something wrong?" you asked once you'd gathered the courage.
"Hm?"
"At the door. You—when you came back. I thought you were cross with me."
"Oh, no. I mean, yes, no—it was Dick, not you, sweetie."
"Did he not bring the tree you wanted?"
"He did, but he didn't help me bring it in and put it up like he'd promised. Said there was some emergency at the studio." She waved her hand dismissively, and, with an eye-roll, added, "Men."
"I could help you," you blurted, venturing a hesitant glance at her up through your lashes. "If you'd like."
Your offer gave her a pause, she blinked, took a small breath and replied, "Very much, darling." Her eyes lingered on you, not assessing this time, not curious, just… fond. "I could use the help."
***
Mrs. Amberg picked up the pointy tip of the tree, and you the trunk. Together, you carried the heavy Balsam fir into the living room and, with laboured breaths and exhausted groans, brought it up on its stand. You failed to suppress a giggle when you saw how Mrs. Amberg had to tiptoe reaching up, brows furrowed in concentration and lips pursed.
"What's so funny?" she asked.
"Oh, nothing," you said, but couldn't hold back.
"Come on, spit it out! What're you laughing about?" she challenged, hands on her hips again like earlier and rounding the tree to where you stood, sizing you up.
"Well, I just hadn't realised how much taller than you I was before, is all."
She pinched your side, not painful but playful, and walked off with an indignant cock of her head. You weren't quite sure whether she was bluffing or if you'd actually offended her but you carried on fixing the tree regardless until she returned with a stack of boxes.
"Since you were so cocky about me being shorter than you, why don't you hang up the decorations then, hm?"
It was the way she said it, the amused quirk of her eyebrow, that reassured you it was all in good fun.
"If you tell me where—no problem, Mrs. Amberg," you said, taking the green cardboard box from her. Your fingers brushed at the sides; it felt almost intentional.
"You're in my home on Christmas Eve, decorating my tree—you can call me Avis, honey."
"Okay," you said with an embarrassing blush, and told her your name in turn.
For the upper section of the tree and the topper, you needed a small footstool to step on. It made you even taller, towering over Mrs… Avis. As you reached up to place the star, she put her hand in the small of your back, steadying you. Your breath caught as she gave the faintest press against your waver. Neither of you said anything, you just kept going, put the star into position and began slipping one glass ornament after another on the upper branches—until the telephone rang and interrupted the two of you once again.
"Just one moment," Avis said, holding up a finger. "And don't fall!"
She left your side and hurried into the kitchen. You didn't want to eavesdrop, but the door was left ajar and her voice grew louder and louder as the conversation went on. No matter how hard you tried to focus on decorating the tree, you couldn't block her out; the harsh clicks of her heels as she paced back and forth, the telephone cable bouncing as she wound and unwound it from her fingers, her shouting down the phone.
"You promised!"
"I can't believe you'd do this to m—to Claire!"
"No. Don't you dare."
She went quiet as the person on the other end of the phone spoke, lips pressed shut, fingers curled around the receiver in a white-knuckled grip.
"If that's how you feel, then don't bother coming back."
She slammed the receiver down, stormed out of the kitchen, grabbed the bottle of gin and her cigarettes in passing and left through the floor-length glass windows leading into the back garden, the drapes left swaying.
You swallowed, focused your attention on your trembling hands fumbling another ornament onto an unwilling branch. Shame crept hot into your ears—you shouldn't have witnessed this, you shouldn't have listened in on her private matters. And yet, you couldn't help but glance outside to where Avis stood smoking, without a coat, looking out on the garden as it lay shrouded in darkness while she remained still in the cone of orange light falling from the garden lantern.
Stepping down from the stool, you located the coat rack, fetched the fur coat and slipped out through the same glass door. She didn't hear the thuds of your footsteps in the snow, and so you cleared your throat to alert her of your presence. She winced anyway.
"Oh, it's you," she said with a sense of detachment, and tapped at her cigarette, flicking ash into the snow.
