Lakeshore Christmas. Сьюзен Виггс

and clean.” Taking off her glasses, she tilted back her head to feel the weightless flakes on her face. Snow always reminded her of fun and exhilaration, safety and laughter. When she and her brother and sisters were little, their father used to be very quick to urge the school district to declare a snow day when the first big snow of the season came. The whole family would go to Oak Hill Cemetery, where they would make snow angels, engage in snowball fights or go sledding if there was enough of a base on the ground. No one ever remarked that celebrating the first snow in a graveyard might not be appropriate. It was Stan Davenport’s way of bringing his five kids closer to their late mother. People tended not to argue with him.

      Having lost her mother at age five, Maureen was considered too young to remember, but she did. Sometimes, like when the snow was coming down in a thick and silent fury, a perfect moment would come over her. In a flash of clarity, she could remember everything—the warmth of her mother’s hands, and the way they smelled of flowery soap, the sound of her laughter, the way she liked to collapse like a rag doll in the middle of the bed Maureen shared with Renée, where she would lie with them reading Horton Hatches the Egg and The Poky Little Puppy and Each Peach Pear Plum, always letting them beg for one more story before snuggling them under the covers and kissing them softly.

      Maureen shook off the memory to find Eddie staring at her. And although it was entirely possible that she was mistaken, she sensed a new interest in the way he was looking at her, through half-lidded eyes, with what appeared to be desire. It was the way a man regarded a woman just before he kissed her. Which either meant she was a wildly poor reader of facial expressions, or he had unexpected taste in women.