It was nothing like Todd and Clare’s own house. Real life didn’t happen in this place. There were no muddy hiking boots strewn in the entryway ready to trip up the unwary, no gouges on the table, weatherproof jackets, or school bags. No reminder of jobs to be done. Everything, from the art on the walls to the hand-carved wooden sculpture, had been carefully curated.

She opened the glass doors that led to the balcony, noticing that the previous occupants had moved the furniture. They’d been honeymooners and had barely emerged from the boathouse all week, captivated by the romance of the place.

Would Jack be expecting a romantic escape with his new friend? What would she think of the peace and calm of the lake?

Where would Clare take her if she needed a city fix?

The home of Beatrix Potter, or Wordsworth, wouldn’t be enough.

She walked into the kitchen, telling herself that keeping his girlfriend entertained was Jack’s responsibility not hers. And presumably he’d be thoughtful about it. He’d have the children with him and Jack was above everything else an excellent father.

She made herself a coffee and took it onto the balcony. As teenagers, she and Becca had brought their sleeping bags here and “camped” in the boathouse. At the time it had been exciting, but Clare had reached the age where she preferred luxury.

The irony was that she wouldn’t have been able to afford what they charged to stay in this place. It always shocked her what people were prepared to pay, but as Todd always said their “normal” was another person’s dream. And it was dreamy.

The reed beds provided a refuge for birds during the winter, and protection during the nesting season. It was usual to see cormorants and ospreys, as well as kingfishers. She watched as dragonflies danced together across the surface of the water, their iridescent bodies catching the light.

Maybe she’d put a bottle of wine in the fridge and persuade Todd to come over and watch the sunset. Or maybe they should spend a night here. They could sleep with the doors open, and breakfast on the balcony before the world was awake. It was her favorite time on the lake, when the surface had a glassy stillness.

It would be romantic.

She could almost hear Becca laughing. Romantic to Becca was Paris, or Rome, not a boathouse on a lake. She’d never understood Clare’s contentment with the small things in life. She’d always wanted the big things.