Her mother rolled her eyes, then turned them on Suzanne, holding out her hand. “Darling?”

But Suzanne also shook her head. “Not until you’ve made a snow angel, Mom,” she repeated, and she, too, fell backward in the snow on the other side of her mother and proceeded to make her angel.

“You’ll both be sorry you didn’t help when I catch my death,” she said waspishly.

Then her father reached his hand across to hers and stroked it down her cheek. “Live a little, darling.”

Her mother sighed but clearly knew when she was beat, performing the very unfamiliar actions with total aplomb—like she’d been doing it every damn day of her life. “Now what?” she said as her limbs came to a halt.

Albie laughed and hauled himself up from the ground, so did Suzanne, and, between them, they pulled Simone St. Michelle, world-famous artiste, onto her feet.

“Look, Simone,” her father said, gazing down at the three angels side by side, their wings touching. “Just look how beautiful they are all white and pure and fresh and new. Like a chain of paper dolls. Look how they’re as individual as the snowflakes that make them up and how the light shimmers on the wings like they’re actually fluttering. It’s breathtaking. If that isn’t art, then I don’t know what is.”

Simone looked—actually looked. She inspected each impression, stopping at the foot, then around to the head. She was using her critical eye, the one Suzanne had fallen foul of so many times. “You’re right, Albie,” she said eventually, her voice quiet. “They are quite beautiful.” She glanced at her husband and smiled. “I can see how they could be classified as art.”

Maybe this revelation had come about because it was angels—her mother’s latest creative obsession—but it was still a major breakthrough.

Albie smiled back and held out his hand to her mother, and Suzanne felt tears prick at her eyes.

“Okay,” Winona called, her big voice booming across the park, breaking into the intimate moment. “Let’s go eat.”

Everyone was in good spirits when they arrived back at the boardinghouse. The large living area had been decorated—tastefully—with tinsel and garland, and the real tree scented the room with a fresh piney aroma. Two tables had been pushed together to make one long one and decorated with pine cones and red candles. The heating was working well throughout, and everyone had shed their outside layers at the door.

The fire had burned low in the massive fireplace, and Grady was given the job of getting it roaring again. “You’re an outdoors man. You know about logs and trees and stuff, right?” Winona asked.

He cocked an eyebrow. “I know how to burn them, sure.”

“Perfect.” She smiled. “Now, who wants eggnog?”