Feliz Navidead Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Recipes

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  By Ann Myers

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Mom stopped mid-stroll, thumping one hand to her chest, gripping a hip-high adobe wall with the other. “I need to catch my breath, Rita,” she declared, rather accusatorily.

  I murmured, “Of course,” and issued my best good-daughter sympathetic smile. I did, truly, sympathize. At seven thousand feet above sea level, Santa Fe, New Mexico, can literally take your breath away, and my mother had flown in only a few hours earlier from the midwestern lowlands. Adjusting to high altitudes takes time. About a week, the experts say, although I’ve called Santa Fe home for over three years and still blame the paltry oxygen when I pant through my morning jog and puff under overladen burrito platters at Tres Amigas Café, where I’m a chef and co-amiga. I’ve even postulated that the thin air makes my thighs look larger. Lack of atmospheric compression, that unscientifically tested theory goes. The more likely culprit is my steady diet of cheesy chiles rellenos, blue corn waffles, green chile cheeseburgers, and other New Mexican delicacies.

  Mom took deep breaths beside me. I wasn’t too worried. If Mom was at risk of anything, it was overacting. I strongly suspected she was making a point, something she likes to do indirectly and with drama. Things Mom doesn’t like? High altitudes, dry climates, hot chiles, and disturbance of her holiday routine. I knew she wasn’t thrilled to spend Christmas away from home. My goal was to win her over, and lucky for me, I had Santa Fe’s holiday charm on my side.

  I leaned against the wall, enjoying the warmth of solar-heated adobe on my back. A group of carolers strolled by, harmonizing a bilingual version of “Feliz Navidad.” String lights and pine boughs decorated the porticos along Palace Avenue, and piñon smoke perfumed the air. To my eyes, the self-proclaimed “City Different” looked as pretty as a Christmas card. Once Mom got over the initial shock of leaving her comfort zone, she’d come around. I hoped . . .

  Mom reached for a water bottle in her dual-holstered hip pack. “Hydration,” she said, repeating a caution she’d first raised nearly two decades ago, when I embarked for culinary school in Denver and its mere mile-high elevation. In between sips, she reminded me that proper water intake was the key to fending off altitude-induced illnesses ranging from headaches to poor judgment.

  She tilted her chin up and assessed me through narrowed eyes. “You’re not drinking enough, Rita. I can tell. Your cheeks look dry. Your hands too. And your hair . . .” Mom made tsk-tsk sounds. “Perhaps a trim would keep it from getting so staticky. You do look awfully cute when it’s short.”

  I patted my shoulder-length locks, recently cut into loose layers that emphasized my natural staticky waves. I could use a drink. A tart margarita on the rocks with extra salt would do. My mouth watered. Behave, I chastised myself. It wasn’t even two in the afternoon, way too early for tequila. Plus, I loved my mother and her cute silver-flecked pixie cut. Most of all, I was delighted that she’d come to visit me and my teenage daughter, Celia. It was nice of Mom. No, more than nice. The visit bordered on maternal sacrifice.

  As far as I knew, my mother, Mrs. Helen Baker Lafitte, aged sixty-eight and three quarters, of Bucks Grove, Illinois, had never left home for Christmas before, nor had she wanted to. Mom is a retired high school librarian, a woman of card-catalog order and strict traditions, otherwise known as doing the same thing year after year. Under usual circumstances, Mom keeps our “heirloom” artificial Christmas tree perpetually decorated and stored in the garage until the day after Thanksgiving, when she takes it out, dusts it off, and installs it to the left of the living-room fireplace. She places electric candles in each front window, hangs a wreath on the door, and wraps the holly bush in tasteful, nonflashing white lights. All of her holiday cards are mailed by the twelfth of December.

