1283 Rue Lepic

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Usernames: Lets_Eat_Paste, The Exodus
Character name: Gwendoline and Gabriel Fontaine (and Torben Blau, npc)
Character age: 35, 35, 41
Apartment: With two chefs in the house, you can imagine the kitchen is the biggest and best feature of the house. (With landlord permission) Gwendoline and Torben tore down the entry way to make the kitchen bigger, a whopping 35 meters. Needless to say, the value of the entire apartment went up because kitchens that big are a rarity in Parisian apartments. It has all the amenities of a state of the art kitchen, and is often emanating such glorious smells such as creme puffs and coq a vin.

Once you leave the kitchen, you are in the entrance of the apartment, the living room, which attaches to the narrow dining room.

Down the hall and to the left is the guest bathroom. The one in the master bedroom is almost identical to it with a few womanly touches ("womanly touches" being discarded bras and little poems written and spread throughout the space). Across from the bathroom is the first guest bedroom where Gabriel sleeps. And when Sophie spends the night, there is a third bedroom up the spiral staircase and adjacent to that is a room that houses all of Torben's discarded pieces of art.

Torben designed and painted the majority of the apartment. Because he is a gothic surrealism artist and cartoonist, the entire colour scheme is a tad monochromatic, with occasional splashes of colour here and there, usually in goofy cartoons.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

OoC: For Deanna. BiC:


Gwendoline Fontaine

Gwendoline awoke this morning the way she did every morning—rubbing her sleepy, rheumy eyes as she breathed in the scent of Torben’s awful, but good natured coffee brewing in her kitchen. Her kitchen which was unfortunately borrowed every morning by her boyfriend to heat up what was essentially tar. It was a typical kind of morning, but as Gwendoline put her feet to the floor, she couldn’t help but notice a nagging at the back of her mind, an itch that told her she was forgetting something. But the smell of the sludge burning in the coffee pot overpowered her nostrils and made her brain go fuzzy, as if it turned on that one channel on the television that didn’t get signal.

Nevertheless, she made her usual way through her routine, brushing her teeth to the soundtrack for ‘Jaws’ (which seemed to be her recent go-to selection for morning teeth brushing), and pulling on clothes that lay higgledy-piggledy on the floor. She hastily pulled her unruly hair into some sort of shape and made her way into the land of the living.

Torben was deep in thought in the living room, sculpting what he had woke up in the middle of the night to do—a four foot high Paper Mache sculpture of a spindly tree complied from all the negative reviews he had ever received—and she knew better than to bother him, though he did bother to glance up half-heartedly and tell her the coffee was ready. So she worked through the kitchen, tiptoeing around sound to prepare her breakfast. Whipping flavoured cream to stuff into a left over torte from a restaurant she and Torben visited two nights ago would suffice. But as she beat cream into submission, thrashing it about the bowl, something else thrashed through her mind, some nugget of information that somehow seemed important.

Maybe she forgot to pick up a delivery at La Tour D’Argent? No, no. Today was Sunday and deliveries came on Wednesday. Maybe it was her and Torben’s anniversary? No, no. They didn’t actually celebrate that and it took place in November anyways. Or maybe she wasn’t actually forgetting anything and she just needed more sleep.

Or maybe Gabriel was on his way right now to live with her indefinitely.

That. That was it. How could she forget?

Carrying her finished breakfast to the table, she began to eat, watching Torben from the corner of her eyes for that subtle signal that it was okay to talk to him, and slowly but surely he took his socks off.

“Gabriel’s coming today.” Gwendoline said between mouthfuls of dry torte. “He’s going to stay here a while.”

“Huh. Does this look done to you?” was Torben’s response. Gwendoline looked at the tree, hanging there, little black words trailing all along in a patchwork of newspaper and magazine clippings. It was a beautiful statement, Gwendoline thought, of how the reviews affect one’s soul and that Torben was returning it in some way to the earth. But knowing her boyfriend, he would call it done and then continue to work on it sporadically throughout the next few months.

“No. I don’t.”

“Good me neither. What were you saying about Gabriel?”

“He’s coming to live with us. He’ll be here today.” Gwendoline looked at the clock. “In a few minutes, actually.”

Torben shrugged. He was rarely fazed by much of anything that came out of Gwendoline’s mouth. “Should we clean the house?”

“No. Leave it. He’ll appreciate us making it feel like a home and not a museum, I’m sure.”

“Should I offer him coffee?”

Gwendoline pondered this. Tell her boyfriend for the fifth time that his morning brew was quite possibly a way to poison a roomful of office interns on coffee break, or watch the look of horror cross Gabriel’s face as he sipped it?

“Yes. Definitely offer him coffee.”

Gwendoline caught sight of Torben’s grin at finally being validated in his coffee-brewing skills and she smiled, amused, taking another bite of the torte that, had she been allowed in that restaurant kitchen, she could have made better. Licking the runaway crumbs off her plate, she checked the clock once more, almost concerned that the minute hand had passed the time Gabriel said he’d be there.

There was a knock at the door and Gwendoline stood to get it, crossing to the entry way. “That would be him.”

