Michaels, Kasey - Be My Baby Tonight.html

To my father, Eddie Charles, —the only man I know
who can keep tabs on games on two television sets, <>monitor
a third on the radio, and do a crossword puzzle, <>all at the
same time—who gifted me with his passion for all sports.

One time I got pulled over at four a.m. I was fined
seventy-five dollars for being intoxicated
and four hundred for being with the Phillies.

I think everybody gets caught up in superstitions.
But I don't put much stock in them—knock on wood.

The sun shone brightly, with a better than average breeze blowing out to right, making it a good day
at the plate for a left-handed hitter.

The stands were full for the Sunday afternoon home game, because it was July, and because the Phillies were actually still in the race after the All-Star break. Usually, they were pretty well out of it by late June. Hell, there had been years when they had been crossed off by the sports columnists before spring training was over.

Phillies catcher Tim "the Tiger" Trehan stood in the on—deck circle, swinging his weighted bat, watching the reliever's windup, as the guy was newly traded from the American League, and this was the first time the Phillies had seen him pitch other than a single inning during spring training.

Tim smiled as Dusty got up, not bothering to dust himself off, because what would be the point? Dusty attracted dirt like a magnet collected iron filings, and had been given the nickname Dusty only because Charles Shultz had already named one of his Peanuts characters Pigpen.

Tim's grin widened as his manager, Sam Kizer, his face beefsteak red, hung on the dugout railing and yelled to the first-base coach to by damn keep Dusty's ass glued on first or he'd—Sam shut up before
he said the words Tim was pretty sure he'd heard before, because the manager had recendy begun an anger management course, at the request of the team owners.

Tim's head went up as Rich Craig popped to shallow left, making the second out, and leaving Jeff
Kolecki stuck at third, Dusty still hanging on first. The first-base coach had probably grabbed Dusty by the uniform belt, to keep him from trying to tag up and take second. The kid was fast, but nobody was that fast.

Two out, runners at the corners, and Tim was up. Bottom of the eighth, down six to five, and the Braves were sure to bring in their ace closer in the ninth, planning to shut the door on the Phillies' comeback
that had begun in the sixth, when they had scored those five runs after Tim's lead-off double.

It was time. It was his time. It was what he'd been born to do, all he'd ever wanted to do.

Tapping his bat on the ground to knock the doughnut weight free, Tim then stepped to the plate,
oblivious to the yells from the stands, the blowing horns, the waving white towels, the word Charge! flashing on the screen next to the Scoreboard.

"A real bitch having to strap on your gear in a hurry after making the last out," Tony Rodriguez, the Atlanta Braves catcher, said, lifting his mask to grin at Tim.

"Nah, Tone," Tim said, smiling back at him, because the two men were friends. "The bitch is standing
at the plate with your jock strap flapping, watching three runs come across after I land one in the right field bleachers."

"In your dreams, Trehan," Rodriguez said with a laugh, pulling down the mask once more as he folded himself into his crouch behind the plate.

Tim went into his usual ritual, born in Little League, and never varied. He put out the barrel of the bat, ready to draw an imaginary line across the center of the plate.

He was holding a crutch. And his left leg was in a metal brace from ankle to thigh.

"Time!" he called out, stepping out of the batter's box as he wiped at his eyes. He looked at his bat.
It was a bat again. No brace on his leg.

He went back over to the on-deck circle, grabbed the pine tar rag, made a business out of rubbing down his bat before returning to the batter's box.

Tim took two quick half swings before cocking the bat over his left shoulder, another ritual, then looked to the pitcher's mound.

And there stood Jim Harris, leaning forward, his gaze locked on the catcher's, shaking off a pitch.

White one. With a big skirt and a veil and everything. His mitt was gone, and he was holding a bouquet
of white roses.

"Hey," Rodriguez said, standing up. "You thinking Jimbo's going to get too old to pitch, waiting on you?"

"Funny, Tony," Tim said, blinking. "I've got something in my eye." He looked out at the mound, and there was Harris, in his uniform again. "I'm okay now."

"Play ball," the umpire said, pushing up at his chest protector as he hunched behind Rodriguez.

Tim took two more quick half swings, cocked the bat, then trained his gaze on Harris. He figured a
curve ball, high and tight, for the first pitch. And he was ready for it

What he wasn't ready for was the baby—a grinning, giggling arm-waving baby—that came winging through the air, released by Harris, and heading straight for the plate.

"No!" Tim yelled, jackknifing to a sitting position in his bed, his eyes still closed, his arms stuck out in front of him to catch the baby. "No!"

Tim opened his eyes as Dusty Johnson shook him by the shoulder. He blinked in the light Dusty had turned on between the two beds, looked at the rookie standing there in his BVD's and Superman shirt,
his bright red hair standing on end like a rooster's.

Dropping his head into his hands, trying to control his breathing, Tim said succinctly, "Shit."

"The dream again?" Dusty asked, heading for the hotel room's small refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of grape juice. "Man, and you're supposed to be some sorta calmin' influence on me? That's the third time this week."

Tim stacked his pillows behind him and sat back. "Put a sock in it, Dusty," he said, glancing at the
clock. It was five in the morning, and he was sharing a hotel room in Pittsburgh with a guy who wore Superman T-shirts. And drank grape juice, for crying out loud.

Damn Sam and his psychology classes, which had ended with the veterans rooming with the rookies on the road. Rich Craig wouldn't even mention a bad dream. Hell, he'd have slept right through it, and had done so for most of last season.

"Dusty, toss me a can of Coke, okay?" he said, quickly popping the top when he caught it. "Rich ever
talk to you about... you know? My dreams?"

Dusty shook his head as he returned to his own bed, sat down cross-legged, and chugged half his Yoohoo. "Naw. Just said you get antsy once in a while, that's all. He figured I could handle it."

"Sure," Dusty said, finishing off his drink. "I'm used to gettin' up early. Do the milkin', you know?
You okay now?"

Tim rubbed a hand across his forehead, realized that his breathing had returned to normal. "Yeah, I am. Thanks."

"No problem. Which one was it? The crutch again? The weddin' gown? I like that one. Pay down real cash money, I would, to see Jimmy Harris in a weddin' dress. Don't think I'd like to see a baby come wingin' at me, though. Does the baby say anythin'? You know? What does the baby say? Da-Da? Or maybe—duck!"

Tim put down his Coke, pressed both hands against his temples. "It was all three of them. First time
that ever happened. It's getting worse, a lot worse. I thought it would get better, but it just keeps
getting worse."

"Oh, man, that sucks, don't it? All of them? You know, maybe you oughta talk to the skipper. He's
doin' all that psychology stuff now. Maybe he'd know why you keep havin' these dreams."

Tim snorted. "Sam? You want me to talk to Sam? Cripes, Dusty, the man thinks anger control means throwing only one bat out onto the field and not his usual half dozen. Besides, nobody's getting me on
a couch."

"Right," Tim said, wide awake, knowing he wouldn't sleep for the rest of the night. And, since it must
be close to milking time somewhere in Dusty's internal clock, if the kid wanted to talk, they would talk.

''It's like a superstition, ain't it? Like wearin' the same socks, like you do when we're winnin'? You got yourself one big superstition."

Tim shrugged. "I guess. Something like that. We've all got superstitions; it's part of the game. But this is worse. This is like I've got this sword hanging over me, and the thread holding it is getting thinner and thinner, and there's nothing I can do to stop it..."

"I still don't get it, you know. So what if your brother got himself injured and outta the game? Got
himself a baby, a wife. You're not him, right?"

"I'm his twin, Dusty," Tim explained as he had several times before, reaching for the deck of cards he always kept on the table beside any bed he slept in, ever. "We've always done whatever the other one's done."

"Right," Tim said, dealing out the cards for solitaire. "Like breaking the same bones, like coming home with the same grades, like getting crushes on the same girl, like smashing up cars the same week. Jack's older— seven minutes—and he does stuff first, and I always follow."

He looked at the cards, saw he was already out of moves, and gathered them up in one hand. "Almost every damn time, I end up doing something the same as Jack has already done. Call it superstition, but I've been looking over my shoulder ever since Jack retired from the game."

"That long? Your brother had to quit baseball after that rotator cuff thing, right? That was over a year ago. You're still here, right?"

"Right. Except I missed the last month of the season last year after that finger surgery."

Tim dealt out the cards again, put a red queen on a black king. "I tore a tendon in the middle finger of
my throwing hand."

Red ten on the blackjack. "After the game," he said, not looking at his roommate. "In the club house, taking off my sock. I—I stuck my finger down into the sock, tried to pull it off my foot, and the damn tendon snapped."

"Sports writers seemed to think so. The jokes? Damn. But then they started making noises about the Trehan curse."

"Wow, a curse. Superstition's bad enough, but a curse? You mean, because your brother ripped his rotator cuff takin' off a sock?"

Dusty nodded.' 'So, okay, so Jack gets hurt, and everybody thinks you're next? Am I gettin' this?"

"Yeah, you're getting this. And I was, too, after never missing a game since I got beaned my senior year in high school." He lost another game of solitaire, picked up the cards, replaced them on the nightstand.
"I got away with it last year, with the tendon thing, but the clock's ticking. Any day now, Dusty, it could all be over.''

Dusty was silent for some moments, then grinned. "But you said only two out of five, right? From what you're tellin' me about these dreams, you've got three this time. Would that make it one out of three, do ya think? Do one, and the other two go away."

Tim shrugged. "I don't know. Yeah, okay. One out of three. Big damn deal. Out of the game? A baby
left on my doorstep, like Jack? Married? Cripes, Dusty, it's not like there's anything real good in those choices."

"There's nothin' too good about wakin' up almost every night, screamin' because you're havin' that
dream again. You struck out three times today, Tim. Not that it's my place to be sayin' nothin', you understand. You're still the best."

Pressing finger and thumb against the bridge of his nose, Tim let Dusty's words echo inside his head. O-for-three today. One-for-five yesterday. And that passed ball. Damn, that one hurt. Should have
been ruled a wild pitch, not a passed ball. Still, he was off his game, and he knew it.

"So," Dusty said, slipping his skinny, hairy legs under the covers once more, "which of the three is the worst? Leavin' the game, I'd say. Wouldn't you?"

Tim nodded. Leaving the game would be the worst. The very worst. He wasn't yet thirty, had plenty of good years ahead of him, even if Sam had started making noises about moving him to first base when Romero retired next year, to save his knees. As long as he could swing the bat, he had a home in Philly, and he knew it.

Dusty kicked off the covers, stood up. "Gotta go brush my teeth," he said, heading for the bathroom. "My ma'd skin me if she knew I didn't brush after that grape juice."

Tim absendy waved the kid into the bathroom, thinking about what Dusty had said. Yes, definitely. Leaving the game, being forced out of the game, was the worst of the three.

Sticking his head, and his foaming mouth sporting the handle end of a toothbrush, out of the bathroom, Dusty said, "No babies around, right? Rich said you're gettin' a new nickname—Tim 'the Monk' Trehan."

"Remind me to shoot some shaving cream into Rich's cleats," Tim said, pushing the pillows lower as he lay down, trying to believe he'd actually be able to fall back to sleep. They had one more game in Pittsburgh tonight, before having a day off and starting another home stand.

"Yeah, sure," Dusty said, smelling like mint as he crawled back into bed, then reaching toward the toggle on the bedside lamp. "Hey, I got it. One out of three, right?"

"I don't know. I never had the dream with all three in it before. Probably. But they're all lousy."

Dusty turned off the light, leaving the room dark and silent. Tim stared up toward the ceiling, Dusty's
last words going round and round inside his head.

Married? Get married? Sure, that would work. He could do that. Right after he jumped off a bridge....

Suzanna Trent stood outside the new Pittsburgh Pirates' stadium, not ten feet from the players'
entrance, wondering when it was she'd lost her mind.

It was bad enough that she'd bought tickets to the entire weekend series, then sat in right field, her binoculars trained on Tim Trehan as he squatted behind home plate, and each time he came up to bat.

But this was worse, much worse. What in hell had possessed her to bribe the guard with a twenty so
that she could get inside the gate, be there when the team members headed for the bus that had to be taking them to the airport and the trip back to Philadelphia?

Not that she'd ask him for his autograph. Why should she do that? She still had every note he'd ever passed to her in Mrs. Butterworth's world history class:

"Suze—you coming to practice? Bring my cleats, okay? They're in my locker."

"Suze—you think Mindy Frett will go to the dance with me Friday night? Ask her, Suze, okay?"

Oh, yeah. She still had every note. Had cried over most of them. She didn't need no steenking
autograph.

It was Sunday. So why hadn't she gone home to Allentown? Why had she stayed, gone to all three weekend games?

"Because you're certifiable, that's why," Suzanna grumbled to herself, hitching her large bag back up
on her shoulder, preparing to leave before Tim came out, saw her, and walked right past her without recognizing his old classmate, pal, and general gofer.

Yes, that was it. She wanted to see if he recognized her. Why not? She looked good. She looked
damn good.

Then again, anything would be an improvement over frizzy, carrot-orange hair, the teeth braces that
had nearly become a permanent part of her, and the baby fat she'd carried all the way into her early twenties.

God, the crush she'd had on the man. Ever since kindergarten, and straight through their senior year.

From the beginning, they had been together, thrown in close proximity through simple alphabetics.
Every classroom, every year, it was Trehan, Trehan, Trent. Jack, then Tim, then Suzanna. Every
blessed year.

She didn't call herself that. Inside her notebooks, where nobody could see, she'd scribbled, year after year: Mrs. Timothy Trehan.

Not that he'd ever had a clue. She'd have died if he'd known. If he'd laughed, told his brother, told
his friends. She would have just died.

It was Suzanna who had volunteered to be statistician for every team Tim had ever played on, just so
she could be near him. It was Suzanna who Tim had thought of as his great pal, his buddy, his friend,
his "good old Suze."

Thank God she'd wised up and not followed Jack and Tim to college. Instead, she'd deliberately headed to UCLA, as far away from Tim as she could get without leaving the continental United States.

She'd graduated near the top of her class, built herself a career, a damn good career, acting as a troubleshooter for a major software firm headquartered back in Allentown. She traveled the country
now, remained heart-free, and believed she had a pretty good head on her shoulders.

A head with short, tamed, now carefully colored dark mahogany hair with touches of soft blond highlights, atop slim shoulders that belonged to a size-eight body.

"Nothing good," she told herself, hitching up her purse once more as she stepped away from the
shadows, intent on getting herself out of here and back to sanity. She should have left long ago,
when the game had gone into extra innings, instead of sticking around until the bitter end.

Thing was, the door had just opened, and Suzanna found herself trying to fight the tide of yelling autograph seekers, from six-year-old boys to seventy-year-old grandfathers, that converged on the
area as if they had been tossed there by a tidal wave.

Suzanna looked down to see a young boy standing in front of her, a pair of crutches propped under his arms and a cast to his midthigh. Poor kid, he'd never make it through the crowd. She looked around, hoping to see a parent, but the kid seemed to be alone.

"Here, let me help you," Suzanna said, proving yet again that, yup, here she was, good old Suze.

Good old Suze used polite "pardon me's" and a couple of well-placed elbows as she helped the boy to
the front of the crowd just as Dusty Johnson—his shock of bright red hair easily recognizable—headed out of the door and toward the bus.

"Yo, Dusty," Suzanna called out, waving her hand high in the air. "Over here. There's a kid wants your autograph."

The rookie shortstop smiled, nodded, and headed for the crowd. "Yes, ma'am," he said, then bent down, lifted the boy's Phillies cap, and ruffled his hair. He ignored the other books and programs and hats being aimed at him and instead took the autograph book from the boy as he knelt down in front of him, getting on eye level with the kid. That was nice.

"See that triple I hit tonight, son? Did that just for you. Bet you didn't know that."

"Ah, man," the boy said, shifting on his crutches. "You're so cool. Sign it to Joe, okay? Not Joey. Joe."

"Got ya," Dusty said, scribbling on an empty page. Then he stood up, looked back at the door and
the few stragglers still heading for the bus. "Hey, Tim. Hey, roomie. C'mere. Sign this kid's book why
don't ya."

"Sure," Tim Trehan said, tossing a light jacket over his shoulder as he headed their way.

Time stopped. Reversed. Older yes, but he was still Tim. Her Tim. Long, lean, a ballplayer to his toes. Thick, unruly dark blond hair, with that lighter streak on the left, just above his temple. That same wide smile, those same whiter-than-white teeth against his constant tan. Those same bright colbalt blue eyes. That same lazy walk that some might call a swagger.

She'd know him in the dark, on the moon ... and in her dreams. Always in her dreams.

Suzanna could have done a quick melt into the crowd, except that it wouldn't be easy. Especially since she didn't want to move.

"Oh, man oh man. Tim Trehan. Tim the Tiger." The young boy nearly fell off his crutches as he leaned forward to get a better look at Tim.

"Hi, son, what's the other guy look like?" Tim asked, taking the autograph book and scribbling his name.

"Yes, sir," Joe said, nodding. "My mom'd kill me if I didn't. You okay, Tim? Sanchez hit you pretty
hard, huh?"

Suzanna, holding her breath, trying to pretend she was invisible, listened as Tim told the boy that he
was fine, that he'd been slid into plenty of times, blocking the plate.

"Yeah, but you were down for a while. My dad said it's the Trehan curse. Did you see him in the clubhouse? I'm waiting for him out here. He writes sports for our paper, you know? He said all the writers know."

Suzanna watched as Tim stiffened, a slight tic working in his right cheek. "Oh, yeah? Well, you tell
your dad to—" He shut his mouth, shook his head.' 'Never mind.