  Food traditions are similarly strict. The Christmas Day lunch begins promptly at noon and is typically attended by my Aunt Sue, Uncle Dave, Aunt Karen, and younger sister Kathy and her family. Kathy’s husband, Dwayne, watches sports in the den, while their three kids hover between completely exhausted and totally wired from their morning gift frenzy. My mother and aunts whip up a feast of roasted turkey and stuffing, scalloped potatoes, sweet potato casserole with mini-marshmallows, Tater Tot hot dish, amazing monkey bread, Aunt Sue’s famous (or infamous) Jell-O surprise featuring celery and cheese cubes, and my favorite dish: pie, usually apple, mincemeat, and/or pumpkin. It’s a lovely meal, which I truly miss when I can’t attend. However, I also love Santa Fe and want to make my own traditions here.

  “That’s one benefit for your sister,” Mom said, polishing off her second water bottle. I swore I heard her stomach slosh. “The beach is at sea level.”

  “Yep, that’s the beach for you,” I replied in the perky tone I vowed to maintain for the rest of Mom’s visit. “Kath and the kids must be loving it. What a treat! A holiday to remember!”

  “I warned Kathy about jellyfish,” Mom said darkly. “Rip currents, sharks, sand, mosquitoes. . . . It simply doesn’t seem right to be somewhere so tropical for Christmas, but Dwayne went and got that package deal.” Mom’s tone suggested Dwayne had purchased a family-sized case of hives.

  I gave Mom another sympathetic smile, along with the extra water bottle she’d stashed in my purse. Of course she was out of sorts. Once the kids learned that they’d get to open their presents early and go to Disney World and the beach, Mom and the holiday hot dish hadn’t stood a chance. I, meanwhile, saw my chance to get Mom to Santa Fe.

  I employed some of the guilt she usually ladled on me, telling her truthfully that Celia and I couldn’t get away this year between my work and Celia’s extracurricular activities. Mom, the master of loving manipulation, countered with how much my Illinois relatives would miss us. I was also single, she needlessly pointed out, implying that I could easily uproot. Furthermore, I lived in a casita, a home with tiny in its very name. She wouldn’t want to put me out, she said. Mom then played her wild card, namely Albert Ridgeland, my junior prom date. Wouldn’t you know, Mom had said. She’d recently run into Albert and he was divorced just like me, and with his own successful dental clinic and a mostly full head of hair and he sure would love to catch up.

  Mom might be indirect, but she’s never subtle. Ever since my divorce from Manny Martin, a policeman with soap-opera good looks and accompanying philandering tendencies, Mom’s been after me to move back “home.” She sends me clippings of employment ads and monitors eligible bachelors. Peeved that Mom had dragged a divorced dentist into the debate, I went for the guilt jugular, reminding Mom that she was retired yet hadn’t visited in nearly two years. My tactic worked, possibly too well. Mom was staying for nearly three weeks—to get her money’s worth out of the flight—and I’d feel terrible if she
didn’t have a good time.

  I looked over and saw Mom eyeing a brown paper lunch sack perched a few feet down the adobe wall. The bag was open at the top and slightly singed on the sides. I could guess the contents. A votive candle nestled in sand.

  Mom stepped over to peek inside. “It’s a wonder this entire state doesn’t burn down,” she declared. “Remember when your middle school band director, Mr. Ludwig, put on that world Christmas festival in the gymnasium? He almost set the bleachers on fire with one of these . . .” She paused. “What do you call them?”

  “A farolito,” I said, proud to show off my local knowledge. “Some people call them luminarias, but Santa Feans are very particular about terminology. Here, luminaria refers to small bonfires. Farolitos are the candles in paper bags. There are electric farolitos too. You’ll see a lot of those along the rooflines of hotels and businesses. They’re pretty but nothing compared to the real ones on Christmas Eve. You’ll love it, Mom. You’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Mom shuddered, likely imagining Santa Fe bursting into a spontaneous inferno rather than aglow with thousands of flickering lights. I decided not to tell her about the amazing three-dimensional paper lanterns I’d once seen soaring above the adobe city, lifted by the energy of the candles burning inside them. I needed to work on Mom before I exposed her to flying flames or peppers for breakfast.

  Mom was rooting around in her hip pack. “I thought I had a granola bar. This time change and the lack of air are making me light-headed. You need to keep eating too, Rita.”

  Eating, I always had covered. I also had a better idea than a squished fanny-pack snack. “It’s the holidays, Mom. Let’s get some pie.”