“I still think we should have cleaned the apartment.”

“Oh shush.” She pressed her lips to the white painted wood and asked in a low, rumbling voice, “Oh stranger, do you have the password?”

[The Exodus]

Gabriel Fontaine

When Gabriel awoke in his hotel room, he wasn’t just happy. He was elated. If you looked around the tiny room with its view of traffic and industrial buildings, you wouldn’t necessarily associate them with “elation”. But today marked the beginning of Gabriel’s battle for custody of his daughter, and what better way to march into battle than with a smile on your face? Gabriel did so love the smell of freshly brewed optimism in the morning.

His ex-wife, Cristina, had taken their daughter, Sophie, to live with her in Marseilles. And while statistically, Gabriel could understand why the courts allowed this—Cristina had a job, a stable relationship, and a house she was paying the mortgage on—he was not another statistic. He was Gabriel Fontaine, chef-extraordinaire and Dr. Frankenstein with a pen. He didn’t have a job, but the steady stream of royalty checks flowing to his post office box were practically a salary. But they didn’t count as one in the eyes of the law, ergo; Gabriel was on the hunt for a job. He’d been offered a position last week as a personal chef, but when he arrived for an interview, it was clear the socialite mother of four was looking for someone to cook, clean, and raise her children. And as much as Gabriel loved kids, he hated bad parents enough to say ix-nay on the ob-jay.

He’d figure that bit out from the safety of Gwendoline’s flat. His sister would help him out, give him a roof to huddle under, and together they’d figure out the soppy, sorry mess that was better known as divorce proceedings.

God, what a mess.

The stipulation was that Gabriel find a steady job and he could regain custody—the full custody he’d originally had—of Sophie. He’d always been a work-to-live kind of guy, as opposed to one of those nose-to-the-grindstone yuppies, but now it was time to chafe his nose against whatever stone was shoved up under it. Time to be a grown man, he guessed.

He dressed, checked out of the hotel and took a cab to Gwendoline’s apartment, which she shared with her boyfriend, Torben. It was a familiar high-rise in Montmarte and as of today, it was home. Gabriel could already feel a bow slide across his heartstrings to play some sappy-sweet melody as he checked in with the concierge and took the elevator up. When he rang the doorbell and waited, that violin song crescendoed, crashed, and ended in Gwendoline’s voice.

“Oh stranger, do you have the password?” she said through the door.

“Alas, I do not,” Gabriel said. Pausing, he bent and unzipped his suitcase. From the top, he pulled out a hand-crafted, wooden roller from his last trip to Tuscany. It was a gift for Gwendoline. He held it up to the peephole. “I do however come to make a sacrifice. May I enter?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

When Gwendoline was growing up, Gabriel was everywhere. They walked to school together, and took as many of the same classes as they could. Once, when Gwendoline was in detention, Gabriel snuck in to keep her company. Somehow the monitor didn’t really seem to notice until they started an amateur Stomp group. But now, they were grown up, they had jobs. He saw the whole continent, she went to Austria. He had a daughter, she had a Torben. Gabriel was safe and warm and made perfect sense to her but almost suddenly, he was no longer a constant. They drifted away the way life had a tendency of making people do. Having him come to stay was like wrapping a childhood blanket around your shoulders immediately after drying it, like a jigsaw puzzle piece was fitted back into her chest. She was whole again and the little games they played together were quickly slipping into place in her mind. She looked through the peephole at him, grinning like a child at the sight of him.

“Alas, I do not. I do however come to make a sacrifice. May I enter?”

“Sorry,” Gwendoline said, eyeing the roller in his hands excitedly. “Sacrifice acceptance hours are later today, sir… But for you, I think maybe I could make an exception?”

She unlocked the door, letting it fly open to make way for her as she ran out like a torpedo, and wrapped around him.

“Welcome to the lair. Come in,” she said, yanking him into the apartment. “I’ll get your bags and don’t touch Torben’s tree-- it’s still wet.” She heaved heavily, lugging his suitcases into the dwelling with difficulty.

“Hi, Gabriel,” Torben said in his perpetually melancholy way. It made him sound artistic, thoughtful, even, with the decibels coloured with dark hues and spindly designs. “Do you want coffee?”

[The Exodus]

Gabriel Fontaine

Living with Gwen would be good for him. Gabriel grinned a wide, childish grin as he twisted the rolling pin between his hands. She made him happy because she was the same type of crazy he was. And Torben, come to think of it, would be good for him, too, with his dry humor. He had a present for him, too in the bag. Something he’d picked up from a curios shop in Marseilles when last he visited Sophie.

“Sorry,” Gwendoline said. “Sacrifice acceptance hours are later today, sir… But for you, I think maybe I could make an exception?”

At that, the door swung open and Gwendoline launched herself onto Gabriel for a hug. He held the rolling pin precariously above her mane of hair. His free arm snaked around her and he squeezed tightly.

“Welcome to the lair. Come in,” she said, yanking him into the apartment. “I’ll get your bags and don’t touch Torben’s tree-- it’s still wet.”

