The Christmas Sisters. Sarah Morgan

Yes.” He opened his laptop and hit a couple of keys.

      An image appeared on the screen of a white snowcapped mountain.

      She’d seen the same, or similar, before of course, but somehow the fact that it came from his own photo collection made it more real.

      She stepped closer, studying the heavily glaciated faces of the mountain. She had so many questions, but she knew he wouldn’t be able to answer any of them. “You’ve climbed it?” Her voice didn’t sound like her own.

      “Many times.”

      “And it’s a volcano. Dormant, though.”

      “We call it episodically active.” He saw her surprised glance. “I worked for the US Geological Survey after I graduated. Lived just outside Seattle. I could see Rainier from my bedroom window.”

      She’d almost confided in him then, but something stopped her. She didn’t want to risk him raising it with Suzanne. “Which route did you climb?”

      “I’ve climbed all of them, at different times of the year. In the summer you have wildflower meadows. In the winter you find yourself waist deep in snow. You’ve never climbed in the US?”

      “No. Scotland, and the Alps.”

      “You should come to the US.”

      One day, she thought, although she wasn’t sure she was ready for Mount Rainier. Maybe she never would be. Going there would upset her mother.

      Posy thought back to that conversation as she made large bowls of salad.

      “Hannah emailed me last night,” Suzanne said. “She sent a list of the foods she is avoiding at the moment.”

      Posy focused on the salad. If she rolled her eyes, there was every chance they’d be stuck in her skull never to emerge again.

      “Right. Well, you’d better forward that email to me so I can adjust my list. What was it she asked for last time? Quail eggs? I found that deli in Edinburgh that did mail order.” And used half the Christmas budget in the process. “If I’d thought about it, I would have explored the possibility of keeping quails.”

      “I read somewhere they get easily stressed.”

      “And that’s before they meet Hannah.” Posy caught her mother’s eye and swiftly changed the subject. “Talking of our feathered friends, Martha has stopped laying.”

      “It’s December.” Suzanne trimmed the pastry with a knife. “Not enough light.”

      “I’m using artificial light. I don’t think it’s that.” Maybe Martha knew Hannah was coming home. Maybe she didn’t see the point of laying whole eggs when Hannah ate only the egg white. “I need to give Gareth a call. With a houseful of people, we’re going to need eggs. Normal eggs,” she added. Normal eggs for normal people.

      Her mother wiped her hands. “I wish you and Hannah were closer.”

      “Me, too.” That part wasn’t a lie. “But she lives so far away.”

      That, of course, was only part of the problem.

      If her sister had been a laptop, Posy would have run antivirus software because there were times when she was convinced Hannah had been taken over by malware.

      Posy considered herself to be tough and hated the fact that her feelings could still be hurt.

      Fortunately, she wouldn’t have to handle Hannah alone. Beth, Jason and the girls would be there, too.

      Posy and Beth were still close.

      There was no drama in Beth’s life.

CHAPTER FIVE

       Beth

      BETH HAD SETTLED the girls in bed and was clearing toys out of the bath when Jason arrived home. This was her favorite time of day, when the chaos was almost behind her and the prospect of a calm evening stretched ahead. Sometimes she poured herself a glass of wine and allowed herself to read a few pages of a magazine before she started on dinner.

      Tonight, she was too excited to contemplate reading anything, but she knew she had to at least let Jason take his coat off before she told him her news.

      As she scooped up wet towels, Beth could hear him talking on the phone.

      “We nailed it. They loved the ideas. I’m going to talk to Steve in the morning and get those figures sent over. The London office is closed now, but I’ll call first thing tomorrow. I’ll be in the office at six.”

      Beth turned off the light. Six would mean a 5:00 a.m. alarm call, which also meant that if the girls disturbed her in the night, which Ruby did with frustrating frequency, Beth would be woken again predawn by her husband.

      Trying not to think about her sister flying first-class with her own cubicle and champagne on tap, Beth dealt with the towels and then walked to the living room, where Jason was ending the call.

      Soft light bathed the room in a warm glow. She’d cleared away all traces of the toys, tutus and tiaras that had been strewn around the room a few hours earlier. The glossy fashion magazines that were her indulgence were neatly stacked on the table. A vase of lilies added an illusion of elegance only slightly marred by the two Lego bricks peeping out from under the sofa.

      Beth loved flowers. She loved their fragility, their femininity. She loved the way they transformed a room and lifted her mood. She associated them with happiness, and she associated them with Jason.

      At the beginning of their relationship, he’d bought her flowers every week. Once they’d had the girls and money was tighter, it had happened less often, and the occasions when he’d splurged and brought home a bunch of blooms had been all the more special.

      For this brief moment in time the apartment seemed like a child-free zone, an adult-only space, where the conversation of the occupants might revolve round current affairs, travel and Manhattan restaurant experiences rather than debates about whether the next game should be “ballerina” or “firefighter.” A tidy apartment gave Beth the fleeting sense that she was in control, even when she knew she wasn’t. When it came to the kids’ mess, there were many days when she felt as if she was bailing water out of a sinking boat.

      Jason ended the call and smiled at her, his face transforming from serious to sexy.

      Today he wore a bespoke suit with a black shirt open at the neck. She noticed absently that his hair needed a cut.

      They joked together that as Creative Director of the agency his appreciation for design started with himself. This is a creative business, honey, and before I pitch for a brand, I have to pitch myself.

      They’d met when Jason had been working on an ad campaign for one of the beauty brands she’d also worked on.

      Jason’s star had continued to climb, whereas hers had fallen to earth so hard she was still stepping over the broken fragments.

      For a moment she saw the businessman rather than her husband.

      This, she thought, was how the people at work saw him. They didn’t see him sprawled with the Sunday papers and a severe case of bedhead. They saw the dynamic creative director of a top Manhattan multimedia agency.

      Jason had done well. His boss liked him and he was due another promotion and a fat salary increase.

      Beth would have forfeited the extra money to have him home more. It wasn’t only that she would have loved more family time, it was that somewhere along the way she’d lost the feeling they were a partnership, but she was about to address that.

      She’d thought all afternoon about the best way to handle the conversation but in the end decided to be straight.

      Jason pulled her toward him and kissed her. “How