Love Is Pink!

I said hello, but he only turned around after he was certain that the decoration would stay on.

His mouth fell open when he saw me. I nearly sank into the ground, since I felt so plain and ordinary in his everyday, inexpensive clothes. But then his expression changed. A glow appeared on his face and in his eyes. I’d never seen him look like that before.

“Ah, there’s our Michelle!” said Madame Segebade as she walked into the room. She paused. Her gaze went from me to David. A barely visible mischievous smile played at the corners of her mouth.

What had happened to everyone all of a sudden? For years, I’d been running around clad in the most expensive designer outfits, and never had I evoked such a response.

“Michelle!” Emma interrupted my thoughts. “Have you ever seen such a beautiful Christmas tree?”

I took a few steps farther into the room, and she grabbed hold of my hand and began showing me every single ball. “Papa said this is a very old decoration. Isn’t it unique?”

“I can’t remember when I last saw such a wonderful Christmas room,” I said.

“That’s nice of you to say, Michelle.” Madame Segebade smiled. “Even though I’m sure you’re exaggerating. Your Christmas tree is certainly no less beautiful than mine.”

I picked up a piece of tinsel from the ground and hung it on a branch. “To be honest, I don’t really celebrate Christmas. I haven’t had a Christmas tree of my own in a very long time.”

“But why not, my dear?”

“For me alone, it’s just not worth it,” I replied. It was true that for several years I’d spent Christmas by myself—Valentin had to fulfill his family holiday duties. Even so, I would have liked putting up a small fir tree. But Valentin didn’t think much of those messy little things, as he liked to call them. The most sentimental holiday decoration he’d tolerate in my apartment was a red poinsettia in a Villeroy & Boch pot. And he only allowed that for my sake. That’s why I was so excited about our vacation in Chamonix. It would have been our first time spending a proper, festive Christmas together. But it was not to be.

I looked up and saw three pairs of sympathetic eyes. I didn’t want sympathy. So I forced a smile and said, “Don’t look so concerned. It’s fine. I’m easygoing. Besides, I don’t have to do without a tree. Every Christmas Eve I visit the Brandenburg Gate. It has a splendid tree. It’s very quiet around then, and I have coffee at the adjacent Starbucks and admire the Christmas decorations, as if they’re my own. That’s good enough for me.”

Evidently, I didn’t sound nearly as convincing as I would have liked. David looked at me with eyes still full of pity. He was about to respond, but I nipped that in the bud by turning to Madame Segebade and saying, “Wow. The food smells fantastic!”

The old woman eyed me briefly and gave an almost imperceptible nod, as though she’d understood. “That pan is pretty heavy. If you could please give me a hand with it?”

Together we went into the kitchen, armed ourselves with potholders, and took the quiche out of the oven. We carried it into the living room and placed it on a highly ornamented hot plate.

The quiche needed to cool a bit, so we used the time to have a small aperitif. The adults drank cognac, and Emma toasted with red currant juice.

“It’s so cozy here,” I said.

“Normally, I eat with guests in the dining room,” Madame Segebade replied. “But I don’t usually keep the room heated—it takes at least a day to warm up such a large space.”

“Is the heating very expensive?” David asked.

“Yes, unfortunately.” She sighed. “I have central electric heating, and it sucks up more money every year.”

“Have you thought about solar panels and a pellet heating system?” David asked.

“That’s not a bad idea,” I agreed. “Your property value would definitely rise.”

Madame Segebade shrugged apologetically. “When it comes to modern technology, I have no idea. I’d need a tradesman who specializes in old construction.”

David seemed poised to respond, but instead he shot me an anxious look and fell silent. Sometimes he behaved incomprehensibly. At least to me.

Madame Segebade sliced the quiche and placed a big piece on each person’s plate. After some initial hesitation, Emma ate her serving plus two rounds of seconds. I only managed one slice. We drank a dry white wine and enjoyed a fresh field-greens salad that our hostess must have whipped up while I was in the shower.