SKYLAR TEMPEST STEPPED out of her hotel and lifted her face to the sky. Soft, thick flakes of snow drifted down from a sky of midnight blue, dusting her hair and blending with the wool of her white coat. It was like standing in a snow globe.
She reached out and caught a snowflake in her palm, watching as it slowly dissolved, its beauty fleeting and ephemeral.
London was experiencing a cold spell and bets were on for the first white Christmas in years. The snow had been falling for a couple of hours and the streets were frosted white. It was easy on the eye and lethal underfoot, which was why she’d decided to take a cab rather than walk the glittering length of Knightsbridge to the gallery.
She didn’t want to arrive at the most important night of her life with a black eye.
Smiling at the doorman, she stepped into the waiting cab.
Cocooned in the warmth, she watched as people bustled along the crowded streets. They walked, heads down, snuggled in layers of wool to keep out the cold. Stores with elaborately decorated windows shone bright with fairy lights, beaming shimmering silver across the snow.
Drinking in the light and color, she fought the temptation to reach for the sketch pad she always carried. In a world that often presented its ugly side, Skylar looked for the beauty and captured it in her art. She worked in a variety of mediums, dabbled in ceramics, but her first love was jewelry.
The necklace she’d chosen to wear tonight was an example of her work and the only splash of color in her outfit. She’d designed it as part of her latest collection, but she’d fallen in love with the piece and kept it. The stones were a mixture of blues and greens, Mediterranean hues that added warmth to a cold December evening.
Tonight was her big night, she was in one of her favorite cities at her favorite time of year and Richard was joining her.
They’d been an item for over a year. A year in which his entire focus had been his political career. Since he’d won his senate seat, the pressures had intensified. They’d barely seen each other in the months leading up to the election and the time they had spent together had been marred by his incendiary moods. She’d resigned herself to attending the private showing of her collection alone, so his call from the airport had been a surprise.
Now she was eagerly anticipating the night ahead.
Starting tonight, everything was going to be different. With the stress of the election behind them, they’d finally be able to enjoy quality time together and do all the things they’d talked about doing.
He’d hinted that he had a special Christmas gift for her.
A trip to Florence maybe?
He knew how much she’d always wanted that.
Or Paris, maybe, to visit the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay.
Her mood lifted.
They’d celebrate her exhibition and later they’d enjoy a more intimate celebration. The two of them, her luxurious hotel suite and a bottle of champagne. Tomorrow, they’d visit the ice rink at Somerset House. She’d walked past it the day before and spent a happy hour people-watching. Her creative brain had soaked up the kaleidoscope of color and smiling faces. She’d absorbed it all; the uncertain, the wobbly and the graceful. Twirling teenagers, parents holding eager children, lovers entwined. After that, they’d visit the London Eye at night. She’d watched the slow, graceful rise of each capsule over the dark ribbon of the Thames and decided she wanted to experience that.
It would be romantic, and she and Richard needed to spend more time on their relationship.
She stared out of the window, thinking about it.
Was this love?
Was this it?
She’d always assumed that when she finally fell in love she’d know. She hadn’t been prepared for all the doubts and questions.
“Christmas party, love?” The cab driver glanced in the mirror and Skylar gave him a smile, glad to be distracted from her thoughts.
“Not exactly. A private showing. Jewelry, pots and a few pieces of art.” A series of watercolors she’d painted on a trip to Greece to visit Brittany. Having a best friend who was an archaeologist had expanded her horizons. That trip had been the inspiration for her collection. Ocean Blue.
“Where are you from?”
“New York, and it’s pretty cold there right now.” She chatted freely, loving how friendly the cab drivers were in London.
“I hope you brought your credit card. Prices are high in this part of London. Whatever you buy is going to cost you.”
“It’s mine.” Excitement mingled with pride. “My collection.”
He glanced at her in his mirror. “I’m impressed. To have your work on display in these parts at any age would be something, but for someone as young as you—well, you’re obviously going somewhere. Your family must be really proud.”
Her good mood melted away like the snowflake she’d held in her palm.
Her family wasn’t proud.
They were exasperated that she persisted with her “hobby.”
She’d invited them. Sent them a pretty embossed invitation and a catalog.
There had been no response.
Turning her head, she focused on the snowy scene beyond the windows of the cab. She wasn’t going to let that ruin her evening. Nothing was going to ruin the evening.
The cab driver was still talking. “So you’ll be flying back home for the holidays? Family Christmas?”
“That’s the plan.” Although not the reality. “Family Christmas” sounded cozy and warm, like something from a fairy tale. It conjured up images of prettily wrapped gifts stacked beneath a tall tree festooned with twinkling lights and homemade decorations, while excited children fizzed with anticipation.
Christmas at her parents’ house felt more like an endurance test than a fairy tale, more corporate than cozy. The “tree” would be an artistic display of bare twigs sprayed silver and studded with tiny lights, part of a larger display planned and executed every year by her mother’s interior decorator. Stark, remote and not to be touched at any cost. The “gifts,” artfully stacked on various surfaces for effect, would be empty boxes.
Any child hoping to find something magical under her family tree would be disappointed.
Those gifts summed up her family, she thought.
Everything had to be shiny and perfectly wrapped. Appearances mattered.
Leaning her head against the cool glass of the window, she watched as a man and a woman, loaded down with bags, struggled through the snow with two bouncing, excitable young children. She imagined them arriving home and decorating the tree together. They’d write letters to Santa and hang stockings, counting the number of sleeps until Christmas Day.
The most important things in life, she thought wistfully, couldn’t be wrapped.
She watched as the family disappeared down a side street and then looked away, impatient with herself.
She was too old for Christmas fantasies and with Richard arriving and her exhibition she had plenty to celebrate.
Her phone rang and she tugged it out of her bag, expecting Richard again.
It was her mother and surprise mingled with warmth.
She remembered.
“Mom? I’m so happy you called.”
“I shouldn’t have to call—” her mother’s