  Pie in the Sky isn’t the sort of bakery you stumble on while window shopping, unless you’ve veered to the top floor of the Inn of the Pajarito. The “Inn of the Little Bird” itself is pretty immune to stroll-by discovery, although it’s only a block from the Plaza, the historic heart of Santa Fe. The slender, L-shaped hotel is nestled in a small courtyard behind an art gallery, a shop selling carved saints, and a boutique specializing in pricey peasant skirts and turquoise accessories.

  Before Pie in the Sky opened a year ago, I’d known of the Pajarito, but probably couldn’t have given directions to any lost guests. Now I could find it blindfolded, guided by my bloodhound’s nose for pie.

  I led Mom across the courtyard, past a larger-than-life-sized bronze statue of an Indian brave, and through the Pajarito’s heavy entrance doors. The doors featured carved reliefs of Native American dancers, and the main lobby continued the theme, looking more like a museum of Native American and Western art than a hotel. From behind an oversized Christmas tree obscuring the front desk, a male voice said, “Ho, ho, ho!” The greeting had a demanding edge to it. So did his troll-under-the-bridge follow-up of “Who goes there? Ho! Ho! Ho!”

  “The pie shop is upstairs,” I said to Mom. I glanced over her shoulder and spotted a flash of red and two bushy white eyebrows peering through the heavily tinseled tree. Was that Santa spying on us?

  “Merry Christmas!” I called out. “We’re just going up to Pie in the Sky.”

  A branch moved aside, revealing coal-black eyes. This time, however, the welcome was more Santa appropriate. “Ah, ladies! Happy holidays! Tell the beautiful pie shop owner that you received a holly, jolly welcome down here at the Pajarito. Make sure you say ‘jolly.’ That’s Christmas at the Pajarito! Merry and jolly!”

  And creepy. “Will do!” I said, keeping my finger pressed to the elevator button and willing the antique contraption to hurry. Santa was a bit intense for my taste, and now that I had pie on my mind, I wanted to get there, fast.

  Mom had concerns other than the unnerving Mr. Claus. She was sizing up the opulent room. Bronze and marble statues stood on antique sideboards. The cowhide carpets seemed too fine—and cowlike—to step on. So did the Navajo woven rugs, hung as tapestries against pale plaster walls. “Rita, should we be here?” Mom whispered. “We’re not guests, and I wouldn’t want to guess what this place costs. Clearly too expensive for the likes of us.”

  I assured her that the hotel welcomed outside visitors. “They want people to come in, Mom. They have a couple of restaurants, a casual lounge, and a fancy high-end place.” The elevator clanked to a stop and its antique accordion cage door creaked open. “Plus, this is the only way to the pie shop,” I said, “unless you want to take the back stairs?”

  The stairs were steep and winding. I took them sometimes, telling myself that if I arrived out of breath, the pie calories were effectively negated.

  Mom answered by entering the elevator. I followed, pressed the button marked 3/PIE, and we were on our way to pie heaven.

  “What an odd place for pie,” Mom observed as we stepped out and turned toward French doors opening onto a rooftop patio over the hotel’s two-story wing. The pie shop occupies a squat, square structure that looks like an adobe tower from the street. The walls facing the hotel feature large windows, and in warmer seasons, guests enjoy the comfortable deck chairs. At any time of year, the views are some of the best in downtown, and the pies are even better.

  “Years ago, this little building was a margarita bar,” I told Mom. “Then the couple who own the hotel did extensive renovations. Lorena, the wife, thought up the pie shop and does all the baking.” I paused, mentally glossing over complicated personal and business situations. “They’ve recently separated, but she still does the pies, and her husband, Wyatt, runs the hotel. It’s out of the way, but such an in-the-know hotspot that she does great business.”

  Usually Mom demands the details of domestic difficulties so she can offer unsolicited advice on how to fix them. This time, she focused on food and beverage.

