Here We Come (Aggie's Inheritance) (171 page)

Ian
squirmed
to
get
down
and
ran
for
Laird.
Another
snowball
flew
past
much
too
closely
for
her
comfort.
Without
thinking,
Aggie
darted
around
the
headstone
and
dropped
to
her
knees.
The
stupidity
of
that
action
was
obvious
in
seconds
as
her
tights
became
wet
and
cold.

The
incongruity
of
her
position
hit
her
as
she
imagined
seeing
it
from
an
outsider’s
perspective.
To
her
left,
Laird
and
Vannie
balled
more
snowballs
in
a
short
amount
of
time
than
she
had
thought
possible.
Ian
“helped”
by
throwing
half
of
them
a
foot
or
so.
Most
didn’t
even
break.
To
her
right,
both
sets
of
twins
and
Kenzie
worked
 
hard
to
build
quite
an
arsenal—making
it
nearly
twice
the
volume
of
their
unofficial
“opponents
.
”
And
there
she
was,
peeking
over
the
top
of
the
grave.
It
belonged
in
a
wacky
Norman
Rockwell
painting.
She’d
call
it
“Battle
with
Grief.”

War
erupted
when
Laird
fired
on
Fort
Younger.
Though
they
had
fewer
snowballs
and
a
“helper”
to
destroy
things
as
fast
as
they
made
them,
Vannie
and
Laird
had
size,
speed,
strength,
and
accuracy
on
their
side.
Cari
and
Lorna
couldn’t
throw
past
the
headstone.
Kenzie
couldn’t
throw
much
at
all
with
her
broken
arm
putting
her
off-balance.

Perhaps
the
strangest
part
of
all
was
the
hush.
There
were
no
screams,
squeals,
or
exaggerated
groans
on
impact.
Even
Ian
was
quiet
in
his
attempt
to
demolish
their
pile
of
weapons.
Cari
didn’t
make
a
sound
as
one
snowball
exploded
on
her
hat.
Tavish’s
trademarked
primal
yell
was
noticeably
absent.
A
glance
over
her
shoulder
showed
an
elderly
woman
watching.

Without
thinking,
she
stood.
“Time
to
go—”
All
balls
redirected
and
bombarded
her.
Her
coat
was
almost
white
with
the
residue
of
snowballs that had
pelted
her.
“Note
to
self:
Wool
doesn’t
allow
snow
to
slide
off,”
she
muttered.

The
group
marched
to
the
van,
still
much
too
quiet
for
Aggie’s
comfort.
It
seemed
unnatural
for
her
crazy
brood
to
be
almost completely
silent.
With
the
children
settled
in
their
seats,
she
hoisted
herself
up
into
the
driver’s
seat
and
stared
at
the
roses
on
the
dashboard.
“Laird,
I
forgot
the
roses.
Can
you
go
put
them
on
top
for
me?”
Her
voice
cracked.
“Thanks.”

The
occupants
of
the
Stuartmobile
watched
Laird
trudge
back
along
the
slippery,
half-shoveled
walk.
It
was
a
strange
sight.
The
cemetery
was
almost
pristine
in
its
snowy
brilliance.
Footprints
followed
what
should
be
paths,
and
there
was
an
occasional
footprint
or
two
on
a
plot
with
flowers
lying
there,
but
most
of
it
was
a
smooth
blanket
of
white.
Well,
except
for
the
area
around
Allie
and
Doug’s
grave.
It
was
rumpled,
dirty,
and
yes,
it
looked
like
children
had
held
a
snowball
fight
over
the
grave.
Laird
reached
the
h
eadstone,
laid
the
cellophane
wrapped
red
roses
on
i
t
,
and
stood
back.