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“Our friend is joining us too,” Erin added. “We’re making enough food for a small wedding.”
Julien smiled. “That sounds like a wonderful night.”
Claire reached for Erin’s hand below the counter. “It is.”
They talked for several more minutes about Camille’s celebration and Julien’s plans for New Year’s Day. Before ending the call, both children wished Erin a happy New Year and asked her to send a photograph of their dinner.
When the screen went dark, Erin turned to Claire. “A clothing boutique?”
“It seemed easier at the time.”
“You do realize they’ll eventually learn what I sell.”
“We’ll deal with that conversation when it becomes necessary.”
Erin laughed and kissed her. “Your secret is safe for tonight.”
The doorbell rang at five-thirty. Ingrid stood on the porch in a wool coat buttoned to her chin, a canvas tote in each arm, and snow dusting the tops of her boots. One bag held a bottle of nonalcoholic champagne. The other contained a large mixing bowl covered in plastic wrap, a jar of powdered sugar, a bottle of oil, and what appeared to be a specialized slotted spoon Claire had never seen before.
They took Ingrid’s bags and led her into the kitchen. Ingrid looked between them and winked. “Good. A double oven. Claire, I need a deep pot. Erin, find me a few oven mitts. You can go back to looking at each other like smitten kittens after we fry the dough.”
Claire located a deep stockpot and set it on the stove. Ingrid poured in the oil and gave it several minutes to heat. After forty years of frying oliebollen, she trusted her palm more than any thermometer. She held her hand above the surface, counted silently, and nodded once. “Now we begin.”
Ingrid uncovered the dough she had made earlier and motioned for Erin and Claire to come closer. “Watch the first batch. The color will tell you when they’re ready to turn.”
She spooned several rounds into the hot oil. They sank beneath the surface, then rose as bubbles raced around them. Ingrid adjusted the heat and waited until the undersides deepened to gold before turning each one. Claire watched closely while Erin prepared the draining rack and powdered sugar.
The first hot ball of browned dough landed on the rack. Erin picked it up immediately.
“Erin!” Ingrid scolded.
She bit into it anyway, and her face collapsed into an expression of pure regret. She opened her mouth, sucked cold air across her scorched tongue, and set the half-eaten ball back on the rack.
“I did warn you,” Ingrid said.
Claire handed Erin a glass of water without comment, though she pressed her lips together hard enough that her amusement was obvious. Erin drank and raised the glass toward Ingrid. “It’s incredible, though,” Erin managed.
“Of course it is.”
Ingrid rolled the cooled oliebollen through powdered sugar, turning each one until it was completely coated. Her hands moved from memory. Halfway through the batch, she paused and looked at the golden balls still waiting. “Nell always took the first one before the sugar.” Her voice stayed even, almost conversational. “She said the sugar ruined them. Thirty years I told her she was wrong, and thirty years she grabbed it straight off the rack.” Ingrid smiled. The smile held, then softened into stillness. Her hands rested on the edge of the bowl.
Erin stepped closer and laid her fingers against Ingrid’s forearm. She didn’t speak or rub or squeeze. She simply left her hand there so Ingrid knew she wasn’t alone.
Ingrid drew a breath, dusted her palms together, and resumed coating the next oliebollen. “Well. She was wrong about the sugar.”
They carried dinner to the large dining room table. The prime rib came apart beneath their forks, the potatoes were crisp at the edges, and Erin tore the focaccia into generous pieces, passing them around while rosemary and olive oil still scented her fingers.
Conversation moved easily through stories of past New Year’s Eves, Claire’s children, and the customers who had kept Erin entertained at the boutique that week. Ingrid shared memories of Nell that made them laugh, and Claire listened closely enough to ask questions that brought out three more stories. By the time they passed around the dessert, each woman knew a little more about the other two.
A week earlier, Claire had never met either of them. Now the three women sat together long after their plates were empty, talking as though this table had been part of their holiday plans all along.
Eventually, Ingrid gathered the dessert plates and returned carrying a deck of cards she had retrieved from her purse. She taught them a Dutch game, then spent three rounds laughing as Erin misunderstood one rule, mastered another, and became far too boastful whenever she won.
At eleven fifty-nine, they gathered near the broad windows. Snow covered the yard, and the mountains rose as dark shapes beyond it. Claire poured champagne for herself and Erin, then filled Ingrid’s glass from the nonalcoholic bottle she had brought because of her drive home.
Ingrid began the countdown in Dutch before switching to English so they could join her.
“Five, four, three, two, one.”
