Everything Sam did, Patrick did: winding his arm to pitch, sliding dramatically into base, bellowing that he was "safe." Afterward, we made a snowman as tall as Sam and gave him a hockey stick to hold.
"We need eyes and a nose," Patrick said. "And I want to make a number for him to wear."
"You're supposed to use a carrot for his nose," Sam replied, "but I always used broccoli, used it for every-thing-even had broccoli hair-that way, there wouldn't be any left for dinner."
Patrick laughed. "Green hair. Cool!"
"How about you, Kate?" Sam asked.
"It didn't snow much in England, not where we lived, but once we had a big storm and my father gave me loops of undeveloped film to make curly hair, then he and I dressed up our snow lady in paint rags and a drop cloth spattered with colors. She was elegant."
1 hadn't thought about that for years. I blinked before the unexpected tears got beyond the corners of my eyes.
"Cool!" Patrick repeated.
"Very cool," Sam said, his voice unusually gentle.
"So what do we use now?" I asked, glancing about, trying to look as if I'd already forgotten about the snow lady.
"Beach stuff," Patrick said. "Let's go down there."
"Can we?" Sam asked.
"I suppose so." There were steps, steep wooden ones that ran down the side of what Ashley and I used to call "the cliffs," eroded banks of sandy soil and clay that dropped about eight meters to a narrow shoreline of sand, shells, and stones. "We should be careful on the steps. They may be rotted in places. Let me go first, Patrick."
"I'll go first," Sam offered.
I said I would."
He raised an eyebrow. "Is this like the door thing?"
It was, and it was stupid, but I wouldn't admit it. "Fall through the steps if you want to," I said. "You're the one who has a play-off game on Saturday."
"Good point. You go first."
"Kate fell down the steps last night," Patrick volunteered, "down the big stairs, and woke everybody up. Daddy wanted to call 911."
Sam turned to stare at me.
"It wasn't as bad as it sounds. I stopped at the landing."
"Mommy said she could have killed herself."
"I bruised my shoulder, that's all," I told Sam. "Come on. This snowman needs eyes and numbers." I started walking.
"Race!" Sam shouted suddenly, and took off. The snow made it harder for Patrick to pick up his short legs and run. He looked like a bunny hopping after Sam. I waited till Sam slowed down to let Patrick catch up, then shot past the two of them.
Snowballs pelted the backs of my legs. I stopped to taunt the boys, and Sam rushed past me. He stood grinning at the top of the steps, then started down them, kicking off snow as he went. As it turned out, the wood was in good shape; I should have known that Adrian would keep his property perfectly maintained.
At the bottom, strips of snow lay like shimmering froth left behind by waves. It was low tide, and stones sparkled at the edge of the sand. The banks above us looked streaky, red clay and yellow sand sugared over with snow. The fresh smell of snow mixed with the tang of salt.
Patrick skipped along the shore, searching for materials. "We'll use clams for his ears," he called over his shoulder.
"Perfect!" I said, starting after him, but Sam caught me by the sleeve.
"What happened last night?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"How did you fall down the steps?"
"I just fell."
"I don't think so," he said. "I think you called me because something has happened to upset you."
"I called because I was worried about Patrick."
"Did you trip?" he persisted. No.
Sam waited for an explanation.
"I was pushed."
"Pushed! By who?"
"I don't know. It was dark-someone turned out the night lamp."
"Who do you think it was?"
"Ashley."
He grimaced. "That answer works only when you're seven. Be honest, who do you think it was?"
I don't know," I told him.
"Why do you think you were pushed?"
"I don't know!"
"You can trust me, Kate."
I bit my lip.
"I went on the Internet," Sam said, "and read the obituaries about your dad."
I glanced at him, startled. He was doing research on me.