Tim looked at her, glanced in her direction actually, and shook his head. Then he tipped his head to
one side, narrowed his eyelids. "No. No way. Suze?"

"Yup," she said, knowing full well that her cheeks were turning bright red. And her neck, and her forehead. She was the most thorough blusher she knew. "It's me, Tim. Good old Suze."

The next thing she knew, she was enveloped in a bear hug that all but squeezed the breath from her
body;

"Suze, I don't believe it. God, it's been years." Tim took hold of her shoulders, pushed her slightly
away from him, ran his gaze from her head to her toes, then back again.

She looked good. She knew she looked good. Anyone who took three hours bathing, dressing, and
putting on her makeup had damn well better look good. She'd even worn a dress, and heels. For the
love of God, she was hopeless—she'd worn heels to a ball game. Who did that?

"You've changed," he said, and she didn't know if she should give him points for his observant
comment, or punch him in the nose.

"I've lost weight, the braces, and about two feet of hair, yes," she answered, trying to keep it light.
Gotta keep it light with Tim Trehan, always keep it light. Otherwise, all she'd see of him would be
his back, as he ran away. "You look good, especially for a guy who had his bell rung today."

"I was listening to the post-game wrap-up on my car radio while waiting around for a while," Suzanna said. "They said Sanchez might get brought up in front of the League president. Fined, even suspended."

"I know. It was Jack who threw at a few guys' heads as payback when he was pitching, as I remember it."

"You know Jack. He lived by Don Drysdale's motto. Remember it? 'My own rule was two-for-one. If one of my teammates got knocked down, then—' "

"'I knocked down two on the other team,'" Suzanna ended, laughing. "I remember."

Tim smiled with her. "God. It's great seeing you, Suze. You live in Pittsburgh now?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm just here on business. I'm still in town, Allentown actually. After Mom and Dad died, I sold that big house in Whitehall, took an apartment. You're still there in Whitehall, right?"

As if she didn't know. One-thirty-seven Hill Avenue and Thirteen-thirteen Mockingbird Lane; two addresses she'd never forget. Tim Trehan and Herman Munster. She really ought to think about having her head examined one of these days.

Tim turned to wave at Rich Craig, who was standing on the bottom step of the bus. "In a minute." Then he turned back to Suzanna. "Look, I know it's kind of late, but God, Suze, it's been forever since I saw you. Do you want to go for something to eat? I have to go back on the bus, team rules, but you could follow, meet me in the hotel, and we could grab something to eat, catch up on old times? Our plane doesn't leave until tomorrow morning because we went into extra innings."

He told her what she already knew—because she was booked at the same large hotel—then turned, walked partway to the bus before turning again, giving her a grin that melted her insides. "Good old
Suze. Is this something, or what?"

Suzanna nodded, smiled, then stepped back, half tripped over Joe's crutch, and nearly fell. Good old klutzy Suze, suddenly thirteen again.

And the ball is out here.
No, it's not. Yes, it is.
No, it's not. What happened?

-Yankees announcer Phil Rizzuto

Tim snagged two more beers from the bar and walked over to the table in the corner, where Suzanna waited for him. He put down the beers, sat, and grinned across the table at her.

"This has been great, Suze. It's been forever. I'm getting a real kick out of hearing about all the guys.
And the girls, of course."

"Of course. You never came back for either of the high school reunions," she said, using her tongue to swipe some foam from her upper lip. "Last one was this past May. Ten-year reunion, if you can believe that. It should have been last year, but you know Bobby Freedman. Late for everything. Why we ever elected him class president is still a mystery."

"Yeah, that's right. But you should have been there. This one was fun. And Mindy Frett was fat."

Suzanna lifted her frosted mug, using its wet bottom to make rings on the tabletop. "She took over her dad's pizza place. Guess maybe it's all the mozzarella?"

"Biggest attraction Mindy had, her dad's pizza place," Tim said, half lost in memories. "She used to
sneak me into the back room, and I'd gorge myself on pepperoni. I was crazy about her pepperoni."

"I thought you were crazy about her—her, well never mind. That's the beer talking again."

Tim collapsed against the back of the chair, goggling at her. Man, he was loving this trip down memory lane. "No. Mindy stuffed?"

"Trust me. I took gym with her sixth period for two years, remember. If I'd had the money, I'd have bought some Kimberly-Clark stock, for all the Kleenex she used." Suzanna put down her beer. "Guess
the rumors were wrong then, Tim. You never got to second base with Mindy?"

Tim grabbed his beer, took several deep swallows. "Don't tell anybody, okay? I've got my killer reputation to protect."

Was Tim even more handsome than he'd been at eighteen, or was she looking at him through rose-colored glasses?

"... and then, just when Jack is about to slit his own throat, the doorbell rings, and there stands this woman, this interior decorator our Aunt Sadie hired because Jack may have bought the house, but
he hadn't planned to be living in it so soon."

"Because he didn't know his rotator cuff was going to be shot," Suzanna said, her chin balanced on her hand as she tried to count the golden flecks in Tim's eyes. "Then what?"

"Hey, you know Jack. He's got my cousin Cecily's baby in the kitchen, and a female at the front door. Baby, female. Female, baby. He grabs the female, takes her to the baby. Ah, they match. Perfect."

"Sure," Tim said. "Females, babies, diapers, throw up, midnight feedings. A perfect match."

Suzanna watched him down the last of what had to be his, what, sixth glass of beer? That would mean she was on her fifth, because she'd turned down one, but she hadn't turned down two. Or was it her sixth, his fifth? Oh, well, they were small glasses. What time was it anyway?

Tim held up his hands, shook his head. "No. No way. Jack's nuts about Keely, and she's crazy about him. Although it was pretty hairy there for a while. But Cecily signed Candy over to them, all nice and legal, and now Keely's pregnant. If my big brother got any more domestic, he'd scare me. Hell, he does scare me."

As Suzanna watched, Tim's smile faded, and he began tearing up a soggy napkin, avoiding her eyes. "What?"

"Uh-huh," Suzanna said, then reluctantly looked at her watch. Damn, it took a few seconds for her
eyes to focus on the watch face. Standing up was going to be a real trick if she didn't watch herself.

It was dark in the bar, but when her mind finally sorted out the big hand from the little hand, she was pretty sure it was nearly one in the morning. Did hotel bars close at two? "Well, Tim, guess it's time
to go."

"Go?" Tim took her hand as she began to rise, held it, so that she quickly sat back down. Good thing, because she was feeling pretty shaky.

"It's late, Tim, and you said you have to catch a morning plane? So do I, and I have to return my rental car first."

"But you didn't tell me anything about you. All this time, and all we've talked about is high school, my
trip to the All-Star game again this year, and Jack. What about you, Suze? What've you been up to?"

"I told you, Tim. I work for a software company. We sell the software; the company we sell it to thinks they can work it. They can't, they screw it up, and then they call me in to fix it. I travel, a lot, and ... Well, it suits me."

"Traveling's okay," Tim said, "for a while. Used to be I loved it, but now these long road trips, especially to the coast, can be a real drag." He tipped his head to one side, looked at her. "The coast. That's where you went, right? How come you never wrote?"

"Well ... I ... I guess I was too busy?" She didn't remind him that he hadn't written to her, either. Even though she'd written the address of her dorm in a birthday card she'd sent to both he and Jack. There
had been a giraffe on the front of the card, she remembered. A two-headed giraffe.

That was what she always did with Tim. Kept it light, kept it funny. Hid everything else. Otherwise,
the litde she had might become nodiing.

She blinked, startled by his question. Tell him about the giraffe? No, that couldn't be what he'd meant. Man, she'd better get out of here, pop a couple of Tylenol, and hope she made it to the bed before she passed out.

"Come on, Suze. Tell me what it was like to go to college in sunny California. Did you wear flowers
in your hair?"

"Wrong decade, Tim," Suzanna said, laughing. But then he asked her again, and he looked so cute
when he begged; so she told him about what it had been like in California... right after he got them
both another beer.

She never knew she liked beer so much. She hadn't had any since college. She never had more than
a glass of wine, ever since she'd turned twenty-one and the thrill of sneaking an illegal sip was gone.

But this was fun. She felt sort of soft, and liquidy, or something. And she wasn't nervous anymore.

Tim checked his watch. "Wow, almost two." He smiled at Suzanna, who was looking sort of sleepy.
Sort of fuzzy around the edges. Really cute.

She smiled back at him, her chin cupped in her hand. "Somebody whistle for my pumpkin," she said, turning to the purse sitting on the extra chair, pulling it onto the top of the table so she could rummage
in it for her room key.

"Don't you mean your coach, Cinderella?" he asked, taking her wallet from her so that he could find the key card to her room.

"Nope, my pumpkin. It's already after midnight. Ah, thanks, Tim," she said, holding out her hand for
the card.

"How many beers did I feed you?" he asked, holding on to the key card as he helped her to her feet.
His own head felt a little scrambled. He reached into his pocket, threw four twenties on the table.
"Man, how many beers did we both have? Let's get out of here."

He slipped an arm around Suzanna's slim waist, and she sort of melted against his side as they walked
out of the bar, into the large lobby. She felt good, pressed against him. Not too tall, not too short. And
she smelled good, too. And he liked her hair. All sort of short and spikey. Like Dusty's, but a much deeper, darker red, and it looked a hell of a lot better on Suze.

"You didn't feed me, you know," she said when they stopped in front of the bank of elevators.

"I didn't? Sorry, Suze. Didn't you eat at the ball park? You love hot dogs at ball parks."

Suzanna held on to his arm as she lifted one foot after the other, stepping out of her high heels. "That
was hours ago, Tim, and I only had one. All I've had for hours are the pretzels the bartender gave us,
and you ate most of those."

"You're right, sorry," he said, helping her into the elevator. "Here's another question, since there's no number on the key card. What floor, Suze?"

"Fifteen," she said. "Fifteen-twenty-three," she concluded, grinning at him as if she'd just said something brilliant. "See? I'm not drunk, Tim. I'm in fifteen-twenty-three ... two, fifteen-twenty-two."

"So much for waving you goodbye from the elevator and going on up to nineteen." The doors opened
on fifteen, and he took her hand, led her onto the floor.

"Pick one, Suze," he said as he walked down the hallway and she sort of danced along beside him,
lazily waving her high heels. "Two, or three?"

"Oh, boy, Suze is snookered," Tim said quietly, pulling the key card out of his pocket and inserting it in fifteen-twenty-three. Always go with first instincts; that was his motto. The light turned green, and he pulled down the handle, opened the door. "Here we go, home again, home again."

"Oh, you're so smart," Suzanna said, sliding past him, trailing her fingertips across his chest as she went.

"Are you going to be all right?" he asked, flipping the light switch just inside the door, then following Suzanna. "Suze?"

She'd stopped, just beside the king-size bed that took up most of the room, dropping her shoes onto the floor. Expense account, he figured instantly, looking around the room. Nice enough hotel, but let's not spring for anything too fancy, spoil the hired help.

Yeah. Like he cared. He was in enough trouble, looking at Suze in that body-hugging dress that ended
a good three inches above her knees.

"Isn't that funny? I've been here a week and never noticed. Big, isn't it?" she said, looking down at the bed.

She turned to him, her smile sort of wobbly. She pressed both hands, palms flat, against his chest, and sort of leaned into him. "I have a confession to make."

"No, you don't," Tim said quickly, deciding that he was the sober one here. Well, the least drunk
anyway. "No confessions, Suze. They're bad for the soul."

"Tell you what, Suze," he said, ignoring the fact that her lips were fuller than he'd ever remembered.
Julia Roberts lips, opening over a set of perfect white teeth that he'd never known could be a turn-on
for him. Teeth? Who would have thought it?

"Oh, right. Tell you what, Suze," he said, realizing that, somehow, his hands had found their way
around her waist, "we'll have breakfast tomorrow morning— this morning—and if you still want to
make this confession, you can do it then."

She closed her eyes, shook her head. "No. No, Tim, it's got to be now." She slowly walked her hands
up his chest with the tips of her fingers, locked those hands behind his neck. "I've always been crazy about you."

"You have?" Tim heard himself say. He thought he'd sounded at least a little bit incredulous. Good
save, Trehan. Like you didn't know. Like you haven't always known. "Gee, Suze, I didn't know."

Her head moved against his shoulder. "I didn't want you to know. I was just good old Suze to you, Tim."

He put two fingers under her chin, lifted her head so that he could look into her eyes. "You were a great friend, Suze. A great friend."

She was silent for some moments, then took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Looked at him. "I could
be a better friend," she said at last, lifting her lips for his kiss. "I could, Tim. Really."

He put his fingers against her mouth. Man, what was next for him? Sainthood?
''No, Suze. It wouldn't be fair. I'd be taking advantage of you."

And he hadn't been with a woman in months. Months. That damn Trehan curse thing. Oh, yeah. Sainthood, at the very least.

"Oh, no," Tim said hurriedly, giving a moment to • wonder if Suzanna was numb from the waist down. Otherwise, how could she have missed the fact that he was pressed against her, and he was hard, ready. "I want you, Suze. I do."

"Great!" she said in her cheerful tipsiness. And the next thing Tim knew, she was sort of falling backward with her arms still locked around his neck, and he was falling with her, and she was flat on her back on the bed, and he was on top of her, being kissed by her.

So was he. The next thing he knew, Suzanna's dress was on the floor, and he was gulping over the
sight of her well-formed, long-waisted, flared-hip body in bikini-cut pink lace panties and pink lace underwire bra.

"Never better," Suzanna said tipsily, hooking her thumbs under the waistband of his briefs, tugging
them down over his hips.

"No," Tim said, trying again. In between running his tongue up the side of her throat, rimming it inside
her ear. "Are you ... ?"

She found him, wrapped her fingers around him. He heard her moan, low in her throat as she raised
her hips, pressed against him.

"Oh, hell..." he said, and that was pretty much the last thing Tim remembered until the grinning,
laughing baby came winging in from the pitcher's mound.

He opened his eyes, not surprised to find himself sitting up in yet another hotel bed, his arms stretched out in front of him.

He turned on the bed and saw Suzanna sitting there beside him, naked, the sheets tangled around her hips, her dark red hair even more spikey, her breasts ... damn, her breasts. Those gorgeous breasts.

He swallowed, ran his hands through his hair. "Yeah. I'm ... I'm okay. How are you?"

She averted her head. "I've been less embarrassed," she said quiedy, then turned to look at him once more. "I... I really don't do this ... you know, what we did? Really."

Tim was still shaking off the remnants of the dream, the nightmare, but he wasn't so self-involved that
he didn't know that Suzanna might be feeling a few regrets.

"No?" he said, pushing her back against the pillows. "That's a shame, Suze, because you do it
really well."

Her frown only deepened. "Not because I do it a lot. I mean, I'm twenty-nine years old, Tim. I've...
well, I've ... you know. In college there was this one guy. And maybe a couple of times since. I'm only human. But I never meant to ... you know ... with you."

"You talk too much," Tim said, capturing her mouth with his own, even as he moved his hand to mold
it around her breast.

She didn't want to think; he was pretty sure of that. He didn't want to think. Touching Suzanna, holding her, he knew he didn't have to think.

Her softness. The curves, the valleys, the secrets that became his, yielded to him.

Her legs came up around his hips as he plunged between her thighs, burying himself there, being reborn there. Taking, giving, taking more, taking more.

He caught her soft, rather surprised exclamation of pleasure with his mouth, held her as she went toward the edge, then tumbled over with her, the two of them lying there, holding each other.

When Tim awoke at the sound of the alarm Suzanna—practical, good old Suze—had probably set before heading out to the game last night, he realized that he felt rested. Actually rested.

Then Suzanna snuggled against him, sliding one long leg over his, and murmured in her sleep.

He'd found a solution; that was what he'd found. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Right?

"Hmmm ..." she said at last, her hand moving on his bare chest, leisurely exploring.

And then, suddenly, her hand stilled; her body stiffened. "Tim?" she said, her voice small.

"Still me, yes," he answered, picking up his head enough that he could plant a kiss on her hair as she
lay against his shoulder.

Suzanna pushed hard on his chest, putting space between them, obviously ready to leap out of the bed. But then she hesitated for a second, reaching back to tug on the tangled sheet, which she dragged off the bed with her, wrapping it around herself—and leaving him totally naked and exposed to her.

He could reach the bedspread if he wanted to. Easily. But he didn't want to. It was much more fun watching Suzanna look at him.

She held the sheet with one hand, pressed the other against her forehead as she looked at him. Sort
of goggled at him.

"I... I thought I'd been dreaming." Her eyes were wide, her cheeks pale. "Oh, God, my head. My head
is killing me."

"Oh, shut up," she said, flipping the end of the sheet over her shoulder as she turned away from the bed. "And put some clothes on. And go away. Please."

He half leaned across the bed, so she could hear him, so he could watch her walking away. "I don't have another game until tomorrow night. Instead of heading back with the team, I'm betting Sam will let me
fly to Vegas when I tell him I'm going to get married."

Suzanna had reached the bathroom, and the door slammed on his last few words. But she'd heard him. He was sure she'd heard him.

She stomped, actually stomped, toward the bed. "What do you mean ... married?"

He was standing next to the bed now, pulling on the briefs he'd found beneath a chair. "I mean married. You and me, married. You know. Shoes and rice? The little woman? Legal sex? Scratch that—great legal sex."

The sheet safely wrapped around her, Suzanna pointed both index fingers at him, then at herself, then
at him again. Then she got fancy. One index finger pointed at him, the other at herself. Back and forth, alternating fingers.

