The Nightingale Before Christmas

Chapter 1

December 20

“Passementerie.”

Mother was standing in the evergreen-trimmed archway between the living room and the foyer, directly beneath the red-and-gold “Merry Christmas” banner, frowning at something she was holding.

Since I had no idea who or what “passementerie” was, I just sat there in the foyer of the Caerphilly Designer Show House with my pen poised over my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe, waiting for Mother to elaborate. For a few moments I heard nothing but the soothing strains of an orchestra playing “Silent Night” from a radio somewhere behind Mother.

Evidently Jessica, the reporter from the Caerphilly College student newspaper, wasn’t as patient as I was. After all, she was here to interview the dozen interior designers who were decorating rooms in the show house, not to play guessing games with them.

“What’s ‘passementerie’?” she asked.

“Elegant, elaborate edgings or trimmings”—Mother stepped closer and showed us the little bit of black-and-purple braid she held in her hand—“with braid, cord, embroidery, or beads. The right passementerie can absolutely make or break an upholstery project.”

“I see,” Jessica said, although I could tell she didn’t really. Nor was it clear to me why Mother had interrupted my interview with the reporter to display bits of upholstery trimming to us. But before answering, I glanced around and let the Christmas decorations surrounding me temper my mood. The holly and red velvet ribbons wrapping the stair rails. The gold mobile of stars and angels hanging from the ceiling light in the upper hallway. The fact that Mother had a few strands of gold tinsel snagged in her hair.

“Today’s new word, then,” I said aloud. “Passementerie. Do you want me to use it in a sentence?”

“That would be nice, dear,” Mother said. “Particularly if the sentence is something like, ‘Hello, Mother. The UPS man just delivered a package from the Braid Emporium containing the passementerie you ordered.’”

“Alas,” I said. “The UPS man only delivered two packages, and neither of them contained passementerie.” There. That was also a sentence.

“The Braid Emporium was supposed to overnight it,” Mother said. “The day before yesterday.”

I lifted my hands and eyebrows in a gesture meant to convey the utmost sympathy along with a complete refusal to take responsibility for the shortcomings of either the United Parcel Service or the Braid Emporium.

“Maybe it’s hidden under all the snow,” Jessica said. “The drifts are two feet high in some places.”

“I’ve checked the drifts,” I said. “And packages began disappearing long before the first snowstorm.”

“Perhaps one of the other decorators took it by mistake?” Mother gestured as if tucking a stray lock of her beautiful if implausible blond hair back into her chignon. I hadn’t actually seen any strands out of place, so I assumed she was trying to suggest that she had been working so hard that she was in danger of becoming disheveled.

“Always possible that someone else picked it up by mistake,” I said. “That’s why I asked everyone yesterday to please stop having stuff shipped here to the show house—to avoid such misunderstandings.” And to avoid the possibility that one of the more competitive decorators would try to sabotage the competition by diverting important packages. “But I assume your passa-whatzit had already been sent before then. I’ll ask them all.”

Mother closed her eyes and allowed one faint, long-suffering sigh to escape. The reporter didn’t sigh, but she was clearly impatient. Or maybe just hyperactive, from the manic way she was tapping her feet on the floor and drumming her fingers on her knees. And upstairs someone’s radio came on, tuned to a very different Christmas station. I liked both “Run, Run Rudolph” and “Silent Night,” but not simultaneously.

“I’ll be in my room when you find my package,” Mother said.

She sailed back through the archway, head held even higher than usual. Her head brushed the evergreens framing the doorway, making all the tiny little bells attached to the branches tinkle merrily. The bells lifted my mood, and I glanced over to see if Jessica was impressed. Most people were when they met Mother, who in her seventies still had the slender elegance and regal blond looks of someone decades younger.

Jessica didn’t look impressed. Just impatient.

“In her room?” Jessica asked. “I didn’t realize anyone lived here.”

“She doesn’t,” I said. “She’s decorating the great room. Which is decorator-speak for what we normal humans call the living room. Or maybe the family room.”