Sugar & Spice
By S. Faith, © 2007

Words: 1,722
Rating: K
Summary: Wife, mother, peacekeeper… happy.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my universe. I just can't leave well enough alone.
Notes: Came to me one night in the shower. Movie-universe.

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She watches her hellion of a daughter running around, hyped up on sugar and attention, and realises she has never been so happy. Ever.

Just a few years ago she never would have believed it. She used to be convinced she would end up a lonely spinster because it seemed all of her contemporaries were getting married off and she felt she never would be. When she least suspected it, though, long after she'd given up even trying, a quiet, reserved man snuck into her life and stole her heart away, and her life was never the same. She glances over to where he is tending to the franks on the grill, dark hair just starting to thin and lighten with grey, and as if sensing her eyes upon him, his eyes raise to meet hers. He smiles and the late summer sun can't compete with the radiance of it.

An aggravated shriek cuts through the serenity of it all, and she can't help but laugh—it's because her daughter's quarry, a taller, blond boy a couple of years older than she is, has sped up out of her reach and made good his escape. Already chasing boys around at her tender age.

One thing she is sure of: she was never as much trouble as her little girl is, or so obstinate. She thinks of the curse all mothers put on their daughters—I hope your daughter is exactly like you were—but even still she thinks she's gotten more than she deserves. She can see where the child has left a trail of food, fruit punch, even socks and shoes in her wake there in the yard. Even though it's a lot of work keeping up with her, she's a joy even when she's at her most difficult, and she wouldn't trade it for anything.

Taking in the scene around her, she never thought she would have wanted something so mundane as to be a wife and mother, never thought she'd be a mortgagee, but she's indescribably happy with her little family. She joins her husband of five years for a frank and some potato salad, sips on some lemonade, and chats with the married couple that's joined them. The lady of the pair is one of her longtime friends; she had married into money and moved out to this town north of London several years before she and her husband were able to.

After a few minutes she realises her daughter has gone quiet, and she looks around, because that usually means trouble. Before she can become too panicked, she spots the little blonde, mouth open with laughter as the blond boy chases her back towards the picnic table. She realises the girl's dress has disappeared and her wild blonde locks have become soaked with water and are stuck to her face and neck. There's no stopping her now, though, not for hot dogs, salad or even more fruit punch.

The friends excuse themselves to mingle, and her husband gives her a meaningful look. He thinks she indulges their daughter a little too much, but it's so difficult to stifle her in any way—not just metaphorically, but literally, because she's a bundle of energy and it's actually pretty difficult to do so. Anyway, kids should be kids, she tells herself philosophically, free to run around, explore, do what they want—as long as they're not hurting themselves or others.

"Pardon me."

She turns to see a boy standing there next to where she's sitting, the child of the couple she'd only just been talking to. Until they had gotten settled into their new house and closer to her long-time friend, she hadn't seen him since before she was married; he was a little younger then than her daughter is now. He's grown into a quiet boy, shy, and always so serious-looking for his age. Even today he's dressed more for Sunday service than he is for a picnic. She realises her daughter's dress is in his hand.

He continues, holding the dress up: "She sure runs around a lot, doesn't she?"

"Yes, she does," she replies, relieving him of it. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, ma'am," he replies. She smiles at his manners; he's always so polite.

"Are you having a good time today?" she asks of him. She has noticed on the other occasions she's seen him that he likes to keep to himself. He's such a bright, interesting child that she always feels the need to draw him out, get him to socialise. She knows from experience that the quiet ones turn out to be the most worth knowing.

He nods. "I was over there in the shade, but the younger kids kept bothering me, so I went over to see what that was." He points to the dress again. "I'm a lot older than they are," he adds, very matter-of-factly.

She chuckles, remembering how two or three years are like decades to children under ten years old. "How old are you now?"

"Eight."

"Ah. Quite the little man." She smiles. "You'll be going off to school soon, I imagine."

He looks a little nervous, and for a moment she wonders if she's put her foot in it, if his mother and father haven't told him yet about going to Eton. But he takes a reassuring breath—such an adult gesture for a child of eight—and says, "Yes. In a few years."