He had this wild thought, remembering a quote from the very quotable Yogi Berra: "He hits from both sides of the plate. He's amphibious."

"You? Me? You and me?" Those talented index fingers were still flying. "Are you talking about you
and me? Married?" Then her eyes narrowed. "Am I still drunk?"

Now the index fingers went in circles. "We already did... it. Twice, as I remember."

"Yeah," Tim said, smiling as his head poked free of his polo shirt. He smoothed his hair with his hands. "And, this way, we get to do it again and again."

The fingers stopped their dance as Suzanna folded her hands together, pushed them against her stomach. "How ... romantic."

Tim reached up, scratched at a spot behind his left ear. "I play ball, Suze. I don't make speeches. But we're good together, aren't we? We've known each other forever, so it probably came as much of a
shock to you as it did me, but we're really good together. And neither one of us is getting any younger."

"Gee, real smooth, Trehan. Flattery will get you everywhere," Suzanna said, rummaging in the hotel dresser for fresh underwear that she quickly hid beneath a fold of the sheet.

Tim walked around the bed, laid a hand on Suzanna's shoulder. "Come on, Suze, marry me. It makes sense."

"Hey, an argument is an argument. I gave it a shot, but I'll take it back if you want."

"Taken back. I'm not getting any younger. You, however, are close to jailbait. I'm just lucky nobody
carts me off to the pokey, being here with such a lovely young thing."

"Wrong. We made some damn fantastic love, Suze. I don't know about you, but I think I heard
fireworks going off."

"I... I wouldn't know. It... It's not like I have a whole lot to compare you with..."

He leaned close, whispered in her ear, "Trust me, I'm good. I'm very, very good."

"Trust Me Trehan," she said, stepping away from him. "Oh, yes, I remember now. Last time I heard
that one I think I ended up letting you borrow my mom's car. You drove it into a ditch, and I was grounded for a month."

She sat down on the edge of the bed, looked up at him. "You're serious, aren't you? I mean, you're
really serious."

Tim had a quick flash of himself lying on his back, all his wind knocked out of him after Sanchez had come barreling into him, full force, in yesterday's game. It was only a matter of time before that one out of three happened, until he fell victim to his own superstition, or to the Trehan curse. Who cared what
it was called. He just cared that he believed it, that one of those three things had to happen to him.

"I'm serious, yes. Marry me, Suze. You've been my pal forever. You've always come through for me
in a pinch. I... I need you."

She looked at him for a long time, long enough for him to feel the guilt begin to seep into his bones, take up residence.

She'd always had a thing for him. He'd always known that, and she'd admitted it to him last night.

They would be okay. She liked baseball. He loved baseball. She loved him. He liked her.

"Oh, get up," she said, heading for the bathroom once more. "And you'd better order us both some breakfast. I hate airplane food."

"You got it," he called after her, high-fiving an imaginary hand as he headed for the telephone. Sam
was going to bust a gut, but he'd get over it.

His manager would get over it the minute Tim "the Tiger" Trehan started hitting them into the bleachers again.

Suzanna tore her gaze away from the bluer-than-blue skies and poofy, whiter-than-white clouds outside the small porthole window and looked at the stewardess, one of the two on this chartered flight.

What was the plural of stewardess? Oh, yeah, that old joke from her dad's favorite comedian, Shelly Berman: "the plural of steward-ess is steward-ii."

Except they weren't steward-ii anymore. They were flight attendants. Probably trained in CPR and antiterrorism tactics, and braver than she'd ever be.

Shame this one, who probably spoke three languages and could efficiently employ the Heimlich
maneuver while serving dinner to two other people, couldn't seem to recognize a hangover when
she saw one.

"God, no," Suzanna said, then did her best to smile. Poor woman. Two attendants, two passengers; one of them sprawled out over two seats, sound asleep. The woman has got to be bored out of her skull.
"But if you have some water and a couple of Tylenol?"

"Certainly, Ms. Trent," the attendant said happily, and walked off in her sensible two-inch heels and marvelously well-cut navy blue suit.

This plane had to be costing Tim the earth, and maybe even a sizable down payment on the moon.
Pilot, copilot, two attendants, and seats enough for at least fifteen people.

How nice for him to not have to worry about things like money. Not that she sat up nights worrying
about bills herself. Still, her money, piled next to Tim's money, would look like the proverbial molehill next to his mountain.

"Oh, thank you," Suzanna said, accepting the glass of ice water and a small packet of Tylenol from the attendant. "You're a lifesaver. Tell me, when do we land?"

The attendant looked at the watch strapped to her wrist. "About ninety minutes more, Ms. Trent.
Would you like me to bring you another pillow? A blanket?"

"No, that's okay. I think I'm going to go prod Mr. Trehan with a stick. It'll help pass the time."

The attendant blinked, then grinned. "He's been asleep almost since we took off, hasn't he? Big game yesterday, I guess. I heard the pilot and copilot talking about it. Fourteen innings?"

"At least that," Suzanna said weakly, remembering the "innings" she and Tim had put in after the game was over.

Suzanna watched the attendant walk toward the front of the small jet once more, then released her
seat belt and headed to the back, where Tim was curled up on a wider seat, a fuzzy blue blanket
draped over him.

"Tucked you in, did they?" she asked quietly, sitting down on one of the facing seats.

She looked at him, his head on a small pillow, his hands tucked up near his chin, his long legs bent to
fit on the seat now that the center armrest had been pushed out of the way.

The sleep of the innocent. Whoever had written that line surely had never met Tim Trehan.

Married. He said they were going to be married as soon as the plane set down in Las Vegas.

And, much as she wished she could tell herself otherwise, she had been sober when she'd said it.

She was sober now. Her headache had even begun to fade, so that she couldn't say she wasn't thinking clearly.

God, look at him. His dark blond hair mussed, and yet sexy as hell. That lighter blond streak making
her fingers itch to run through his hair.

Once, a million years ago, he'd fallen asleep on her bedroom floor, after half a night spent cramming
for their trig final.

She'd gone downstairs to get them each another soda, and when she'd come back, there he was, curled up much the same as he was now, out cold.

She'd sat on the edge of her bed and watched him sleep, watched him until it was nearly dawn, then finally woke him and slipped him out of the house before her parents could wake up and have a cow.

Except she was a grown-up now. Tim might still be playing ball, playing at life, but she was a grown-up. She had a responsible job. More than a job, a profession. What did Tim have? His face on a baseball card, that was what Tim had.

They had had fun last night. Before they went up to her room. Talking, laughing over old times.

But it had been ten years, almost eleven. Did they have anything in common anymore, other than their memories?

And some really great sex, a small part of her brain, the lascivious part obviously, reminded her.

But, as Tim had said, and had clearly meant, neither of them was getting any younger. He must really
be ready to settle down, and he had decided to settle down with her.

"Oh, God," she said, burying her face in her hands. "Am I about to make the biggest mistake in my life?"

Tim tilted his head slightly, smiled into Suzanna's face. "Hi, Mrs. Trehan," he said, then gave her a hug
as the litde old lady in the purple dress and matching hair cried "Weeee!" and threw confetti at them.

"Can we get out of here now?" Suzanna asked, and Tim realized that she was shaking and seemed
close to tears.

"Pretty creepy, huh?" he said apologetically, looking back at the square white clapboard building with the makeshift steeple on top. "Sorry we couldn't wait for the chapel at one of the casinos; but I've got to be back in Philly by tomorrow morning or Sam'll murder me, and then he'd fail his anger management class."

"I understand," she said, quickly slipping into the long, black rented limousine ahead of him as the uniformed driver held open the door for them. "Are we going straight back to the airport from here?"

He slid in beside her, planted a kiss on her nose. "Suze, we landed, we hit the courthouse, then the
chapel of the damned, or whatever that place is called. Before we leave I want to get something great
to eat, and then maybe we can hit one of the casinos. Sam made me promise I'd put twenty on number twelve for him. That's roulette, Suze."

"I know it's roulette," she told him, sinking lower in the seat. "And I could eat, I suppose."

"Great," Tim said, knowing he wasn't quite playing the role of attentive bridegroom. But it had just hit him. He was married. Cripes. Married.

"Good, because suddenly I'm starving." She leaned forward, knocked on the glass separating them
from the driver. "Steak and the nearest casino, in that order, or together, if you can manage it?"

The driver grinned at her. "Yes, ma'am. And may I say, ma'am, congratulations. Nice work.
Tim Trehan. Man, that's cool."

"What's the matter?" she repeated. "I'll tell you what's the matter. The groom is supposed to be congratulated, and the bride offered best wishes. You, Tim, are supposed to be the lucky one because
you've got me."

"He congratulated me; that's what he did. Nice work, he said. Like you're some huge fish I landed with my rusty reel and a couple of wiggly worms. Is that what everyone's going to think?"

"Prickly," Tim said, slipping his arm around her once more. "I forgot that about you, Suze. You could
get really prickly. I married you because I wanted to, and that's what I'll tell anyone who asks."

She slightly lifted her chin as she closed her eyes. "People are going to ask, aren't they? Reporters.
Fans. Jack."

Tim nearly knocked the top of Suzanna's head off as he jumped forward in the seat. "Oh, cripes. Jack.
I didn't tell him. Or Mort."

"My agent," Tim said, reaching for his cell phone and hitting number two on the speed dial, Mort's private number. "Mort will handle everything, the publicity, all that junk. And he'll go ballistic if someone calls him to ask about our marriage and he doesn't know about it. I mean, he'll blow a—Mort! Hey, hi. It's Tim. Yeah, I know you know my voice. Look, Mort, I've kind of got something to tell you."

He covered the phone for a moment, told the driver to wait somewhere for them, then trotted after Suzanna, who had already stepped inside the casino. The loud casino. Bells ringing, people yelling,
music playing, kids running for a big gift shop right next to the front doors. "Mort? You still there?
Suze! Suze, wait for me."

"Suze? What's a Suze?" Mort asked from behind his desk in his office in New York. Tim could see him there: pudgy five-foot, nine-inch frame stuffed in some modern leather chair, his Ferragamos propped on the desk top, either rubbing hair restorer into his scalp or hiding that scalp beneath one of his many toupees, his black bean eyes somewhat squinted as he listened to Tim. That was Mort "More and More" Moore.

"Here's the thing, Mort," Tim said quickly. "I got married a couple of minutes ago."

"You what?" Tim imagined Mort's feet swinging down off the desk top as his agent hopped to his feet, tried to force himself through the telephone wires so he could strangle his client. "And you didn't tell me? Where are you? I can have press and cameras there in five minutes. No, no press. Not if I'm not there. Just cameras."

She gave him this sort of funny look. "Yes, master," she said, taking the twenty, then turning her back
on him.

Tim looked at that stiff back for another moment, ignoring Mort's ranting in his ear, then sighed, headed for the doors once more.

Once outside, he listened as Mort wrapped up his tirade about who was going to tell Aunt Sadie, and
who was going to tell Jack, and what in hell was he going to tell the press?

"Mort. Mort, take a breath. And get a pencil and paper," Tim said, walking in a circle as he shoved a
hand through his hair. "I'm married. Bride is one Suzanna Trent, whom I've known since kindergarten. Jack can fill you in on the rest of it, where she lives, all the usual stuff. And she works for a computer software company, something like that. We flew to Vegas this morning, we're married, and we'll be back in Philadelphia in time for tomorrow night's game. Honeymoon to follow. .. follow... hell, follow the end of the season. That's the best I can do, right?"

"Since kindergarten? So this isn't just some bimbo you picked up somewhere? You've only gone a litde nuts, not totally nuts?"

"Smooth, Mort, real smooth," Tim said as a young boy walked up to him, holding out a paper bag with Treasure Island stamped on it, and a pen with a pirate's grinning skull attached to the top.

Tim scribbled his name on the bag, rubbed the kid's head, then turned away, walked a few steps, hoping for more privacy.

"You aren't husband material, you know," Mort said. "I've heard Sadie say it at least a million times.
Jack had to grow up, with his injury and all, but you're still a kid, playing a kid's game."

"And with that vote of confidence, Mort, I'm hanging up. See ya," Tim said, hitting the end button, then folding up the phone, jamming it into his pocket.

Then he pulled it out again. Jack. He had to call Jack. Before Mort could call Jack.

He hit the first number on his speed dial and anxiously bounced on the balls of his feet as he listened to three rings, then four, before a female voice said, "Hello?"

"Keely," Tim said, relaxing a little. This was good, this was very good. At least Keely wouldn't go
ape-shit on him. "Is Jack there?" he asked, hoping his brother was anywhere but "there."

"No, sorry, Tim, he's not. He and Candy are off to Dorney Park for the morning. There's a new ride, or something. We can only hope Jack fits in one of the seats, because we both know he's more crazy about the rides than Candy is. The rides, and the cotton candy. You just caught me, as a matter of fact, because I have my monthly with the obstetrician this morning. Three hours in the waiting room, five minutes with the doctor. Jack took a raincheck this month. Anyway, can I help?"

Tim hesitated, suddenly not so sure he should tell Keely first instead of Jack, then realized that he didn't have much choice. And he already knew it would be easier to tell Keely. "I'm in Vegas, Keel," he said, turning his back on a bermuda-shorts-clad man who was looking at him with that "don't I know you
from somewhere" look. "I just got married."

"Sitting down, Tim, sitting down," she answered, her voice a little strange. "Did I hear you correctly? Married?"

"Yeah, married. But it's okay. It's Suzanna. Suzanna Trent. I know you don't know her, but Jack can
tell you all about her. We're heading back to Philly later today, because I've got a game tomorrow night. Do you think you two could grab a baby-sitter and come down?"

"Meet her, you mean? Tim, are you at all familiar with the term 'wild horses couldn't keep me away?'
Of course we'll be there. The Yankees aren't on TV, so Jack is free."

"Only because I have so many questions I can't get one out of my mouth with any hope of coherence. But be ready, buddy, because tomorrow night, I'm showing up with a list."

Tim laughed, said goodbye, and ended the call even as he trotted back into the casino.

He found Suzanna right where he'd left her, sitting in front of the slot machine with the frogs. Except there was some sort of bar blinking on the screen now, a red light flashing on top of the machine, and both a loud ringing and the most god-awful tinny song emanating from somewhere inside.

She didn't look up at him. "I'm not sure. Lots of frogs in a row," she said quietly.

He peered over her shoulder, read the message flashing on the screen: "Hand pay required. $248.65. Please call attendant."

He sat down in the empty seat beside hers. "Damn, Suze. You won. And with nickels."

''Now we wait for the attendant. They come over when they see the red light flashing. So, steak's your treat?" he asked, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

"I don't know. I have to play that twenty for Sam. You seem to be lucky, Suze. Maybe you'll want to play some more slots."

She twisted on the chair, glared at him. "And that's it? We come to Vegas, we get married by a guy who called me Susan, I watch some frogs dance, I gamble, we eat steak, we both gamble, and then we get back on the plane?"

He grimaced. "Not the best time you've ever had, huh? I mean, when you say it that way ..."

The attendant showed up, blessedly turned off the ringing bell, the tinny music.

"Jack," Suzanna said as they both stood back so that the attendant could open the machine, do something with the insides. "I don't want to sound bitchy or anything, but have you noticed that my finger's turning green?"

He immediately looked down at her left hand, where he had placed the ring he'd bought at the chapel. Twenty-five bucks, but it was better than nothing. Besides, she'd exaggerated. Her finger wasn't green. Not yet. But it probably would be, any minute now.

"It doesn't matter, honestly. I guess I just had this white gown and veil dream, you know? An elopement and the proverbial ring out of a Cracker Jacks box isn't as romantic in practice as it is in theory. I'm just being silly, and I know it."

"The hell you are," Tim said, gathering her into his arms, kissing the top of her head. "Ah, Suze, don't
be such a good sport."

"It's what I do," she mumbled into his chest, so that he had to laugh, although he felt like a heel.

She lifted her head from his chest, but he kept her held close inside his arms. "Good," she said, looking straight into his eyes. "That's how I want to remember that moment. At least then I can live with myself."

"Flew you out here and married you," he continued, grinning at her. Good old Suze. What a brick.

" 'Dear Diary,' " she said, a smile growing on her own face. God, he was crazy about that smile of hers, those full lips, those white teeth. She had a smile as big as center field.

"I said, 'Dear Diary,' " she repeated. " 'Today I got married, met a frog, and ate a New York strip steak.' Does that sound romantic to you?"

"Hell no," Tim said as the attendant politely cleared his throat, so that Tim let go of Suzanna and she could hold out her hand as bills were counted into it. She pulled out a five and handed it to the attendant, who probably didn't get too many tips from the nickel players, because he thanked her, three times.

"You're very welcome," she said, and Tim shook his head. That was also good old Suze. An only child, she'd been brought up to be polite. Far from the rough and tumble of his own youth, his and Jack's.

"Hey, just a sec," he said as the attendant turned to walk away. "This place have room service?"

"Nope. I'm only his twin brother," Tim said quickly, already steering Suzanna toward the large foyer
and registration desk.

"Hey! But if you're his twin brother, then you're— ha! That's a good one, Jack. Or Tim. Or whoever
you are ..."

Suzanna had a hand pressed to her mouth as they made their way through lazily strolling tourists, covering her giggles. " 'Nope, I'm only his twin brother,' " she said at last. "When did you think up that gem?"

Tim sort of leered at her. "I've got a million of 'em, babe," he said as he walked straight up to the manager's desk and turned on the considerable Trehan Irish charm.

