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“The business?”
Sophie’s eyes assumed a faraway expression. “Casa Celli.” She sighed wistfully. “Our vineyard.”
“I don’t see you as the agricultural type.”
She smiled distractedly. “I’m not. Hence my itchy feet as soon as I left school.” She shrugged. “But we grew up on the property. Mum ran it and produced some fantastic vintages before she … before we lost her.”
Something like pain sharpened inside his gut. Alex ignored it. “When did she die?”
Sophie winced. “I’m sorry. I don’t think like that. Even now I find it hard to accept that she’s gone.” She shook her head wistfully. “It was five years ago this Christmas.”
“How?” Ever the businessman, he was focussed on the information he could obtain.
“When mum wasn’t checking the vines for pests and sugar, she was diving.” When he didn’t speak, she continued, though she couldn’t meet his eyes for they reflected her own pain too clearly. “Our vineyards slope all the way to the sea. It’s the most stunning piece of land on Earth. I can’t begin to explain the glory and goodness of those hills.” She smiled as she recalled her youth. “My sisters and I used to run amongst the vines for hours on end, building cubby houses and pretending we were wayward fairies on our way to the faraway tree. It was an air-bubble-childhood.”
Alex linked his fingers with hers. “An air bubble? What does this mean?”
Sophie flickered her gaze to his chiselled face and then turned her focus back to the pappadum. “You know, an air bubble. Like life is the water and our childhood was that single, miraculous bubble, floating indefatigably amongst it. We were immune from everything. Sadness, responsibility, grief and worry.”
He didn’t speak, but his dark eyes urged her to continue. “Mum was magical all the time, but at Christmas, she was like an angel on earth.” Her smile was unknowingly enigmatic. “She spent months preparing. We didn’t have a lot of money, growing up, so she’d have to order our presents early. They were never extravagant. Just a book we wanted or maybe a special dress.” She shrugged. “We’d decorate the tree together, all four of us. It would take a whole day and we’d listen to carols, singing along as we hung all of our favourite pieces.” Her fingers toyed with her hair. “Mum was American, and she’d brought a heap of very old ornaments over with her. They were glass, and so beautiful and fragile that they still make me all gooey to think of them today.”
“Gooey?” He teased.
“You know. Heart rushing, excited. There were a million little things she did that made it the most beautiful time of year.”
“What else?” It fascinated him, for his own life had been devoid of such traditions.
“Well, we had a pudding recipe that would knock your socks off. So much rum and port, with fruit mince and figs. It was rich and heavy and oh so good. My sisters and I would huddle around mum while she made it, begging for tastes from the spoon.”
He laughed softly at the memory. “And when she boiled it, the whole house would smell like Christmas. For days and days we’d joke that we were living in a cinnamon cloud.”
He nodded, and so she continued. “We’d make a gingerbread house every year. We started off making just one. When we were young, mum would dig out the stencil and we’d sit around the table while she cut the pieces. But then, as we got older, we each tried our hand at making our own house. Eventually, it became a competition, and mum would judge the winner.”
“And did you all win?”
“Oh, no. Mum wasn’t one of those ‘please everyone’ new-age parents. She genuinely judged based on merit. Which meant I never won.”
He laughed again. “Why not?”
“Are you kidding? I’d eaten half the house by the time I got to stick it together. I am a sucker for gingerbread. The less baked the better. In fact, it would probably be my desert island food.”
“A gingerbread house?”
“Nope. Gingerbread dough. Unbaked. Cold and smooshy.”
“That sounds … disgusting.”
“You wait. I’ll make it for you one day.”
Something odd flushed through him at the easy way she threw such promises around.
He covered it quickly with another question. “Who made the best gingerbread houses?”
“Ava,” she responded immediately. “I can still picture her, sitting up late measuring the walls to within a millimetre. She’d bake spare slabs in case any developed cracks. She is very precise.”
“She sounds it.”
Sophie sighed. “And on Christmas morning, we’d wake up to the smell of baked ham and scrambled eggs, and croissants with cheese. Mum was a wonderful cook. Looking back, it must have been exhausting, but she always swore she loved it.” Sophie’s smile was bitter-sweet. “That was mum, though. She was determined that we would have a happy, uneventful life.”
