1283 Rue Lepic

[The Exodus]

Gabriel Fontaine

“Am I the only one who hears that?!” Sophie exclaimed. She was wearing her third outfit for the evening, which consisted of a sparkly top that Gabriel had never seen, and a dark, crushed velvet skirt he’d bought her last time he was in Milan. She put her hands on her hips, making the sparkly, fluttery sleeves of her shirt whip through the air, making the same sound as a sushi chef’s knife.

Gabriel cocked his head and listened past his daughter’s irritation. Faintly, he could hear a familiar buzz. The doorbell.

“Tristan?” he asked Torben, who shrugged and nodded at the same time. “Okay, cool. Sophie, mon cherie, why don’t you answer the door? Go on and meet your ‘cousin’.”

He flashed a grin over at Gwen. He wondered how old exactly this guy was. If Sophie was intent on wearing that outfit around a strange young man, Gabriel was intent on holding a carving knife when Gwen’s “son” walked in. He had to be both the intimidating father of Sophie and the crazy uncle figure, after all. Sophie rolled her eyes and marched over to the door. Gabriel went to the kitchen to select his best, sharpest Wusthof. And then Sophie screamed for the second time that night. And instead of dropping the knife to the counter, Gabriel ignored his own kitchen rules and ran across the apartment, Wusthof in hand, until he came face to face with Olive and a surprised-looking man, who held his hands up in surrender. Sophie, meanwhile, had turned white as a sheet and was trembling.

“Olive... What happened?” Gabriel asked, lowering the knife slowly.

“I think I have the wrong house,” the man said, slowly lowering his hands. “I’ll just… I mean… Merry Christmas…”

And then the man began to inch away from the doorframe, leaving Gabriel with a shocked Sophie, a speechless Olive, and a carving knife awkwardly pointed towards all three of them.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Olive Degarmo

Between her and Tristan, a hazy fog of silence befell. It encroached them quickly, threatening to suffocate them in the awkwardness that sat stagnant, yet oddly alive in the small space between them. And just as Olive began to pray for someone to answer the door, it opened and for a solitary moment of faith flickered through her. Before her stood a young girl, no older than fourteen who’s face seemed to be drained with blood. But on that face were the same chiseled cheekbones and soulful eyes of Gabriel. Olive smiled.

“Hello! You must be Sophie, correct?”

But the young girl didn’t answer. She didn’t even offer up a shy, noncommittal nod in response. Instead, she let out a bloodcurdling scream and Olive jumped, her heart pounding like a bass jump, threatening to leap right out through her skin. Though frozen, she managed a glance sideways to Tristan, but saw no answers—just the same look of puzzlement on his face as was on hers.

Then, from behind the young girl, Gabriel appeared, large knife in hand. Olive gasped. When she agreed to come to Christmas, she did not expect to be screamed at and greeted with a knife. She pushed the rapidly slipping presents up and tried to catch her failing breath.

“Olive... What happened?”

“I—I don’t actually know…” She managed to say, her voice much higher than she expected. “Happy Christmas?”

But Olive feared her words were buried beneath Tristan’s own as he mumbled “I think I have the wrong house. I’ll just… I mean… Merry Christmas…”

And behind Gabriel appeared another woman. Flour streaked her face and found its way into her hair. She didn’t acknowledge Olive, which Olive, who was still combating with the shock of having a knife brandished in her face by a man she fancied, didn’t really mind. “Tristan!” she called out. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving already! You haven’t even arrived. Get in here!” At last, she looked at Olive. “Oh, hello! Welcome! Gabriel, put that knife down, you’re scaring our guests. Come in, come in!”

And though Olive’s legs felt like jelly, she felt obliged to enter.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

This was why Tristan sometimes thought of moving far, far away from people altogether. The young girl who answered the door had screamed so loudly that curious neighbors popped their heads out to see what was going on. And to their horror—and Tristan’s—a man came running over, carving knife in hand. This was the second time in a month someone had pulled a knife out on him. Granted, last time, it had been at a seedy, little bar. But now one thing was clear: nowhere was safe. Not even Gwen’s house. Tristan could feel his blood pound against the base of his wrists and up in the corner of his forehead. Maybe if he just shuffled off quietly, the crazy guy with the knife would just let him go.

“Olive... What happened?” the man with the knife said, not putting the knife down. God, that looked sharp…

“I—I don’t actually know…” Olive said in a squeaky-high voice. “Happy Christmas?”

So… Olive knew the knife-wielding stranger? Great. Just fantastic. Tristan was getting out of here before things got even weirder

“I think I have the wrong house. I’ll just… I mean… Merry Christmas…” Tristan said, trying to slink off. It was a tricky feet for a man who stood at just over six feet tall and carried a giant bag full of presents to inconspicuously leave. And when Tristan heard his name called, he knew he had failed. He froze and looked up from the ground to see Gwen, covered in flour, standing just behind the man with the knife.

Relieve broke like a fever all over Tristan. His face glistened with clammy beads of sweat and he started to shake a little. What the hell kind of Christmas was this?

“Don’t tell me you’re leaving already!” Gwen said. “You haven’t even arrived. Get in here!”

