Angels in the Snow by Rexanne Becnel Page A

long.” She swallowed past a lump that had formed in her throat. “They fight over everything—with each other and with us. I . . . I sometimes think Charles’s business success has been unfortunate.”
    They were quiet a moment as they gathered pots and utensils, bowls and mugs. Judith found several cans of soup while Marilyn put bread, cheese, and butter on a tray. From the open basement door they could hear Lucy and Jennifer exclaiming and laughing as they searched for the Christmas ornaments.
    â€œIt doesn’t take much to keep kids happy,” Marilyn said. “It’s important that they have a sense of accomplishment. They need to know that, despite a few failures now and again, there are things they can do. And of course, they need to always know they’re loved.”
    Judith busied herself with soup spoons and napkins. “I love my children. So does Charles. But . . .” She trailed off, uneasy with what she was revealing to this stranger. She had discussed her marriage and its shortcomings with friends, but never her mothering. She’d always considered herself a good mother. But how good was she when she could see the difference between her own “well-brought-up” children and this woman’s—and see how badly her children came out in comparison?
    â€œFor all the things they have, I guess they’re not that happy,” she finished in a whisper.
    â€œWe found them, Mom!” Jennifer’s shout drifted up from below.
    â€œShe certainly sounds happy right now,” Marilyn offered with a generous smile.
    Judith sighed. “This is all an adventure for her. New entertainment.”
    Marilyn shrugged, then lifted her tray. “Life’s always an adventure. You can find entertainment everywhere. New people, new places.” She laughed. “There’s that gypsy side of me, I’m afraid. I forget that such a nomadic existence isn’t for everyone.”
    The girls came up the stairs amid much excited chatter. As they staggered into the kitchen carrying a large cardboard box decorated with wreaths and Santa faces, the women’s topic of conversation was abandoned. But Judith replayed it in her mind. Marilyn professed to be a gypsy at heart, yet she seemed well grounded, sensible, and straightforward. Judith had always thought of herself as the sensible sort—uncomplicated and practical. But perhaps there was that buried part of her that wished for freedom. Why else was she so dissatisfied with the sort of life that was envied by the rest of the world?
    She shook her head as she set her tray down on the coffee table near the hearth. She couldn’t explain or understand it. She only knew that she was restless and unhappy.
    Or perhaps she was unhappy and therefore restless.
    The sudden realization had a profound effect. If she were happy, she’d feel settled again. That bit of self-knowledge was extremely comforting.
    She looked over at Charles. He still sat on the couch with Josie in his lap, and his face still held that disconcerted expression.
    â€œHow big is your hotel?” the child was asking.
    â€œThirty-three floors.”
    The girl looked doubtful. “Thirty-three! Why so big?”
    â€œWell, lots of people travel to the city, and they need a place to stay while they’re visiting.”
    Josie frowned. “Do you have to cut down all the trees? In Edgard we don’t let people cut down too many trees.”
    Charles smiled and even patted her arm. “There are no trees in this place. Just a bunch of run-down old buildings.”
    â€œDoesn’t anybody live there?”
    â€œWell, yes. But they’ll move someplace else.”
    Marilyn was checking the contents of the refrigerator. Jennifer and Lucy had opened the box of decorations, but Judith couldn’t tear herself away from the conversation between Charles and little Josie. In his arms, she appeared like a