*****
We crunch through snap-topped snow, having to pick up our feet to get from the car to the door. A trail of footprints leads back and forth from the door to the garden and in a few places, what look like the exploded remains of snowballs lie star-fished on the surface.
From somewhere comes drifting the scent of roasting meat, fruit and spices.
“Who’s doing the cooking?” asks Elizabeth. “It smells amazing.”
“James, I believe.” And I’m not disagreeing with her. It does smell amazing.
Unloading the back of the car, I pile Elizabeth’s arms with the wrapped cake, a box of candied fruit and the armagnac I know James is partial to. Then I take my own load; the gifts we bought for the three, including a bourbon which I think might appeal to Michael.
Arms full, I struggle to ring the bel
