The first snow came down hard enough to erase the road before Clara Whitmore reached the market pavilion.
She parked beside the old brick fountain and killed the engine, but the storm kept moving around her, hissing against the windshield and piling white along the wipers. Beyond the glass, Radington’s Main Street had vanished beneath a silver blur. The shop windows glowed like lanterns in the morning gloom, and the evergreen wreaths Clara had tied to every lamppost sagged beneath their new burden.
“Perfect,” she muttered.