"Hi," he said, sticking out his hand, "I'm Tim Trehan. I was really hoping we could get a room. The
bridal suite, if it's free?"

"Nothing in Vegas is free, Mr. Trehan," the manager said, with no hint of a smile.

"Funny line. I'll bet he's got a million of 'em, too," Suzanna whispered as she turned her head into Tim's shoulder, her own shoulders shaking.

"Good one," Tim agreed, letting go of the manager's hand, leaving the two one-hundred-dollar bills behind. The guy looked at them and slipped them into his pocket without so much as a blink.

"Our bridal suites, I'm sorry to say, are all occupied, Mr. Trehan, but I do believe we can have a most lovely suite ready for you ... and Mrs. Trehan? ... in about an hour. Will that be satisfactory? Would
you care to have one of our bellpersons take your luggage?"

"No luggage," Tim said, and Suzanna squeezed his arm a little too tightly. "That is, it's being sent over later. But not an hour. We'll be back in twenty minutes, and the suite will be ready, right? In the meantime, where's your jewelry shop? You've got one of those?"

"Yes, sir, we pride ourselves on our fine jewelry shop." The manager stood up, pointed to his right. "
Just follow that hallway to our galleria."

"Come on, wife," Tim said, feeling pretty in charge, pretty competent. "The jewelry store awaits. You think that jackpot you hit will cover it?"

"You want me to buy my own ring?" she asked, almost skipping to keep up with his long strides. He wanted this shopping business out of the way, so he could concentrate on other things. One other
thing: Suzanna.

Tim laughed, feeling better, freer, than he had in longer than he could remember. Since Jack had gotten hurt, found Candy, gotten married, probably. Over a year. One long, scary year for a guy who used to think he owned the world and all the good luck in it.

A song began on the casino sound system, some oldie but goodie with a strong back beat, and Tim impulsively grabbed Suzanna into his arms and began dancing her down the hallway, sidestepping
tourists, turning circles as Suzanna gasped and giggled, not stopping until they were standing inside
the jewelry shop.

You knew it was a good shop. There were diamonds glittering in the window display. And rubies. And those blue things.

"Wedding rings, my good woman," Tim said with a smile, pulling a suddenly reluctant Suzanna over to the counter and the heavily bejeweled woman behind it.

She shook her head at him. "Oh, I don't know, Tim. I'm glad you want a wedding ring, but do you really want an engagement ring? Some of the guys in the clubhouse might make jokes. Or are you thinking about a diamond in your ear?"

"Me? Oh, funny, Suze, funny." Then he took hold of her elbow, moved her away from the counter. "Suze ... no joking here, okay? You knew I meant that I want the lady to show us some rings for you."

"Yes, I know that," she answered, looking past him, to where the saleslady was standing, hands folded together on top of the glass case, doing nothing.

"And you know that I can't wear a wedding ring. I mean, not during a game. And if I didn't wear it
during the game, then I'd probably leave it on a shelf in a locker somewhere, forget it, lose it. So I probably shouldn't have one. You see that, don't you?"

Was it getting cold in here? How low did casinos turn their air-conditioning anyway? Because, suddenly, there was a definite chill in the air.

"I mean, no rings. Don't play dumb jock with me, Tim. I sat behind you in school, remember? Straight A's. If I say no rings, then you know I mean—no rings. Not for you, and not for me."

At that, she pulled off the cheap ring and tossed it over her shoulder. It landed in a potted plant strung with little white fairy lights. "See? All gone."

"Damn." Tim jammed his fists on his hips, glared at her. "Send a girl to California, and she comes back one of those women's libbers. You could have warned me."

"Gender equality, Tim, and don't tell me your mom wouldn't have washed out your mouth with soap if you'd said women's libbers within earshot. She took me to a Gloria Steinem lecture my junior year in
high school, remember? Poor woman, surrounded by men who left the seat up."

Tim rubbed at the back of his neck, almost sensing his mother standing behind him, telling him that
good manners and women's rights were two different things, so he'd better still open doors for his
dates or she'd know the reason why.

"All right, Suze, I get it. And I'll get a ring. Just don't shoot me if I lose it and have to get another. Tell me, are you going to take my name? I'd really like it if you took my name."

"Nut, of course I'm taking your name," she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss him on the mouth. "Come on. I'm thinking matching gold bands. We'll get you two."

"You two ready now?" the saleslady asked, looking bored as they walked back to the counter. "We only sell, you know. We don't buy."

"Man, we must look worse than we think," Suzanna whispered to him as the saleslady went into the back room once Tim had brought out his American Express card and plunked it on the glass. "No limit," he'd said, pushing it toward her. "Here, take it. Go check."

Tim looked down at his wrinkled slacks and the golf shirt he'd slept in on the plane, wondering how he'd gotten light blue fuzzy stuff all over his shirt. Then he turned to Suzanna, who looked just fine, damn it, in kelly green slacks and a soft yellow blouse—her matching jacket left behind in the plane.

Tim and Suzanna turned at the sound of the man's voice. "James Freethy, Mr. Trehan," he said, holding out a hand sporting a diamond the size of a pigeon's egg. "I'm the manager, sir. How may I help you?"

Tim smiled at Suzanna as if to say, See? That's more like it. "Hi, Jim. I'd like to introduce you to my wife, Suzanna Trehan."

"That's James, sir." He nodded to Suzanna, who nodded right back at him. "Madam."

"Yeah," Tim then continued, "Suzanna Trehan. We were just married, sort of a spur-of-the-moment thing."

"We get a lot of that around here, Mr. Trehan," James Freethy said with a small smile.

"I'll bet you do. So... rings. Wedding rings for both of us. Gold, the lady said. And a diamond ring, just for her. What've you got?"

"Our selection is quite extensive, sir. Shall we begin with the wedding rings? Then, if I might make a suggestion, I believe an exceptional three-carat emerald ring I'm thinking of, surrounded by the finest diamonds, would be perfect for Mrs. Trehan. Match those lovely green eyes."

"Keep talking, Jim," Tim said, leaning on the glass counter. "I think we're playing in pretty much the
same ball park."

"Ball park, sir? Would that be baseball? I'm afraid I don't know much about sports."

"Neither do I," Tim said, keeping a straight face. "But it sounds good when we say stuff like that,
doesn't it?"

"Yes, sir," James Freethy said, looking at Suzanna, who was coughing into her hand to cover a laugh.' 'Now, I'll leave you alone to look at this tray of wedding rings, and go retrieve the emerald from our safe."

"He doesn't know you," Suzanna said once James Freethy was gone. "I don't think the hotel manager
did, either. Are you insulted?"

Tim ran his finger over her furrowed brow. "We've covered that, Suze. You already know it is. But
we'll get through it, I promise. And Mort will do the heavy lifting for us. He always does."

"If you say so, Tim," Suzanna said, then sighed. "I feel like I'm on a roller coaster. You know what I mean?"

It ain't braggin' if you can back it up.

—Dizzy Dean, pitcher

"I don't think James liked you," Suzanna said as Tim shoved the key card in the door of their suite
ninety minutes later.

"James, Tim. The guy who sold you this rock I didn't ask for but am very happy to be wearing."

"Oh, you mean Jim. I didn't notice," he said, pushing open the door. "Wow! Would you look at this, Suze. You could bowl in here."

Suzanna stayed where she was, entertaining thoughts of Tim carrying her over the threshold, then gave it up as another girlish dream that had bitten the dust. "Let's see," she said, walking past him, through the massive foyer, and into a huge round room with raised platforms, marble pillars, enough gilt to redo the dome at Notre Dame, and a sea of white couches. "You're right. Wow."

"The manager told me it's usually reserved for high rollers," Tim said, walking around, opening doors, peeking down hallways. "And how about that view?" he commented, pointing to the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the city, all the way to the mountains.

"I'm speechless," Suzanna said, trailing one hand over the back of a snow-white couch. "It's a good
thing we decided to have those steaks downstairs. I'd be afraid to eat in the middle of all this white."

"Yeah, I remember. Suze the slob. You used to wear everything you ate. But you were okay downstairs, so I guess you grew out of that one, huh?"

"I still have lapses," she admitted, heading for the windows and the view. There was a bedroom in here somewhere, probably more than one of them, and she was feeling distinctly nervous. Maybe she shouldn't have said no to the wine Tim had wanted to order with their meal. "With chocolate ice cream, mostly. Mom used to beg me to try vanilla."

That's it, keep it light. A little joke, a little laugh, a little seltzer down your pants. Something like that.

She jumped slightly when Tim spoke from directly behind her. "Seen enough yet, Suze?" he asked, tickling her ear with his breath.

She nodded. Nodding was good, when a person was trying, without much success, to pry her stupid tongue off the roof of her mouth.

The next thing she knew, she was being held high in Tim's arms, and he was heading toward one of the hallways. Her head buried against his chest, she tried to mentally explain to her heart that two hundred beats a minute was probably overdoing it, when Tim put her back on her feet, held her loosely locked inside his arms.

"Open your eyes, Suze," he said, kissing her forehead. "You aren't going to believe this."

She already didn't believe this, any of this, but she opened her eyes anyway, then gasped. She pulled
free of his arms and began walking around the huge room.

Enormous round bed on a raised platform. Sheer draperies hanging all over the place. More gold-veined mirrors than she'd like to think about.

She stopped as far away from the bed as she could manage. "My god, Tim. This is like something out
of the Arabian Nights. Or maybe Aladdin. Disney goes porno, I don't know. Wow."

She looked at him, and he had already stripped off his knit shirt, was smoothing down his hair as he grinned at her. Oh, lordy, but the man had a body... .

"How about a nap?" he asked, walking over to the bed and yanking down the bedspread in one strong pull, sending the pillows scattering.

"You slept on the plane," she reminded him. He was working on his belt buckle now, and she wondered
if there was any water in this suite, because her mouth had gone as dry as the desert.

She pressed her fingertips to her temples. What was the matter with her? They were married. Legally,
if tackily married. And she was the one who had hinted that there had been a definite lack of romance about their marriage so far.

That was why they were here, in this movie set for Debauchers 'R Us, instead of safely on the casino floor, betting Sam's twenty bucks.

Hooboy, she thought, eying the bed once more. Every once in a while, Suze—for a woman who thinks she's a practical, levelheaded, feet-on-the-ground sort—you bite off way more than you can chew.

And then Tim was standing in front of her, his talented hands slipping her blouse buttons from their moorings, and he was asking her in that teasing way of his, "So, are you having fun yet?"

And she was answering, her voice low and—yes, definitely—sort of sexy, "I could be having more."

Omigod, did I just say that? she thought, panicked. I couldn 't have just said that, could If But I did,
I said that. Shame on me. Shame, shame on . . .

Tim's lips skimmed the side of her throat, his tongue doing these talented things to her skin, the lobe of her ear.

His hands were kneading at her shoulders now, her bare shoulders, because her blouse was gone.

Her body felt cold, then hot, as he moved against her, pressed his hard body against her.

Man, he hadn't been kidding. He was pretty good. She hadn't even noticed when her bra and panties
had bit the dust.

He caught her sigh with his mouth, and on contact, her body gave this small, involuntary convulsion
of delight.

She wrapped her arms around him, drew him closer, attempted to press her lower body even closer against his. Slipped one bare leg through his, raised it slightly, pressed again. Gloried in his arousal.

They tumbled onto the bed together, his hands everywhere, hers mimicking his as she skimmed his
body, learned his body, rejoiced in his body that fit so well with hers.

"You taste so good," he said, then sluiced his tongue between her breasts, sucked lightly on the side of
her throat. "And you smell good, too."

All things considered, with her body singing, her heart hammering, her breath catching in her throat, "Uh-huh" was pretty damn articulate.

He moved his hand lower, slid it over the flare of her hip, then concentrated for a moment on her navel, circling it with one ringer even as he pressed his palm flat against her lower belly.

The pressure he created deep inside her made her swallow down hard on the low moan that threatened
to escape her.

She moved her hips, raised them slightly as she braced her bent legs against the mattress, wordlessly pleading for more, more.

And then he was there, between her legs. His hand, his fingers, touching her, opening her, stroking her, giving all the proof she'd ever need that the man didn't brag. He was more than good. He was very,
very good. A master of his craft.

Her hips went on autopilot, moving on their own, pressing up against him each time he seemed to
threaten to leave her, stop what he was doing.

Heat, deep inside her. Building, building. She clamped her teeth together hard, all her concentration on
his hand, on what he was doing to her. On his mouth, how it suckled on her, how his tongue flicked at her nipple, sending wave after wild wave of tingling awareness from her breasts to her belly, tying her
up in a huge knot that just had to be untied so that she could break free. Soar.

And here it was, coming toward her as she stood poised on the edge, waiting. Closer it came, that
exquisite tightness, that glorious pressure that built and built and built. The hunger that consumed her.

She beat on his back with her fists, unable to speak, unable to breathe, her heels digging into the
mattress as she thrust her hips high, then held them there for him. Open to him, spread wide for him, eager for him.

No second thoughts, because thinking was something to save for another time, another place.

"Yes," she breathed at last, as the tension turned liquid. Turned blue and white behind her eyes. Flashed red, and deep purple. The colors of passion, exploding all around her. She was drowning in color, in sensation, in that tight coiling that at the very last, frightened her.

And it all came tumbling down, the mountain of need, of want, that he'd built inside her. Tumbling, tumbling down in a wild explosion of pulsing, rippling sensation.

She lowered her hips—her legs could no longer hold her, because she had gone all soft and liquid. But
the need was still there, a different completion than he had given her, one that included them both.

Dragging her fingers down his back, she urged him with her body, pulled him toward her. Up and over her.

He sank between her legs, filling her even as his mouth claimed hers again, his tongue mimicking the thrusts of his lower body.

"Oh, babe. Babe," he said, and increased his tempo. Deep, hard, fast. And faster. And faster. Driving
into her as she opened to him, gave him all she had.

"Nice," Tim said, looking around after dropping her two suitcases on the floor of the small foyer of
her Allentown apartment. "When did they build these?"

Suzanna deposited the case containing her laptop on the paisley-print chair just inside the living room. "Last year. That's when I moved back home for good, sold the old homestead," she told him, looking around the room that could have fit inside the bathroom of their Vegas hotel room. With room left
over for a horse. A Clydesdale.

"It was really great of you to do this, Tim. Fly into ABE instead of Philly, and all of that. I'll just be a minute," she said nervously, heading for the door once more. "There's soda in the fridge. That way,"
she ended, pointing toward the kitchen.

Once outside her apartment, Suzanna leaned against the wall, took a few deep, steadying breaths. Other than her trips to the bathroom in the hotel and on the plane, and a brief moment with the frogs in the casino, this was the first time she'd been alone since saying hi to Tim. Ever since she'd gone temporarily insane, to be more precise.

But it was okay. She'd get used to this. Being married to Tim, the love of her life, a man who called her "babe'' when they made love. Did he always do that? Just so he wouldn't goof up, call somebody by the wrong name?

Mrs. Josephson opened the door as far as the security chain would allow, then smiled at Suzanna. "Oh, it's you. Just a moment, dear."

The door closed, then opened again, the security chain undone, and Suzanna stepped inside the apartment that always smelled like cinnamon sticks.' 'How are you, Mrs. Josephson?" she asked. "I got your message on my cell phone. I hope Margo wasn't any trouble?"

"No, no, dear, Margo's never any trouble. But when my sister called to tell me her husband fell and
broke his hip, well, I knew you wouldn't mind coming home to take Margo back. Stupid Walter. Tell
me, what is a seventy-year-old man thinking, to climb up on a roof like that?"

"He fell off the roof?" Suzanna winced, then went to the corner of the room to pick up Margo, who had been sleeping on the floor in a patch of sunlight coming through the window. Margo wasn't much on big welcome home celebrations.

"The lower roof, luckily. Putting up one of those satellite thingies, Mary said. Five thousand channels, Mary said, all of them sports, to hear her tell it. Well, I'll be off," she said, picking up an overnight bag.
"I phoned for a cab when I saw you walking across the parking lot. I thought my cab had come early,
but then I saw you get out of it."

Suzanna buried her smile against Margo's soft brown fur. That was Mrs. Josephson. The town crier.
She waited for what would come next.

"Ball player? I'm afraid I wouldn't know, dear. Well, the cab will be here any minute now, and then there's that long bus ride to Pittsburgh. I think I'll be able to make the ten o'clock bus. I may be gone for
a while, dear, but don't you worry. I know how busy you are, so I've asked Mr. Horvath to water my plants for me and bring in my mail. He'd have taken Margo, too, if you had to go out of town again, except he's allergic. Nosy old coot, I'll grant you, but he's sure to bring in my Social Security check next Monday."

Suzanna held open the door for Mrs. Josephson, then waved her on her way before reentering her own apartment.

"Here she is," she said, rather proudly, depositing a squirming Margo on the carpet. "One Princess Morgana Margret of Leeds, to be precise about the thing. But I call her Margo. I couldn't resist her."

The brown tabby Persian stretched out one back leg, then the other, before walking over to the couch where Tim sat. She sat on the floor in front of him for a few moments, examining him for flaws, then gracefully hopped up onto his lap.

"Pedigree, huh?" Tim said, scratching behind Margo's ear. Suzanna could hear the cat purring from halfway across the room. Margo never did that. "You know, I have a cat, too. Lucky. Big black tomcat. He's got muscles like Arnold Schwarzenegger, I swear it."

"No, I didn't know you had a cat," Suzanna said, watching Margo melt under Tim's touch. She knew the feeling. "Who takes care of him when you're on the road?"

"That's okay. You didn't know about Margo until I picked up my messages on our way to the airport."

