True to my word, I didn’t move in with Lucas.

For a whole month.

He kept remembering new things, and telling me about them. I kept looking out for signs of badness, which never came.

We talked a lot.

We kissed a lot, too.

Then I moved in some of my things, for practical reasons, what with me needing him in my arms too much. A few weeks later, I moved in the rest, seeing as I needed him in my arms every night.

Tonight is no exception.

He flips me onto my stomach and spreads my legs. I smile as he kisses and rubs me, his thick erection prodding against my leg.

In six months, one gets used to being loved and desired. To the passion of the man I considered unattainable. To his insatiable appetite for me, to the warmth of his body, to the sight of him straining to hold off his release until I’ve had mine…

I love watching Lucas when we make love.

But I love this position, too, where I can’t see him. He enters me, and I almost come straight away, so heightened are all my senses. I can hear his labored breathing and our flesh slapping. His cock is deliciously hard and thick inside me. The feel of his chest against my back, the weight of him… And the smell! Lucas smells like the god of sex.

I dig my hands and knees into the mattress and push back, urging him to give me more.

He begins to thrust harder and harder, until I come.

Slipping his hands under me to cup my breasts, he thrusts a few more times and groans his orgasm.

“I have something important to tell you,” I say a few moments later when we cuddle.

“Me, too.”

I smile. “OK, you go first.”

“No, you go first.”

We fall silent before we speak at once.

“I’m resigning from my job,” I say.

“Marry me,” he says.

We pause again, processing.

“Why are you resigning?” he asks. “Are you uncomfortable being my club’s publicist?”

“A little, but it’s not—”

“Do you feel you see too much of me?” he butts in. “Am I crowding you?”

I shake my head and reach for my tote bag next to the bed. “I’ll continue counseling and helping you, but behind the scenes. I’ll no longer work for you.”

“Did you get a better offer?” He stares at the large envelope in my hands. “Is that your new contract?”

“That’s not how I envisioned it, but I guess you could call it that.” I smile and show him an ultrasound image.

He stares at it, dumbfounded, and looks back at me. “Twins.”

His expression is priceless.

I nod, chuckling.

“Twins,” he says again. “You thought… you feared you couldn’t—”

“Turns out I could.” I shrug. “Perhaps I just didn’t get enough sex before moving in with you.”

“How come I didn’t notice anything?” He touches my flat tummy.

“Yeah, well, it’s not unusual not to show in the first trimester.”

“How far along are you?”

“Three months,” I say. “I’d had no idea until two days ago when I realized I hadn’t had my period since early October.”

He frowns, not convinced.

“It’s been such a busy time, what with the Youth Aquatics Games, the new season, and signing with Cleona Bank… Besides, I didn’t have any nausea.”

“So you did a pregnancy test and booked an appointment with a doctor.” He points at the image. “And you kept it from me.”

“I did two tests. The first one was positive and the second, negative.” I touch his hand. “I wanted to be sure before I broke the news to you.”

He pulls me to his chest. “Izz, you should’ve told me! I would’ve liked to accompany you to your first checkup.”

“I promise I’ll take you along for the second,” I murmur against the hollow if his neck.

He lifts my head up, looking concerned. “It’s OK for us to have sex, right?”

“Oh yes.”

“As often as before?”

I nod.

“Am I allowed to… go as deep as before?”

My lips quirk. “Uh-huh.”

“I don’t want to hurt the babies.”

“You won’t.”

The line between his eyebrows disappears, and he takes my mouth in a long, thorough kiss.

“Would you like to get married before or after the babies are born?” he asks when we break the kiss.

Clearly, the possibility of me saying no hasn’t occurred to him.

Oh, who am I kidding?

There is no possibility—not even the slightest chance, not in this universe or in any of the infinite parallel universes around us—that I’ll say no to his proposal.

“Definitely before.” I nuzzle up against his chest. “While we have time and energy for such frivolous pursuits.”

* * *

* * *

I spot Uma haggling over cherries at the fruit stall.

Her delicate frame is clad in her usual jeans and T-shirt, and her smooth black hair is pulled into a bun pierced by a pencil to hold it together. Clutching Sam’s little hand, she sports an expression that conveys, “Don’t mess with me—I’m tougher than I look.” She always uses it when she’s determined to have her way.

Right now, I’d say she’s bent on negotiating a better price for those juicy cherries.

I smile.

