Okay. This was happening.
The event had technically started last night, with people having a five hour window to get started on their creations. The goal was to have the contest wrap up around lunch so that people could stroll the park in the afternoon and get pictures. There were prizes for a few categories, and I had managed to line up four judges, three of them willing while one was reluctant but still judging.
I walked the perimeter slowly, checking the barriers, nodding to volunteers, and answering questions as they came up.
I saw three unicorns, a hippopotamus, Santa, a huge present, and other sculptures along the way. I was happy, I wasn’t the one judging them.
My timer went off, indicating it was getting close to the time for the judges to make an appearance. Looking around, I spotted them near the warming tent, and my stomach dipped.
Great Aunt Cathy stood front and center, holding her clipboard like she was about to judge something far more important than just a simple snowsculpting contest. Anne hovered just behind her shoulder, bundled in a neutral coat that made her look as if she hoped to disappear into the background. Mom and Dad stood together, heads bent in quiet conversation, both wearing expressions that suggested they had agreed to this without fully understanding what it entailed.
Great Aunt Cathy caught sight of me immediately and lifted her chin. “There you are. We were just discussing how judging should work.”
I braced myself. “Wonderful.”
Mom smiled when she saw me, relief flickering across her face. “We were wondering if there are official criteria.”
“There are, sort of. Didn’t you read the sheet of instructions I gave each of you?” I asked.
Great Aunt Cathy sniffed. “Art is subjective.”
Dad nodded thoughtfully. “I like the one that looks like a bear.”
Anne glanced at the sculpture Dad pointed out. “That one is still a block.”
“It has potential,” William said.
I pressed my lips together and focused on breathing through my nose. “We’re looking at creativity, execution, and stability.”
Great Aunt Cathy waved a hand. “Naturally.”
That was when I noticed the rope line sagging.
A group of spectators had drifted closer to one of the sculptors, angling for better photos. One man leaned forward, phone held high, entirely too close to the edge of the work zone. The sculptor paused, a power tool still running, and glanced up with a frown.
My pulse jumped.
“Excuse me,” I said, already moving. “I need to address something.”
I crossed the snow quickly, boots crunching, and lifted my hand in a calm, clear signal.
“Hi,” I said to the group, smiling like everything was completely fine. “I’m going to ask you to step back behind the rope, please.”
One woman frowned. “We’re just taking pictures.”
“I know, and you’ll get better ones from a little farther back. This area needs to stay clear for safety until the sculptors are done,” I told them.
The man with the phone hesitated. “It’s fine.”
“It isn’t,” I said, still smiling. “But I appreciate you helping me keep it that way by stepping behind the rope.”
There was a pause, just long enough to make my heart pound harder.
“Let’s give her some space,” Mom said gently, already guiding people back with a hand on an elbow. “It’s for everyone’s safety.”
Dad stepped in beside her, suddenly authoritative. “Yes. Safety first.”
The rope was restored. The sculptor nodded at me, gratitude clear even through his goggles.
