“So, the Boathouse was toasty warm?” I ask, at normal volume now.
He pushes a mess of brown curls out of his eyes. “Even freezing out there is better than sleeping in the bunk bed downstairs.”
What an adorable liar. The bunk beds might be in a basement, but it’s at least insulated down there, and the beds themselves are cozy and warm and covered in fluffy down comforters. The Boathouse is a twelve-by-twelve box with one entire wall of windows that overlook the back side of the mountain, and not even a wood-burning stove to keep it heated. It’s gorgeous but barely a step above snow camping. Andrew will die in this battle of wills with his dad.
Smug now, Ricky studies his shivering oldest son over the rim of his coffee mug. “You sure about that?”
Behind us, Benny snorts.
A memory bubble pops in my brain. “Why not use those big sleeping bags in the basement storage area?”
Three pairs of eyes swing to me and I realize I’ve just messed up.
Andrew’s interest is definitely piqued. “Sleeping bags?”
“How on earth did you know about those?” Ricky asks with an astonished smile. “I didn’t even remember we had them. We haven’t used ’em in years.”
“Yes, Mae. How did you know about those?” Benny says, and then gives me a covert thumbs-up.
I know about them because on Christmas morning, Ricky remembered that they were there. He aired them out and gave them to Andrew after he came in shivering for the fifth day in a row. They’re these enormous army-green canvas bags that each weigh about forty pounds. The insides are a thick red flannel with a weird deer-hunting motif that honestly makes the bags look like bloody carcasses when they’re unzipped, but who am I to judge if Andrew’s warm? I remember he bundled himself in one and said it was the best night’s sleep he’d had all year. I just got him an extra four nights of blissful slumber.
I look skyward. Bonus points, Universe?
Bonus points or not, remembering the sleeping bags is how I end up outside in the freezing cold, wearing an enormous parka, holding a baseball bat at eight in the morning and beating an unzipped bag where it hangs over a clothesline. I steer clear of the icicles.
Farther down the line, Andrew swings his tennis racket at the other green-and-red canvas-and-flannel carcass. He gives it a good whack and sends plumes of dust flying everywhere. “Oh, Maisie, this was a clutch idea.”
“You should know by now where to come for the big brain.”
Andrew squints at me in the cold morning air. “I haven’t seen these in at least a decade.”
The implied question—the same one Benny and Ricky asked aloud only minutes ago—is plainly expressed in his eyes. “I was looking for a roasting pan for Mom,” I lie. “They were back there in the storage area.” Blinking down to the garish red interior, I mumble, “They’re so gory. It’s almost disturbing.”
“I remember camping in these as a kid,” he tells me, “and pretending I was Luke Skywalker sleeping in a tauntaun.”
“A-plus nerd reference.”
“ ‘Snug as a Luke in a tauntaun’ isn’t a saying yet, but we could make it happen.”
“You know,” I say, taking a swing, “you could go into town and buy a space heater.”
Andrew smacks his sleeping bag several times, clearing an impressive amount of dirt. “That would be admitting defeat.”
“Ah. Definitely worth dying to avoid.”
“Where my dad is concerned, that is correct. But thank you for being so smart.” His smile crinkles his eyes and a tiny, mighty voice screams in my cranium: LOOK HOW HAPPY THAT SMILE MAKES YOU. “Speaking of defeat,” he says, “you ready for today?”
Freezing as it is, snow has also fallen and there is a gorgeous layer of fresh, fluffy powder for our next adventure. “Oh, hell yes.”
chapter ten
It surprises no one who knows the Hollis family that they take their snow-creature building very seriously. Set out for us when we all emerge onto the front porch after breakfast are implements ranging from large shovels to tiny garden spades, rakes to squeegees. At the base of the stairs, a table is covered in cups, plates, buckets, knives, spoons, ice cream scoops, and even handheld torches to help us shape, mold, and carve out the perfect features of our creations. Beside the table are a wood box and a large wicker basket; the box holds fresh carrots, turnips, potatoes, and a variety of squash for noses and limbs. The basket has mittens, wigs, hats, and scarves.
As is tradition, we team up, work to build the best sculpture, and then vote on which should win. The stakes are high: for our dinner tonight, Ricky intentionally picks a wide range of steaks, from hammered chuck to filet mignon. Everyone drops their anonymous paper vote for best sculpture in a box—honor code says you can’t vote for yourself—and the winning team gets to pick their dinner and everyone else’s. On Snow Creature Day, I’ve never eaten filet mignon.
Only a few days ago, Andrew and I built a snow monkey but didn’t happen upon brilliance until the very end, when we had to rush to finish and lost to Mom and Ricky’s grizzly bear. Theo started trash talking; he and Andrew ended up wrestling. Things turned competitive, I hopped into the mix, and Theo tackled me and then seemed to take an awfully long time getting up.
Was that the start of something I didn’t see coming? I shudder.
I will not be letting that happen again.
The twins bound down the steps and dive into the fresh powder; as has been true every year of their short lives, they will be enthusiastic participants for about fifteen minutes, then will lose interest.
Aaron made his bubbe’s famous cheese blintzes this morning, but didn’t eat a single one, choosing instead to sip on a protein shake and insist he was “perfectly content without all that dairy” and has “never felt better.” Now he’s on the porch in ripped skinny jeans, a floral bomber jacket, and a pair of trendy thick-soled sneakers that look better suited to walking around in a spaceship than in six inches of fresh snow.
“This is . . . different,” Andrew says, looking him up and down.
“Doesn’t Papa look cool?” Zachary says, and tugs on the end of Aaron’s Burberry scarf. “He has the same shoes as Mr. Tyler.”
“Who is Mr. Tyler?” I ask.
Kyle looks on with the long-suffering smile of a spouse who has endured his husband’s shenanigans for months and is all too happy to share the joy. “That’s the twins’ twenty-four-year-old Instagram-famous soccer coach.”
Aaron jogs in place. “They’re super comfortable.”
Andrew is a delightful sweetheart: “I’m sure they are.”
By this point in our lives, we all know the routine: Partners split off and get to strategizing, then building. It might make more sense for me to pair up with Theo because we’re practically twins but 1) Miles would murder anyone who dared steal quality time with his idol; 2) Andrew and I are both easily distracted as well as only marginally invested in winning, so nobody else wants us on their team, and 3) I just really want to be with Andrew. Not the most noble reason, but here we are.
As for the rest, Benny is only occasionally interested in the event, and mostly just acts as a judge and/or cheerleader. Lisa works with Kyle. Aaron works with Dad, who, to Dad’s credit, takes a long look at Aaron’s outfit but refrains from commenting. Theo and Miles team up, obviously, and Ricky and Mom are a team. Nine times out of ten, they win. I guess that’s what happens when you pair a landscape architect with an artist.