Then everyone’s eyes turned to Simone’s creation, gathering around it to admire and compliment. As far as Suzanne knew, her mother had never carved ice before—in fact she’d put money on her mom not even having considered ice sculpting art—but there was certainly no evidence of that in the delicate loveliness of the angel glistening in a stray sunbeam that had managed to poke through the blanket of gray. She supposed her mother had worked in much more difficult mediums but to make a figure carved from ice so vibrantly warm and alive was a true skill, and her mother had outdone herself.

The icy wings were gossamer-thin and practically translucent as water droplets dripped off the bottom, but more than that was the tangible supplication in every curve of the angel’s body and the beatific devotion on her face angled toward the heavens. The bodice of the gown was made up of fine icy strands, like silken webs, and the skirt flowed effortlessly as if being stirred by a breeze.

“I wish my wife was here to see this!” Ray exclaimed, stepping forward to examine the statue as the crowd started to disperse. He slid his glasses on his face as he bent to get a closer look at the bodice. “She’d think it was the most divine creature she’d ever seen.”

“Why thank you, Ray. I wish your wife were here, too. If this statue wasn’t doomed to melt, I’d have given it to her.”

Ray stood momentarily surprised by the suggestion before sending a warm smile in Simone’s direction and reaching out his hand, which she took. They stayed clasped like that for brief seconds before their hands slid away and the moment passed.

“What inspired you to sculpt an angel?” someone asked from the crowd.

Simone didn’t answer for a beat or two, clearly giving her response some thought. “Well,” she said slowly as if she wasn’t absolutely sure from where the artistic creation had sprung, “it’s Christmas, isn’t it?”

Suzanne blinked. She doubted her mother had ever been inspired by the festive season. In fact, she always said that December was her least creative time because there was so much artifice. But the crowd ate it up. So did her father, who bent his head to kiss his wife on the mouth.

It was brief, but Suzanne’s heart sang a little at the intimacy both in it and in the smile they were sharing. It was just like old times, and Suzanne hoped like anything that this icy Christmas angel was the start of something wonderful.

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen