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I open the tiny bottle and sniff. The red powder looks nothing like the allspice Harmony lent me for my gingerbread house, nor does it smell like it.

“Quick question for you. Is allspice ever green and leaf-like?”

Nancy stops stirring to shake her head. “When it isn’t pre-ground, it looks like little peppercorns, but they’re brown, not green. Are you thinking of parsley, maybe? Or oregano?”

I shake my head. “I’m thinking I might have an explanation for a few of my neighbor’s baking mishaps.”

She nods as if she’s following while also looking very confused.

The dough comes together the perfect shade of gingerbread brown and rolls out smooth and even with my newly acquired rolling pin skills under Nancy’s expert direction.

“Pick one.” She holds out four cookie cutters: one typical-looking gingerbread man and three others in what look like karate poses.

“They’re ninja bread men,” she says with a wink. “This one is Aaron.” She points to the one doing a side kick, and then holds up one that looks to be in a deep lunge. “And this one is Clive.”

I hold up the third, who seems to be mid-leap, “Which makes this Mackenzie?”

Nancy shakes her head, “No, that’s Gillian. She’s the feistiest of all of them.” Nancy picks up the plain gingerbread man. “This one is Mackenzie. The other three would go at it like feral cats growing up, but Mackenzie was a peacekeeper—he was never one to fight.”

She hands me the cookie cutter, and when I take it, her hand covers mine. “That boy of mine—he loves hard. Just throws his whole heart in without thinkin’ twice. It’s one of the things I love most about him, but I’ll be honest, sometimes I worry he doesn’t always think about protecting that heart. He’ll give and give, even if it wears him down, because making the people he loves happy means everything to him.”

She gives my hand a squeeze. “So if he ever seems like he’s holding back or not speaking up, it’s not because he doesn’t care—it’s because he cares too much. Sometimes he just needs a little reminder that it’s okay to say what he needs, too. That kind of honesty’ll make you both stronger, I think.”

She steps away and back to the cookie sheet, leaving me alone to think. I feel like she’s handed me a cheat sheet—a shortcut to understanding things about Mackenzie I was only starting to learn. Before I can thank her, he appears, leaning against the doorframe—cheeks pink and wearing an old plaid puffy vest over his thick wool sweater.

“I need to steal Annalise.” He drops an arm around my shoulders and kisses my temple. “We have important business to attend to.”

His mom claps her hands. “Is it time for your snowman contest?”

I think this might be another Smith family inside joke, but neither Mackenzie nor his mom is laughing.

“It’s not a snowman contest. It’s a snow sculpture competition.” Mackenzie drops his arm from my shoulders and steps over to a kitchen cupboard and pulls something from it, which he stuffs into his jacket. Nancy and I exchange glances as he walks around the counter and pulls a very large knife from the butcher block, which he also tries to hide in his jacket, but his mom stops him with a “No. Absolutely not.”

She meets my eyes and shakes her head as she takes the knife from Mackenzie and returns it to its place. She opens a kitchen drawer, pulls out a butter knife, and hands it to him.

He grabs my hand as we leave the kitchen.

I eye the bulge beneath his jacket. “Do I want to know?”

He grins. “Probably not, but you’re about to find out.”

26

It turns out it is, in fact, a snowman competition.

Mackenzie decorates his to look like Jeremy Allen White circa The Bear. Aaron dresses his up to look like Dolly Parton. It’s not entirely clear what Clive’s snowman is supposed to be, but it doesn’t matter—the competition ends in an epic snow fight that leaves Dolly hatless, Jeremy headless, and Clive’s creation knocked over and used as cover.

I have snow in places snow has never been before, and although I enjoyed every single second, I’m happy when we move inside to the next activity: a communal couch nap by the fire. When it’s time to eat dinner, I’m toasty, hungry, and certain the day cannot possibly get better. I’m proven wrong as we sit down at a table set with a Christmas tablecloth and matching green and gold napkins. My plate is made of actual china, and my fork is fancy—but not the sleek, pretentious fancy you see at Williams-Sonoma, but the kind of fancy where someone’s grandma clearly picked it out fifty years ago and lovingly passed it along.

“Christmas cracker?” Clive hands me a green paper tube covered in tiny gold reindeer.

I take it from him with a “thanks,” but he stops me when I try to pull it open. “You might want to hold on a second.”

I’m confused until he crosses his arms and offers me the end of his Christmas cracker, and I realize everyone at the table is pulling together.

“It is cheesy, but we humor her.” Clive nods at his mom.

“It is not cheesy,” I tell him. “It’s wonderful.”