Page 43 of On Dry Land

“This is going to be a tiny snowman,” I point out. Spencer laughs.

“That’s just the start of it. You have to roll it around and gather more snow. Haven’t you done this before?”

“No.”

“Watch closely to see the magic happen.” He laughs when I sigh again, squatting down and rolling his ball of snow through the yard. He looks ridiculous and uncomfortable, shuffling after it with his knees splayed wide. Deciding that maybe the quickest way to get this over with is to accept my fate, I kneel down and copy him.

Spencer, just a few feet in front of me, eventually stands up and starts rolling his snowball by bending at the waist instead of squatting. I curse my longer legs, unable to do the same thing without giving myself a slipped disc. Every now and then, he glances over his shoulder and grins at me, cheeks pink and eyes bright against his pale face. I’ve been smoothing my snowball out with my hands as I go and am pleased to see mine looks better than his.

“Lumpy,” I note later, standing with hands on my hips and looking down at Spencer’s giant snowball.

“Mine will be the base since yours is prettier. Let’s make it a little bigger. This snow is perfect.”

Together, we continue pushing his ball across the yard, a divot trailing behind us in the snow and our footprints parallel alongside. Eventually, Spencer starts pushing us into a curve, trying to head back the way we came.

“Let’s put the base closer to the pool so we can see it from the windows,” he instructs. I grunt, shaking the snow off my wet gloves and continuing to push the snowball. It’s as tall as my knees now. When we get it situated in a spot that makes Spencer happy, he beckons me over to the one I made. “Careful, we don’t want to break it. This one goes on top of the big one.”

“I know what shape snowmen are, Spencer.”

Snorting, he squats down and waits for me to grab the other side. He smiles at me over the top of the snowball, beanie almost entirely white with snow sticking to it.

“Shouldn’t you be filming this?” I ask as we shuffle across the yard, snowball surprisingly heavy. He shakes his head.

“No, this is just for us.” I look up from where I was gauging our distance from the base snowball, meeting his eyes. He smiles again, and this time, I return it.

We get the middle section balanced on top, Spencer scooping a bit of the snow off the ground and smoothing it around where the two pieces meet like he’s trying to cement it into place. That done, he stands up, shoulder pressed against mine as we admire our two-thirds of a snowman.

“Time for the head?” I prompt, thinking it might be best if I make it. Spencer doesn’t seem to know how to make the snowballs smooth.

“Yeah,” he agrees, striding off to a fresh patch of untouched snow.

We kneel down and form the head together, not rolling it around quite as long. I carry it myself this time, and hold it in place on top of the body as Spencer smooths a bit of snow around the neck.

“Okay, you can let go,” he tells me. We stand back at the same time, appreciating our handiwork. Nothing falls off or collapses. Wiping a glove under my nose, runny in the cold, I think about the next logical step in this process.

“We need sticks, correct?” I ask, picturing all the snowmen I’ve seen in Siren’s Point. Ours looks better than the kids’, it has to be said. Also, much bigger. This thing is as tall as Spencer.

“Yeah, for the arms. Let’s go find some.”

We trudge off in the direction of his cottage, heading around the back toward the woods. I dig up sticks poking through the snow on the ground, but each time, Spencer shakes his head. He walks around, looking seriously at all the trees as though he’s picking out an engagement ring and not snowman limbs. Sighing, I follow after and dutifully break off a branch when he chooses one.

“Be careful when you put the arms in. We don’t want the middle to crumble,” he warns me, both of us pushing a stick into place on either side of the body.

“I’m an engineer, Spencer,” I remind him, making him grin.

“You’ve got coal, right? Since you probably got some in your stocking from Santa?” he asks casually, once the arms are in place, smirking cheekily when I look at him.

“I don’t have any coal,” I correct. “I do have a carrot, though.”

He smiles widely, brushing his palms together, snow falling off his gloves in puffs of white. We go inside, shedding our boots and winter clothes in a careless heap by the back door. Standing in the kitchen, I pull the carrots out that I bought with the intention of making stew at some point. Spencer chooses his favorite, tapping the end on his chin as we stand in front of the open refrigerator and contemplate the rest of the offerings.

“Black plums, perhaps?” I pull one out to show Spencer.

“That’s perfect. Oh, and the grapes!”

Purple grapes and a handful of plums in hand, we head back to our discarded and slightly scattered clothing. Dropping the fruit onto the couch, I reach for my jacket.

“Wait, we need clothes!” Snagging his coat, I hold it out to him, and he laughs. “No, not for us. For the snowman.”