Santa Clawed

I hate stringing lights on a tree, and Bill makes such a fuss…well”—she didn’t need to mention how this could sour a holiday—“this year I hired two women to purchase a tree to my specifications and to decorate it. Victorian.”
    “It’s stunning.” Susan sipped her white wine. “Given that I have slave labor”—she meant her children, who were adults now—“I put them to work. What a mean mother I am.”
    They laughed because Susan, a devoted mother, had proved smart enough to know when to cut the apron strings.
    Lunch started with a salad. Harry loved the tiny mandarin oranges. Next came a hot potato soup in homage to the season, and that, too, was delicious. Then Jean served the main dish, which was sliced capon with a light currant sauce, wild rice, and snow peas.
    The four ate with enthusiasm. Harry, although not a gourmand—a hamburger girl, really—did appreciate that such a meal took time and thought, plus it tasted wonderful.
    By the time dessert came, called “the Bomb” by Racquel, life was good. The Bomb proved to be a round ball of chocolate chip ice cream on a thin brownie with raspberry sauce drizzled over it.
    “Do you call it the Bomb because it looks like a cannonball?” Susan inquired.
    Racquel, on her second glass of crisp white wine, laughed. “No. The calories. It will just bomb your diet to bits.”
    “Honey, you don’t have to worry about that,” Susan complimented Racquel, who was five foot eight and rigorous about her appearance.
    “You’re too kind. Middle age…” She paused. “Let’s just say when your metabolism changes you have to be vigilant.”
    “Oh, Racquel, you’ve been dieting since college,” Jean, who was five foot two and tiny-boned, teased her. “Then when you had Tom and Sean you were sure you’d turn to fat. And look at you.”
    Racquel soaked up the praise but pretended she didn’t deserve it, which she did. “We all aspire to keep trim like Harry.”
    “Easiest diet in the world: work on a farm,” Harry said.
    “How’s the vineyard doing?” Jean politely asked.
    “Well, you can’t harvest the first year, but I had a bumper crop. Of course, without Patricia Kluge’s guidance, I think I would be sending out engraved invitations to my first nervous breakdown,” Harry said.
    Susan added, “When Mother Nature is your partner, who knows?”
    “Bryson and I visited Patricia’s vineyards at harvest time. I can’t believe how much she and Bill have done.” Racquel mentioned Bill Moses, Patricia’s husband.
    “He always says he’s the only Jewish acolyte in Virginia.” Harry laughed.
    Patricia worshipped at a small Catholic church built on the estate. Bill always attended with her. Like many people not born to the Church of Rome, he found some solace in the ritual while sidestepping the dogma.
    “This entire state is in Felicia Rogan’s debt.” Racquel lifted her glass to the woman who, as imposing as Juno herself, had revived the wine industry in Virginia, an occupation begun by Dr. Thomas Walker before the Revolution.
    The Revolution, the War of 1812, and finally the War between the States, sixty percent of which was fought on Virginia soil, destroyed whatever progress had been made by vintners. One remarkable woman named Felicia Rogan changed all that in the 1970s, with vision, drive, and tenacity.
    “I dream about a tiny vineyard but, you know, we can never leave town. Bryson needs to be close to the hospital,” Racquel lamented.
    “Do you ever miss it?” Susan asked.
    “The hospital? Being a nurse?” Racquel’s large domed gold ring caught the light.
    “Yes,” Susan affirmed.
    “Funny you ask that. In some ways, I do. I like the operating room. The adrenaline, the tension. It sounds crazy, but that appealed to me. You can’t think of anything but what needs to be done. When you’re finished, you’re exhausted, but you feel you’ve made a small difference in the world.”
    Finally, they couldn’t stand it anymore.
    Racquel said, “Isn’t it odd that we spoke of Christopher Hewitt when we made the wreaths and then…well, you know. What could we have done?”
    Susan immediately said, “He cost some people millions with the fiasco in Phoenix.”
    “We may never know. Best to let the sheriff do his job,” Jean replied thoughtfully.
    “I suppose.” Racquel hooted. “But, you know, what has occurred to me is that families are so vulnerable when one of their own is dying. Yes, the order does provide