Gabriel followed, letting Gwen tug the bag inside. He straightened his hat and looked around. Torben stood near a sad-looking paper mache tree. Gabriel smiled at his almost-brother-in-law. He rather liked Torben; Gwen had found herself a better life-mate than Gabriel ever had, that was for certain.

“Hi, Gabriel,”Torben said in his perpetually melancholy way. “Do you want coffee?”

Torben’s coffee was famous the world over for tasting somewhat like mud that had been run over by old tires. It was rancid, god-awful stuff. And Gabriel loved it. He was a chef, trained to find the best flavors and combine them into perfection. And yet, he could not, even if he tried, replicate Torben’s morning brew. It made tastebuds quiver in fear and drop prostrate to their knees. But it electrified the body, woke up every part so each cell could scream: Dear God, please, no more! Gabriel didn’t always accept Torben’s offer, but on move-in day, how could he refuse.

“Just a drop, if you don’t mind.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

Finally dragging the bags inside, she held her breath. Was Gabriel really going to accept the muck Torben called coffee?

“Just a drop, if you don’t mind.”

Exhaling, Gwendoline smiled. No matter how close she and Gabriel were, he still managed to surprise her at times. And Torben’s smile, which had been missing since he started his tree sculpture, stretched from ear-to-ear as he hurriedly got Gabriel a flamingo-shaped mug full of the squalid, steaming liquid.

“Feel free to repaint your room, Gabriel. As you can imagine, we have plenty of paint.” Gwendoline said. Torben at one point had wanted to turn the room into a personal art studio, but decided he hated the light in there. He hadn’t really entered the room since with the exception of the one time he was desperately hunting for a lost glove. “And if you find a glove,” Gwendoline said, sitting on the couch, “you can keep it.” She patted the spot beside her for Gabriel to have a seat. Though he hadn’t gone far to get here, there was no doubt he could use a rest. Besides, Torben was returning with the fetid, dreaded drink and it was probably wise if Gabriel sat down.

“Welcome home,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. Gabriel was no guest; he was family and this was just as much his home as it was hers and Torben’s. "I have something for you."

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

OoC: For the Fontaine-Blau family bash!!! It will be epic. BiC:

Gwendoline Fontaine

In Gwendoline’s opinion, the best Christmas carols were those that emanated from the kitchen: the whirring of the mixers, the roar of the stove, and the chopping of vegetables were not only integral parts of her and Gabriel’s elaborate Christmas meal, but also the recipe for the harmonies and melodies of Christmas songs that could not be repeated again.

Torben, of course, begged to differ as he sang the carols of his home land, trying to be heard over the sounds of the kitchen. Gwendoline made no protest, though, to her light-entangled boyfriend; it was the holiday season and seeing Torben so jovial was a rare and beautiful thing. Usually, he was clad as a mourner and spoke in monotone flat lines. But today, his gaudy red Christmas sweater had green fluff-balls that hung off the collar and entangled with the lights and in the center of it was a green Godzilla with reindeer antlers on. Gwen and Gabriel had gotten it for him three Christmases ago and he’d worn it every year since then.

Beneath the many Austrian variations of ‘Silent Night’, Torben cursed as he struggled with the lights. He insisted, though, that he do it himself every year. He was very artistic and has a special eye for aesthetics. She would let him be for a few hours and when he was done, so was she. The dinner and all of its courses would be complete and all the decorations would be up. Their chosen tree would stand as the center piece, around it a garland of tinsel and candles, hanging from it, many baubles of shrunken heads and zombies. Macabre as it was, it was always grotesque in theory and beautiful in practice.

Once he was done, they would all stand around for the ceremonious placing of the golden skull atop the tree and the opening of The Austrian-imported Advocaat. Then, dinner would be served (and more Advocaat would be drunk), and presents and yet another bottle of the Austian drink would be opened, all while singing Christmas Carols.

But this year, though the untraditional traditions remained set, it would be a full house, so Torben, Gabriel, and Gwendoline worked to the tempo of waiting for that phone call that said that Sophie was down stairs, for Tristan’s text message concerning his location, and some woman named Olive’s arrival. Work was a little slower tonight, but just as festive and fun filled.

“Can we just eat now? It’s almost four.” Torben said from ten feet up at he now hung the mistletoe.

Gwendoline laughed. “Do you hear yourself? ‘It’s almost four’… We have plenty of time, love.”

“Any word from Tristan, yet?”

“Not yet.” Gwendoline turned to Gabriel. “You’ll love Tristan, Gabe. He’s like the son we never had. Right, Torben?” In the other room, Torben dropped and broke an ornament. After a moment of silence that seemed to long, Gwendoline moved to get a broom. “I’ll clean that up.”

Sweeping up the purple glass, Gwendoline felt Torben’s arms snake around her waist. “I just… I worry he won’t come and I won’t be able to give him his present on time.”

“Don’t worry, Gwen. It’s Christmas and there’s mistletoe.” Clumsily, Gwendoline was spun around into a cinnamon-tasting kiss. Though it was proof that Torben was sneaking cookies when he wasn’t supposed to, Gwendoline didn’t care. The Christmas jingle bells around her wrist provided the soundtrack to their kiss. Torben was a surprisingly romantic man, but only tended to show it on special occasions. Like Christmas. Or Tuesdays.