"You'll do very well there, I'm sure," she says with a grin.

He smiles quite tentatively, looks like he might have more to say, but their conversation is interrupted by an ear-shattering wail, and this time it is more than just the frustrated cry of a child who's been outrun by the boy she was playing chase with. Her eyes dash quickly around the scene and locate her daughter, who's sprawled on the ground, half in the wading pool, and half in the grass.

Bounding to her, she sweeps her crying daughter up in her arms, searching for signs of injury. Thankfully there are no cuts, no scrapes, no limbs angled wrongly; it's just wounded pride, she thinks. "Are you all right, sweetheart?" she coos as she sits again on her claimed metal folding chair.

She snuffles an explanation through her tears and the best her mother can tell is that the blond boy, Nigel, pushed her down out of his way and onto her bottom. She's such a little instigator, though, that it's hard to know if it was unprovoked. "Oh, there, there," she says, smoothing down the girl's hair, attempting to wipe the tears from her face, comforting her so that she'll stop crying.

"Is she all right?" comes an inquisitive young male voice.

She looks to her friend's son again. His fine brown brows are drawn together in obvious concern. She replies, "She's fine. Nigel knocked her over."

"Are you going to tell his mum?"

She holds her daughter to her chest to soothe her, and it works; she's stopped crying. She looks to the boy, shaking her head.

"But he's always picking on her," he says decisively. "His mum should punish him."

"It's okay."

"But it's only fair he should be punished," he insists, "for picking on kids smaller than he is. He's a bully."

"It's all right, thank you," she says firmly, as the girl wriggles out from her mother's embrace to stand beside her, looking up at her young defender as her mother slips her back into her dress. "She's fine now, you can see that," she adds in a gentler tone. "If you want to help, you can take her to get another small slice of cake."

The girl turns her bright blue eyes on her mum, a broad smile overtaking her small face even though her cheeks are still shining with wetness. "Cake!" her daughter exclaims, jumping up and down, dancing and spinning in circles with her hands over her head.

"But it's not fair," the boy reiterates feebly.

"Sometimes it is, sometimes it's not," she says. "Some battles are worth fighting, but this one… well, she's more interested in chocolate cake right now."

"Cake!" the girl screams again, grabbing his hand impatiently. "Cake now!"

His reluctant smile surfaces again. "Okay."

………

The sun is riding fairly close to the horizon before her daughter finally crashes sound asleep, and she thinks it might be their cue to head home. She finds her husband and he nods, gingerly taking his daughter into his arms. The girl stirs but doesn't wake, and she looks so much like an angel it's difficult to remember she's the same impish girl who pitched a fit about coming in the first place. It was only the promise of cake and playing in the pool that convinced her it might be worth it and actually, she's a little relieved that her daughter has fallen asleep, or she might be pitching a fit now about having to leave.

"Thank you for coming," says the eight-year-old boy, looking a little worn out himself, but even still holding his hand out to her. His parents look on. They are obviously very pleased with the fine boy their son is, his good qualities hinting strongly at the fine man he would probably would grow up to be.

"Thank you for inviting us," she says, taking the proffered hand and shaking it. "I hope you had a good birthday."

"Yes, I did. Thank you very much for the paint set."

"You're welcome."

"Thank you, too, sir," says the boy as he turns to her husband but his hands are full with their limp daughter and he can't really afford to offer his hand, so he smiles and nods, and the boy understands. He starts to turn away. She and his mother exchange smiles.

"Mark," she calls after him, "thank you for looking out for Bridget today."

He turns back and proudly beams at receiving such a compliment from an adult. "You're welcome, Mrs Jones."

She watches her friends' house recede into the distance through the rear window as they exit the crescent-shaped drive, then turns to face forward, glancing at her husband and smiling happily at him before turning to her daughter sleeping soundly in her arms. Yes, Mrs Jones, she thinks, life is very good indeed in Grafton Underwood.

The end.