I’ve told her I’m happy to pay the asking price for quality produce. I can afford it. I’ve also told her haggling isn’t common in French markets. The price announced by vendors is what they expect to fetch for their products, not what they expect to fetch, plus twenty percent.

But old habits die hard.

In Uma’s case, she’d overseen grocery shopping for her family in Nepal since she was ten, which means thirteen years of honing her bargaining skills. She isn’t ready to put them on ice just yet.

By the time I reach the stall, the transaction is over. Uma drops a paper bag of cherries into her shopping cart, and the vendor turns to the next person in line.

“Papa!” Sam cries out, noticing me.

I pick him up. “Hey, buddy.”

My mom says I should stop doing that. Sam’s five and a half now—no longer a baby. He’s been riding his bike without training wheels ever since Uma moved in three weeks ago.

She cocks her head. “What are you doing here?”

“My meeting turned out to be shorter than expected. So, I thought I could head home and help you carry the groceries.”

I refrain from mentioning that Uma isn’t supposed to do my grocery shopping in the first place.

She’s an au pair in my house, and her responsibilities include taking care of Sam four hours a day. Considering his illness, it’s already more than expected from a regular au pair. Her contract states very clearly that household chores are not part of the package.

But we’ve had this conversation several times over the past weeks, and Uma always comes up with some ridiculous reason to do more than her contract requires. Her excuse for grocery shopping, for example, is that it’s an educational activity. When I try to stand my ground, she just shrugs and says, “Sue me.”

I’ve given up.

The least I can do is make sure I intercept her in time to prevent her from pulling the cart all the way to the top of the steep hill where my house sits.

Uma folds her hands over her chest. “Sam and I got this, Zach. You really didn’t need to rush back from Paris just so you could drive us up the hill.”

“Paris is only a half-hour drive from here,” I say. “Besides, I truly had nothing better to do.”

Uma’s expression softens. “OK, then. But we have one more stop to make before we head home.”

Sam claps his hands. “Iced macarons!”

I give Uma a questioning glance.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “They’re almond meal and stevia, and I got the ingredients vetted by Sam’s doc.”

I exhale a relieved breath, feeling a bit stupid for doubting Uma’s dependability. She’s the opposite of my ex. She’d never put Sam in harm’s way.

As we stand in line at the baker’s, a flurry of polite bonjours erupts near the entrance, making Uma and me turn our heads. The town’s mayor, Jules Cantini, has entered the shop and is shaking hands with his constituency. As is his habit during his “casual” weekend outings, monsieur le maire is accompanied by one of his aides and by a photographer.

Coach Lucas should take a page from Monsieur Cantini’s book.

“Ah, Zachary,” the mayor says, spotting me. “Good to see you!”

I shake his hand. “Jules.”

Since I became the official patron of Inry’s new aquatics center and a regular guest coach at the kids’ swimming club, the mayor and I have been on a first-name basis.

He greets Uma and Sam and waves his photographer over.

“Monsieur Cantini would like to be photographed with you for the next issue of Inry News,” the aide informs me.

“Sure.”

“With your family, of course,” the mayor says, pointing to Sam and Uma.

Uma nudges Sam toward me and draws aside.

The mayor raises his eyebrows.

“I’m not family, I’m the nanny,” she explains.

“Oh, come on, Uma!” I pick Sam up. “Who cares?”

She shakes her head.

The mayor turns to her. “Mademoiselle…”

“Darji,” she prompts.

“Darji,” the mayor repeats before turning to the shopkeeper, “and Madame Brossard, please join us for this impromptu photo op.”

Impromptu, my foot.

The ladies oblige, and a dozen clicks of the camera later, we can stop smiling.

The aide, who’s been scribbling in his notebook, snaps his fingers. “Just a moment of your attention, please. I want to make sure everyone’s OK with the caption. It’ll say, ‘Mayor of Inry, Jules Cantini, at Patisserie Brossard with owner Anne Brossard and patrons Uma Darji, little… er…”

“Samuel,” I prompt.

The aide nods a thank-you. “Samuel Monin and his father Zachary Monin, star of the French water polo team and founder of one of the fastest-growing startups in Inry.”

I frown. “Will you please scratch the ‘star’ part?”

“Why?” The aide arches an eyebrow. “You were last season’s top scorer to the best of my recollection.”

“That doesn’t make me—” I begin.

“Come now, Zachary.” The mayor tilts his head to the side and pats my arm as if to say, You should know better than that.

I sigh and nod to the aide. “OK, sure. If it helps the town.”

“Wonderful.” The mayor shakes everyone’s hands and heads out the door with his entourage in tow.

