"Would you like to try my mince pies?" "Non," Cindy replied. "A piece of Christmas cake?" "Non!" "Then how about my Yule log," said Claude, but Cindy,...seeing his hand twitching beneath his apron, declined that as well. "You're as bad as Rudolph!" she accused Claude. "Moi?" Said Claude, pointing to himself, an expression of injured innocence on his face. Leaving the kitchen and the amorous creator of Christmas cuisine, she followed the signs to the apparent safety of Santa's inner sanctum, where. His constant sad expression made him look older than his forty-seven years. It didn't help that his hair had rescinded back to his ears. Worry had thinned his once bulky frame. He had been in a declining emotional state since my mother had left us last spring.The day after I graduated high school my mother packed her suitcases and left to find herself. She said that she had devoted her life to my father and to raising me and now that I was grown she was going to live for herself and that didn't. More

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