“You could at least help me with the ladder,” I yell at Thatcher, who seems content enough to sit on the porch and watch me wrestling with the icicle lights Alice and Petey insisted we get. He laughs at me and tugs at his wool coat, blowing into his hand and walking over to steady the ladder. “I saw you and Emma spying on us,” I tell him. They pulled up all smug in his new SUV to watch us tussle with the Christmas tree. Alice vetoed Nicole’s idea of just ordering one for delivery. ...