"I didn't mean to disturb you, I just thought… you might be cold? I brought your coat."
"Huh," she huff-laughed, "aren't you sweet. I'm fine, but thanks."
You helped her into the sleeves; she coughed, maybe from the cold, maybe from the many cigarettes strewn at her feet.
"Are you sure? About being fine, I mean?"
"I'll live," she mumbled around the cigarette hanging off her lips. "Might as well call the whole thing off now, no point."
"Christmas?"
"Yeah." A long pause followed. She smoked wordlessly, drank straight from the bottle, then: "It was my husband who called. He's not coming home."
"Oh." You didn't know what to say; none of this was meant for your ears. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He's one useless motherfucker."
The crude language was jarring, stood out like a sore thumb between the terms of endearments and pin curls. You tensed, feeling it was somehow on you to save this family's Christmas. "But… what about your daughter?"
Avis sighed, considered your question, drank another swig of gin. "You're right," she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, smudging her lipstick. "Claire's barely home since she's gotten with that new beau of hers. Gotta make the most of it."
Quietly, she offered you the bottle, but you shook your head. The gin had proven too strong for a lightweight like you, although you hadn't wanted to admit that earlier. "It goes to my head too quickly," you explained. "I usually only have a glass of wine or so."
"You could've said! Got a whole wine cellar to drown my sorrows in down there," Avis said, dripping with what you weren't so sure was sarcasm. "Say, darling," she turned to you, gulping from the gin, looking up with big watery eyes, "would you like to stay?"
"I would love to," you said, and Avis smiled, though melancholic. She brushed your arm and let her hand linger as she said, "You're a gem, you know that?"
The gesture coaxed a smile from you too. A look passed like a secret between you.
"Don't you want to go back inside?"
"Yes," Avis sighed, flicking her cigarette butt away, "why not…"
As soon as you were inside, Avis lifted her foot and yanked at the heel until it came off. She discarded both in a corner and walked barefoot over the living room rug, put cigarettes and gin away, fixed her lipstick and produced wrapping paper and scissors from a cupboard. Settling on the floor near the Christmas tree you'd so carefully erected, with a stack of items ready to be packed, she laid out the wrapping paper and placed the box with the necklace she'd acquired this morning on it, beginning to measure how much she'd need.
Leaving her to it, you returned to the tree and picked up the ornaments again, proceeding to decorate the lower sections while Avis tended to the presents. Her movements were calm and loving as if swaddling a newborn; her shoulders relaxed and lashes heavy with grief as she tucked and folded.
"It's funny… See," she began out of nowhere, never ceasing her motions, "we're actually Jewish. Yet here I am every year decorating the house for Christmas instead of celebrating Hanukkah."
"I didn't know that." It reminded you of how you hadn't even known who Avis was when she'd first walked into the shop and her remark about how women became invisible as soon as they married. You didn't know the first thing about her yet during the course of this evening had come to learn things not even her closest friends might be privy to. "Why do you do it?" You felt stupid asking the question.
Avis took a deep breath, cutting out a piece of paper. "When Ace became studio head, he insisted we needed to 'fit in' and that he didn't want Claire to face the same challenges I did, an understatement. Anyway—haven't set foot into a synagogue since."
"But… that's unfair. He shouldn't have forced you to give up your faith for the sake of his career prospects."
"He's not the problem, honey. Not this time. See, I was an actress. A good one. A rising star—until they decided I was 'too Jewish'. Antisemitism was rising to power on the other side of the Atlantic and everywhere, really. Persecution, violence, the devastationour community faced in the war… I was scared for us—and for my daughter. Since the day she was born."
"I'm… I don't know what to say. " You stepped down from the stool and joined Avis on the floor, folding your legs underneath you like Avis had. "To say sorry seems a measly thing to say… it doesn't even come close to—I just don't understand how people can be so… vile, so brutal. You shouldn't be living in fear for what you believe in. Ever."
