The children were the most natural of all. A pack of little ones, painted head-to-toe with washable green and red finger paint, had declared themselves to be lutins de Noël —Christmas elves. They zipped between adult legs, shrieking with laughter, their painted stripes shimmering in the firelight. The youngest, three-year-old Léo, had decided that the ideal place for a paintbrush was his own navel, which he’d turned into a tiny red target.
At the head of the table sat Mireille, the 84-year-old matriarch of the group. Her silver hair was braided into a crown. Her body was a map of a life fully lived: the curved spine from years of pottery, the mastectomy scar on her left breast, the knotted veins in her legs. She wore nothing but a string of real pearls and a small sprig of holly tucked behind her ear. She raised her glass of Champagne. french nudist christmas celebration
“ À la peau ,” the room echoed, and a hundred glasses clinked in the firelight. The children were the most natural of all
Gérard shuffled to the massive stone fireplace, where a log the size of a small car was spitting embers. He didn’t bother dressing to poke the fire. Why would he? The heat on his skin was the first gift of the evening. The youngest, three-year-old Léo, had decided that the