At long last, she broke away, breathless as so oft she was after kissing Torben. Giddy, she looked at Gabriel, having forgotten for a moment that they weren’t alone. “I should clean this up…” She returned to sweeping and Torben returned to trimming the tree. “So, Gabriel,” she called into the kitchen, “we told you about our guest. Your turn! Who’s Olive?”

[The Exodus]

Gabriel Fontaine

Gabriel peeked into the oven when both hands of the clock were on the hour mark. The rabbits were a crisp, golden brown and their skins were moist with flavor. He grinned and pulled them from the oven to rest. Christmas was about food and family—as much of both as possible—set against a backdrop of twinkle lights and skull-shaped ornaments. Gabriel set the rabbits down on the countertop.

“Look at that. Smell that, Sophie,” he commanded his thirteen year-old daughter. “That’s how you cook a perfect rabbit.”

Sophie looked up from her new handheld game-thing (maybe it was a cellphone) that she’d gotten the day previous from her mother. For a minute, her brown eyes went very round with appreciation before going cool again. She lifted the device in her hands and pressed a button. Gabriel heard the sound of a shutter click and he knew that the device had to be a cellphone and that pictures of dinner were about to end up online. The only sign of approval from his thirteen year old these days, it seemed.

“I’m putting this on my blog,” she told him.

“Blog?” Gabriel asked. “What blog?”

“It’s a food blog,” she said. “Sometimes, Mama takes me with her to inspect restaurants. When she reviews a place, I do, too.”

Gabriel pretended not to feel his stomach twist when Sophie showed him the pictures of her meal at some four star restaurant in Marseilles her mother must have been inspecting. Beneath the photographs, was a review. He wondered how he’d raised an amateur food critic, but not a chef. Sometimes, Gabriel thought, she’s more like her mother than I thought possible. He smiled and pressed a kiss to Sophie’s forehead.

“Be gentle with your review of my cooking, mon cherie,” he told her. “It’s Christmas.”

Sophie looked at him slyly. “You’ll see,” she said before skipping over to the salad to take another picture.

Gabriel shuffled out of the kitchen and into the living room, where a frustrated Torben was putting up a bough of mistletoe. As usual, Torben sang in off-key German, pausing occasionally for breath and swearing. Gabriel shook his head and leaned against the wall.

“Can we just eat now? It’s almost four,” Torben grumbled from atop the ladder.

“Do you hear yourself?” Gwen called up to him. “‘It’s almost four’… We have plenty of time, love.”

Gabriel watched his brother-in-law and his sister look at each other for a moment. If you ignored the skulls and zombies on the Christmas tree, Torben and Gwen made for the perfect picture of domesticity. Gabriel shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Any word from Tristan, yet?” Torben asked. Gabriel looked over to Gwen. He hadn’t met Tristan yet, but in the few short months since Gwendoline must have met him, the mystery Tristan had become rather important to both Gwen and Torben.

“Not yet.” Gwendoline turned to Gabriel. “You’ll love Tristan, Gabe. He’s like the son we never had. Right, Torben?”

A shattering noise filled the air. Sophie—who had been making her way through the room, shouted and Gabriel looked from her over to Torben. On the floor around Torben, was broken, purple glass. And then—finally—after long moments of motionlessness, Gwen offered to clean up. But before she could leave to get the broom, Torben swept her up into his arms and eventually a kiss. Gabriel ducked into the kitchen, feeling rather like a third wheel. Gabriel really hoped that he would “love” Tristan. And that Tristan wasn’t against the idea of drinking in the kitchen away from the lovebirds for a bit. Gabriel wanted the company.

“So, Gabriel,” Gwen called to him. Gabriel went to the sink and squirted soap onto his hands. “We told you about our guest. Your turn! Who’s Olive?”

Gabriel turned on the water of the sink and washed his hands, thinking. Olive Degarmo was a woman he’d known for only a few weeks, and yet already Gabriel would call her a friend. She was sweet; had taught him everything he knew about classical music. And the night previous, at the city-wide Christmas Gala, the pair of them had shared a few drinks and stories at the bar. She seemed intensely lonely, Olive, as her family had all made other plans for the holiday. Gabriel invited her to join their celebration; why, he couldn’t say. At first, he supposed it was for the same reason she had invited him to sit in on her music class: a desire to help out. But it didn’t feel like pity. Not really, anyways. It felt more like helping a friend out. A sort of “duh”, gut response.

Gabriel shook his hands and then patted them dry on a nearby dishtowel.

“Olive Degarmo...” he said, emerging from the kitchen and entering the living room. “She’s really sweet. She teaches music in the city and—“

A piercing shriek came from the bedroom and Sophie flew out of the room,

“Olive Degarmo is coming here!?” Sophie looked from Gabriel to Gwen and back for confirmation. Gabriel nodded cautiously. “TONIGHT?!”

