Despite the Falling Snow by Shamim Sarif

confuses him, the way the gentle waking from a wonderful dream overwhelms and unbalances.
    He stops just before the open door. Through the crack of the hinges, he can see her. While the music jumps and dips all around her, Lauren is lying on the bed, entirely motionless except for the occasional blinking of her eyelashes.
    He knocks at the open door, loudly, and she sits up at once.
    “You look thoughtful,” he says.
    She waves away the comment, and swings her legs off the bed.
    “It’s good to be here. Feels like home.”
    “Good. This is your house, you know. I wish you’d live here.”
    “I’d drive you crazy,” she smiles.
    “You mean, I’d drive you crazy,” he replies. “Don’t say anything. I know. Your ‘fastidious uncle’.”
    “You always throw that back at me, Uncle Alex,” she said. “I meant it in a nice way. Anyway, I might stay a while, if it’s okay with you.”
    She is avoiding his look slightly and he at once infers why.
    “And Carol? How is she?”
    She turns away slightly and takes a long time to fasten her leather-strapped watch onto a fragile-looking wrist.
    “I don’t know,” she says, still looking down. “I haven’t seen her in a few weeks.”
    He waits, but she does not elaborate. “I’m sorry,” he says at last.
    “Don’t be. It hasn’t been working out for a while now. It’s for the best. I guess I was just surprised at how much I missed her. When she left.”
    There is a weight to her voice which lends it an unnaturally low tone and which tells him that she is only a step away from tears.
    “So it’s definitely over?”
    “Yeah, but it’s fine.” She looks up at him now. “You know me. Easy come, easy go.”
    She regrets saying this as soon as the words are uttered. It is the kind of blithe, throwaway comment that she might be able to get away with amongst people who don’t know her so well, but her uncle’s kind eyes see directly through her. He read her meaning in the meeting earlier that day, and he can read her now, though he is, of course, too considerate to say anything.
    “Anyway, I thought an extended time away from New York might not be a bad thing.”
    “I would love it,” he tells her, and takes her hand encouragingly. “And if your performance this morning was anything to go by, you can help me complete the sale.”
    “What sale? I thought I blew it.”
    Alexander shakes his head. “I think you may have saved it. Let’s wait and see.”
    “I hope so. Last thing I wanted to do was ruin your deal.”
    “Our deal,” he corrects. “And I made the decision.”
    It is typical of him to try and remove the responsibility from her shoulders, for what could turn out to be a bad mistake. She nods.
    “Let’s go get something to eat,” she says. “I’m starving.”
    Downstairs, she rummages in her bag and hands him a bottle of wine, which he holds at arm’s length in order to read the label without searching for his glasses.
    “Lauren!”
    It is an excellent wine and an excellent vintage. He knows she must have spent a fortune on it.
    “Well, I wanted to bring you something nice. I have another – a Burgundy this time – for Christmas dinner.”
    “You shouldn’t be spending your money like this.”
    “Stop. I do well with my painting,” she shrugs. “I’m getting a lot of private work now. Everybody wants to see themselves up on a wall. Apparently there was an article in Vanity Fair or The New Yorker or somewhere, recommending it. So now I’m in great demand. I’ve been spending my time in the houses of some of New York’s finest. I could tell you some tales.”
    “Here, have a glass of wine, and let’s talk.”
    She laughs, a deep, happy sound and takes his hand, the affectionate grasp of a mother telling off an errant child. “I have to respect client confidentiality, you know.”
    “Really? We’ll test that after the wine.”
    She watches him decant the contents of the bottle, slowly and respectfully. Then he loosens a