Smoothing out the tape, Avis let out a noise of either defeat or resignation. Which one it was, you couldn't tell, but it was undeniable that the conversation weighed more on Avis than she wanted to let on. As if she hadn't permitted her thoughts to go down this path in a long time nor allowed herself to feel the loss.
"I wish I had an answer, but I don't," Avis said. "And I've stopped looking for one, it's too painful."
You nodded in understanding and offered Avis your hand when she made about to get up. Gracefully, she lifted onto her knee and then rose with your help. You picked up the wrapped presents from the floor and carried them over to the tree with her, arranging them underneath the branches. Only the tinsel was missing and the candles still had to be lit.
While you took care of the first, Avis flicked her lighter to illuminate the tree. The glass ornaments reflected the candle light in various directions, spinning faintly whenever a branch moved.
"And it's Hanukkah that you would normally celebrate instead of Christmas?" you asked when Avis took a step back to see if there were any candles missing.
"It can coincide with it, yes." She found one she'd overlooked and lit it. "We celebrate for eight nights and days. Festive songs, delicious food, traditions…"
"Do you miss it?"
"I always do this time of year." She returned to your side but this time she was looking right through the tree as if her gaze were turned inward, at memories flashing past. A faint sense of contentment crossed her features. "It makes me think of my father and how we used to light another candle on the menorah every night. I was just a little girl."
"Is that a candle holder?"
Avis chuckled. "A certain type of candelabrum with nine branches, specific to Hanukkah. I still have ours. I would love to put it up again, but…"
She trailed off and the flicker of joy vanished from her face; you were saddened to see it fade.
"I hope one day you feel safe enough to celebrate your holidays again—and share them with your daughter. I wish it for you."
"I wish so too, hon." Her hand ghosted over your back as you took in your marvellous handiwork. The tree stood tall and proud, lights dancing around the room, the star towering above it all. "One day, maybe."
***
Avis had just put the roast turkey Gertie had prepared earlier in the oven when the doorbell rang again. It was the first time tonight that Avis' face truly lit up. She hastily slipped back into her heels; her steps were as quick as ever but not out of anger or distress but eagerness to open the door. This time it was Claire, Avis' daughter.
You followed at a distance and watched as Claire kissed her mother's cheek; Avis attempted a hug but faltered early. She led her inside and took her coat, hat, and gloves, hanging them up for her not in a way a housekeeper would but a mother. They were chatting on their way to the living room when Claire first noticed you and paused mid-sentence.
"Who is that?" she asked flat-out, whipping around to her mother.
Telling Claire your name, Avis added, "She's been helping me with preparations. I don't know what I would've done without her."
"That's… all right then, I suppose," Claire said, still the picture of confusion, and brushed past you as if you were a servant. You fell behind, but were close enough to hear her whisper, "So when's she leaving?"
"Why don't you sit down, sweetheart?" Avis said instead of answering. "Gertie's made some lovely gingerbread and sugarplum cake." She turned to you. "Will you be a dear and fetch it?"
Grateful for the opportunity, you escaped into the kitchen and took a few deep breaths. You hadn't considered that Avis' daughter might have questions about your presence in her mother's house—on a family holiday of all days. You wiped your sweaty palms on your wool skirt and tried to calm yourself. Once you'd regained a bit of your composure, you picked up the plate with the ginger bread and returned to the living room, where Avis and Claire were sat on one of the cream sofas around the coffee table.
"… Sweetheart, your father called earlier. He said to give you his love but he can't make it tonight. Got held up at the office."
"We all know what that means," Claire scoffed, crossing her arms. "Which one of his interns is he screwing this time?"
"Claire!" Avis snapped, shooting up from her seat. "We have a guest!"
"Not my guest!" Claire followed Avis' example and straightened up as much as she could to tower over her mother. "Since when do you bring your affairs home anyway? To a family gathering as well!"
"She's not—! She's not an affair. You're out of line, young lady!"