“Well… Yes,” Gabriel said, chuckling. He looked over at Gwen and shrugged. “I invited her. Her family cancelled on her last minute and—“

“And she’s coming here instead?” Sophie gripped at her roots and tugged. “Why didn’t you tell me, Papa?”

“I told you I was having a friend—“

“That doesn’t mean Olive Degarmo!”

“Yes, it does,” Gabriel said. “As you so kindly pointed out, my only other friend is your Uncle Torben and he’s already arrived.”

“I have to change,” Sophie said, before running back into the bedroom. “I cannot be seen in this!”

Gabriel didn’t understand. It was probably a teenage girl thing, but Sophie’s dress was actually quite nice. Gabriel didn’t know much about fashion, but he knew that the sweetheart-neckline had been “totally me” according to Sophie the day they bought it. And that the color really did bring out her eyes. He looked over at Gwen and Torben and shrugged.

“Teenagers,” he said. “Thank God we were never like that, eh Gwen?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

As Torben resumed his stringing together of lights and swear words, Gwendoline made her way back into the kitchen, returned to the side of her twin, who had begun washing his hands. There was a long moment where nothing but the steady whoosh of water and German utterance of vulgarities mixed with surprisingly festive and recognizable songs could be heard. Despite her every intention to teach her, Gwen was very thankful that Sophie did not understand her Uncle Torben’s German.

“Olive Degarmo... She’s really sweet.” Gabriel elaborated after a moment, certainly capturing Gwen’s attention. “She teaches music in the city and—“

But Gabriel never got to finish, for his words were cut off by Sophie’s bloodcurdling shriek. Gwendoline jumped, running to see what the problem was, as did Torben, dragging with him a partially unraveled bough of multi-coloured tinsel.

“Olive Degarmo is coming here!?” Sophie asked, her voice still a shrill yelp and the entire household relaxed visibly knowing that there was no blood. “TONIGHT?!”

Curiosity coursed through Gwendoline at Sophie’s reaction. Who exactly was this woman Gabriel invited and why was she such a big deal to Sophie?

Gwendoline looked up at Torben quizzically, searching his face for answers. Instead, she found a contented smirk there, which only unearthed more questions. She stepped back to let Gabriel handle the situation as he saw fit.

“ “Well… Yes. I invited her. Her family cancelled on her last minute and—“

“And she’s coming here instead? Why didn’t you tell me, Papa?”

Gwen watched this exchange, nearly paralyzed with confusion, accompanied by the sound of Torben’s baritone chortle.

“I told you I was having a friend—“


“That doesn’t mean Olive Degarmo!”


“Yes, it does,” Gabriel said. “As you so kindly pointed out, my only other friend is your Uncle Torben and he’s already arrived.”

Torben’s laugh reached a forte and Gwendoline wondered just what was so damn funny.

Leaping up, Sophie declared, “I have to change. I cannot be seen in this!”

And just like that, there they all stood. Gabriel and Gwen stared at each other, their faces contorted in confusion and Torben was doubled over with tinsel-trimmed delight.

“Teenagers. Thank God we were never like that, eh Gwen?” Gabriel said with a gentle nudge from his elbow.

“Do I ever!” Gwendoline exclaimed. “What has Sophie so tightly wound, I wonder? And what the hell is so funny, Torben.”

But her husband couldn’t get any word out with the exception of “Olive…”

“Care to enlighten me, Gabe? Or do I just have to wait until this mystery woman shows up?” Which, fortunately for Gwendoline, would not be long.

[The Exodus]

Gabriel Fontaine

As teenagers, Gwen and Gabriel seldom gave two flying fish about their parents’ dinner guests. They certainly hadn’t bothered with silly things like being seen in the “right” outfit. Gabriel once opened the door for one of Georges’ prospective financial backers while wearing one of Gwen’s sequined, cut-off tops and a pair of trousers so thoroughly patched, they looked fit for a scarecrow. Honestly, Gabriel didn’t understand where Sophie’s concern for impressions and fashion came from. Cristina was a professional, but modest dresser herself. And Gabriel would still have happily answered the door in Gwen’s sequined shirt, if he thought it would fit him.

He didn’t understand why Sophie cared so much about Olive, either.

It wasn’t that Gabriel didn’t care about Olive. He did. He’d invited her to Christmas, after all. But this was the second time that Sophie flew off the handle at the mention of Olive’s name. Gabriel had seen his daughter’s tantrums before, during naptime days. Foolishly, he though the worst was over.

Teenage girls just didn’t make any sense. Gwen as a teenager made a load of sense. She always made sense to Gabriel, even at her most nonsensical. But then again, Gwen wasn’t really a girl. She was female—obviously—but she was his sister. His twin. And as happy as Gabriel had been in Gwen’s sequined top, Gwendoline was always comfortable in one of Gabriel’s suits.

And then Gabriel noticed that Torben was laughing.

Gabriel pursed his lips. What right had Torben to laugh? If anyone knew less about teenaged girls than Gabriel, it was Torben. Only child Torben. Childless Torben. Crazy uncle Torben who thought that toy clowns made good presents for twelve-going-on-thirteen year olds. Gwen got to him first.