Tristan shook his head. There was no way he was getting in there until the guy with the knife put his weapon down. Gwen didn’t notice his hesitation, however, as she greeted Olive, as if noticing her for the first time.

And then, finally, she addressed the weaponized elephant in the room.

“Gabriel, put that knife down, you’re scaring our guests. Come in, come in!”

The knife clattered to the floor and “Gabriel” (THIS was Gwen’s twin brother?!) rushed to embrace the girl who had moments ago screamed. He planted dozens of kisses atop her head as Tristan and Olive inched inside, careful not to step on it.

“Sophie! You had me so worried! What’s wrong?” “Gabriel” (Tristan refused to believe that this guy was Gwen’s twin brother) said.

Sophie, the girl, raised a pointed finger towards Tristan.

“What did I do?” he asked, dropping his bag of presents when he threw his arms up in confusion.

“Not you.” The teenager had found her voice. And then it became apparent she was looking at Olive. Tristan looked at Olive, too. Olive, who hadn't really done much of anything since arriving. “You’re Olive Degarmo!”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Sophie!” “Gabriel” said. He bent at the waist to pick up his knife, which he looked at exasperatedly. “You almost gave me a heart attack. I thought someone was murdering you. We told you Olive was coming to Christmas. And unless you tell me why that’s such a problem for you, you won’t be allowed to join us for dinner until dessert.”

Gabriel Fontaine

Gabriel froze, unsure if he was supposed to engage the strange man in a duel with his Wusthof. He hadn’t thought this through and a pacifist by nature, Gabriel didn’t much know how to look intimidating. Clearly, though, something had scared Sophie, the man, and Olive all, because they all were varying shades of white and wide-eyed.

And then Gwen materialized behind him. Gabriel didn’t have to look to know she was there. If the calming cloud of flour that filled the air whenever she had been baking wasn’t a giveaway, it was her familiar, excited voice hollering after “Tristan” that did.

The long haired guy froze and looked just beyond Gabriel. That was Tristan? The “son” Gwen talked about so fondly? He was almost their age, wasn’t he?

Well, that was Gwen for you, wasn’t it? Adopting people so she could love them, feed them, and coddle them? Gabriel got the bulk of her babying most days; even more than Torben, since Torben couldn’t always tell the difference between a torte and a mousse if they were both chocolate.

And then Gwen greeted Olive, all smiley-sounding words and happy tones. But something was wrong. Olive and Tristan both looked terrified of some unseen threat. Sophie was now quieter than Gabriel had ever heard her. His daughter had screamed only moments ago, so something was definitely very, very wrong.

“Gabriel, put that knife down, you’re scaring our guests.” Gwen said matter of factly before inviting the guests inside.

And then Gabriel realized he still held his Wusthof with white-knuckled intensity. He released it and the clang of metal hitting hardwood filled the now silent room. What had he been thinking? Jesus, no wonder Olive and Tristan looked like they were about to be sick. Gabriel had been scaring them. But what had scared Sophie?

Without thinking, Gabriel rushed away from the knife and took his daughter into his arms where she would be warm and safe from whatever had scared her before he had. Blindly, he pressed kisses to her head and face, unable to shake the muddledness from his mind.

“Sophie! You had me so worried! What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice sounding more like Gabriel Fontaine than he felt.

And then Sophie raised an accusatory finger at Tristan. Gabriel’s eyes narrowed and he looked over at the man Gwen so fondly called her son. He really should have held onto the carving knife, after all…

“What did I do?” Tristan asked, throwing his hands up in the air and dropping his bag of presents to the ground.

“Not you,” Sophie said, venomous exasperation tingeing her voice. God, she sounded like Cristina. Gabriel looked from Tristan to Olive. Olive, who Sophie had gone on and on about incoherently. What had Olive done? “You’re Olive Degarmo!”

Gabriel chuckled and pulled away from Sophie to go pick up his knife. His heart heaved a sigh of relief.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Sophie!” he said. “You almost gave me a heart attack. I thought someone was murdering you. We told you Olive was coming to Christmas. And unless you tell me why that’s such a problem for you, you won’t be allowed to join us for dinner until dessert.”

If he told Sophie she couldn’t have dessert, Gwen would probably see it as an affront. Besides, if Gabriel could say so, missing out on dinner—the rabbits and the ducks and the potatoes and the julienned vegetables—was a larger punishment. Especially when the chef himself barred you from it.

He looked at Olive apologetically. “She’s been like this all day. Sorry about her. Let me go put this thing—“ the knife “—in the sink so I can give you a proper hug.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Olive Degarmo

Amid the hustle and bustle of screaming and knife-wielding, Olive set down her myriad of gifts against the nearest wall and focused on calming her pounding heart. When she looked up, she was faced, this time, not with a knife—thank God—but with a slender, shaking finger. Sophie’s mouth formed a near perfect ‘O’ that gaped and faltered as it wrapped around invisible words until finally her thoughts became coherent words. “You’re Olive Degarmo!”

