lake or climbed trees or thrust captured frogs or butterflies close to her face for her inspection before letting them go. She was always ready with admiration and praise when he called to her to witness how high he had climbed or how many strokes he had swum before sinking. She walked him to the Murdochs' house on the edge of the village and waited through the birthday party to bring him home again – because it was one of the days on which Duncan was busy all afternoon. And she was content to dispense comfort and consolation when he bumped or bruised or scraped himself, as he inevitably did at least once a day. He giggled when she kissed better a thumb he had bent awkwardly backward while catching a ball and then went roaring off to play again, the pain forgotten.
Life fell into a busy but pleasant routine. Only one more thing was needed – from him. The final step into full trust. He dreaded taking it, but told himself that he would – soon. Unfortunately, he waited a little too long, but there was no real warning of that fact the evening before it happened. Though /happened/ was perhaps the wrong word.
It had been a particularly hot day. It was still warm – one of those nights that never did fully cool off.
She came half running down the stairs to meet him in the hall, just a light shawl about her shoulders. 'Toby is sleeping?' she asked as she came. 'Yes.' And then she stopped abruptly, her eyes on what he held rolled up beneath one arm. 'What is that?' she asked, though the answer was quite obvious. 'Towels,' he said. 'We are going swimming.' 'Swimming?' She looked up into his eyes and laughed. 'Swimming,' he repeated. 'I went in with Toby this afternoon and a few days ago, leaving you sitting on the bank, looking decorative. And, I noticed this afternoon, wistful.' 'I did not,' she protested. 'Liar,' he said, grinning at her. 'You were itching to dive in there with us.' 'I was not,' she said. 'Can you swim?' he asked her. 'I used to as a girl,' she said. 'I have not even tried for years. It would be quite indecorous to submerge myself in the lake, Duncan.' He grinned and said nothing. 'But oh, dear,' she said, 'it would be so much fun.' '/Will/ be,' he promised, 'not would be.' She took his free arm without further argument, and they stepped out of the house and began the longish walk across the west lawn and through the trees to the lake. The sun had already disappeared below the horizon when they got there, but the sky still glowed orange and purple – and so did the water of the lake. 'Oh,' she said, 'it is all so very beautiful, Duncan. Perhaps we should just sit here on the bank and drink in the loveliness of it all.' 'I think,' he said, 'you are a coward.' 'I will ruin my dress,' she said. 'Which you will, of course, remove before you jump in,' he said. 'My shift, then.' 'That too.' 'Duncan!' She looked at him, shocked. 'I cannot go in – ' 'Naked?' he said. 'Why not?' She looked about, as if she expected to see a whole army of interested onlookers march by. 'I see you naked every night,' he reminded her. 'But this is different,' she said.
He loved her occasional primness. It contrasted so deliciously with her ardor and passion at night. 'I could promise not to look,' he said, 'until you are submerged to the chin.' She laughed and so did he. 'Perhaps I will not remember how to swim,' she said. 'Perhaps I will sink like a stone.' He waggled his eyebrows at her. 'Then I will have an opportunity to play the hero,' he said, 'and dive in to rescue you.' 'Oh, Duncan.' She tipped her head to one side. 'Our evenings are supposed to be for courtship and romance and falling in love, not for – ' He tipped his head in the same direction as hers.
She sighed and turned her back on him. 'You had better unbutton me,' she said as she discarded her shawl. 'I suppose it might be fun after all.' He dropped the towels to the grass. 'It will,' he promised, setting his lips to the back of her neck after opening the top two buttons of her dress. He slid his hands around to cup her breasts through her shift after opening her dress to the hips.
He did not keep them there, though. This was about romance.
He knelt and rolled down her silk stockings and drew them over her feet after she had kicked off her shoes. He grasped the hem of her shift and drew it off over her lifted arms as he stood up again. She drew the pins from her hair.
He kept his drawers on when he swam in the daytime with Toby. Tonight he did not.
She shook her head, and her hair cascaded down her back.
