Chapter 25
Nell placed a plate of bacon on the table. As far as she knew Molly had not eaten anything since the previous morning, and it was a rare person, other than a vegan or vegetarian, who could resist the temptation of bacon. But Molly didn’t even glance at the plate.
Felicity frowned at her sister. “Do you feel any better this morning?” she asked. “You look kind of pale.”
Molly sighed, looked to her mother and then back to her sister. “I broke up with Mick yesterday.”
“You what?” Felicity cried, setting her glass of orange juice on the table with enough force to cause the liquid to splash over the rim. “Why?”
Nell wiped up the spill with her napkin and waited for Molly to respond. When she didn’t, Felicity went on.
“I know you said you were going to move to Boston for a while, but you never said anything about breaking up with Mick!”
“I didn’t say anything to you, but I was thinking it. And I told Mom. It’s just that I’ve been confused lately . . .”
“What do you mean confused?” Felicity pressed.
“Fliss, maybe we shouldn’t—”
“It’s okay, Mom.” Molly sighed. “The thing is, I don’t really want to move away. And I do love Mick, and I told him so in a text last night and one this morning. But he hasn’t gotten back to me, so how can I convince him?”
“In person,” Felicity said firmly. “You’ll just have to see him face to face. This is not a time to rely on social media. Too many misunderstandings, and it’s never entirely private.”
“But what if he refuses to see me?” Molly covered her eyes with her hands. “Oh, what have I done?”
“It’s only been twenty-four hours, Molly,” Nell said gently. “Give him time.”
“What did you do with the ring?” Felicity asked.
Molly put her hands in her lap and replied dully. “It’s in my dresser. I know I have to return it, but I’m not sure how.”
“Why do you have to return it?” Felicity asked. “If you tell Mick you’re sorry and he believes you, he’ll want you to keep the ring.”
“Will he?” Molly shook her head. “Anyway, I feel guilty about having it with the way things stand.”
“I suppose you could mail it to him,” Felicity suggested. “Though that seems kind of cold. And sending it back might only reinforce the message you gave him—that you don’t love him—when you really do love him.” Felicity frowned. “It’s very confusing. What do you think, Mom?”
“I think that Molly should do nothing for the moment,” Nell said. “I think she should just breathe deeply and wait.”
The rest of breakfast passed in an unhappy silence. Finally the girls went off to school, and Nell prepared to leave for work. She took up her car keys and bag and headed for the front door. As she passed through the living room, she noticed that a window shutter had broken off the gingerbread house. The velvet ribbon tied around one of the pillar candles on the mantel had loosened and slipped. Three of the tiny lights on the string wound around the standing lamp by the chintz-covered easy chair had gone out.
Tears sprang to Nell’s eyes. Were all of her efforts at making this Christmas absolutely perfect for her daughters destined to fail? Was every attempt to create an atmosphere of joy to end in a cruel deception? She knew she was overreacting, but at that moment these minor calamities seemed signs of some larger catastrophe awaiting her family this holiday season. Happiness could be so terribly elusive, and even if one was fortunate enough to possess happiness it could be so terribly fleeting.
Which is why one should appreciate whatever bit of happiness presents itself, she thought as she opened the front door and stepped out into the December morning. It was advice worth remembering.
* * *
The hours spent at Mutts and Meows had served to distract Nell from the troubles waiting at home. One of her favorite clients had come by for his annual check-up, a noble German shepherd named Roger, and the staff had been introduced to four three-week-old kittens born to a calico named Annabelle who had once famously survived an attack by a fisher cat and a life-saving surgery that resulted.
Now home, Nell was further intent upon keeping sadness at bay by focusing on another Christmas craft. On the kitchen table a magazine was open to a page of instructions for making pomander balls. Nell had laid out the components: several large fresh oranges and lemons; a coil of narrow red-velvet ribbon; small bowls filled with ground cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, and cardamon; a jar of whole cloves; and a plastic container of orrisroot powder. For holiday ambience Nell had tuned the old-fashioned radio that lived next to the toaster to a station that was playing nothing but classic holiday songs and carols.
“It smells so good in here,” Felicity said. “All these Christmasy spices. I wonder what sort of holiday desserts we’ll have in Switzerland next year. I should read up on traditional foods. There’s got to be a lot more than fondue.”