"It was one of Mort's ideas. Jack bought a house; I bought a house. Tax write-off, that sort of thing. I
had been in a condo, but the bigger the house, the higher the taxes, the bigger the write-off. At least
that's what Mort and Aunt Sadie said."

Suzanna's smile widened. ''Your Aunt Sadie. I remember her. She worked at a bank, didn't she? Trust officer, something like that? Never married."

"That's Aunt Sadie, although she doesn't work at the bank anymore. She, with some input from Mort, manages Jack's and my finances now. Among other things."

"Other things? Oh, you mean because she's retired now? What does she do? Garden?"

"You wish. Last time I checked, she was auditioning for a project at some local theater," Tim said,
putting Margo to one side as he stood up, headed for the kitchen. "You want a soda?" he called back
over his shoulder. "Then we'd better get moving, okay?"

"Okay," she said, following him. "And I did know you built a new house last fall. Near Jack's, right?"

He straightened after bending to grab two sodas from the bottom shelf, then looked at her overtop the refrigerator door. "Keeping tabs on me, huh?"

She shook her head. "Don't get too puffed up, Tim. You remember Ron Laub? He did the tile work on your place."

"Until Babs told him she was pregnant, yes. Now he does tile work with his dad, and he and Babs have three kids. I saw them at the reunion you didn't go to, remember? Now, just give me a minute to change my clothes, feed Margo, and we can go."

"She'll be all right here until tomorrow? Because I really want us to stay at my place in Philly tonight."

Suzanna had taken three steps toward the hallway leading to her bedroom, but then stopped, turned
back to look at him. "Yeah, how do you do that? Who takes care of Lucky for you when you're on a road trip?"

He stepped out from behind the bar in the kitchen. "I guess the old Whitehall High rumor mill missed
one, huh? But it's simple enough. I have this huge house I'm barely ever in, and diis cat, who really
needs company."

"And so I asked Mrs. Butterworth to sort of move in, take care of Lucky for me."

Suzanna put out one arm, steadied herself against the wall. "Mrs. Butterworth? Our Mrs. Butterworth? Our history teacher Mrs. Butterworth? That Mrs. Butterworth? You're kidding."

"Nope. Our Mrs. Butterworth. Her husband died, you know. Last year. They never had any kids, and she was all alone. Aunt Sadie told me about it. It was pretty sad, you know? So I asked her to be my housekeeper, move in, take care of Lucky for me. She lives in a small apartment attached to the garages, the same way Aunt Sadie lives in an apartment attached to Jack's garages. It works out great, really."

"Honey," Tim drawled, dropping a kiss on her forehead as he walked past her, back into the living room. "I wuz born lucky."

She followed after him. "No, seriously, Tim. When did you get Lucky—the cat Lucky? Before or after you heard about Mrs. Butterworth's husband dying and her being left all alone in the world?"

He collapsed onto the couch, shrugged his shoulders. "I don't remember. About the same time, I guess.
It doesn't matter. It worked out, right?"

God. That great big goofy ball of marshmallow. He bought a cat just so he could convince Mrs. Butterworth he needed her to move in, where he could keep an eye on her.

How she loved this man. He tried never to show it, ever, but she knew. She'd always known. The guy had a heart as big as all—

She wheeled around, trotted back into the living room. "This cat. Lucky. You said something about muscles. Tomcat, right?"

Tim was once more scratching behind Margo's ears, as that fawning feline sat on the arm of the couch. "Yeah," he said, not looking at her.

"Funny," she said, walking around to the front of the couch to glare at him. "And you know what I mean, Tim. He's been—snipped?"

"Tim, Margo's a pedigree animal. I mean, I don't show her or anything like that; but she is pedigree, and I may want to have her mated one day, have kittens. Persian kittens, Tim, with another Persian cat. She's nearly one now, and will be going into heat any day now. So I can't leave Margo with Mrs. Butterworth unless you tell me Lucky's been fixed. Now, did you have him fixed? Look at me, Tim. Is Lucky fixed?"

He looked straight at her. "Sure. The vet took care of all of that. Shots, flea stuff, you name it."

Was he lying to her? Tim could lie with the best of them. She certainly knew that. But would he lie
about something like this?

"Okay," she said at last. "As long as he's fixed. I'll be right back, and then we can go drop Margo with Mrs. Butterworth. I'm dying to see her again."

''No,'' she yelled back at him. ''That's because I wasn't twins and never tried to pretend I was my own brother. Margo's crate is in the hall closet. Load her up for me, okay?"

By the time she had brushed her teeth and changed into a denim skirt and soft pink summer sweater, Margo was safely locked into her carrier, and Tim had loaded dry cat food and two dishes into a clear plastic bag, along with two fuzzy toy mice and a packet of Margo's favorite organic catnip.

"Small kitchen," he said as she headed for her purse. "It was easy to find this stuff."

"I know. I'm ready." She carried, slung over her shoulder, a soft carry-on bag she'd found in her
bedroom closet and quickly stuffed a few things into, and now picked up her overnight bag that held
her toiletries.

"We're married, Tim. Everything I have is yours." She took the plastic bag from him anyway as he followed along, holding Margo's carrier.

''Yeah,'' he said, giving her a slight pat on the backside with his now free hand. "I like this part pretty well. Thanks."

"And I like this part," he continued as if she hadn't spoken, bending to kiss the tip of her nose. "And
this part ..." he went on, lowering his head to kiss the bit of skin revealed by the vee in her sweater.
"And this—"

"Okay, okay, I get it," she said, quickly stepping away from him. She was so nervous! "Here, carry my overnight bag. I think you need your hands occupied."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, looking about as innocent as a thirteen-year-old with a copy of his dad's Playboy stuck between his mattress and box spring. "But everything I have is also yours, remember. What parts do you like best?"

"Really?" he said, following after her, out into the parking lot. "But they're the same blue eyes Jack's got. Same color, same eyes."

He trotted after her, to keep up. "We'll talk about my eyes again, later? Because this is interesting, Suze.
I mean, Jack and I are identical twins. So what is it about my eyes that's different from Jack's?"

She blew out a quick breath. "Okay, but only because you're going to drive me crazy until I tell you. It's the devil, Tim. He peeks out through your eyes. Jack got the angel, and you got the devil. Happy now?"

He sort of tipped his head from side to side, as if considering what she'd said. "Yeah, okay. I kind of like that. Ready to roll, babe?"

She sighed. Someday, in twenty years or so, maybe she'd tell him she hated when he called her babe.

Tim steered Suzanna's late-model four-door sedan down the narrow macadam road, past Jack and Keely's place and several other large homes built on three-acre lots sold to them by Jack, who pretty much owned this entire small mountain. They crossed over the small, one-lane bridge that spanned the narrow Coplay Creek that flowed in front of Tim's property, then pulled into the long drive that led up
to his own house.

"There's no time to stop in, see Jack and his wife?" Tim shook his head as he parked the car on the circular drive outside his mansion—his "pseudo Tudor" mansion his Aunt Sadie had informed him—
with lots of brown brick, dark wood, and that stucco stuff. "We've got about ten minutes, tops, to see Mrs. Butterworth, drop off Margo, and get moving again. Come on, we'll go through the house, out the kitchen, so you can see some of the place. But just look, don't stop."

When he joined her, she was standing very still, looking up at the house. "So? What do you think?"

"I know. Aunt Sadie sent me all these books, with pictures in them, floor plans. We were out west, on a long road trip, and I didn't have much else to do anyway, so I looked at the books. This is the one I liked best. I moved in just before Thanksgiving last year."

"Henry the Eighth would have liked it, too," she said, heading up the three brick steps that were fashioned in a huge semicircle around the front doors—two dark brown wooden things with leaded glass inserts. A battering ram couldn't get through those doors.

He fished in his pocket for the key, then opened one of the doors, waved Suzanna in ahead of him, then waited for her reaction.

He liked his house, really liked it. liked all the dark wood, the dark colors on the walls. Those things Keely had called "accent sconces" that were on the walls. The place might be almost new, but it looked
as if it had been here forever.

"Keely decorated the place, top to bottom," he told Suzanna as he pointed toward the rear of the house and the kitchen. "She's really good."

Suzanna nodded, and kept on walking. "It suits you, Tim. like a great big cozy den for Tim the Tiger." She stopped halfway down the hall. "Oh, wow, is that a real tapestry, or a reproduction?"

Tim looked at the wall hanging that stood at least eight feet high in the two-story foyer and fifteen feet wide. It was one of his favorite things in the whole house, and it pleased him that Suzanna had noticed it. "Keely got it from some place in New York. An auction house."

"Sotheby's?" Suzanna asked, her eyes wide as she looked at him. "You're kidding."

"No, I think that's the place. I saw it in a catalog she had at the house, and told her I wanted it. All those great faces, all those people. The castle in the distance? I don't know. I just liked it."

"This from the man who had posters of Vanna White on his ceiling," Suzanna said, shaking her head. "And the poster of that guy with the green tongue."

"You remember that? That was during my professional wrestling fan phase. What were we? Ten, twelve years old? What was that guy's name again? Oh, yeah. George 'the Animal' Steele. Hairy shoulders, green tongue and all. Remember the time Jack and I took you and Jan Overly to the Allen town Fairgrounds to see the wrestlers?"

Suzanna shuddered. "I remember sitting in the first row, wondering how flat I'd be if that Andre the
Giant guy fell out of the ring and landed on me."

Tim laughed, putting an arm around Suzanna's shoulders. "So that's why you and Jan spent most of the night in the ladies' room?"

"You got it. It's also why I practically fell on your dad's neck in thanks when he showed up to drive us
all home again," she said, smiling with him. "Hey, we're wasting time. Where's the kitchen?"

"Back through here," he told her, guiding her, "but don't look. Keely really outdoes herself with kitchens, and if you're anything like any other woman who's seen this place—meaning Aunt Sadie and Mrs. Butterworth—you'll start oohing and aahing, and Sam will have a breakdown waiting for me."

"Um, Tim?" Suzanna said as they walked through the huge kitchen—complete with fireplace—and out
the back door. "Remember what a great cook my mom was?"

Tim stopped on the wide brick patio and stared at her. "Your mom never taught you?"

"Nope," she said, shaking her head. "I have all her recipes, packed away somewhere, but I've never tried any of them. I ... I eat out. Or microwave stuff."

Tim rubbed a hand over his chin. "Do you want to know how to cook? Because Keely's a great cook, and if she had your mom's recipes, she could, you know, teach yovi?"

One thing about Suzanna Trent, now Suzanna Trehan, that Tim remembered well. When she got mad, you knew it.

It was simple, really. When they had been little, she'd punch him in the gut. When she got older, grew
out of that punching business, she'd just tell him to go to hell.

"Knew it," he said, tagging after her as she walked toward the large three-car garage, still carrying Margo.

They were doing all right, he and Suze. They would probably do better as time went on.

Players like rules. If they didn't have any rules,
they wouldn't have anything to break.

Sam Kizer had the most interesting vein on the side of his rather large, bulbous nose. The redder his
nose got, the bluer the vein got. And when he began yelling, it throbbed.

Intrigued as she was by his nose, there was a lot of Sam Kizer to look at The Phillies' skipper was short, with a generous belly that overhung the belt on his home uniform that fit him like a second skin. He had
a mop of white hair that bore the imprint of the cap he'd hurled across the office a few minutes ago, and if there was ever a set of legs that didn't look good in red stirrups socks, Sam owned them.

"Sam," Tim was saying. "Sam, Sam, Sammy. I'm here, aren't I? I said I'd be here, and I'm here. So what's the problem?"

"What's the problem? What's the—" Sam put out both hands, as if pushing his temper away. "No. I'm
not going to go nuts. Lesson seven, Tim. When faced with idiots, do not say anything. Just walk away. Lesson seven, Tim. I'm on f-ing lesson seven, and you aren't going to make me blow it."

"Oh, I don't know, Sam. I think you oughta blow," Tim said as Suzanna stepped in back of him,
because if the guy was going to explode, she wanted to have already ducked for cover.

"I know, Suze," Tim said back to her as Sam Kizer walked back behind the desk in his jumbled office and sat down. "But if he doesn't blow at me, he's going to blow at an umpire, and the owners aren't
going to like that. He's been warned. He can be thrown out three times this year, and that's it. I wouldn't want him to waste one of them on me."

Tim raised his voice slightly. "Isn't that right, Sam? You don't want to get thrown out of tonight's game because you really want to yell at me? Come on, Sam, you know you have to do it. Give it to me, both barrels. You know you want to."

Sam looked up at Tim. He raised his hands from the desktop, slowly curled his fingers into claws. His eyes grew wide and showed white all around the irises. "I don't want to yell at you, Trehan. That's too f-ing easy. I want you boiled in oil. Tarred and feathered. Hung up on the flagpole. I want," he said, slowly rising from his chair, "I want to—"

"Wait outside," Tim said with a grin, at the same time Suzanna mumbled, "I think I'll go wait outside."

Tim hadn't been kidding. The man had a definite temper. And, in Suzanna's considered opinion, a
really good reason to go ballistic on Tim.

She and Tim had met at the stadium in Pittsburgh Sunday night. Monday, they had jetted off to Vegas.
In the very early hours of Tuesday morning, they had flown back to Pennsylvania. Who would have thought the world would miss Tim Trehan so much if he disappeared for a litde over twenty-four hours?

They had driven down to the stadium in Tim's sports car, after he'd stopped in the driveway to transfer her bags into his trunk.

An hour. That was all it took to get from Whitehall to the stadium. There were players who lived in New Jersey, Tim had told her, right over the Walt Whitman or Ben Franklin bridges. There were players who lived in other Philadelphia suburbs. Sometimes it took players who lived closer longer to get to the ball park.

But not Tim. Because there was nothing but super highway and generous speed limits between Whitehall and Philadelphia.

So an hour. Hour and ten minutes, tops. That was what Tim had promised her, assuring her that flying into the local airport instead of Philadelphia International and taking care of Margo wouldn't be any problem. They would still get to the ball park on time, in plenty of time.

Unless there was an accident on the turnpike, or a backup on the Schuylkill Expressway.

So here they were, at the stadium, with a seven-twelve start time, and it was already five-twenty-two.

The manager probably had a legitimate beef—but Tim's late arrival time was only one small part of
Sam's anger.

Because, according to Sam, there had been reporters milling around all day, driving him nuts, asking questions about Tim's absence.

Why hadn't he flown back on the team plane? Did that hit from Sanchez do more damage than anyone was telling them? Was it true Trehan was in a Pittsburgh hospital, checked in under another name, and
in some sort of coma? Hey, no, someone else said it was a punctured lung, and they had found him unconscious in his hotel room. Or was management drinking trade, because everyone knew Tim became a free agent at the end of the season, and the Phillies had so typically refused to talk contract yet. Was Trehan boycotting the team?

Suzanna had heard it all, both on the all-sports station Tim had turned on in the car, and in the hallways as they walked toward Sam's office. Sam had then told them all of it again ... as little flecks of foam had gathered at the corners of the manager's mouth.

Two reporters entered the hallway, and Suzanna turned her face toward the wall, hoping neither of them recognized her from the quick sprint she and Tim had made between his car and the players' entrance.

"I say he's pulling a fast one, faking an injury," one reporter said, adjusting the press pass hanging around his skinny neck. Then he pulled out a cigarette, lit it. "Man, I needed this. Let's just stay here a while, okay?"

"Pay attention, at least to yourself, for crying out loud. Fake an injury. Why would Trehan fake an injury? And blow that damn smoke somewhere else, okay?"

"The way I hear it, Moore wants over a hundred million for six years," the second reporter said.

Suzanna sort of choked, coughed, and put one arm against the wall, bracing herself, pretty sure anyone who looked could now see the white all around the irises of her eyes.

"Chicken feed, Alex. Look at the Rangers, throwing down more than twice that for a ten-year deal."

"Yeah, but what happened in Texas is never going to happen again. Damn sure not here in Philly. Hell, they let Shilling get away. You could damn near field a team of All-Stars with ex-Phillies who are still
out there, playing. He's gone, I'm telling you. If they don't cough up the bucks, Trehan's gone at the
end of the season. Off to greener pastures."

''Unless the curse gets him first," the guy named Alex said, and Suzanna perked up her ears once more. The curse? Hadn't that kid in Pittsburgh—Joey, right?—said something about a curse?

"Right, there's always that. So is Moore playing games? Or is Trehan really hurt? He didn't look hurt, Herb told me, and he saw him walking into the clubhouse with some hot babe on his arm."

"They don't put a sling around a concussion," the other reporter said. "And maybe his ribs are taped.
I'm telling you, something happened out there in Pittsburgh. Something's going on. Why else would Moore have called a press conference for after the game?"

Suzanna was beginning to feel very conspicuous, all alone in this hallway with the two reporters. She decided she might feel safer on the other side of the double doors she and Tim had come in through earlier, and headed for them now.

And then she took off, not quite running, for the door marked Women that she'd passed on her way to Sam's office.

Once safe inside her sanctuary, Suzanna walked over to the sink, washed her hands as she stared at herself in the mirror.

"Well, that's one down, babe," Tim said as he took hold of Suzanna's elbow and led her toward an elevator tucked deep inside the stadium. "Sam's fine now."

"Poor man. Is that vein in his nose still throbbing?" she asked as she stepped inside the elevator and waited for whatever came next.

"Just a little," Tim told her, grinning, as the doors closed and the elevator car started up. "But now I've got two minutes to get you upstairs to my private box, and get back down to the clubhouse, change, and get out on the field. There's a rumor going around that I'm dead, you know. Guess somebody missed the bulletin about us running in here."