  “Well, pie is much nicer than margaritas, isn’t it?” she said, beating me to the pie shop. I smiled. Mom has a weakness for pie, and Lorena makes some of the best I’ve ever tasted, including at Midwest fairs. My quest to win over Mom was off to a good start. I slipped into mental list-making mode. If Mom liked Lorena’s offerings, we could order a mincemeat or pumpkin pie for Christmas. We’d roast a nice turkey without any exotic mesquite smoke or red chile rubs. I’d even dig my decorative copper molds out of storage and make Aunt Sue’s Jell-O, although I didn’t know if I could make myself add the cheddar and celery surprises. Mom could have her traditional holiday meal, and maybe she’d even come back some year, bringing my sister and the kids along with her. Santa Fe boasted loads of vacation rental homes, and I bet I could get a good deal through some café customers or friends.

  An elbow jab in my ribs brought me back to reality. “Rita!” Mom whispered. “The nice lady said hello.”

  Mom takes manners seriously. “Sorry,” I mumbled, feeling like a chastised kid again. “Hi, Lorena.” Lorena Cortez stood behind a glass counter filled with picture-perfect pies. Her dark hair was tied back in a thick, shoulder-length ponytail, and she wore an apron printed with cartoon images of roadrunners chasing pies.

  “Take your time,” she said cheerfully to Mom. To me, she frowned and asked, “Rita, did you see Santa staking out the elevator?”

  “I think it was Santa,” I said. “He was hidden behind that huge Christmas tree. Whoever it was, he said to tell you we got a holly, jolly welcome downstairs.”

  Lorena snorted and jammed her fists into her hips. “Right! Jolly! Let me tell you, don’t believe in jolly St. Nick and all his merry, happy holidays talk.”

  Mom looked up, her face a mirror of the bafflement I felt, only for different reasons. “Chile?” she said, pointing to the lower level of the display case. “Do you mean there’s actually hot pepper in that beautiful chocolate cream?” She shuddered.

  Lorena put her smile back on. “Yes, ma’am. Genuine Chimayo red chile powder. The Chimayo is an heirloom pepper, sundried and delicious. Don’t worry about the heat. There’s just a touch, enough to warm your tongue on a chilly winter’s day.”

  Lorena clearly overestimated the fortitude of Mo
m’s taste buds.

  “Lorena makes an absolutely fabulous coconut cream,” I said, knowing that even a hint of heat could have Mom claiming tongue burn. “Isn’t coconut your favorite? Look, it even has a gingersnap crust.”

  Mom ordered the coconut. I went for the chile-spiked chocolate, which I could never resist. I loved everything about the pie, from the silky chocolate filling to the rich, almost brownie-like crust. Lorena could top it with habaneros and I’d still order it just for that crust. While I was paying, at my insistence, my phone buzzed. The text from Celia reported that she was done with her rehearsal. My artistic daughter was branching out from drawing and painting to acting and had joined a theater group. I was in awe of her bravery. I’ve done some scary things, like firing up flambés and taking on killers. Never, ever would I willingly get up on stage and act.

  I texted Celia back and invited her to pie. “She’ll be here in a few minutes,” I reported to Mom. “She says she has ‘big news’ about the Christmas play.” My teen sports spiky black-dyed hair, eyeliner that an Egyptian mummy would find a bit much, and an attitude that ranges from bored to surly. She doesn’t do effusive, in written, oral, or any other form, so for her to report “big news” must mean massive.

  “I bet she got a new role,” I said. “We’ll definitely have to go see her. The play is called Las Posadas, meaning ‘The Inns.’ It’s an outdoor reenactment of Mary and Joseph’s search for lodging and a huge holiday event here. It’s the main reason we couldn’t leave town this year. Celia’s troupe performs every Wednesday and Saturday until Christmas.”

  Mom and I savored our pies and speculated about Celia’s potential roles. Last I knew, Celia was cast as one of the general “townsfolk,” responsible for singing carols and uttering a few lines of exultation.

  “A new role? A big one?” Mom put down her fork. Her face lit up. “Could she be playing Mary? Wouldn’t that be the most important role? Oh my, how exciting! Is there singing? Celia has such a pretty voice. I was so sorry when you let her quit the school choir.”