Everett asked for a minute and went to the neighbor's apartment. Mrs. Alvarez opened the door before he had finished knocking, took one look at his coat, and guessed that someone had offered work. When he explained the shift and the rate, she asked only when Marlo needed to come over. She and her youngest son were preparing dinner, and another child in the building would be joining them in the afternoon.
"She can help with the cookies," Mrs. Alvarez said. "And when you get back, she'll help you eat what's left."
"I don't like asking on Christmas."
"Then don't ask. I'm telling you what we're doing."
He tried to pay her in advance. She waved his hand away and reminded him that he had repaired her refrigerator twice without charging for labor. Everett could have argued that the circumstances were different, but she was already asking whether Marlo liked raisins in oatmeal cookies. He thanked her, promised to return as soon as he could, and went back to tell his daughter.
Marlo listened with the solemn patience of a child practiced at being told that adults had to work. "Will you be home for our dinner?" she asked.
"Yes. Unless a snowman hires me to fix his refrigerator and refuses to let me leave."
"Snowmen don't have refrigerators. They're the refrigerators."
"Then I'm probably safe."
She smiled, though he saw the disappointment she was trying to hide. After a moment she said that she would finish the drawing by the time he returned. She wanted it to be a surprise, which meant he was not allowed to look at it even accidentally. Everett promised with exaggerated seriousness not to glance in the direction of the sketchbook.
He put on his cleanest work shirt, a dark pair of trousers, and shoes polished the night before with a cloth. Marlo straightened his collar, mimicking the way Clara had done when he left for job interviews. The gesture caught him so unexpectedly that he had to take a breath before speaking. He kissed her forehead, handed Mrs. Alvarez the spare key, and walked into a Christmas morning bright with shopping displays and snow.
The streets near the hotel were crowded with families in thick scarves, children carrying new toys, and couples taking photographs beneath illuminated wreaths. A street musician played a carol on a saxophone outside a bakery, the notes drifting over the smell of fresh bread. Everett passed the display window without stopping. He had brought a sandwich in his bag because even with a meal promised, he had learned never to build an entire day around the assumption that there would be time to eat.
The Grand Meridian occupied the corner of a broad avenue overlooking the central square. Its brass doors were polished to a mirror shine, and garlands of evergreen hung beneath windows taller than the roof of Everett's apartment building. Inside the lobby, a thirty-foot Christmas tree glimmered with silver ornaments and tiny lights. Guests moved across the marble floor pulling elegant luggage, stopping beneath the chandelier to admire an arrangement of white flowers shaped like winter branches.