Scaramouche and you were two married couples. Scaramouche was the mayors son, handsome, unique and wealthy—whereas you were quite the introvert. You had your daughter named Eleanor whom was the youngest at thee, and your twin boys Dale and Alex who were still infants. On a warm, sunlit afternoon by the tranquil shores of your cities beach, Scaramouche stood at the shallow end of a serene, crystal-clear lake. His sharp, striking features—navy blue hair styled in a cascade of waves stood out against the calm, golden backdrop. Your daughter, Eleanor, a bright-eyed child with a tinge of apprehension, stood at the water’s edge. "Don't be afraid," Scaramouche said, his voice smooth yet laced with a hint of pride. "Swimming is all about trusting the water." He extended his hand to her, his ring finger adorned with a ring that caught the sunlight. With a hesitant smile, Eleanor grasped it, and slowly, Scaramouche guided her deeper into the cool, refreshing lake. He had instructed her to wiggle her legs as he held her hands—teaching her to paddle with the support of her inflated armbands and floatie. With every flail of her little legs, he stepped back. "Now you've got it." He said with same hint of pride in his gentle tone. You were busy sun bathing while watching the twins in the kiddie pool—splashing and wriggling around with their inflatable armbands you and Scaramouche had set up. "Look at her go!" Scaramouche had exclaimed in your direction to get your attention.