“Let’s hope so,” Nell said. Before she could suggest that Felicity research a few vegetable options, the front door opened, and a moment later Molly joined them in the kitchen. Her big blue scarf was still wound around her neck and her cheeks were flushed with cold.
“The temperature dropped again,” she said. “I’ll bring in more wood for the fireplace later.”
“Thank you. How were classes?” Nell asked.
“Fine,” Molly said, leaning against the counter by the radio. “Not that I could concentrate all that well. Mick still hasn’t been in touch.”
“I’m sorry. Give him time.”
“He’ll come around,” Felicity added.
Molly ignored the words of support. “What are you guys doing?” she asked.
“We’re making pomander balls,” Felicity told her sister. “You hang them in a closet.”
“So your clothes can smell like nutmeg?” Molly asked. “I definitely smell nutmeg.”
“And cinnamon,” Nell added. “And citrus. You can also put them in your linen closet to freshen the sheets and towels. The scent can last for years if you sprinkle the balls with orrisroot powder. It acts as a preservative.”
Molly managed a smile. “Orrisroot powder? It sounds like something the witches in Macbeth might use in one of their midnight concoctions.”
“Pomander is from the French term pomme d’ambre,” Felicity said. “That means apple of amber. Doesn’t that sound pretty? Originally, people carried pomanders as protection against infection in times of plague. It didn’t work, of course, but people believed it did. Pomanders were also used to mask bad smells. Basically it was an early form of aromatherapy. Ow! These cloves are sharp!”
Nell glanced at the magazine by her left elbow. “The instructions suggest you use a pin or a nail to make the holes before inserting the cloves.”
“I wish I had known that before we started! I’ll go find a pin.” Felicity dashed over to the junk drawer beneath the microwave and returned a moment later with a paper clip. “This should do,” she said.
Molly came over to the table, picked up the little bowl of cinnamon, and sniffed. “Mick’s mom would probably like these,” she said.
“You could make one for her,” Nell suggested.
“Why?” Molly laughed grimly. “I’m sure Mrs. Williams wants nothing to do with me.”
“You could give it to her as a sort of peace offering,” Felicity suggested.
“But how would that change anything between me and Mick? She’s not going to accept a gift from the girl who broke her son’s heart. Anyway, Mick probably hates me.”
“I’m sure Mick doesn’t hate you,” Nell said gently.
“Mick wouldn’t hate anyone,” Felicity added.
“Well, he can’t much like me right now.”
Before Nell could protest this, Felicity said, “Sssh! It’s the weather report.”
The three women turned toward the radio as if looking at it would allow them to hear more clearly. And what they heard was that temperatures were dropping severely, as Molly had noted, and a massive snowstorm was predicted in the near future. The usual warnings and caveats were given.
“At least it hasn’t become a blizzard warning,” Nell said when the newscaster had finished delivering his report and Nat King Cole was singing a holiday song. “Yet. Anyway, we’re stocked up on groceries and batteries and water. And I checked that the backup generator is working. If we’re stranded, at least we’ll be stranded in comfort.”
“I think the idea of a big snowstorm on Christmas is kind of romantic,” Felicity said. “We can sit around a roaring fire and light candles and tell ghost stories. Like in the lyrics of that song they played before, ‘we’ll tell tales of the glories of Christmases long, long ago.’ ”
“Storms are not fun or romantic,” Molly said fiercely. “Do you know how many accidents happen due to people mishandling backup gas generators? Do you know how many people die of heart attacks from shoveling snow? Think about Mick’s situation. The farm buildings are all winterized, but animals are just as prone to hypothermia and frostbite as we are. And Mick’s father has heart trouble. What if Gus tries to do too much and . . .” Molly took off her glasses and wiped tears from her eyes.
Felicity looked stricken. “I’m sorry, Molly. I didn’t mean to ignore the realities.”
“No I’m sorry,” Molly said. “I didn’t mean to snap. I’m going to my room.”
When Molly had left the kitchen, Felicity looked to her mother. “This is awful, Mom. What are we going to do? It’s like the worst time of the year for someone to break up. Everyone’s singing about being happy and in love and giving gifts, and half of the commercials on TV are for jewelry stores and engagement rings. If I were Molly I’d want to lock myself in my room and not come out until the middle of January.”
Nell sighed. “I really don’t know what we’re going to do, Fliss. I wish I did, but I don’t.”