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She’d expected her mother to laugh at that, but all Gayle managed was a weak smile.
Which probably proved that one’s children were never quite as funny and endearing as one thought they were.
Despite her best efforts, Ella felt self-conscious. She put Tab down and turned back to the snowman.
“Are we going to finish this snowman? He needs a nose, and I happen to have one right here.” Ella produced the carrot from her pocket, and Tab’s face lit up as she took it. Ella waited. “What do we say, Tab?”
“Thank you.” Tab pushed the carrot into place, sending an avalanche of snow sliding off the snowman.
“I never would have thought of bringing a carrot.” Gayle shifted position and rubbed her ribs with her hand.
“Mom, are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. Just not used to bending down scooping up snow.”
“Nanna has hurt ribs.” Tab tugged off her hat and balanced it on top of the snowman’s head. “Did you know Nanna hasn’t made a snowman since she was my age?”
“No. I didn’t know that.” She didn’t know her mother had ever made a snowman. She couldn’t begin to imagine it. Building a snowman required a carefree, childlike enjoyment, something she didn’t associate with her mother. The truth was she knew very little about her mother’s past, but it seemed she’d talked about it with Tab.
Ella looked at her mother, but Gayle’s eyes were focused on the snowman while Tab carried on chatting. “She made one with her mommy. It had a red scarf. Nanna didn’t want to build one with me at first. She thought she’d forgotten how, but I reminded her.”
Ella tried to imagine her mother as a little girl, eyes bright with excitement as she’d built her snowman.
“Did you build it in Central Park, Mom?”
Gayle stirred. “No. We had a large garden.”
“But you were living in an apartment in Manhattan.”
“Not back then. We didn’t move to Manhattan until I was sixteen, although we often visited of course. When I was young we lived in Vermont in a large house with lots of land. We always had deer eating our plants, which frustrated my mother.”
Ella handed Tab another twig. “You never mentioned that you lived in Vermont.”
Her mother had built a snowman. Why had she never built one with them? What had happened?
She had so many questions, and no answers.
She was about to ask a few of those questions, when Michael appeared. He wore a wool coat, collar turned up, hands thrust into his pockets.
“How’s it going here?” He was calm and relaxed, but his presence told Ella he’d rushed breakfast in order to be here for her. “How are my girls?”
“We’re having fun,” she said. “The snow is the perfect consistency for building snowmen.”
“Then it’s lucky I’m here to judge the snowman contest.” He turned his attention to his daughter.
“It’s not a contest,” Tab said. “It’s just me. So I win.”
“You do. I officially declare this snowman the best in Scotland. Possibly the best in the whole of the Northern Hemisphere.”
“You’re silly, Daddy.”
“Not silly. That is an excellent snowman.” He leaned toward Ella. “Should I mention that he might need a nose job?”
She raised an eyebrow. “You think a parsnip would have been better? How was breakfast?”
“Worth taking a break from snowman building to sample. That’s why I’m here. You should eat something. I recommend the full Scottish breakfast.”
“I had toast,” Tab said. “I want to play in the snow.” She was busy scooping up more snow, only this time she was constructing something new next to the snowman.