After I buy the iced macarons, we shovel them in our mouths and go home. Once inside, Uma and I unpack the groceries while Sam crashes his remote-controlled helicopter into the ceiling and every single wall of the kitchen.

“Why don’t you play in the garden?” I ask him. “A few more hits, and your brand-new gadget will break to pieces.”

“No problem, I’ll fix it,” Sam says with the blissful confidence of a five-year-old.

I scratch my head, wondering if it’s advisable to be honest in this situation.

Uma rinses half of the cherries she bought at the market. “Sam wants to be an engineer when he grows up.”

“Since when?” I turn to Sam. “Last I heard you wanted to be a hole-set like me and a spy.”

Sam places his remote on the table, letting the helicopter hit the floor with a thud.

I grimace. “Ouch.”

“When I grow up, I’ll be”—he begins to count on his fingers—“a hole-set, engineer, spy, and dancer.”

I crouch next to him. “All at the same time?”

He nods.

“Why not a singer, too, while you’re at it?”

“No.” He shakes his head vigorously. “That would be too much. Even I need to sleep.”

“I see.” I purse my lips to keep from cracking up. “So, why a dancer?”

He gives me a duh look. “Because I’m really good at dancing. Uma says I’m the best dancer she’s ever seen.”

I glance at Uma who’s setting a big bowl of cherries on the table.

“What?” she says with a shrug. “He is.”

For the next ten minutes, the three of us eat the cherries. “Savor” would be a better word, considering how good they are, each little fruit chock-full of color and flavor.

Just like the woman who bought them.

Shit.

I peel my gaze off Uma and remind myself of all the reasons I shouldn’t let this kind of thought anywhere near my mind.

This is Uma’s first ever stay away from her family, from her country, from everything she knows. She’s my teammate Noah’s best friend and almost fiancée. He hasn’t said as much, but from what I gather, there’s always been an unspoken understanding between them. The only reason he’s never declared his feelings or touched her is the respect he has both for her and for the Hindu customs, which demand self-restraint.

Noah placed her in my house knowing she’d be safe here, and he trusts me fully.

I’m disgusted with myself for having these thoughts about Uma. Thankfully, they’re just thoughts. It is fully within my power not to act on them. The ethics of seducing an employee aside, hell will freeze over before I betray a friend’s trust like that.

Who I should be thinking about is Sophie, the American woman I met last week. She’s gorgeous, a pagan goddess doubling as a Victoria’s Secret model. On top of that, she’s smart, available, and—most importantly—slated to return stateside by Christmas. For a man looking to get back in the dating game without rushing into a long-term relationship, Sophie is an ideal choice.

She really is.

It beats me why I didn’t hit on her when I drove her home from the double date at the Moose with Noah and Uma. Must be because I’m terribly out of practice or no longer sure what’s OK and what’s too much for a first date. Even less so when it’s a double date.

Next week when work is less intense, I’ll ask her out on a proper one-on-one date.

And I’ll do more than occasionally nodding and smiling.

“Whether you enrolled as a hobbyist or you want to be a professional embroiderer, you’ve come to the right place.”

The speaker drinks from his glass and surveys the small crowd of new graduates and fresh recruits gathered in the auditorium of Ecole Lesage.

Monsieur Bloom, a longtime teacher at the school, is so visibly proud of the establishment that his enthusiasm is infectious. I glance at the beaming women around me. When the school reopens in a few weeks after the August break, all of us will spend countless hours sewing beads and sequins onto framed scraps of silk, learning tambour embroidery and Lunéville hook, and all kinds of fancy stitches.

I know I’ll love every moment of it.

“You’re really looking forward to your course, huh?” Noah whispers, giving me a nudge. “I’m happy for you.”

“I’m happy for myself,” I say.

He smiles. “I talked to Maman on the phone yesterday. She sends her greetings and says she wishes she could be here today.”

“I wish she were here, too. This is all thanks to her.” A rush of gratitude fills my heart. “I’ll never be able to pay her back for what she’s done for me—for what she’s still doing for me.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be silly. Maman loves you like the daughter she’s always dreamed of. Making you happy makes her happy.”

“I know. And I love her, too.”

“Dear students and guests,” Monsieur Bloom says. “Maison Lesage works with Yves Saint-Laurent, Christian Lacroix, Louis Vuitton, Christian Dior, and Chanel. Fashion designers give us a theme and a general idea, but it is our masters who trace the patterns and embroider them. What we do here is not just craft, it’s art.”