"I'm not 13!"
"Please," you interrupted, physically stepping between them. "I'll leave. Don't fight on my behalf," you said to Avis' daughter, then turned to her. "Claire is right, I have no right to be here. Thank you for having me, Merry Christmas."
While both women stood with their mouth agape, you went for your coat.
"Honey, no," Avis called, coming after you and stopping you with a gentle grasp on your elbow. She spun you around to face her, so close you felt her breath on your mouth. "You're the reason I'm not passed-out drunk right now. Stay. Please."
Claire, a few feet away, shrunk in on herself as if she'd never heard her mother say the word please before, or perhaps it was the vulnerability she'd never witnessed.
Avis dropped her hand from your arm to your hand and took you back to the living room. "Claire, she's my friend. Your father ditched us, but she's here. She showed up, she helped me pick a present for you, helped me decorate the tree, made me… laugh. And—and she's a delight at the piano!"
You couldn't hold back a smirk at that. Who would've thought that your long-forgotten childhood piano session would prove worthwhile one day.
"It's not her ruining our Christmas," Avis said, cupping her daughter's cheek.
Claire swallowed hard, glanced at you, then gave in, nodded. "Okay. She can stay."
***
Dinner went smoother than expected after Claire and you hit it off talking about new fashion trends emerging in Paris, Christian Dior, the newest issue of the Vogue, and what one could expect to see in I. Magnin's shop windows for the upcoming season. The mood eased noticeably as the hours went by and wine was poured. Avis had let you pick the bottle, and for the first time in years, you drank more than just one glass; the company awakened your taste for it. You wound up at the piano again, playing idle tunes as mother and daughter conversed at the table.
"Gosh, it's past midnight already!" Claire exclaimed then. "Jack will be back from his parents' soon."
"You could've brought him over, you know?" Avis said, visibly disappointed. "The two of you could've stayed overnight."
"Maybe next time. We weren't sure—if father would've been here—and then Jack—you know?"
"Ah, I see," Avis said and you had the sneaking suspicion you were missing some important context. "Well, next time then. But! You're not leaving without opening your presents."
"It's barely even Christmas Day!"
"What does it matter, sweetheart? Go on, I didn't put up the tree for nothing."
"Actually, I did…" you quipped, earning a grin from Claire as Avis shooed her towards the tree in the corner next to the fireplace and gestured for you to join. She stoked the fire and added another log, a few sparks springing free.
"Those are all yours," Avis said, pointing at the right side of the tree while sitting down on one of the arm chairs by the fire. You sat next to her, Claire knelt on the floor by her presents. Though a grown woman, she looked at the wrapped boxes with a child-like awe. She started unwrapping the first—a purse—from her father, and then Avis'. Just by her expression you could tell that the necklace was much more to her taste than the purse.
"Oh, this is am-a-zing!" she beamed, holding it up so that the diamonds caught and reflected the warm light of the fire. "How did you know?"
"Motherly intuition." Avis shrugged and gave you a conspiratorial wink, conjuring up the sensation of her fingers on your neck. "Now, put it on. I want to see how it looks on you."
"Shall I help?" you offered, and Claire nodded. With your nimble shop assistant hands, you laid it around her neck and fixed the clasp. "There."
"Oh, I love it!" Claire exclaimed, bursting with excitement.
"You look beautiful, sweetheart," Avis said, nodding approvingly. "Like it was made for you."
"I've got something for you too," she said, rushing to get a small present from her bag. She handed it to Avis. "Here, open it."
The present contained a golden cigarette case with intricate carvings and a personal dedication from Claire. A thoughtful gift, and one that Avis couldn't be happier with. She opened her arms and this time, she received the hug from her daughter she had been denied at the door. It warmed your heart yet at the same time made it heavy with the burden of the spectator. A spectator who felt closer to Mr. Amberg's unopened gifts than the scene playing out beside them.
Claire then went on to give you one of the presents that had Ace written on it. "You deserve it more than he does."