He looked at his wristwatch, shook his head. "No, not yet. Keely will want to wait until Candy's gone to sleep before leaving her with Aunt Sadie. I figure they'll be here by the bottom of the second. But Mort will be there."

Tim looked at her quizzically. "What 'oh,' Suze? What's the matter, babe? You're not afraid of the big bad Mort, are you?"

The elevator stopped, and Tim bounced on the balls of his feet, waiting for the doors to open. "Only about six dozen. You can handle him. I mean it, he's a big pussycat."

"An example," Suzanna said, stepping out into yet another hallway. "Give me an example."

Suzanna nodded. "Growled like a bear, but he was always fair. If you worked hard, he gave you credit for trying."

"And he was a sucker for compliments, remember? Jack once got the class out of a pop quiz just by complimenting Benny on his new tie."

"Your brother was shameless," Suzanna said as they walked along the hallway, toward Tim's private
box. "His tie, his new sports coat. One time, I remember, he told him he liked his crew cut."

"Just remember," Tim said, opening the door to the box, "Mort loves compliments. He can be in the middle of one of his rants, and a compliment brings back the sunshine. Honest."

"Mort, hi!" he said as his agent scrambled out of his seat and headed toward them. ' 'You look great.
Is that a new jacket?"

"Blow it out your ear, Tim," Mort shot right back at him. "Where the hell have you been?"

"I see what you mean, Tim," Suzanna said from slightly behind him. "Works like a charm."

"Mort," Tim pressed on, knowing he should already be on his way back down to the clubhouse, "keep a lid on it for a moment, okay? I want to introduce you to my wife, Suzanna Trent Trehan." He hesitated
a moment, then added, "Be nice, Mort. She's on our side."

"Suzanna. I like that. Good solid name. And I'm Mort. You can call me Mort." Then he glowered at
Tim. "And you can call me—before you so much as take another deep breath. You got that?"

"Smartass," Mort grumbled, still holding Suzanna's hand in his beefy one. "Come on, Suzanna. We'll get to know each other while this idiot here goes down and gets into his uniform. Maybe we'll bury him in it."

"It'll be fine, Suze, honest. And Jack and Keely will be here soon. If Mort gives you any trouble, just tell him how you've been thinking about doing that shoot for Penthouse. What's it called? Oh yeah, Baseball's Babes."

"Exactly. See, Mort? She knows there are things you do, and things you don't do. I'm telling you, you two are going to get along like gangbusters."

"Yeah," Suzanna said, shooting him a look that actually had him thinking about wincing. "We're going
to form a club, with Sam Kizer. I think we'll call it the Kill Trehan Club. What do you say, Mort? Does that have a nice ring to it?"

''Oh, Tim, I like this girl. Now go away. No, wait. How about you tell Suzanna here that you're going to hit a home run for her tonight."

"I know, but if you do happen to hit a home run, then I can tell the press it was a wedding present to Suzanna here. If you don't, hey, then I don't mention it. Now go. We'll meet up with you in the pressroom after the game. I'm holding a press conference."

"I heard," Tim said, looking at Suzanna one more time. He felt as if he was deserting her. "Are you
going to be all right, babe?"

"I'll be fine. Oh, and Tim? Right center, okay? I'd like you to hit that home run to right center. Work
on it."

Mort was a sweetheart. He asked a million questions, definitely, but then, when the game was about to start, he went hunting up refreshments for her.

He'd made sure she had soda, fresh roasted peanuts, even a cheese steak. He'd actually begun to explain the game to her, until she'd pulled out the program Tim had snagged for her earlier, opened it to the correct page, grabbed a pen out of her purse, and began writing in the lineups so she could record the stats.

"Amazing. Keely didn't know squat, except that she insisted she was a Mets fan. With Jack a Yankee." He shook his head. "But she's getting better at it, now that Jack's colorman for the Yanks. This is good, really good. So, you've known Tim since kindergarten?"

"I know, kiddo, I know. But I want to make sure I've got all my ducks in a row here."

"I got a lot of frogs in a row, out in Vegas." When Mort looked at her as if she'd just grown another head, she said, "Okay, sorry, and yes, I've known both Tim and Jack since kindergarten."

Suzanna then spent the first two innings answering more questions, Mort taking a break only when Tim came up third in the bottom of the first. He grounded out to second, ending the inning.

When Mort finally ran down, and the game was between innings, Suzanna asked a question of her own. "Mort? Why would someone think Tim's been cursed?"

He looked at her strangely for a moment, then grinned. "Hey, I curse the boy every day."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "That's not it. Someone said something about a curse while we were
in Pittsburgh, and I overheard a couple of reporters earlier tonight, talking in the hallway. One said Tim
is going to be traded, or become a free agent at the end of the year, and the other one said maybe the curse will get him first."

Suzanna chewed on this for a moment and decided Mort was being way too casual for such an intense man. "Superstition? Tim's big into superstitions, you know, when it comes to baseball. He always wore the same socks when his team was winning. He always eats spaghetti before every game. He phoned a restaurant from the car on the way here to order some delivered to the clubhouse. He has to have three pieces of bubble gum stuck in his cheek. And then there's that thing he does at the plate. You know?
With his bat? There's probably more."

Mort bent his head, scratched at his cheek. "He keeps a photograph of his mom and dad wrapped inside plastic, stuck in his right sock."

Suzanna felt a tug at her heart. Both Mr. and Mrs. Trehan were gone now, passing away about a year apart while she was still in California. It was just like Tim to do something like carrying their photograph onto the field with him. Neither one of them ever missed one of the twins' games, all through school.

"That ... That's nice," she said, blinking quickly because her eyes had begun to sting. "So it's not some curse that guy was talking about? Just a superstition?"

"Mort." Suzanna shifted on her seat, looked deeply into the agent's eyes. She'd read everything she could find on Tim and his career over the years, but never anything about a curse. A private thing between sports-writers? It didn't compute. "We can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way."

"What's the hard way?" Mort asked, obviously a man who always looked at all the angles.

Suzanna smiled. She could lie with the best of them when she put her mind to it. "The hard way, Mort,
is me sitting behind a microphone at the press conference and stating, very firmly, that there is no curse. Then, when a reporter raises his hand, and tells me about the curse, and asks me why I don't think there is one, I can—"

"Okay, okay," Mort said, cutting her off just as she'd run out of lie. "I get the picture. What's the easy way?"

She looked up at him after recording the Cardinals' first out in the top of the third, a pop to short. "Need you ask? You tell me about the curse, Mort. Right here, right now."

Mort shook his head. "And you look so nice, too. That hair. It's cute, all sticking up like that. And you've got a great smile. Really terrific. Fooled me completely. You're as tough as Keely, aren't you? Maybe tougher?"

"I haven't met Keely yet, so I couldn't say," Suzanna told him. "Now, talk to me. I'll give you a peanut?"

Mort looked out onto the field, then pointed to Suzanna's program. "Myers struck out swinging," he said, so she could record it. Then he sat back, his bulk filling the chair. "Okay, the curse, the superstition, whatever you want to call it. It's about Jack."

"So you know that. And, since you've known Tim since you all were kids, you also know that almost everything Jack did, Tim did at the same time, or right after. Broken bones, grades, the teams they
played on, the colleges they were both accepted to—all that stuff."

"What's to go on with? Jack got knocked out of the game, and Tim's worried he's next, that's all."

"But Tim's never been injured. Except near the end of last season, when he ripped a tendon in his finger."

Mort nodded. "And the two games he missed in spring training, after running into that wall chasing a foul pop-up. And the three-game series he missed three weeks ago because he hyperextended his knee trying to beat out a grounder at first. Jammed his leg on the bag. Damn near kept him out of the All-Star game."

The Cardinal left fielder made the third out, but Suzanna didn't record it. "And the other day? When Sanchez barreled into him at home? He was down for a while, Mort."

"I know. They're keeping count. The reporters, that is. Tim, the guy who never gets hurt, is getting hurt. Some jerk figured out that business about Tim doing almost everything Jack did, said something to Tim about it after a game, and everyone else picked up on it, like some sort of private joke. Drives Tim nuts."

"He believes it, doesn't he?" Suzanna asked, watching as Tim walked to the dugout, his mask off, his
ball cap on backward, his uniform partly covered by his catching gear.

Long, tall, at ease in his own skin, he was the epitome of any boy's childhood dream, the perfect baseball player. He'd been born to play baseball; he lived for the game.

"Mort?" she repeated when the agent didn't answer her. "He believes it, doesn't he?"

"I don't know. Maybe. But he doesn't always do what Jack does. I mean, nobody saw any baby on his doorstep. And he's not—well, yeah, he is married, isn't he? How about that."

Then Mort stood up, started toward the back of the box as the door opened and Jack and Keely Trehan walked in. "Hey, you're late," he said, grabbing Keely in a hug.

Beautiful. The woman was beautiful. Neither too tall nor too short. Huge brown eyes. Honey blond hair pulled into a casual knot of curls on top of her head— the sort of hairdo that took either forty minutes in order to look as if the person had just grabbed a rubber band and a few clips and tossed it up there, or
the sort of hairdo that came so easily to those with naturally curly hair.

Suzanna would have placed a bet that Keely's hair curled naturally. This woman had too much life dancing in those brown eyes of hers to waste a moment of it with something as mundane as working
hard for casual disarray.

Keely wore pencil-slim red slacks and a red-and-white-striped blouse that curved over her pregnancy-expanded belly. She looked like a candy cane, and the way her husband looked at her, it was clear he thought she was good enough to eat.

"Hiya, Jack, long time no see," Suzanna said, getting to her feet as Jack left his wife's side and headed toward her.

"Suze," Jack said, putting out his arms so that she'd walk into them, let him hug her. "Just when I think my little brother's lost his last marble, he goes and does something brilliant." He kissed her temple. "Welcome to the family, sweetheart."

He put his hands on her shoulders, pushed her slighdy away from him. "Mind? Why would I mind?
This is perfect, just perfect. Tim needs a keeper."

Jack grinned at Suzanna. "Suze? The lady with the good right arm is my wife, Keely. Keely, one of my oldest and best friends, and Tim's keep ... er ... wife, Suzanna."

Keely grinned at her. "Hi. Excuse the guy choking on his size twelves. He's a man, you know."

"I know. Sad, isn't it?" Suzanna said, returning Keely's smile. Her sister-in-law's smile. Wow, she had a sister-in-law. Well, Tim did. Surely she could think of Keely as her sister-in-law, too.

"Okay, okay," Jack said sheepishly. "I can tell when I'm not wanted. But be careful, Suze. Keely learned her interrogation skills with the FBI, I swear it."

"Go talk to Mort, he's looking ready to burst," Keely said, lifting her face for a quick kiss, and Jack obediently went away.

"Jack looks great," Suzanna said, watching Tim's twin go back up the few steps to where Mort waited. "And he looks at you like you're his whole world."

Suzanna watched as Keely, a very fair-skinned woman, blushed straight to the roots of her hair.

"He does, doesn't he," Keely said, then sighed. "We're so happy it scares me sometimes." Then she moved toward the seats, sitting down, patting the one beside her. "Now, come talk to me before I pull
out two dozen snapshots of Candy and bore you into jumping over that railing."

The small Philadelphia apartment was quiet, the bedroom shrouded in darkness, with a spill of moonlight shining through the window and falling on the couple curled together on the king-size bed.

"Oh, you were, you were," she told him, moving up so that she could kiss his chin.' 'I was just thinking about the press conference after the game, that's all. Mort's amazing. I swear, Tim, he knows more
about me than I know about myself. How did he do that?"

"He probably pumped Jack all during the game. Which we won, by the way, so you can applaud again
at any time. In which I hit a home run, not so by the way. To right center." He sighed theatrically.
"I'm so good sometimes I even amaze myself."

Suzanna gave him a quick, playful punch in the gut. "Show-off," she said, then quickly removed herself from the bed before he could tickle her, covering her naked bodywith the thick white terry-cloth bathrobe he'd been given at some hotel he'd stayed in somewhere.

"Nowhere," she said, sitting down at the bottom of the bed. "I just think maybe it's safer down here."

He tried to look innocent. "But I don't even remember how ticklish you are, honest."

"Yeah, right, you forgot," she said, rolling her eyes. "No, Tim, I have a question for you."

She couldn't know it, but her spikey dark red hair was standing up all over her head. She looked like a firecracker, and he had to resist the urge to light her fuse one more time. Then again, why resist? They were married. They could make love all night if they wanted to. Except that Suzanna didn't look as though she wanted to make love.

He opened his mouth to ask, "Who told you?" But then he closed it again, knowing that was the last thing he should say. So he shrugged, and said lazily, "Oh, that. Yeah, some sportswriters started that crap last year, when I ripped the tendon in my finger. It never even hit any of the columns. Just a private joke making the rounds among the guys. No big deal."

"No big deal? Jack has to leave the game in the spring, and you get injured early in the fall, and it's no
big deal to you? Now, why don't I believe you?"

Because you're too damn smart and you know me too damn well, Tim thought, then also wisely, did not say out loud.

"I like gum. And nobody chews tobacco anymore." He did not like where this conversation was heading.

Tim was getting antsy, moving around in the bed. "Habit," he said, then went up on his knees, reaching for her. "Are we done yet? Because I'm starting a new habit. I begin right about here," he said, nibbling on her earlobe, "then sort of work my way down."

"Tim, we're talking here," Suzanna said, even as he pulled her onto her back on the bed, began working on the terry-cloth sash she'd tied at her waist.

"Wrong, we're not talking here," he said, pushing the robe out of the way before he lowered his mouth
to her belly.

They were so damn compatible. In the past. Hopefully, in the future. As long as they didn't talk too much.

He kissed her flat stomach, then moved lower, trailing his lips down one thigh, back up the other.

"What... What are you doing?" she asked, her voice sounding nervous, and yet excited.

How he wanted her. Any way, every way. They were so good together, so very good. His good old
Suze, just what the doctor ordered. He couldn't get enough of her. Gently, oh, so gently, he spread her thighs, lowered his head.

I always hate to throw a guy out of a game,
but sometimes it was necessary to keep order.

Suzanna turned on her laptop and went on-line to check for messages. There were three from the home office, and another two from Sean Blackthorne, owner of the company.

"What does he want?" she grumbled out loud in the Saint Louis hotel room, her finger hesitating after she'd moved the track ball to hit the open icon.

Oh, hell, delaying things wouldn't help any. Sighing, she opened the first e-mail, scanned it quickly to
see that Sean had decided to join her in Saint Louis later that afternoon.

"Oh, peachy," she said, deleting the e-mail and opening the second one. There was only one word in the message: Dinner?

"Dinner," she said out loud, hitting the Delete button once more. "Now, what does that mean?"

Suzanna quickly scanned the messages from her office, saw nothing earthshakingly important, and shut down the computer in favor of the Room Service breakfast that had arrived a few minutes earlier.

"Dinner," she repeated, knowing she was talking to herself, and also knowing that she'd been doing it for years and had ceased to worry that she might be going nuts. She'd been traveling alone for so long, living alone in so many different hotel rooms. She just liked the company.

"Could it hurt?" she asked herself, lifting the metal lid on her scrambled eggs, home fries, and ham. "We only dated a couple of times, and that was months ago, before I told him I didn't think dating the boss was a good idea. And the man knows I'm married now."

Tim. Her husband of almost two months. One month and a day short of three weeks, to be more precise about the thing.

Suzanna picked up the controller and turned on the television, flipping stations until she found ESPN.
Tim and the Phillies were out on the coast, and even at home in Allentown the game wouldn't have
come on TV until eleven o'clock. Not that Phillies games would be broadcast in Saint Louis anyway.

She'd hit the sack here at nine last night, unreasonably tired after a day spent trying to undo the damage Forrester and Sons' resident computer guru had done to their newly purchased Blackthorne accounting system.

She looked at the scrambled eggs and decided they didn't smell all that appetizing and she didn't want them. Maybe just the wheat toast, that would be enough.

Munching the toast, she waited through recaps of a few other games before the announcers turned to
the Phillies-Giants game.

And one heck of a throw to second to cut down a base stealing attempt to end an inning.

Suzanna turned up the volume when the tape switched to the clubhouse and she saw Tim sitting in
front of his locker, a towel wrapped around his neck, fielding questions from reporters.

"It's been a good road trip," Tim was saying into a crowd of microphones shoved into his face. "Dusty's playing well, Rich Craig made one heck of a catch in the ninth to rob Gomez, and Jeff Kolecki started, what? Three double plays? We're just clicking, that's all. Everybody's giving one hundred and ten percent. A real team effort."

"And there he is, ladies and gents, Mr. Modest," Suzanna said, taking another bite of toast.

"Now we head home," Tim said, "and that's good. This has been a long road trip."

"Home to your bride, Tim?" one of the reporters asked, and Tim just grinned at him as the tape ended and the station went to commercial.

"Oh, be still my heart," Suzanna said, turning off the set, and then grinning herself, definitely pleased. What a smile that man had. Without effort, Tim could always have the whole world eating out of his hand.

Except that he was making noises about her quitting her job, going on the road with him when the team traveled, and she'd been resisting him.

They were married now, sure. But she didn't want to look like some sort of gold digger. Get married,
quit her job the next day, wrap herself in Tim's money? No, just the thought made her nervous.

Besides, she'd worked long and hard to get where she was, and she liked her job. Loved her job.

One of them was that Tim had never told her he loved her, which meant that she sure as hell wasn't
going to be the first one to say the words.