The crowd nods.

My love affair with embroidery started in my early teens when I saw Sequins at the European Film Festival in Kathmandu. Noah’s mom Marguerite, aka my French “fairy godmother,” dragged Noah and me there every afternoon. Her aim was to improve our “general culture” through exposure to the best of contemporary cinematography.

Noah, who would’ve preferred to watch the Olympics on TV, got seriously bored with the artsy movies the festival showcased. So did I, with most of it, except Sequins. Every single scene of that film in which the master embroiderer and her young apprentice put together fabric, thread, beads, feathers, and sequins to create a piece of exquisite beauty took my breath away.

For two hours I watched, mesmerized, leaning forward in my seat between Marguerite and Noah. The credits rolled, and people began to stand up and move toward the exit. I sat there, spellbound until Marguerite cleared her throat and Noah tugged on my sleeve.

That night excitement made it impossible to sleep.

I kept replaying the movie in my head and picturing myself adding one tiny stitch after another to silk organza stretched taut on a frame. There was no doubt in my head I could do that for hours every day. What better way to use my hands and my imagination than creating a magical play of textures, colors, and shapes from which beautiful flowers and fantastical birds are born?

The first thing I did when I got up at dawn was draw a pattern on a page torn out of an old math workbook. I had decided what I wanted to do with my life when I grew up.

Just like the women in the movie, I would embroider for an haute couture house.

After school, I told Aama and Baba about my newfound calling and begged them to buy me some supplies—the cheapest ones, anything they could afford. They did, bless their kind hearts. They were quite happy with the embroidery part of my dream. They still are.

Unlike driving a bus or tightrope dancing—my dreams as a kid—embroidery is a perfectly respectable and safe occupation for a young Hindu woman.

It’s the haute couture part with all its unsavory implications that bothers my parents. Working on indecent gowns that reveal too much skin. Being involved—even remotely—with worldly designers, indecorous models, debauched fashion photographers, and decadent runway shows.

Not that I’ve had a chance to do any of it yet.

Before I enrolled in Ecole Lesage and came to Paris to do the training and get my certificate—all thanks to a grant from Marguerite’s foundation—I had done quite a bit of stitching for a big sari outfitter in Kathmandu. It was fun, but there was no wiggle room. I was required to stick to the traditional styles and use the patterns I was given. At night, I traced my own patterns. Except, I never had time to embroider them.

“Our school is only twenty-five years old, but Maison Lesage was founded back in 1858,” Monsieur Bloom says. “You are part of the Lesage legend now.”

My chest swells with pride. Even if my training hasn’t started yet, I’m already living a dream, and it feels amazing.

The audience begins to clap, but Monsieur Bloom raises his hand. “I’m almost done. Let me wish our graduates good luck, and say welcome to our new students! I look forward to working with you in September.”

He nods and steps away from the podium, and we give him a round of applause.

Another faculty member motions to the door on my left. “Everyone is invited to step into the courtyard for refreshments and mingling.”

In the courtyard, the sari I’ve embroidered myself and am wearing for the occasion immediately attracts an admirer—a very tall Swedish woman with bright blue eyes. She asks me about the patterns on my gown. I ask her about the needlework on her clutch. We discuss the school and discover with delight that both of us will be taking the same Professional Couture Embroidery course.

When Noah joins us and hands me a champagne flute, the woman holds out her hand. “I’m Freja.”

“Noah,” he says, shaking her hand.

Freja grins. “You’re the first Frenchman I’ve seen since I got here last week who’s taller than me.”

“Go to a water polo game,” Noah says, smiling. “I promise you’ll see more.”

An image of Zach in his Speedo flashes in my mind. Not that I’ve ever seen him like that… live. But I’ve made up for it by watching every YouTube video I could find of his games.

And that is utterly and unforgivably inappropriate. Disturbing, too.

If I am to have such carnal fantasies about a man, the man in question shouldn’t be Zach. It should be Noah.

“Are you an athlete?” Freja asks him.

“Yes.”

She nods in appreciation. “Well, I hope your girlfriend and I can hang out, maybe even travel around France a bit before our butts are fused to our chairs come September.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say at the same time as Noah says, “She isn’t my girlfriend.”

Heat creeps up my face. I glance at Noah whose ears are flaming red.

Freja looks from me to him, her expression dubious. “OK. Sorry.”

“No worries,” I say quickly. “I’ll be happy to explore Paris with you, but traveling won’t be possible—I work part time as a nanny.”