“And what the hell is so funny, Torben?” she asked.

Torben’s only answer was a laugh and wheezed-out “Olive…”

Gabriel looked over at Gwen and shrugged.

“Care to enlighten me, Gabe? Or do I just have to wait until this mystery woman shows up?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Gabriel said. He glared over at Torben. “Unless your husband wants to try to explain that one more time?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

Her niece’s behavior still puzzled Gwen. When she and Gabriel were Sophie’s age, their main concern was the pillow crawlspace they had fashioned beneath the porch. And when there were houseguests, their last concern was what they were wearing. The president of France could be over and Gwen would still wear her fuzzy angora sweater paired with a pair of Gabriel’s pajama pants. The genetic carelessness with fashion seemed to be a recessive trait missed by Sophie. It was a pity, really, seeing as she got all of Gabriel’s other good traits.

But this analysis didn’t straighten out her confusion and Torben’s lack of clarification did nothing to help her. And when she turned to Gabriel for enlightenment, he met her with a shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine. Unless your husband wants to try to explain that one more time?”

Gwendoline followed her brother’s gaze to her husband whose crimson face matched uncannily with his sweater. “Torben? Love? You want to try that again?”

“Olive…” He said once again. “…Degarmo. The Olive Degarmo? Oh, this is too good.” He gasped for air, slapping his knee with a loud crack like a whip. “All this time, I thought she was dead!”

Gwendoline pursed her lips and eyes grew wide. Either there was a huge mix up, or there were two Olive Degarmos—a live one and deceased one. Though Gwendoline wouldn’t put it past Gabriel to invite a corpse over, and though a dead Olive wouldn’t look out of place amongst the zombie and bat décor, she couldn’t imagine Tristan—mortician extraordinaire—being okay with a dead woman’s presence.

“What?” Gwendoline asked, rubbing her boyfriend’s back until he breathed again. “Darling, that makes no sense.”

“I guess we’ll have to see, then!” was Torben’s cryptic reply. Gwendoline hated it when he spoke that way. It was as if he had a secret language with himself, riddled with inside jokes no one else understood. It was worse than when he wore his socks.



Olive Degarmo

Olive was nervous. Before coming, she paced her apartment like a caged animal, weaving in and out of clothes that lay discarded after being tried on and discarded. Christmas should be filled with warmth and love, not anxiety and chills of paranoia. Standing before the mirror, she arranged her hair and coat to cover up her scar. But it glared up at her, a pale streak of mockery, telling her that she had better try again in the outfit hunt. And for a moment, staring at the ten year reminder of sacrifice and dead tissue, she considered calling Gabriel and telling him that she was sick, that her family had decided to celebrate together after all, or that she had some distant relative pass away unexpectedly. But Olive knew that beautiful speaking voice on the other end of the phone would sound utterly shattered and she didn’t know if she could cope with that on Christmas.

At last, she settled on head-to-toe leather that hid her scar as well as her doubt. Gathering the carefully chosen and wrapped gifts up in her arm, she took one last deep, shutting breath before ducking out of her apartment and into the frigid winter air.

But even as the taxi rattled in syncopated time that clashed horridly with the softly playing Christmas carols from the static-y radio, Olive’s mind raced. What if the people she was about to meet didn’t like their gifts? She had gotten Gabriel a book on Beethoven. Though she was unsure how much of a reader he was, it would certainly cover anything Olive’s elementary class had missed. For his sister and brother-in-law, she had carefully chosen a wine. Were they even wine drinkers? What if they lived in a dry apartment or were recovering alcoholics? She bit her lip with worry until she wasn’t sure if the red that stained her teeth was lipstick or blood. For his daughter, she had ventured into the locked bedroom and drew from it an old album of the Paris choir singing Donizetti’s complete choral works. In the chorus, masked by the creation of a unison voice was a young Olive before her diagnosis. The recording was once a treasure of hers, but now, it was a nearly forgotten bauble-- better off in the hands of a budding classical musician than in the bottom of a bin filled to the brim with ancient history.

Arriving at the apartment complex, Olive paid the driver and made her way up the elevator. It felt as if she were ascending into heaven to meet her maker or making her way to the top of a building in preparation for a suicidal free fall. Her stomach dropped out and she zipped her jacket up until it closed around her throat.

The wooden doors of the elevator opened and immediately, Olive’s sense’s tingled with a symphony of smells emanating from the apartment at the end of the hall. She smiled, taking in deep, soothing breaths as she tried to take in every layer of every scent before her until her chest ached, following like a trail of aromatic breadcrumbs to Gabriel’s door.