Besides, he had to know she loved him, had loved him for so long that she couldn't remember ever not loving him.

And he still called her "babe." She hated that he called her babe. It made her feel like one of a crowd of babes, maybe even interchangeable babes.

Except he'd given her a ring, and his name. She'd moved her clothing into his house.

"So how come I don't feel like we're man and wife?" she asked out loud, heading for the bathroom, to take a shower, start yet another day.

It was Monday. By Wednesday night, Tim would be home, to begin a home stand against the Mets on Thursday. She'd be home herself on Wednesday, maybe even tomorrow if that damn computer geek at Forrester and Sons would just keep his sticky fingers off the keyboard until she could undo the damage he'd inflicted and get the company up and running again.

She loved Tim coming home to her, her coming home to him. They were like illicit lovers then, grabbing all the time together that they could manage ... spending most of those hours in bed.

It still amazed Suzanna to realize the depths of her passion, the hungers Tim had discovered inside her.

All her dreams about Tim had been about his eyes, his smile, the house they would build with the white picket fence around it, the children they would have together. How she'd bake him cookies, and they would sit on the porch swing at night, holding hands. Mushy stuff. Romantic stuff.

Suzanna stepped out of the shower, wrapped a hand towel around her wet head, began smoothing a lightly scented oil on her still-wet skin.

She was so aware of her body now. Tim had done that, too, awakened her to her own body, even her ability to reduce the man to a mass of heavy-breathing, sweating passion that left them both limp and shaking.

Oh, they talked. They talked about the games. They talked about the past, a lot. They talked about their parents, how it felt to be an orphan, even at the advanced age of twenty-nine. Those were deep talks, holding a lot of truths, even a few tears. So they did talk.

They spoke to each other in general terms about the world, politics, even the cats. But whenever she wanted to get more serious about their relationship, talk about anything even vaguely resembling his feelings for her, hers for him, why he had decided, out of the blue, to marry her, he found a way to get her into bed, where she couldn't talk or think at all.

"This time," she said to her reflection as it was revealed in the mirror after she rubbed a towel over its steamed surface. "This time, we talk."

Mrs. Butterworth, who should have been short and soft and gray-haired, to match her treacle-sweet name, hitched up her denim overalls that threatened to slip off her slim shoulders and turned to look
at Tim.

"Are you going to tell her about Margo tonight?" the woman asked, narrowing her eyes behind small, round wire-rim gold frames, the same frames she'd worn when Tim was in high school. Mrs. B. called
it her John Lennon look. What was scary was that with her mop of brown hair, parted in the middle and swinging in at her chin, with the glasses, and with that beak of a nose the woman had, she sort of looked like John Lennon.

He was surprised that she hadn't said, "Hey, Jude, I'm going to bring you down."

Before she could say it, or anything close, he reminded her, "Now, Mrs. B., we can't be sure."

"The hell we can't," the woman said, turning back to the counter to spoon soft butter into the potatoes in the mixing bowl. "I may have taught history, Tim, but I minored in biology in college. One minute little Margo is dragging her belly all over the floor, howling like a banshee, and the next day she's curled up on the couch, no more pitiful howling, and looking like the cat that ate the canary. We won't even talk about the absolutely disgusting smirk on Lucky's face."

"This isn't good, you know. Suzanna said she was thinking maybe she'd breed Margo. You know, with another pedigree Persian? Does it really take only one time?"

"With cats, with dogs, sometimes with people. Weren't you listening during Sex Ed?"

Tim dropped his head into his hands. "In my next life, I'm inventing condoms for cats," he grumbled under his breath.

"I heard that," Mrs. Butterworth said, then turned on the mixer. "Stop sitting there feeling sorry for yourself for lying to Suzanna, and fetch me the milk carton from the fridge."

"Yes, ma'am," Tim said, slowly unwrapping his long legs from the rungs of the chair and heading for the huge refrigerator that had been covered to match the cabinets—just one more of Keely's little tricks.
First time he'd come into the kitchen, it had taken him a full minute to locate the damn thing.

"So, Mrs. B.," he asked, handing over the milk carton and watching as she opened it, poured some into the potatoes being smashed to smithereens by the electric mixer. "How long before... before Suzanna figures out I didn't have Lucky snipped?"

She looked over her shoulder at him. "Planning to build a bomb shelter out back to hide in?"

"Suzanna? Oh, I don't know. Let's see. Do you remember the time Kurt Wheeler said something nasty about that sweet little Diane what's-her-name after the junior prom? Said he'd—well, you know, hit a home run with her? Poor Diane, the child wouldn't say boo to a goose, or whatever that saying is. But
not Suzanna, when she found Diane crying in the girls' bathroom. Your sweet, dear Suzanna went looking for Kurt and then all but picked him up and slammed him into the lockers, told him to keep his dirty mouth shut or she'd shut it for him. She's got a righteous temper, Tim, and you know it."

"Yeah," Tim said, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "I know it. So, how long have I got before I get my head shoved into a locker?"

"Well, according to the care and feeding of cats book I picked up at the supermarket last week, the first thing to notice is if Margo's nipples begin to turn pink and become erect."

"Oh, cripes," Tim said, half collapsing against the counter. "I don't want to hear all of this."

Mrs. Butterworth turned off the mixer and reached into the drawer in front of her for a spatula which she used to wipe the sides of the bowl before turning the mixer on again. "Well, tough toenails, Tim. You're hearing it. You'll also notice the fur around the nipples sort of becoming sparse, probably so the kittens will find it easier to nurse. At least that's the conclusion I came to. Not that I needed the book all that much, because Margo's little belly is growing."

"None. From my calculations, and I used the night those two animals kept me up to all hours, running around my apartment and howling at each other until I could finally corral Margo and lock her in the bathroom—and knowing now that you can calculate gestation as one mating day plus sixty-three days—I'd say we'll have kittens in, oh, about another six weeks, give or take a few days."

She turned off the mixer once more, then glared at Tim overtop the rim of her glasses. "You men,
you're all alike, thinking with your hormones."

''Hey,'' Tim said, stepping back and raising his hands, "how did I get dragged into this?"

"I'm not sure, other than your lie to Suzanna; but you're standing here, I'm worried about Margo, so you're getting whatever I want to hand out. Okay, that's about it. Roast is sliced and wrapped in foil in
the oven. Gravy's simmering on the top of the stove, salad's in the fridge. Now, what time is Suzanna
due home? I have a date."

Tim lifted one side of his mouth in a smile. "A hot one? Has he been snipped? You'd better be careful, Mrs. B."

"Ha-ha," she said, taking out a dinner plate to cover the metal mixing bowl, keep the potatoes warm. "Better you should ask that question about yourself. I swear, I'm surprised you ever let that poor girl
out of bed when you're home."

And with that parting shot, Mrs. Butterworth—tall, slim, denim-overall-and-navy-knit-top-clad recent inductee to senior citizenship—sashayed out of the kitchen on her sneakered feet, on her way back to
her garage apartment.

Leaving Tim to sink slowly back into his chair, desperately trying to recall Suzanna's answer to his question about birth control that he'd asked that first night.

Suzanna hadn't been home long enough to do more than eat dinner, load the dishwasher, and change
into soft pink sweats before the doorbell had rung and Jack and Keely had come barging in.

Oh, all right, so they hadn't barged. They had seen Suzanna's sedan as they were coming out of their own drive, on their way to the grocery store with Candy, and had waited another hour before packing
up the kid and driving over, for a "visit."

When had the idea sounded so good—building his own house not a half mile away from his brother's?

So now here he was, sitting in the den with Jack, while Suzanna, Keely, and little Candy were in the kitchen, talking about whatever women talked about when there were no men around.

And not that he wasn't glad that Keely and Suzanna had hit it off so well. They kept each other company when Jack was doing his TV and radio color commentaries for the Yankee games, and while Tim was on the road with the team. That was what baseball wives did when they didn't travel with their husbands.

Or when they weren't jetting all over hell and back, playing computer genius and leaving their husband
at home to stew, or on the road looking at a redheaded roomie who most definitely was not Suzanna.

"Who's pitching for the Mets tomorrow night?" Jack asked, sipping the beer Tim had tossed to him earlier, when they had both been banished to the den.

"Yeah, like Sam's going to lift you for a right-handed batter. Good old ambidextrous Tim-bo just sashays to the other side of the plate. Your average is only twenty points lower from the right."

"And I'm batting .325 leftie," Tim reminded his brother, for there had always been a friendly competition when it came to their batting averages... considering that Jack's average had never risen to more than about .200. "Hey, we're identical twins. You could have tried the same thing. I learned how to catch and throw rightie, bat from both sides. Think what it would have been like if you could have said screw the bad left arm, now I'll pitch with my right."

"That would have gotten me into the record books all right," Jack said. "Get real. You started throwing rightie when you were seven or so, once you knew you wanted to catch. You don't start that stuff at twenty-eight. Besides, good average or not, you're not all that great from the left side every time. You looked pretty lame against Colon the other night. He had you swinging from your heels."

"He got lucky," Tim said, thinking about the left-handed Giant reliever who had struck him out swinging. "I wanted it low and inside so bad, and when it came in low and outside, I couldn't lay off it. I can't hit them all, you know, bro."

"No? I could have sworn you thought you could," Jack said, grinning at him. He lifted his beer can, gestured toward the kitchen. "You and Suze still doing okay? She doesn't mind the road trips?"

Tim looked into the opening of his beer can as if he could see straight to the bottom of the Black Hole
of Calcutta, or something else just as depressing. "No, she doesn't care. I mean, she hasn't said... I haven't asked.

Tim eyed his brother coolly. "I don't think so. Besides, there's nothing to talk about. We're good. Hell, we're great."

Tim sneered. "Here speaks the man who married his interior decorator, after he'd moved her in to take care of Candy. So we're not the sanest two guys out there. Are you saying you did it any better?"

"No, Tim, I'm not. And I think Suzanna's the best thing that could ever happen to you. But there's something ... I don't know. Call it twin telepathy, the way Mrs. B. does. But I get the feeling something's bothering you."

"Yeah," Tim said, standing up. "You're bothering me. I've been out of town for ten days, and now my wife's home, I'm home, and I'm knee-deep in relatives. Go the hell home, bro, okay?"

Jack raised his eyebrows. "Oh," he said, then grinned. "Interrupted your seduction scene, did we? Sorry about that, Tim. But Keely wanted to invite you guys over Sunday night, after the games, to celebrate Aunt Sadie's seventieth."

"Hard to believe, isn't it? She only retired five years ago and moved into my garage apartment and regressed to psychedelic teenager."

Tim shook his head. "Red convertible, all that weird junk she keeps bidding for on e-Bay. That baseball player figurine she made for me in her ceramics class— you know, the one with the bobbing head? I know she painted it to look like a Phillies uniform, and I know she put my name and number on the
back, but when she told me she thought she'd captured my face? If I looked like that, Jack, I'd have to wear a bag over my head. The damn thing has rouge or something painted on its cheeks, and lipstick,
for crying out loud."

"Hey, don't tell me your troubles. Mine's wearing Yankee pinstripes—except they're going the wrong way."

Tim picked up his beer once more, laughing. "Sure, we'll be there for the party. We wouldn't miss it.
My game's at one."

"So's mine. I do the post game wrap-up on radio, and I'm outta there. Keely's planning some kind of buffet dinner for around seven, just to be sure. Then we're on the road for almost two weeks. Do you think Suzanna will be working out of the Allentown office? I trust Aunt Sadie, when she's not trying to make me listen to her audition song for South Pacific, that is, but I'd be happier if Suzanna was around, to keep Keel company. She's almost seven months along, you know."

"I don't know where she'll be," Tim said, and his mood plummeted again, because he didn't know. He'd be home, the Phillies were starting an extended home stand, their last west coast swing over for the year, but Suzanna could be in Phoenix next week, or even Seattle.

This wasn't right. He was supposed to know where his wife would be. And she was supposed to be with him. Here, in this house, or in the Philadelphia apartment. Just with him.

He looked down, because a cat was rubbing against his legs. It was Lucky, the no-good, double-crossing Romeo.

That brought up another thought Tim really didn't want to have. Procreation. Margo's, most definitely, and the possibility that Suzanna might soon....

Suzanna put away her toothbrush, still feeling what she believed to be a stupid thrill, seeing it sitting
there, right beside Tim's, and headed back into the bedroom.

Keely had told her that Tim, for all his bluster about just looking at pictures and then "picking stuff,"
had actively participated in every last detail of his house, botfi the building of it and the furnishings.

He'd picked this bed. A huge thing, with four solid posts and a wooden top that was all carved inside and had striped draperies tied to it, like something out of an English castle. It was so high that Suzanna used the small two-step affair that she'd always assumed was only used by modern furniture makers as a sort of affectation.

The room was done all in deep greens and golds and touches of navy. Oriental rugs were scattered on
the hardwood floors, and the dresser and armoire were huge. Everything was huge, even the deep tray ceiling that had to be at least fifteen feet above her head.

And the window. How could she not love the triple-hung window with the stained-glass oriel top? Keely hadn't put any drapes there, because the architecture of the windows was more than enough, and the bedroom overlooked nothing more than the privacy of oak trees that had probably been growing on this rolling hill for about a century.

Coming home was like entering another century, actually. And that made sense, because English history and Mrs. Butterworth's classes had always been Tim's favorites. He was a thoroughly modern man, but he was also a traditionalist. And he might have said he liked the castle in that tapestry in the foyer, but
she knew darn well he'd also be able to tell her when and where it had been made, how long it had taken to make it, and exactly what historical event the scene depicted.

Tim had made sure he had every modern convenience in his house, but, between them, he and Keely
had managed to hide them all, so that there were no jarring surprises like air-conditioning wall vents visible next to a four-foot-high Chinese vase, or naked television screens marring the decor anywhere.

Even Tim's flat-screen wall TV in his den had been camouflaged by the painting of a hunt scene that
rose toward the ceiling at the push of a button.

And yet this was a home, not just a showplace. Keely had also made sure of that. Sure, Suzanna knew she'd add a few things, someday, rearrange some of the furniture if the spirit took her. But, by and large, this was Tim's home, and she was happy in it.

"Hi, there," she said, easing out of the filmy dressing gown that went with her new negligee—she loved negligees—and slipped into bed beside Tim, who was paging through a copy of Sports Illustrated.
"You in there?"

He closed the magazine, tossed it onto the bedside table. "Not that week. It's the swimsuit issue. I forgot
I had it."

Suzanna looked past him, noticing that he'd thrown the magazine so that the back cover faced up. "Swimsuit issue, huh? How lonely have you been?"

"Not that lonely," he said, reaching for her, and she decided that it was okay to talk later. Maybe even tomorrow. What was her rush?

"Hmmm," she said, reaching for the snap on his pajama bottoms. He didn't wear tops, but he had the sexiest collection of pajama bottoms.

''Well,'' he said, and she sat up to look at him, because his voice sounded sort of strained. Not at all like him.

He sat up as well, pulled a pillow from behind him and laid it in his lap, rested his elbows on it. "Remember that first night, Suze?"

She smiled. "You just remembered who seduced whom? If I give you a quarter, will you promise to forget again?"

"I think we can safely say it was pretty mutual, babe. But what I'm trying to remember is your answer
to a question I had."

"Yeah. Oh, hell," he said, throwing the pillow onto the floor. "Birth control, Suze. I asked you about
birth control. I'm sure I did. And you said you were fine."

Suzanna felt her stomach coiling into one huge knot. "I don't... Oh, wait, yes, I do. You asked me if I
was okay. That was it. Okay."

"You're asking me?" Tim stabbed his fingers through his hair. "I thought it meant you were on the pill, something like that."

"I see," Suzanna said, caught between anger and anguish. "You thought I had sex so often that I needed to be on the pill? Different city every week, different man every night? Is that it?"

"No! Oh, cripes, I hate this. I didn't think that, Suze. I guess I wasn't really thinking."

She looked down at her hands, saw that she'd laced her fingers together so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. "I thought you didn't care. I mean, I thought you never said anything. And then you never used anything, or asked me to use anything ..."

"I see," she said, sliding out of the bed and picking up her dressing gown, which she'd laid over the bedside chair done up in stripes to match the hangings.

Then she took the dressing gown off again and climbed back into the bed. "No, I'm not leaving."

"You are," she said, pushing at his chest with both hands. "Get out, Tim. Out of this bed, out of this room. Now."

"It isn't what you said, Tim; it's how you said it. And how you looked when you said it. Like a deer trapped in headlights. You thought I was on the pill. You did, didn't you?"

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, probably so she couldn't listen to his tone and accuse him of anything else.

"And now that you know I'm not, you're trying to pretend it doesn't matter, that it would be just fine
with you if I were to get pregnant. In a pig's eye, Tim. It's the last thing you want."

"Get ... out," Suzanna said, pointing toward the door. "Go downstairs, Tim, sit in your favorite chair,
and think about this, okay? Next wife, Tim, discuss birth control before you hop into bed with her
every five seconds for seven weeks—almost two whole months."

He got out of the bed and actually headed toward the door, before stopping, coming over to her. "Are
you saying that you're... you know?"

"No, Tim. I'm not. . . you know. Of course I'm not. So you can rest easy about that. You just can't do
it in this bed. Not tonight. Now go away. Here, take this," she ended, flinging his pillow at him.

A second pillow hit the side of the door just as he was leaving. "And don't call me babe!"

It was only after he'd gone that Suzanna hopped out of bed and dug around in the desk in front of the window, hunting up a calendar, her hands trembling as she counted the days....