“Good for you,” Freja says. “I need to find a part-time job, too.”

We exchange phone numbers, and she moves on to another group.

“Who’s home with Sam?” Noah asks.

“Zach.”

“How’s the little fellow doing? Still keen to be a dancer, spy, hole-set, and engineer?”

“A dancer, spy, and hole-set—yes,” I say. “But he recently decided to sacrifice the adventure-filled career of the international spy to be a lawyer like his grandpa and grandma.”

“What triggered the change of heart?”

“Last weekend Zach and Sam went down to Arles to visit Zach’s parents. Sam returned a man transformed.”

“Oh, boy.”

I chuckle. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask…” I feign nonchalance the best I can. “What’s the deal with Zach’s ex, Colette?”

Noah shifts uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

“How come she only calls a couple of times a week, never takes Sam to stay with her, and never comes to see him? She lives in Paris, right?”

“She does visit… on occasion,” he says, looking miserable.

I shouldn’t have asked.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s none of my business.”

He gives me a weak smile. “It’s not my story to tell. Why don’t you ask Zach?”

I look down at my feet, ashamed of myself. “I won’t. It really is none of my business. Forget I ever mentioned it, OK?”

Noah’s smile widens. “Done.”

Oh, how I admire this man.

He’s a good friend to Zach and the best friend I could ever dream of. His looks ensured he was the hottest high schooler at the lycée Français in Kathmandu. The two or three girls he dated while in Nepal used to burst with pride to be seen on his arm.

According to Marguerite, Noah was in love with me while he was in high school. And according to her, he still is. She’s hinted countless times how happy she’d be to see us together. Even my parents might forget about the “heaven-sent” Brahmin who has asked for my hand if the alternative is Noah. I should be thrilled about all of this. And I’m sure I will be as soon as I get over that lustful thing I feel for Zach.

There are a gazillion excellent reasons why I should.

Zach is my employer. He’s Noah’s teammate and friend. Unlike Noah who speaks Nepali better than I speak French, Zach has never been to my country and knows nothing about my culture. He’s a divorced single dad, whom my parents would never approve of.

And, as if all of that wasn’t enough, he’s interested in another woman—Noah’s foxy landlady Sophie. He’s about to take her out on a date.

The reason I know this is because he’s asked me to babysit Sam when he does.

The whole idea of Uma joining Sam and me for our weekly swimming pool session had nothing to do with me wanting to see her legs.

Nothing at all.

At home, both Uma’s and my bedrooms have an en suite bathroom. Uma always comes down to breakfast fully dressed. Respectful of her modesty, I do the same. Once or twice, I’ve bumped into her late at night in the second-floor hallway, both of us rushing to Sam’s room because he made a suspicious sound. She wore an oversized long-sleeved T-shirt and pajama pants.

In mid-July.

As for her daytime T-shirt and jeans “uniform,” she favors shirts that hang loose and low over her hips.

Naturally, my imagination has been running wild.

Not that I lust after her, or anything like that. It would be pointless with someone as off-limits as Uma, and I have no time or inclination for pointless pursuits. What goes on here is just normal, male curiosity about the shape of the young woman I see every day.

Nothing more.

Add to that the unfortunate circumstance that it’s been ages since I had time for a relationship—even a short-term one—so it’ll come as no surprise that I keep speculating about Uma’s legs.

As well as other parts…

Right. Off-limits, remember?

Anyway, now that Sam has two nannies—Mathilde for mornings and Uma for afternoons and an occasional evening—I’m free to pursue the beautiful Sophie whom Noah set me up with.

And I will. Soon.

“Papa, you’re not even trying to catch the ball!” Sam shouts, breaking me from my thoughts.

Shit.

I’m supposed to be teaching him to shoot. My son is floating a few meters away, decked out in full gear including a water polo cap, goggles, and yellow inflatable armbands. Uma is doing cheat laps at the other end of the pool. She swims crosswise, admittedly because her poor swimming skills won’t allow her to do proper laps down the length of the pool. I suspect she also wants to stay out of our hair… and firing range.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” I say to Sam. “Try again.”

He nods and throws his junior-sized ball.

I catch it.

We go on practicing until Sam declares he’s tired and needs a break ten minutes later.

I swim to him. “You’re doing great. Your precision has improved a lot since last month!”

“Can I try to shoot, too?” Uma calls out from across the pool.

It’s just the three of us here, which is a true luxury and unusual even at this small-town pool on a weekday morning.

