Now it’s just the two of us. Feeling awkward, I start to say good-bye at the same time that he says, “Are you from around here?”

“Yes,” I say. “What about you?”

“Overland Park.”

“Shawnee Mission district?”

He nods. “I went to West.”

“I went to East.”

“When did you graduate?”

“Ninety-four,” I say.

“I was ninety-one.”

That makes him thirty-seven. There’s another awkward lull. Neither of us say anything but when he smiles and looks at me, all the nerve endings in my body start vibrating, as if he can generate an electric current by virtue of his expression and his proximity. Strange, because until now I’ve never been one to swoon over a man in uniform. My feet move, seemingly of their own volition, and I take two steps toward him.

“I like your hat,” he says.

“Thanks.” I realize I’m staring and finally break eye contact. “Do you like working the parade?” I ask. Maybe this is a welcome change from his usual police responsibilities.

“Sure. It’s fairly tame. Later is when it gets ugly,” he says. “Holidays and hot weather bring out the worst in people. Lots of alcohol abuse. We’ll see a spike in domestic assaults.”

“That’s horrible,” I say, thinking of the fights that will break out later and the fact that there will be children in many of those households. The sound of the marching band draws nearer. “I hope I’m not in your way,” I say to Daniel, embarrassed that maybe I’m keeping him from doing his job.

He smiles and shakes his head. “You’re not.”

Elisa returns. “Skip said they’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“Do you have kids marching in the parade?” Daniel asks.

“Yes. Our sons are with the Cub Scouts, and my daughter is with her dance studio,” I say. “They were really excited.”

“How old are they?” he asks.

“Jordan is seven and Josh is nine. Elisa’s son, Travis, is ten.” Out of the corner of my eye I see the marchers approaching. I hear the sound of the band, including the loud crash of the cymbals and the distant roar created by a large number of cheering children. Elisa gives Daniel a quick wave and says, “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” he says.

“I better go,” I say.

“It was nice to meet you, Claire.”

“It was nice to meet you, too. Thanks for checking on the sign.”

“Sure,” he says. “Have a good day.”

Elisa and I make our way back to our chairs. A few minutes later, Chris and Skip and the kids walk up to us and soon three enthusiastic voices are telling me about the parade, and I switch gears and give Josh, Jordan, and Travis my full attention. They want to go to the carnival now; it’s all they can talk about. We tell them to be patient and that we’ll head over in a minute. Chris gathers up my chair and the one I brought for him and we prepare to relocate. I grab the blanket and a small cooler that contains beer, water, and pop.

“Let me carry that,” he says, taking the cooler from me.

“How did the kids do?” I ask.

“They got tired near the end, but they had a great time.”

“Good.”

He studies me for a second. “You’re dressed up,” he says.

I glance down at my outfit and notice that one of the kids has already slimed me with a smear of something sticky and blue. I rub at it with my finger, which only makes it worse. “A little bit,” I say.

Chris loves skirts. When we were first dating I wore them all the time, especially after he told me how good he thought I looked in them. “You look nice,” he says, smiling at me.

“Thanks,” I say, and smile back at him. I can’t remember the last time he paid me a compliment. He sets off toward the park, hurrying to catch up with the kids, who are trying to sprint ahead, and I follow him.

We buy wristbands and the kids stand in line for each ride, despite my observation that they all look a bit rickety. Sandwiched between Josh and Travis, Jordan waves frantically at me as the Ferris wheel begins to move, transporting them high in the sky. I smile at the joy on her face. When the ride ends we follow them as they rush to the next one. After they’ve ridden everything at least once, Jordan gets her face painted like a tiger while Josh and Travis eat corndogs and drink fresh-squeezed lemonade. When Jordan is done I buy her a cone of pink cotton candy and laugh when some of it sticks to her whiskers. “Don’t wipe it off,” she says, worried that I will smudge the paint. The kids jump in the biggest bounce house I’ve ever seen and, miraculously, no one throws up. Shortly before 9:00 P.M. we choose a grassy spot and settle into our chairs, the four adults sitting side by side and the kids on the blanket in front of us to watch the display. The crowd cheers when the first round of fireworks explodes in the night sky.

Daniel is out there somewhere, I imagine. Leaning against his patrol car, watching the fireworks.

Keeping everyone safe.

When we return home I hustle the kids off to bed. They’re hot and dirty, and need showers, but they’re so tired I decide the world won’t stop turning if we wait until morning. Besides, there’s no way Jordan will part with the tiger makeup just yet. Despite the late hour, Chris sits down on the couch and powers up his laptop. “You’re going to work?” I ask.

He looks up at me. “I need to get a head start on these reports.” His desire to prove himself to his new boss is all-encompassing, and I know he’s eager to prove his worth, to make himself indispensable to the company. I’ve had years to adapt to his workaholic nature, and I should be used to it by now, but I’m not. When we were younger and newly married it didn’t bother me as much. He wasn’t out at the bars like the husbands of some of my friends (or, God forbid, the strip clubs), and I took pride in the fact that Chris had his head on straight and I never had to worry about where he’d been.

I didn’t miss him as much back then because we still spent plenty of time together, preferring each other’s company over anyone else’s. I’d wait up for him and he’d come home at eight or nine, or sometimes even ten, and loosen his tie and I’d heat up whatever I’d made for dinner. He’d eat and we’d make love and if we didn’t get to sleep until after midnight, it didn’t matter. I had the boundless energy of a woman in her early twenties, and sleep was a commodity I hadn’t yet learned to cherish the way I would after the kids came along.

We’d only been married for six months when we decided to start a family. When I got pregnant I spent some of the hours that Chris was at work turning one of the three bedrooms in our cozy little starter home into the perfect nursery. I agonized over what color to paint the walls, choosing a gender-neutral shade of light green since we didn’t want to find out the sex of the baby. We picked out the furniture and Chris put the crib together one night while I hung up all the clothes that I’d prewashed, holding the outfits up to my nose and inhaling the fresh, clean smell. The dresser held tiny pairs of socks and sleepers, and the bookcase in the corner contained all my childhood favorites as well as the entire Dr. Seuss collection.

When Josh was born I took to mothering with a vigor that surprised me, blocking everything but the baby out of my life. When my maternity leave was almost over I gave my employer my two weeks’ notice and decided to go the freelance route so I could work from home. I breast-fed, so Chris didn’t have much to do except make sure the car seat was installed properly and make diaper runs. For months, Josh and I cuddled in the rocking chair in the nursery, with the middle-of-the-night feedings quickly becoming my favorite. I was exhausted at first, but the glow of the night-light and the absolute stillness of the house—and Josh’s contented sigh—satisfied me more than anything in my life ever had.

Chris stood in the doorway one evening when he got home from work, watching as I fed Josh. “Do you need anything?” he asked.