He turned and dived into the water, came up and shook the drops from his face, and reached out his hands for her. 'It is best to jump in boldly,' he said, 'rather than do it one toe at a time.' 'I remember that much,' she said. 'Stand back.' And she came running and jumped in, feet first, causing a mighty splash.
She came up sputtering, her eyes tightly closed, her mouth open on a gasp. 'Oh,' she said, clearing her face with her hands and then smoothing them over her hair, 'you did not warn me that the water is cold.' 'Only for the first moment,' he said.
She was standing close to the bank, where the water was only chest deep.
He trod water, spreading his hands over its surface and looking at her.
He had never seen her with wet hair. It was dark and sleek over her head. She looked younger, more carefree, though he was seeing her only through a heavy dusk, of course. The light on the water had been fractured by their entry. 'Come,' he said, and began to swim away from the bank in a lazy crawl.
He looked back after a while. She was coming after him, her feet splashing up behind her, her head up out of the water, her arm movements awkward. But her strokes became smoother even as he watched, and she dipped her face into the water and turned her head to catch breaths. Her body was dark and sleek amid purple and gold and silver ripples.
He stayed where he was until she drew abreast of him and saw him and raised her head. 'Oh,' she said breathlessly. 'There are some things one never forgets.
If I tried to put my feet down, there would be nothing under them but water, would there?' He had brought them to the deep end of the lake. There was a shallow end, where they always went with Toby, but it was some distance away. 'You are tired?' he asked. 'Only breathless,' she said, and he saw the flash of her teeth in the gathering darkness. 'I am out of practice. Oh, this is like being a girl again, Duncan.' 'Turn onto your back and float,' he suggested.
She did so, spreading her arms across the water, laying back her head and closing her eyes. He moved behind her and under her, slid his arms beneath her to support her, and swam backward with her.
She opened her eyes, tipped back her head to look at him, and smiled.
She kicked her feet slightly to propel them along.
The sunset gradually faded, leaving darkness and moonlight and starlight and the lapping of water in their wake and the smell of sap from the trees.
They swam for an hour or more, sometimes together, sometimes side by side. Sometimes they merely floated on their backs, watching the stars, trying to identify them, agreeing finally that stars had no real names anyway, only what had been attached to them by humans. 'Of course,' he said, 'the same would apply to trees and flowers, would it not?' 'And birds and animals,' she said. 'And humans,' he said. 'Perhaps none of us have real names at all – only what our parents chose for us.' 'And a good thing too,' she said, 'or the only way we would have of attracting one another's attention would be a 'Hey, you.' There would be thousands of /hey, you/s all over the world.' 'Millions,' he said, 'and in many different languages.' 'A mite confusing,' she said, and they both laughed.
It seemed to be years since he had allowed himself to indulge in nonsense talk and laughter.
It /was/ years.
Finally they left the water and dried themselves off with two of the towels – he had brought three so that they would have something dry to use afterward. They sat on it, her back to him as he toweled off her hair.
They had not dressed. 'I thought days like these were long over,' she said, hugging her knees. 'Swimming in a lake, sitting on its bank in the middle of the evening, laughing …' 'You have not laughed since you were a girl?' he asked. 'Oh, I have,' she protested. 'Of course I have. My life has not been a sad one – far from it. But I have not felt for a long time such… Oh, I do not even know the word.' 'Joy?' he suggested. 'Carefreeness,' she said. 'There is no such word, though, is there? And oh, yes, joy. That is the perfect word. A carefree joy.' He tossed the towel aside and combed his fingers through her hair, teasing them through tangles. 'It is an impossible task without a comb,' she said, turning to him and then lying back on the towel to gaze at the stars again. 'It does not matter. I will brush it out later.' He lay down beside her and took her hand in his. He laced his fingers with hers. /Joy/.
Yes, life still had it to offer. And in the most unexpected place of all – in his own home, with his own wife.
He felt quite consciously happy.
He raised himself on one elbow and leaned over her. Her eyes changed focus and looked back into his. She