“You want to teach her?” I ask Sam.

He nods with enthusiasm.

We swim toward Uma who’s still refusing to venture from the shallow end.

“First, we’ll practice on firm ground,” Sam says, going all bossy.

Uma climbs out of the pool.

Sam shinnies up the ladder behind her.

I follow, feasting my eyes on her body.

Uma is wearing a navy blue one-piece, no doubt the thickest and most conservatively cut she could find on the market. It stretches over her small breasts, effectively flattening them to a mere hint. The high neckline of her garment reaches her throat, and its legs are cut so low, the swimsuit looks like a prewar vintage piece.

Still, it reveals parts of her body I’ve never seen.

Her legs are slender and very nicely shaped with slim ankles and smooth, lithe thighs. She has lovely, narrow hips that taper to a thin waist. Her butt is adorable. It’s compact and curved just so, each cheek about the size of the ball I’m gripping in my hand right now. If I were holding one of her butt cheeks instead, it would fit just as snugly.

Shit. Where did that come from?

I hand the ball to Sam.

He motions me to stand by the wall. “You’ll be the goalie.”

“Oui, monsieur.”

He turns to Uma. “It’s easy. Just grab the ball and throw like this.”

He pretends to throw with one hand and passes her the ball. She takes her first shot.

“No!” Sam cries out in frustration. “Not with both hands and not from the chest! Didn’t you see how I did it?”

“Sorry,” she says. “My attention must’ve slipped.”

Was it because she was staring at me?

I doubt it. She’s supposed to be into Noah. It’s just my sick imagination.

“OK,” Sam says. “Maybe Papa can explain it better. I’ll be the goalie.”

He marches to the wall where I’m standing and motions with his head for me to take his place by Uma’s side.

Nice show of leadership, I note with pride, bumping his fist. Way to go, kid!

As I plant myself next to Uma, she hands me the ball. It’s too small for me, but since the size of Uma’s hands is somewhere between Sam’s and mine, this ball is perfect for her.

“What you need to do,” I say, “is to spread your pinky and thumb wide for a good grip. Like this.”

She nods, eyes on my hand.

I rotate it so she can see better what I’m doing. “Use your middle finger to adjust the position of the ball and let it sit in your hand, nice and snug.”

She looks up, smiling. “Seems easy enough.”

“Try it.”

Uma grabs the ball, splaying her fingers like I showed her.

“Good,” I say. “Now point your left shoulder toward the goal. Right leg and hip back. Raise your arm and pull it back a little, cradle the ball—arm rigid—and throw.”

As I speak, I show her what to do, and she mimics my motions. When she’s ready, she shoots. The ball hits the deck a few meters short of Sam’s goal.

She rolls her eye. “That was pathetic.”

“First shots always are.” I pat her delicate shoulder before glancing at my watch. “Sam can coach you a bit more in our garden this afternoon if you’d like.”

“Will you, Sam?” She gives him a pleading look.

He beams before schooling his features into a sober expression. “OK.”

I point to the pool. “Now, Samuel, why don’t we get back in there for some eggbeater practice before we leave.”

“Yay!” Sam runs toward the edge of the deck and jumps into the water.

I follow him.

“What’s eggbeater?” Uma asks, returning to the pool.

“A water treading technique to stay upright and have your hands free.”

She blinks. “Is that possible?”

“Of course,” I grin. “How else do you think we can play a ball game in a pool when we aren’t allowed to touch the floor?”

“Oh.”

“Watch me!” Sam shouts to her. “I turn my feet out, like a duck, big toe to shin. Left, right. Left, right.”

She widens her eyes. “Wow.”

“Knees wider,” I instruct Sam. “You can’t jump out of the water with tight knees. Faster legs. Stretch them out more. You want to pull as much water as you can.”

He tries harder, putting all he’s got into his practice. I observe and comment. Uma grabs the rail and tries to imitate what Sam is doing.

“How’s this?” Sam cries out, panting. “Am I doing good?”

I open my mouth to say he’s doing great when he begins to blink rapidly. Then his body starts to convulse.

Lunging at him, I pull him out of the water as fast as I can and lay him down on his right side, sticking my hand under his head.

Uma runs up to us, a look of panic on her face.

“It’s OK.” I stroke Sam’s pale cheek, not quite sure if my words are for Uma, Sam, or myself.

Probably all three of us.

Sam will come to in a couple of minutes, feeling tired and a little dazed after his seizure. Then I’ll take him home.

The party’s over.