Olive felt her chest swell with a cocktail of shock, delight, and awe. Those words hadn’t been spoken to her with such crystalline purity and euphoria in this context in a decade. The words “You’re Olive Degarmo” had, as of these last ten years, been chased by a suffix of “and my son is failing your class” or “and you owe our credit card company x amount of money”. But it had been too long since “You’re Olive Degarmo” had floated to her ears with such musical astonishment painting those six syllables. It was sweeter than a child’s laugh or the ring of a chime. And it was all hers, seeing to call her back from some decade-long hibernation. How wonderful it tasted to feel alive again! But like any high, Olive had to crash and burn once more. But this time, the flames that roared were in the shape of Gabriel, speaking with his perpetually amused voice as if he was constantly sharing an inside joke with the two halves of his brain. “Oh, for God’s sake, Sophie!” he said. “You almost gave me a heart attack. I thought someone was murdering you. We told you Olive was coming to Christmas. And unless you tell me why that’s such a problem for you, you won’t be allowed to join us for dinner until dessert.”

And before Olive could respond to Sophie’s astonished observation, Gabriel sent his daughter off and turned to speak to Olive. “She’s been like this all day.” he said and Olive’s heart threatened to float right out of her chest. ”Sorry about her.” he added, though no apology was needed. Gabriel help up the knife once more, but this time, Olive didn’t flinch. ” Let me go put this thing in the sink so I can give you a proper hug.” And before Gabriel disappeared into the kitchen, she offered him a smile that suggested that knives were not the oddest thing she had been greeted with. And that was the first time she had lied to Gabriel.

Then, as she waited for Gabriel’s return, a low baritone voice spoke in monotones from behind her. “How did you like Vienna?” Olive whipped around and found herself face-to-face with a man she hadn’t noticed standing there,

“You must be Torben,” she said with a smile, offering him a hand which he did not take.

“I saw you there, in Vienna. You were signing autographs after a show. You were wearing red. I wanted to stop by and maybe get a picture, but my wife wouldn’t let me.”

Though Olive had just met this man, it seemed as though he had wanted to say this for years. “Your wife as in Gwendoline?” she asked, trying to acquaint herself with the family of the man she had grown to care for.

The man she assumed was Torben let out a bellow of a laugh. ”Gwen’s not my wife! We’re just shacking up!”

Olive tried to stop her mouth from falling open as she searched for the right response. Luckily, the woman she understood to be Gwendoline appeared, as she seemed to have a tendency to do. ”Torben! Good God! It’s Christmas.” She turned to Olive. ”I see you’ve met my… Torben. Good. Sorry.” she turned back to Torben, “Could you be a dear and please put in some Christmas music or something?” To this, Torben grumbled something in a language Olive recognized as German and grudgingly obliged.

Gwendoline Fontaine

Olive Degarmo seemed sweet enough, albeit very frightened by Gabriel’s lack of door answering skills. Though Gwen herself was accustomed to pretty much anything Gabriel could ever greet her with (a colic-y Sophie, a chicken in mid-butcher, and a marshmallow sling shot were some of the more normal ones), she could understand why she was so skittish. No one wanted a knife in their face—especially not on Christmas.

But Gwendoline didn’t bother herself too much with her and she threw her arms around Tristan. It wasn’t that she didn’t care about Olive, but she was, after all, Gabriel’s guest and Tristan looked just as perturbed by the cutlery. She hugged Tristan tightly. It was, Gwen imagined, much like having your grown son home for college. No, she did not raise him. It was true that he did not come from her own womb. But his heart seemed to be cut into the shape of the space between hers and Torben, as if he was the missing piece left behind by the unnamed body in their flowerbox.

“Come in, Tristan. I’ll take this,” she yanked the giant sack of gifts from his hands and struggled to see around it’s cumbersome bulk. It overpowered her and seemed to crush her as she took it to the tree. With a heave, she set it down and returned to Tristan’s side. “Welcome to the Fontaine-Blau annual Christmas bash. We’re glad to have you. How was your uncles?”

She didn’t want this moment to end: she loved talking to Tristan, but above his deep growl of a voice, she heard Torben’s own bass of a voice mumble to Olive and Gwen snapped her head over. He sounded less like the gracious host she knew him to be and more like a stalker. She had to make this right. She excused herself for a moment from Tristan’s company and stood behind Olive for a better listen.

But then, Torben let out the worst offender of them all. ”Gwen’s not my wife! We’re just shacking up!”

Staving off the scarlet threatening to rise to her cheeks, she let out a borderline shriek. ”Torben! Good God! It’s Christmas.” Usually, she would have laughed this off. Torben said that often and Gwendoline was just as bad, calling him everything from ‘husband’ to her ‘one night stand’. But it was, after all, Christmas, and she really wanted Olive to like them. If this woman was going to be an important part of Gabe’s life, she was going to be an important part of Gwen’s, too. And Torben was making that difficult.

”I see you’ve met my… Torben. Good. Sorry.” Ahe turned back to her husband. “Could you be a dear and please put in some Christmas music or something?” Torben mumbled but listened, shuffling off to look through some CDs that lay helter-skelter around the entertainment center.

“So Olive, before Gabriel gets back, tell me a bit about you!”