They sat for five minutes watching the shenanigans and laughing as the snowballs flew left, right, and center, some finding their marks but most missing by a mile. Suzanne was amazed a stray snowball hadn’t hit them. “Behind you, Albie,” her mom called out, and her father ducked, avoiding the missile.

“Thank you, darling,” he called before slinking behind a tree with a handful of snow.

“How are things going with Dad?”

Simone nodded thoughtfully. “Good, I think. I’ve not been sketching the last few nights, and last night we decided we should make an effort to get away from New York whenever I finish a commission, to just be us.”

“That’s great, Mom.”

It wasn’t a red-hot makeup story—the chaste cheek kiss had underscored that—but at least her parents were talking about a future and how to work on their relationship, which was something. And at least it was some small justification for the lies and inconvenience of the elaborate scheme Suzanne had cooked up.

“Yes, I think we—” Her mother’s sentence was interrupted by the splat of a snowball into her back. She gasped. “Omigod.” Leaping up, she shook off the offending item, her face a picture of disapproval. “Albie,” she yelled, swiveling around to find her father a few feet away, trying very hard not to laugh. “Albie.” She glared. “That is not funny.”

Her father didn’t look remotely repentant, and Suzanne bit her lip, also trying very hard not to laugh. “What are you going to do about it?” he taunted.

Her mom’s eyebrows shot up her forehead, higher than Suzanne would have thought anatomically possible. “You think I won’t throw a snowball at you?”

He shrugged, playing it so perfectly cool that Suzanne almost applauded. “Talk’s cheap.”

Her mother turned her attention to Suzanne. “Excuse me, darling. I’ve got a little business with your father.”

Suzanne jumped up. “I’ll help. Let’s get him.”

In the next ten minutes, Albie landed another eight snowballs, but he’d also worn five. They were all laughing as her mother called a truce in the middle of the park. “That was fun,” Simone admitted, the surprise in her voice genuine.

“You want to know what’s more fun?” Albie asked.

“What?”

He slid a grin sideways at Suzanne before planting a hand firmly in the center of his wife’s chest. “Snow angels,” he said and pushed.

Simone grabbed for him as she went down, but he stepped out of reach and she landed on her back, her arms and legs flailing, her puffy coat a dark-green slash against the fresh powdery snow.

“Albie.”

He chuckled and said, “Yes, darling?”

“Help me up! This instant. It’s freezing and my beanie is going to be soaked.”

Albie just shook his head. “Not until after you make a snow angel.” Then he fell backward into the snow beside her, scissoring his arms and legs.