On the door was a sign that read “Beware of Reindeer” in red handwriting that appeared to drip like blood. Unsure if she should feel forewarned or amused, she rang the doorbell.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Tristan was all Christmas-partied-out. He liked the holiday as much as anyone, but this was his first Christmas in five years where he hadn’t been called to work yet and he actually had plans. It started, of course, the week before Christmas, when Tristan began decorating the funeral home for the holidays. He’d been full of Christmas spirit then. And then Solange had to deflate his enthusiasm a bit when she pointed out that the sprigs of holly he’d ordered had gotten mixed up with an order of mistletoe sprigs. Things had been awkward between them since then, but Tristan remained determined to have a positive experience sprucing up the funeral home with a live spruce and other appropriate décor. He’d also attended the city-wide Christmas gala. Again, he’d run into his secretary—more awkwardness that Torben was bound to find out about somehow—and gotten too drunk to drive the hearse home. So he slept in the back. When he awoke to a pounding headache and three missed calls, he panicked, thinking it was work. Instead, it was his uncle, double checking that Tristan would stop by for his afternoon gathering of friends and family. And by “family” Laurence meant Tristan. By “family”, Laurence always meant Tristan. So, Tristan drove home, showered, and put the same outfit from the gala on to go to his uncle’s party. Which was boring and pretentious as always. Middle-aged folk kept asking Tristan if he was married yet, or worse, snidely pointed out that he wasn’t married yet. He wasn’t some debutante, thank you very much, and when he made that joke for the umpteenth time, Tristan realized that it didn’t matter. He was twenty-eight and a bunch of middle aged computer programmers thought his love life was disappointing. No wonder the holidays were the high point for suicide funerals. When he made that joke, Laurence took him into the hallway for a lecture about behaving oneself and being nice to their guests. Their guests, as if Tristan still lived there and was the same surly sixteen year old who told Laurence’s boss about the tongue piercing he wanted to get. Glad he never got now, come to think of it…

Anyways. After too many hours at Laurence’s, Tristan realized he wasn’t one with the holidays yet. He still had Torben and Gwen’s party to go to. And suddenly, he was excited and anxious all at once. Their gifts were in the hearse—they’d been there for a month now, waiting to be taken over to the Fontaine-Blau apartment—and ready to go. But the party wasn’t for hours and Laurence’s stupid party had no set end time. So Tristan spent the remaining few hours excitedly primping in his old bedroom, talking to one of Laurence’s coworkers about financing for cemetery plots, washing dishes, and watching the clock. When he left Laurence’s apartment, he didn’t look back. Not once. Instead, he sped towards Gwen and Torben’s apartment as fast as rush hour traffic would allow him.

Which wasn’t fast at all, really.

When Tristan finally arrived to the Rue Lepic and climbed the stairs to Gwen and Torben’s apartment, he was shocked to see a woman standing in front of the door that wasn’t Gwen. This woman was dressed head to toe in leather; Tristan hadn’t realized it was that kind of Christmas party.

Another joke, but this one Tristan knew was not okay to make.

He readjusted the sack of presents on his shoulder and tried to figure out how best to approach the door with this stranger blocking it. He inched over towards her quietly, but dragged his feet in hopes that the shuffling might get her attention. When she didn’t turn around and Tristan stood directly behind her, he knew there was only one way to break the silence.

“Do you like the reindeer sign?” he asked. “I’m pretty sure Torben made it himself.”

He smiled at her, with closed lips. Solange had told him at the Christmas party that his overlarge canines and funeral director’s wardrobe made him look like a vampire. She’d been drunk, so she was probably telling the truth. He didn’t really want to scare the stranger, since she might have been—

Actually, who could she have been? Gwen had a brother, not a sister. Torben was an only child. The brother—Gwen’s brother, Gabriel—was divorced and had a daughter. And this woman looked too old to be Torben and Gwen’s niece. Gwen told Tristan it was a “small, family gathering” in that cheerful way of hers. She’d said it in the same breath that she’d told him there were to be skull and zombie decorations on the Christmas tree, though, so maybe an unmentioned relative was just another one of the Fontaine-Blaus’ holiday surprises.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Olive Degarmo

Olive laid into the doorbell once more, but the door didn’t open. It remained a solid, uninviting block of oak wood. She let out a patient sigh and slumped against the wall behind her, staring at the barricade between her and any semblance of Christmas. With her free hand, she readjusted her hair and knocked this time on the place where a lonely three sat, where the gold number’s 2 counterpart had fallen away.

But this time, she got an answer. But instead of a charming Gabriel answering the door, she was greeted by a startling voice behind that made her jump, the presents under her arm rustling together wildly.

“Do you like the reindeer sign?” Olive spun around on her heel and met the gaze of a tall, young man, a sack of his own gifts on his shoulder. “I’m pretty sure Torben made it himself.”

“Torben…” Olive said, trying to remember who exactly that was, adjusting her eyes to the glaring orange of the man’s shirt. “That’s Gabriel’s brother-in-law.” She reminded herself, though it sounded more like a question. “Sorry, and you are?” She asked. Gabriel had mentioned Torben once, Gwendoline thrice, and Sophie countless times. But those were all of the names she could recall from her conversations with the attractive chef.

Her cheeks felt warm for a moment. If he was a guest here as well, she hadn’t gotten him a Christmas gift. Perhaps, in view of the circumstances, the man would except a post-Christmas present sometime in mid-January if all went well tonight.

Still, the door remained shut. The only sign of life was Olive and her new companion’s presence and a surprising, feminine cackle erupt from the other side of the door. Quickly, Christmas was becoming quite different than Olive had ever remembered it. But maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Frankly, Torben was a genius. Tristan knew that long before befriending the Fontaine-Blaus. But now that Tristan could see the older artist's daily life, there was no way he could say that Torben's creativity was limited to his art. Even his wife, Gwen, was made up of tiny molecules of creativity instead of cells. That was just how the family was.

And that reindeer sign was gold. Killer reindeer? Who would have thought? No one but Torben.

He wondered if the strange woman could appreciate the humor of Torben's sign. He looked at her hopefully, but instead was met with a creased brow. Which was ... fantastic. Because, you know, it wasn't like Tristan was used to strange stares from women.

Such a shame. Tristan had hoped that the Fontaine-Blau apartment woas the one place no one would stare at him like he had two heads.

“Torben…” the woman repeated. “That’s Gabriel’s brother-in-law.”

That didn't sound like a fact when the woman said it. It sounded like a question. Tristan nodded enthusiastically.

"Yeah. He is."


“Sorry," the woman said. Tristan wasn't sure if she was actually sorry and if so what she was sorry for. "And you are?”

"I'm--"

A raucous female laugh sliced through the air. Tristan cocked his head. Gwendoline. So they were home, after all. Maybe the woman hadn't rung the doorbell. Tristan leaned against the doorbell. Hard.

And then he realized he never bothered to finish his answer answer to the stranger's question.


"Tristan," he finished. "I'm Tristan. Gwen and Torben are my..."

Friends seemed inadequate. In Tristan's experience, friends were merely people who popped in and out of his life at their convenience. Or, rather, at the convenience of their girlfriends and wives. Torben and Gwen weren't like that at all. They were in his life deeper than most anyone else. And they were a constant. Maybe that was what friendship was supposed to be.

But he also admired Torben and Gwen so much that made him think that they were somehow less than friends. No matter how kind and good Gwen and Torben were to him, Tristan couldn't shake the awe he felt at being in their presence-- Torben's especially. He looked up to him. To him as an artist-- of course, he always had-- but also to Torben as a man. The people Tristan saw before Torben didn't make paper mache trees in their living rooms or get paid the paint on the side of a building. They worked in miserable, little offices and went home to miserable, little apartments. And they certainly weren't as happy with their spouses as Gwen and Torben were with each other. Tristan didn't envy Torben per se, but if he could cobble his own life together in a similar fashion, Tristan knew he'd be a happy man. Torben and Gwen showed Tristan led by example and sometimes, Tristan just had to take a step back and watch and admire them. And sometimes, that seemed to Tristan to be more than friendship, too.

In a few short months, Tristan fell in love with Gwen and Torben. Not in love. That would be stupid. But they felt more like a family to Tristan than anyone else on the planet.

He wondered if this was how he should have felt about Laurence.

Tristan reached for his throat and massaged his Adam's apple. It seemed to have gotten stuck suddenly, rendering him speechless. He coughed.

"Sorry," he said, still trying to pass his silence off as a cough. It was flu season, after all. "Torben's my mentor. And Gwen is, well, amazing. How do you know them?"

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Olive Degarmo

The boisterous female chortle drowned out the man’s introduction. Olive leaned in closer to hear him as he moved to speak again. "I'm Tristan.”

Olive smiled. It was nice to make his acquaintance. But a name didn’t give her a relation to the Fontaines. “Gwen and Torben are my..."

The man trailed off in a way that reminded Olive of Gabriel when he stopped mid-sentence, chasing a silvery, glittering thought before it gave one last sputter of glimmering life and died. She chuckled to herself. It was rather endearing, really.

The man stayed with his thought for a long while as if he not only chased it, but caught up with it and took it out dancing for the night. She waited patiently. The door had still yet to open and Olive had adjusted herself to waiting today. But somehow, the excitement only heightened the longer she held her breath in patient, suspended animation. Reminiscent of when she was a child and would wait by the tree with wide, saucer-sized eyes for her parents to wake up, staring at the plentiful packages as if they were miracles wrapped up in myriad shapes and colorful paper.

At long last, the man spoke, his booming voice reaching down and rooting itself into the very bass clef of his range. "Sorry.” his thought having been captured and toyed with, he seemed content to talk once more, at long last elaborating on what Olive had been wondering since arriving. “Torben's my mentor. And Gwen is, well, amazing. How do you know them?"

“I don’t,” Olive confessed. “I’m here on Gabriel’s invitation. He’s my…” it was Olive’s turn to follow the thought that bounced around like glittering fairy dust. What was Gabriel? He was her friend, there was no denying that. But it would be a lie if Olive said she didn’t fancy him and think about him more often than thought appropriate for a friend you just met. “Friend. Gwen’s his sister. It’s nice to meet you, Tristan. I’m Olive.” She moved to extend a hand, but with Tristan squeezed into the small space of the hallway as he rang the doorbell, his body mere inches from hers as they listened to the sounds of a Fontaine Christmas on the other side of the door, there was no need for formalities. “Happy Christmas.”