Caught off guard, you looked to Avis for help, but she only nodded her go-ahead. Carefully, you took the bow apart and unfolded the wrapping paper without a single tear. It was a Sheaffer fountain pen, elegant, cigar-shaped, expensive. "This is… Are you sure?"
"Take it," Avis said, leaving no room for question.
"Thank you, both, I—it's an incredible gift, I can't even—wow."
Your dumbfounded look made Avis and Claire laugh.
"I'm afraid I don't have anything for you…" you said, still twirling the pen between your fingers. "No, actually—come by Magnin's in the new year. You'll get a special discount and a glass of champagne."
"That's very generous, darling, but it wouldn't have been necessary, by any means."
"No, I want to do it."
"Then thank you. I look forward to it." Claire stood up and smoothed out her dress. "I think I'll get going now. It was lovely to meet you," she said, extending her hand to you, "and I'll see if Jack and I can drop by tomorrow for lunch, mother?"
"Oh, I'd love that, sweetheart," Avis said. The wine had left her flushed and sentimental; it suited her. She hugged Claire again, even tighter this time, and kissed her cheeks before accompanying her to the door.
"She's not driving, is she?" you asked, concerned about the sway in her step.
"Are you serious?" Avis laughed. "She's got a driver, of course."
"My bad."
"You on the other hand…" she considered, "…you won't get a cab anywhere tonight. But you should spend the night."
That sent you into a panic and the worst was you felt like she was enjoying it, purposely leaving it up for debate what she was inferring, half-lidded eyes, tracing a wrinkle in her dress with a slow fingertip.
"I had Gertie prepare the guest room in case Claire would've wanted to stay," she said after keeping you in suspense for a sadistic amount of time. Relief washed over you.
"Only if it isn't too much of an imposition."
"It's not. It's my pleasure." She patted the space beside her on the sofa. "Sit."
You had no choice but to obey—not that you minded. Avis poured more wine and held her glass up, said, "To the… magic of a chance encounter," and clinked her glass with yours.
"Magic?" you asked, hiding behind the rim after a generous sip.
Avis sank deeper into the sofa cushions, let you simmer in your question, searched your eyes, twirled her wedding band. Then, as if having reached a decision, she slid the ring off her finger and placed it on the coffee table, wordless. When she found your eyes again, her smile was sure. She waited.
You set your glass down before it could slip from your clammy hands. This could go so wrong. If you'd misread the signs….
"Avis?" you said on a shuddering breath.
"Yes, darling," she replied, tilting her head.
You inched your hand closer to where hers rested on her thigh, maintaining eye-contact, and when she didn't show any sign of unease, you took it. Immediately, as if instinct, she squeezed your hand. Her gaze dropped to your no doubt wine-stained, cold-chapped lips, and your grip tightened briefly before easing out of her hold and running up her arm. She allowed it, leaned into the touch.
The moment you reached the side of her neck, Avis pulled you in, halted just a hair's width away from your mouth, and waited with bated breath for your lips to seal with hers. They tingled with anticipation, fresh blood rushing in just before you caught her in a searing kiss. She was so soft. So velvet-warm, silk-river, honey-wet.
Avis sucked in a breath, opened herself, let you in, held you closer as if she wanted your kisses printed on her very soul. Her tongue ran over your bottom lip, pried you apart, met yours. And once she had you, the hunger calmed. Slower, slower, still. Apart.
The tips of your noses brushed, but her lips were free enough to smile and chuckle and hum. She stroked the back of your hand with her thumb and confessed, "I'd forgotten what it's like."
You kissed her again, lips, then forehead, holding her cheek. "Turns out I had a Christmas gift for you after all then."
She turned to brush her lips to your palm. "You did, honey. You did."
Soon after, the wine took over and made your bodies heavy with sleep. The guest room remained unused—because Avis and you fell asleep on the couch, in front of the Christmas tree, wrapped in each other's embrace.