Free Beautiful Malice by Rebecca James

, I think, a real fight. Our first one .
    Just the way friends do.

11
    S arah and I get to the mountains before five. I love it here: the slow, relaxed pace of it, the cool, brittle air and the beautiful man-made lake. It has become much more cosmopolitan since we used to visit as kids, with cafés and restaurants lining the main street, but it still has a sleepy country feel to it. I think it’s because of the wide streets and the slightly abandoned feel of the town.
    I’ve booked a little cottage in a site near the lake, unimaginatively named Lake Cabins, but I’m pleased with our cabin when we arrive and have a look around. It’s already warm, as the owner has been kind enough to turn on the heat in anticipation of our arrival, and has a small deck that overlooks the lake.
    “But where is the snow?” Sarah rushes to the window and peers outside, pressing her small hands against the panes.
    “There’s none here, sweetie. But we’ll catch the special train up the mountain tomorrow and we’ll see lots and lots of snow.”
    “Is it a magic train?”
    “I think so,” I say.
    “A magic snow train?”
    “Exactly.” I nod.
    “Can I play outside?”
    “For a little while,” I tell her. “It’s getting dark.”
    I help Sarah put on her fleece jacket and her boots, and she sets off outside, squealing and excited to be in a new place.
    “Don’t go near the water without Mommy,” I remind her.
    I get the box of groceries—milk, tea, sugar, cereal—from the trunk of the car and bring it inside. I can see Sarah from the kitchen, and as I unpack and start our dinner I watch her digging in the ground with a stick, talking to herself in a happy singsong voice. I’ve brought basil, garlic, and pine nuts, and the rest of the ingredients I need to make a pesto with spaghetti. I’ve also brought lettuce and an avocado to make a green salad, and some balsamic vinegar to dress it with.
    When I’ve processed the pesto, made the salad, and put a big pot of water on the stove to boil, I put my jacket on and go outside. I sit on the deck and watch Sarah play.
    “Mommy?” she says after a while, without looking up from her game.
    “Yes?”
    “Mommy. Are you happy?”
    “Of course I am.” I’m surprised by the seriousness of her voice. “I’ve got you, so I’m very, very, very happy. I’m the luckiest mommy in the whole world. You know that.”
    “I know.” She nods seriously. “I know you’re happy about that part. But are you sad because you don’t have a daddy?”
    “But I do have a daddy. Grandpa is my daddy.”
    She pauses for a moment, thinking. Then she looks up at me, her brows knotted in thought. “I mean a daddy for me, that’s what I mean. Are you sad that you don’t have a daddy for me?”
    “I’m a little bit sad.” My instinct is to go to Sarah, to pick her up and cuddle her and tickle her and smother her with kisses. I would much rather avoid these sad discussions; they are too intense, too painful, I think, for such a little girl. But I know from experience that she wants these questions answered and that she will keep asking and asking until she’s satisfied. “I miss your daddy, and I wish he hadn’t died. But you make me so very happy that I’m much more happy than I am sad.”
    She smiles, a small, tentative smile of relief.
    And I wonder if it’s true. Happiness is such a hard emotion to quantify. There are moments when I’m happy, certainly, moments with Sarah when I forget who I am and what has happened, moments when I can forget the past completely and enjoy the present. But there is a weight about me, a deep sadness, a feeling of disappointment with the capriciousness of life that is hard to shrug off, hard to ignore. There are times when I realize that days and weeks have gone by without my registering them, as though I’ve been absent, or living life on some kind of automatic pilot. Sometimes I feel as if I’m a robot programmed only to ensure that Sarah is looked