She took a sandwich, bit in, and chewed. “Not as bad as I expected. You might have a future as a chef.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Clara said, with a glower. “He’ll make us eat spinach.”
They worked through the food, the sun, and a rotating schedule of insults and praise. Henry had a particular fondness for the jam biscuits, and by the time the basket was half-empty, Nancy noticed a peculiar arithmetic at work: every time she turned her back, another biscuit disappeared, and every time she checked Henry’s hands, they were stickier.
Oscar was aware. She could see it in his narrowing eyes, the wariness with which he guarded the remaining biscuits. The final one sat between them, daring them both.
Nancy said, “If you want it, you’ll have to fight for it.”
“I do not fight children,” Oscar replied.
Henry, sensing an opportunity, lunged.
Oscar moved like a cat, snatching the biscuit and holding it aloft. “You have had four already. Leave one for Clara.”
Henry pouted. “Clara hates jam.”
Oscar considered. “Then I will eat it myself.”
He raised the biscuit, but Henry was not to be denied. He leapt, caught Oscar’s sleeve, and for a moment the two wrestled—gentleman against goblin—until the biscuit popped loose and tumbled to the grass. Henry pounced, triumphant, and stuffed it in his mouth before anyone could protest.
Oscar watched this with a sort of morbid fascination. “You see?” he said to Nancy. “There is no winning.”
“You could let them win,” Nancy replied, but she was laughing.
After the meal, Oscar suggested a walk around the lake. “Digestive exercise,” he declared. “Or perhaps a futile attempt to wear them out.”
Clara and Henry scampered ahead, chasing each other in ever-expanding spirals. Nancy and Oscar walked behind, content to follow the chaos at a safer distance.
“Thank you for this,” Nancy said, surprising herself by meaning it.
He nodded. “It seemed… appropriate.”
She watched the children, who had now begun hurling clumps of grass at each other. “They are less wild than usual. Is it the sun, or your influence?”
“Perhaps yours,” Oscar said, sidelong. “You have a way of making them feel safe.”
Nancy felt a pang, then masked it with a smile. “You’re doing better than you think.”
He looked at her. “Am I?”
“Much,” she replied. “Even if you do lose all the arguments.”
He glanced ahead. The twins had reached the water’s edge, daring each other to dip their toes. “They are impossible to manage.”
“That is the joy of children,” Nancy said. “And the misery.”
He smirked. “I can handle misery.”
She almost said, “I know,” but bit it back.
After a few more paces, Nancy paused. The path dipped to the lakeshore, where a weeping willow shaded the grass. She slipped off her shoes and waded to the water’s edge, letting the cold bite at her toes. It felt reckless, almost adolescent.
Oscar watched her, arms crossed. “Careful. There may be pike.”
She grinned. “There are no pike in this lake. Only leeches. And I am not afraid of leeches.”
“I should hope not,” he replied. “You married one.”
