Chapter 3: Yuletide Excess
The crystal flute shattered against the hardwood floor with a sound like ice cracking. Champagne sprayed, cold and sticky, across Beatrice’s silk slippers. She stood frozen, one hand pressed dramatically to her ample chest, the other still hovering where the glass had been. Her perfectly coiffed hair seemed to quiver with indignation. "Santa Madonna!" The whisper was hoarse, choked. "Leo! Clara! Per l'amor del cielo!"
Beneath the glittering canopy of the Christmas tree, tangled in a nest of discarded wrapping paper and kicked-off slippers, the scene unfolded like a Renaissance painting gone delightfully, terribly wrong. Leo slowly, reluctantly, lifted his head from the lush curve of Clara’s breast, a dark, possessive glint still in his eyes despite the interruption. His lips glistened. Clara gasped, arching instinctively towards his retreating warmth before reality slammed back. Her cheeks flushed a deep, rosy pink that clashed charmingly with the red baubles dangling precariously near her ear. She scrambled to pull the neckline of her rumpled green velvet dress back into some semblance of order, her fingers fumbling.
"Ma!" Leo chuckled, the sound low and unrepentant, as he shifted slightly, shielding Clara from his mother’s direct line of sight while subtly adjusting his own trousers. "You're up early. Or late? Bit of both?" He casually plucked a stray silver tinsel strand from Clara’s riotous dark curls.
"Early! Late! What does it matter?" Beatrice hissed, stepping gingerly over the broken glass, her eyes wide with scandalized disbelief. "I wake from a lovely dream about cannoli, I come for water, and I find… this! Under the tree! Like… like animals in the Nativity scene!" She gestured wildly, her diamond bracelet catching the twinkling lights. "The children could have seen! Nonna Filomena could have seen! The tree saw!"
Clara finally found her voice, a breathless giggle escaping despite her blush. She pushed herself up onto one elbow, the movement causing the tree branches above her to tremble and a small glass angel to tumble silently onto the carpet. "Oh, Beatrix, relax! It’s just us. And the tree appreciates the company, I'm sure." She reached out and patted a sturdy lower bough. "Don't you, Douglas Fir?"
"Clara, carissima, this is not a relaxation situation!" Beatrice moaned, sinking onto the arm of the nearest sofa, fanning herself with a discarded Christmas card. "The position! The… the audacity! Right where we put baby Jesus last year!"
"It was a stable, Mama, not a church," Leo pointed out, his arm snaking possessively around Clara’s waist as she sat up fully. He nuzzled her temple, breathing in the scent of pine needles and her familiar, warm skin. "And technically, Jesus wasn't under the tree."
"Technically!" Beatrice sputtered. "Your father, bless his soul, he liked a cuddle, sì, but under the Christmas tree? With my best Lalique angel practically dangling over your… your…" She trailed off, unable to articulate the specific anatomy involved.
Clara leaned back against Leo’s solid chest, her earlier embarrassment morphing into amused defiance. She tilted her head back to look up at him, her eyes sparkling. "Your angel’s fine, Beatrix. Though Leo did nearly knock it off trying to… ah… re-adjust the star." She winked.
Leo burst out laughing, the sound rich and full, echoing in the quiet room. He pressed a kiss to Clara's hair. "It was crooked. Needed attention." His hand slid down her arm, his thumb tracing idle circles on her inner wrist. Beatrice watched the intimate gesture with a mixture of horror and a strange, reluctant fascination.
"Attention! Madonna santa, the attention you two demand!" Beatrice threw her hands up. "All day yesterday! The kitchen, while I was basting the turkey! The hallway by the coats! And now this! Am I living in a… a… French farce?" She pronounced 'farce' with distaste.
"Just a very loving home, Mama," Leo murmured, his gaze fixed on Clara’s profile, the way the fairy lights caught the gold flecks in her eyes. "Can't help it. Look at her." His voice dropped, thick with adoration. "Under the lights… she glows."
Clara turned her face into his neck, murmuring something low and intimate that made his arm tighten around her. Beatrice watched them, the genuine, almost overwhelming current of affection flowing between them even in their disheveled state. Her initial outrage softened, replaced by the familiar exasperated warmth she always felt. She did love their passion, their utter lack of inhibition with each other. It was just… the locations! The timing!
She sighed dramatically. "Glows. Sì. Like a radioactive pastry. My heart, it cannot take it." She stood up, smoothing her silk robe with trembling dignity. "Clean up this glass before the dog finds it. And for the love of all that is holy, put some clothes on, Clara! Properly! Before I have a stroke and they find me next to the shattered remains of my dignity!"
Clara laughed, a full-bodied sound that shook the branches above her again, dislodging another small ornament. "Okay, okay!" Still giggling, she tried to stand, her foot catching in a loop of Christmas lights. She stumbled forward with a yelp, crashing into the lower branches. A cascade of pine needles and several brightly colored balls rained down around her. "Whoops!"
Leo caught her effortlessly, pulling her upright against him, both of them now liberally dusted with pine and glitter, laughing helplessly amidst the minor destruction. He brushed a needle from her eyelash.
Beatrice stared at the chaos – the broken glass, the scattered ornaments, her son and daughter-in-law clinging to each other, covered in tree debris and radiating pure, unadulterated, slightly scandalous joy. She shook her head slowly, a reluctant smile finally tugging at her lips despite herself. "Figli miei," she muttered, the Italian term of endearment softening her tone. "Hopeless. Utterly hopeless." She turned towards the kitchen, calling over her shoulder with renewed vigor, "And I am telling Father Michael about this at Mass tomorrow! Every detail! See if I don't! He’ll need extra wine!"
Leo grinned down at Clara, tucking a glittery strand of hair behind her ear. "Let her talk," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her skin. "Gives the old ladies something exciting to discuss besides their arthritis."
Clara leaned into him, her laughter quieting into a contented hum as she nuzzled his neck, completely unconcerned about ornaments, gossip, or anything else but the warm, solid presence of the man whose hands were already tracing the familiar, beloved curve of her hip beneath the velvet. The tree lights twinkled on, bathing them in a soft, defiant glow.