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— I don’t know, he says slowly, turning back to her.

— I haven’t been to London in ages, she argues. — And never for any length of time.

He shakes his head. — You’d hate it. These training sessions, they’re endless. We spend all day in the simulator. We have classes at night. We eat with the British crews. I’d never see you. We wouldn’t be able to do anything.

— I’m pretty good at entertaining myself, she says. And then she wonders suddenly why she needs to argue this proposal at all.

— Then what’s the point of going when I’m over there? he asks somewhat dismissively. — You might as well go by yourself.

Stung, she bites the inside of her cheek.

— Listen, he says apologetically, — I’d just be frustrated the whole time, knowing you were back in the hotel, knowing we could be doing London together. These sessions are bad enough. I don’t think the extra pressure is a good idea.

She studies his face. A handsome face, a face people turn to look at when they walk by.

— I’ll tell you what, he says. — Why don’t you come over at the end of the session, and we’ll go to Spain. I’ll take some time off, and we’ll fly to Madrid. No, better yet: I’ll meet you there.

He seems more animated now, relieved to have worked out this compromise.

— We’ll do Barcelona, too, he says. — Barcelona is great.

— You’ve been there? she asks.

— No, he says quickly. — I’ve just heard about it.

She thinks about a trip to Spain with Jack. It would be enjoyable, she knows, but Spain isn’t really what she had in mind. Jack will still be away from her for two weeks, away from Mattie for longer. She wanted to go to London.

Over Jack’s shoulder, Kathryn can see that Barbara McElroy is watching her intently. Barbara, who knows what it is like to be left for long periods of time.

— Sounds like a date, Kathryn says, forcing a note of cheer.

— Hey, Lyons, a voice calls from above the blanket. Kathryn looks up and squints into the glare of the overcast sky. Sonny Philbrick, a man with a pronounced beer belly under his Patriots T-shirt, kicks Jack playfully in the foot.

— Hey, Sonny, Jack says.

— So how’s the airline business? Sonny asks.

— Oh, fine, Jack says. — How’s the video business?

— Hangin’ in there. So where you off to now?

Kathryn busies herself with the picnic.

Jack draws his feet in from the edge of the tablecloth. He won’t stand up, she knows, because he doesn’t want to encourage Philbrick. Philbrick’s son, who is Mattie’s age, is a slight boy with a pretty face — a chess wizard, possibly a prodigy.

— London, Jack says.

— London, huh?

— London, Jack repeats. Kathryn can hear the effort to be polite in her husband’s voice. They both know where this conversation is going. The same place all of Jack’s conversations with men like Philbrick go.

— For how long? Philbrick asks, looking straight at Kathryn.

— Two weeks, Jack says.

— Two weeks! Philbrick bends backward in mock surprise.

— You over there with those stewardesses for two weeks, man, you better behave yourself.

Philbrick winks slyly at Kathryn. Philbrick would have been the class bully in school, she decides.

— Flight attendants, Jack says.

— Hey, whatever.

— Actually, Jack says slowly and evenly, — I try to screw around as much as I possibly can.

For just a second, Philbrick’s face loosens with incomprehension. Then he grins, jabs the air with his paper cup. He laughs too loudly, causing others to look up at him from nearby blankets.

— Lyons, you’re something else, you know that?

There is an awkward pause then. Jack doesn’t respond.

— Well, see you at the game, Philbrick says. — You’re gonna play, right?

Jack nods, turns toward the picnic basket as if looking for something inside. Kathryn watches Philbrick walk away.

— Jesus, Jack says under his breath.

AT THE GATE, THEY STOOD APART FROM THE OTHERS. Beyond the plate-glass windows, large mounds of improbably still-white snow stood guard over the apron. Robert had his overcoat folded twice and set upon a molded plastic seat. He had put his overnight bag