Angels in the Snow by Rexanne Becnel Page B

golden-haired angel of a child. But child that she was, she was able to understand what Charles was saying, and it clearly troubled her.
    â€œBut . . . what if they don’t want to move?”
    Charles shifted her in his arms. “But they will want to. Their houses are all . . . all yucky,” he finished, obviously hoping his choice of words would convince her.
    She considered for a moment. “My aunt Moonbeam’s house is kind of yucky sometimes, but she still doesn’t want to move. How do you know these people really want to move?”
    Judith could tell that Charles’s patience was wearing thin. “I just know,” he said curtly. “Why don’t you go help the other girls look at all the Christmas ornaments?” He lifted her off his lap and set her on her feet.
    But her serious expression never changed, and her wide-eyed stare didn’t waver from his face. “I hope you never build a hotel in Edgard,” she said in her solemn little voice.
    Though only five years old, she seemed infinitely wise. How astounding the clear logic of a child was, unencumbered by the rationalizations that came with maturity. Josie had cut to the heart of the real estate dilemma, and to Judith’s amazement she was making Charles Montgomery squirm.
    Charles cleared his throat. “Edgard is too small a town for one of my hotels.”
    â€œGood. I love my house and my room and my yard and my treehouse. I don’t want a great big giant building to come and crash it all to pieces.”
    Jennifer looked up from spreading ornaments out on the floor. “My dad’s buildings are real nice, Josie. I bet you’d like them if you saw them.”
    â€œHotels aren’t as important as houses,” Lucy threw in. “My dad says if more people owned their own homes, then there wouldn’t be so many slums.”
    â€œWhy did he say that?” Judith asked.
    Lucy shrugged. “He says most people take good care of what belongs to them. If everybody owned their own houses, then I guess they would all take care of them—you know, pick up the litter and mow the grass and stuff like that. Then the cities would be nice places to live.”
    â€œNot every place has grass to grow,” Charles said testily. “Cities are very different from small towns.”
    â€œYes, they certainly are,” Marilyn interjected. She crossed over to Josie and picked her up. With her arms around her young child, a gentle smile on her face, and her long hair coming loose from its braid, Marilyn Walker looked the perfect picture of maternal love.
    Judith recognized it at once, and it brought a pang of wistfulness to her heart.
    Charles saw it, too, and it stilled his next words. Norman Rockwell would have loved them, he thought ruefully. For despite their non-mainstream lifestyle, they epitomized everything that was considered truly American. He couldn’t understand it, until Marilyn planted a kiss in Josie’s curly hair. Then he knew.
    The Walkers were a perfect example of family love and togetherness. Though they were itinerant artists, they were the basic unit of American life: a happy, wholesome family.
    And he and his family . . . were not.
    He blinked hard and swallowed, then forced himself to look away. Judith was staring at him with a strange expression on her face. The two other girls were busy with the ornaments, but as the silence continued Lucy looked up, and then so did Jennifer.
    Charles cleared his throat nervously, then forced a chuckle. “We should be talking more about building up the fire instead of building hotels.” He walked over to the pile of wood and picked up three good-sized logs. Once he thrust them in the fireplace and had them placed just so, he dusted off his hands and looked at Judith. “How’s lunch coming?”
    Judith started. “Um. It’s almost ready. Right, Marilyn?”
    Marilyn studied