Disclamer : Desperate Housewives belongs to its rightful creators and owners.
Summary : Christmas, Sinatra and Eggnog, that was Bree Van de Kamp's madeleine of Proust.
Author's note : English isn't my first language, it's French. If you spot any mistakes or weirdness, please feel free to notify me ! This is also a translation from a drabble I wrote last year.
This story is part of the writing month challenge from TheWritter1996: Write a one-shot per day and share it for an entire month. For more challenge, I decided to go one different fandom per day.
The most wonderful time of the year
Her hand firm on her whisk, ready to beat the egg she had just added to her preparation, Bree barely listened to Frank Sinatra's Christmas songs. Accompanying his peculiar voice with the lovely melodies of her kitchen were a ritual the mistress of the house particulary liked. This, along with the smell of the fir spines, reminded her of Christmas and this was the only reason she tolerated the presence of a tree that regularly lost its spines on her floor.
To smell this fragrance, preparing the eggnog, hearing this voice, all of this reminded her of her mother.
Bree barely talked about her, she was one of the too sensitive subjects for her, one of the rare things that could shatter her armour of good manners, that hint of a smile, the weapons she used to carry on in her life, inherited from the same person. She still missed her a lot and she could still see the pool of blood that had decorated her corpse when she was ran over. Of course, she had mad enew lovely Christmas memories, but they all had that taste of nostalgia. Rex was dead, her children had left her...
"This smells fantastic, Honey." Orson said, hugging her from behind "And some Sinatra? I can't stop loving you more, my sweet."
"It's your first Christmas here, I want it to be perfect."
He gently kissed her cheek.
"It already is, since you're here with me."
She smiled.
"Oh, look at that Sweetheart! It's snowing!"
While Orson was putting on an apron to help her cook some Christmas treats, humming a Christmas tune that was as cliché as it was touching, promising her to help her decorate the tree once the cakes would be cooked, Bree remembered why, despite the sadness that went along with them, she cherished these memories, these Christmas' habits so much:
Because, during Christmas, she was never alone and she was always loved.
The End