Tim shuffled toward the kitchen, rubbing at his stiff neck. He could have slept in the other furnished bedroom. He'd known that. But he'd been punished. Thrown out of his own bed. That pretty much meant he should sleep on the couch in his den, suffer on the couch in his den, so he could look pitiful
and forgivable the next morning.

"Are we speaking this morning?" he asked when he saw Suzanna, all dressed and brushed and looking well rested, sitting at the breakfast bar, sipping orange juice.

"I suppose," she said, not looking away from the morning news show playing on the small flat-screen television set usually hidden behind a wooden pull-down door Keely had called an "appliance garage."

He carried the glass over to the breakfast bar and sat down on the stool next to Suzanna.

She got up, carried her glass to the sink, ran tap water into it, and then began emptying the dishwasher.

"I'm not stopping you," Suzanna said, and Tim flinched as she began flinging silverware into the drawer with more energy than he considered necessary.

His mom used to do that. Slam plates, bang cabinet doors. And his dad used to head for the hills until he could find a big box of candy with a red ribbon on it Flowers, too, if Mom was mad enough.

What was that old saying? He that fights and runs away, lives to fight another day?

"Do that. But I'll probably be gone before you come back down. I have to get to the office."

Okay, so maybe him that fights and sticks around also has a point. "Sean Blackthorne? Your boss? The one who sent a contribution to some animal shelter in our name as a wedding present? That Sean?"

"It was a nice gesture," Suzanna said, beginning her assault on the clean dinner plates.

''What? As a kid, was he all impressed with Bob Barker on The Price Is Right? 'Don't forget, have your pet spayed or neutered'? Every show, every day, don't forget, have my—your pet spayed or neutered."

Margo. With the pink and erect nipples. And another country heard from, Tim thought, and definitely hostile territory he didn't want to tread right now. "Margo, right. So, tell me, babe, are you still planning on breeding her?"

Suzanna shook her head. "No, I've decided against it. Sean was telling me the other night tfiat Persians can be tricky. Lots of possible complications. I love Margo. I don't want to take the chance. So I'm
going to have her spayed."

There were three ways to go here, Tim knew. He could tell Margo what Mrs. B. thought. He could run like hell. Or he could get mad.

"The other night? What other night? You've been in Saint Louis for a whole damn week. Are you telling me this Sean Blackthorne guy was there with you? I thought he was the head honcho. What the hell was he doing there?"

She wouldn't look at him. Not that she'd been looking at him so far, but now she was really not looking
at him.

He stabbed his fingers through his hair. "Again with the tone of voice? What's wrong with my tone of voice?"

She slammed the ceramic roasting pan onto the countertop. "I'll tell you what's wrong with your tone, what was wrong with it last night. I ... I don't like it, that's what."

She left the roasting pan where it was—which was probably a good thing—and walked over to him.
"Last night you blamed me for not telling you I'm not on the pill. Like I'm trapping you into something,
or something like that. Just in case you figured out that maybe marrying me was a crazy idea and I wanted to make sure you couldn't get out of it again so easily if things didn't work out."

"You didn't have to," she said, poking him in his bare chest. "I know what you meant."

"Don't... call... me... babe, "she said, poking at him some more. "I am not one of your babes. I'm your wife."

"Fine," he said, getting angry. Really angry. "I'll call you ridiculous. It fits. What makes you think I want to make sure I'm keeping a door open out of this marriage?"

"Blackthorne?" Tim shook his head. "Oh, wait a minute. Now you think I'm accusing you of having
some sort of affair with your boss? I wasn't—"

"We dated, all right. Twice. Met at restaurants after work, drove home separately. He gave me Margo when he decided he couldn't keep her, that he had enough breeders. There was nothing else, Tim. Nothing."

"You dated him?" Tim felt his temperature rising before remembering that he'd done his share of dating himself. "Okay, so you dated him. And now you're married. So why's he in Saint Louis with you? You told me this was a one-person job. That's what you said, Suze."

She rubbed her hands together. "I don't know. Maybe he was checking up on my performance. Maybe
he was hoping to sell Forrester and Sons more software."

"Oh, all right, all right. He tried to hit on me. Just a little. I don't know why. We hadn't dated in at least
six months. But I told him no, and he went away."

Then she lifted her head, glared at him. "And that's not the point. The point, Tim, is that you thought something was going on."

"I can't control what other people do. Not even you, when you're making an ass out of yourself. But I can expect you to trust me, Tim. The way I trust you when you're on the road."

Suzanna held up her hands. "We're not having this conversation. We're just not. There's no time. I've
got to go."

"Go to hell, Tim," she said as she picked up her purse and briefcase and stormed out of the house.

What wasn't clear was—was she having second thoughts? Why else would she think he was?

"She's going to be very upset with you, you know," he told the cat, lifting her up, taking a quick, surreptitious look at the cat's belly. ''But she's going to kill me."

But, he thought, she wouldn't toss Margo out on her rump. He wouldn't toss Suzanna out if she were
to get pregnant.

He'd have to think about that. Right after he just happened to drop in at Suzanna's office later today, to take her to lunch before heading to the ballpark... and size up Sean Blackthorne. Maybe flex his muscles
a little.

Right after he stopped off somewhere to pick up a big box of candy with a red bow. And some roses.
His dad had always brought home roses.

Suzanna stopped, her back to the slowly emptying conference room, and turned around, returned to the table littered with Styrofoam coffee cups and boxes of doughnuts. "Sure, Sean. What's up?"

Sean Blackthorne was a good-looking man. Tall, dark-haired, with a perpetual tan that came courtesy of
a tanning salon, not from walking a sunny golf course or other outside activity. He should take up some sport. Sean was forty, she thought, and beginning to go a little soft. But he was still handsome, and he was sitting entirely too close to her.

Okay, so he hadn't attacked her in the elevator or anything, but she'd known what he was asking. And he'd known what he was asking.

Not so subtle was the kiss he'd forced on her just as the elevator doors opened on her floor. He'd aimed for her mouth, but she'd quickly turned her head, so that his kiss had landed on her cheek.

"No, Suzanna, it's not all right. I know that you're married to that ballplayer. I guess... I guess I just
didn't want to believe it. I was way out of line."

Suzanna nodded. There wasn't a lot a person could say to a statement like that one.

"And you're still here, you know? I thought you'd resign, after the wedding. It's not as if you have to work to support yourself anymore. I finally convinced myself that you'd begun to think you'd made a mistake, eloping to Vegas like that with an old high school sweetheart you hadn't seen in years, and maybe it was time for me to step in, let you know that I was ... I was still interested."

"I'm ... very happy in my marriage, Sean," Suzanna said, carefully banishing the argument of this morning to the far recesses of her mind. "So, although I'm flattered, I really think you should know that—"

"That it's hands-off. I understand. I just wanted you to know that I do understand, and that nothing like that will ever happen again. Don't leave, Suzanna. You're a real asset to the company."

Sean stood with her. "So he doesn't mind that you travel a lot? I mean, you're not even married for two months, and you've been to Saint Louis, New Orleans, and back to Pittsburgh. That's a lot of traveling."

"And Tim's been to California and Arizona, Sean, some of that time while I was here, not on the road myself. It's not optimum, I agree, but we're handling it."

He gave a small shake of his head. "I couldn't handle it, not if you were my wife. I'd want you where
I could see you."

"Oh, marvelous," Suzanna said, hefting her purse back on her shoulder. "You men, you're all alike."

He followed after her as she headed out of the conference room, toward her office. "Meaning? I thought you said your husband was okay with this traveling stuff? Look, Suzanna, if it's going to become a problem, I can make some changes. Send Gloria out more, keep you here in the office. I think she's
ready to solo."

"Sure, why not? Gloria's single, and you're married now. It's not like I'm saying married employees can't travel—or like I'm saying anything else that could get me in trouble with labor laws or anything—but if
it's easier for you to stick closer to the home office, I'm willing to arrange it."

"Well, thank you, Sean. Tell you what. I'll get back to you on Monday, after I talk to Tim, all right? He's got a really important four-game series with the Mets starting tonight, so I don't know when we'll be able to sit down and talk."

"Sure. Anything you want. And I am sorry, Suzanna. I think I kicked myself all the way back here from Saint Louis."

She went up on tiptoe, kissed his cheek. "Don't be silly. I was sort of flattered."

Tim? Suzanna froze, her lips pressed to Sean's cheek as she sort of swiveled her eyes to the left.

Suzanna jumped away from Sean as if she'd been scalded. "Tim. What are you doing here?"

"Nothing. Just thought I'd stop by, see where my wife works. I've got to leave for the stadium in an
hour. Sam's called a lunch meeting."

Sure he has, Suzanna thought, trying not to grimace. Breakfast meeting, lunch meeting. If she could have one, he could have the other. Oh, Tim was a real scream, wasn't he? She should be laughing ... if she wasn't contemplating homicide.

"I'm Sean Blackthorne," Sean said, as if Tim hadn't already mentioned it, sticking out his hand. ''And you're Tim Trehan. Nice to meet you."

Put out your hand, Trehan, or prepare to have it hacked off, Suzanna shot at him mentally.

"I don't want to jump the gun here or anything," Sean went on, just as Suzanna was beginning to believe she just might make it through this meeting without having Tim punch her boss, "but I was just telling Suzanna that she doesn't have to travel anymore. I can make other arrangements, keep her here in the office."

"Exactly," Sean said, and Suzanna's estimation of the man's near genius dropped a couple of notches.

"Close to you, Tim," she said, walking over to stand beside him. "I was... I was just thanking Sean for
the offer when you got here."

"No more travel," Suzanna agreed, since she'd been cornered so neatly. "Sean? I guess I don't need until Monday to give you my answer. Thank you, and I accept. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to walk
Tim back out, say goodbye, since I'm not going to the game with him tonight. Come on, Tim," she said, grabbing his arm.

Once outside the low red-brick building, Tim took her hand as he led her over to his sports car parked
in the lot. "I've got something for you. I would have brought it inside, but I always feel kind of dumb, doing stuff like this. Not that I do it, did it. I'm just doing it now."

Suzanna looked up at him. The man was nervous. Actually stumbling over his tongue.

"Apologize," he said, quickly ducking his head into the passenger side of the car and coming back out holding a box of candy in one hand and a bunch of paper-wrapped yellow roses in the other. He sort
of shoved them at her. "Here you go, Suze. I apologize."

She could skin him alive. He said the dumbest things, and she still didn't know if he'd meant any of them. And then he shows up at her job, calling her his wife in that same tone, and shakes Sean's hand with a grip that probably would bring most men to their knees.

Rough around the edges, for all the tutoring in manners he and Jack had gotten from their poor, beleaguered mother, Tim was still such a kid. Playing ball, chewing bubble gum.

"Oh, Tim, you're an idiot," she said, and stepped into his embrace. "We're both idiots."

Friday's game was a night game, and Suzanna had driven down with Tim to have an early spaghetti dinner at his favorite restaurant before heading to the stadium.

And as long as he could keep badgering Mrs. B. into keeping Margo at her apartment, they would be doing all right.

As if picking up on his thoughts, Suzanna said on the drive to the stadium, "You know, I think Margo's deserted me for Mrs. B. She's always at the garage apartment. I think I'm jealous."

"You've always got Lucky. He's crazy about you," Tim said, inwardly wincing as he put in a good word for the feline Lothario. Once she knew the truth about Lucky, that damn randy cat would be "lucky" to get fed, let alone petted.

"You mean, like the cats got traded? Margo traded to Mrs. B., with me getting Lucky in return?"

"Along with two minor league cats to be named later, yeah," Tim said, pulling into his reserved parking spot.

Time to change the subject "So, you're sure you'll be okay, alone in the box? I'm sorry Aunt Sadie bailed at the last minute, but she's practicing her audition song for South Pacific with the organist from the church."

"Yeah, well, Bali Hi-note is something you really might want to miss. Not that anybody but dogs can
hear her when she goes for the top ones."

"Not Mrs. B. Director Mrs. B. Do you remember the musical we put on for her our senior year?"

"Oklahoma, sure, I remember," Suzanna said, nodding. "O-k-1-a-h-o-m-a, except Tommy Crimmins always tried to sing it O-a-k. And he had the loudest voice in the chorus. I thought Mrs. B. was going to stuff a gag in his mouth."

"Okay, here we are, specialized door-to-door delivery for the little lady. Now, how many home runs do you want me to hit for you tonight?"

"Yes, you can." She moved closer, sort of ground her hips against him. "You can impress me anytime, big boy."

"You sure do pick your times," he all but growled, then swooped down to kiss her.

Suzanna froze in his arms, then quickly stepped back as Dusty Johnson entered the super box, already wearing his uniform pants, topped by a sleeveless T-shirt with "Property of the Philadelphia Phillies" printed on it.

The first baseman scratched at his red head. "Well, nothin' much, Tim. I saw your car, and someone
told me you might be up here. I just thought maybe I could meet the missus, that's all."

"No, that's my fault, Dusty," Suzanna said, shaking the boy's hand. "I haven't been able to come to
many games. So nice to meet you. And, please, call me Suzanna. Ma'am makes me feel ancient."

"Yes, ma'am, I mean, okay, Suzanna." He turned to Tim. "Pretty as you said she was. Nice, too."

"Oh, wow, I forgot," Dusty said, slapping at his forehead. "When I told Sam I was comin' up here, he said for me to fetch you down. There's some reporter wants to talk to you."

"He can wait," Tim said, wishing Dusty out of the box, and himself alone with Suzanna and her
apparent desire for some friendly fooling around.

"Nuh-uh," Dusty said. "Can't. She's already talked to everybody else, and Coach wants her outta the dressin' room before one of the guys gets frisky."

Dusty shot a quick look toward Suzanna. "Sure. Frisky. Well, he kinda said that."

"I'll just bet," Tim answered, knowing Sam Kizer's opinion of female reporters in the clubhouse. "Okay, before Kolecki decides to accidentally drop his towel, I'll go on down there. Suzanna? Are you sure you're going to be all right?"

"Hey, I'll stay with her awhile, Tim, if that's okay with you. I can tell Suzanna all about how you talk about her all the time, and how much you miss her."

"Oh, go away," she said, playfully pushing at him. "If you're late again, Sam is going to make you stay
in Philly during home stands and not let you come home.''

Listening to Dusty Johnson was a real treat. He was so young, so innocent, so sweet. Suzanna was surprised his mother let him out alone.

"... and my mama told me I had to go to church every Sunday, just like at home in Tennessee, and I
told Coach—Mr. Kizer—and he said then I could flap my wings and fly home from Chicago, because
the plane was leavin' in an hour. It snowed all night, ya see, in April if you can believe that, so the
Sunday game was already postponed. We had a chance to get home early, and Coach took it."

Suzanna sucked on her straw one more time, then winced as it made an awful sound. She'd been so
busy listening to Dusty's down-home stories that she hadn't realized she'd finished the entire soda.
"What did you do?" she asked, depositing the empty cup at her feet.

"Well, ma'am—Suzanna—I just said that if that's what I gotta do, then that's what I gotta do, because
I promised my mama."

"Well, that's when Tim and me became roomies. Because Tim put his arm around me and said he'd
stay with me, go to church with me. And then Jose said he'd go along with us, and then Dave Frey said he was staying, too. Next thing you knew, we were all goin' to church.

Suzanna sat back in her seat and sighed. That was her Tim. No wonder she could never stay angry
with him, even when he deserved it. "And now you and Tim room together on the road. That's nice."

Dusty rubbed at his shaggy red head. "It wasn't for a while, I can tell you. Those nightmares he was havin'?"

Suzanna perked up. Nightmares? He'd had one that first night. But not since then. At least not on the nights they had been together.

"They were bad, weren't they?" she said, figuring the best way to learn something was to pretend she already knew more than she knew.

"Oh, the curse," Suzanna said, relaxing again. "Yes, I know about that. Some sportswriters saying
maybe he'd get hurt, because Jack had gotten hurt."

Suzanna rested her elbow on the arm of the chair, dropped her chin into her hand. "The baby? The weddin'—I mean, the wedding?"

Dusty grinned. "What his brother did, he does. That's what Tim said. Man, and he'd dream. Sometimes it'd be dreams where he was injured. Sometimes, it would be about weddin' gowns. He'd see the pitcher when he was at the plate, and the pitcher would be wearin' a weddin' gown. Spooky, huh? But the
worst? The worst was when the pitcher'd throw the ball to the plate, and it wouldn't be a ball, but a
baby. Comin' straight for him. Old Tim'd sit up in bed, his hands out, yellin', "No, no!' "

Suzanna sat up straight herself, put her hands in her lap. Then she sort of clapped them together a time
or two. She didn't know what to do with her hands. She didn't know what to do with her body. She just knew she felt as if she might just jump out of her skin.

"Oh, yeah. Then, the last time, he had all three things happen in the same dream. It just kept gettin'
worse and worse for him. It was gettin' so as he couldn't play."

"Let me think. Oh, okay. In Pittsburgh. Yeah, in Pittsburgh. Right before you two got hitched." He grinned at her. "I knew it would work."

He sat forward, his elbows on his knees. "Okay. Tim does what Jack does. But not all the time. That's what he told me. Not all the time. Two out of five, I think he said. So I said, would that be one out of three? And Tim said sure, maybe. So I said, why don't you pick one and just do it, and then you won't have to worry about the other two. Next thing I know—bam!—you two go and get married. And we've been back on the road since, and no more nightmares. Isn't that cool?"

Suzanna nodded, forced herself to widen her smile. "Oh, certainly. Tim and I have no secrets. I'm ...
I'm just glad it worked."

"Good," Dusty said, bobbing his head as he stood up. "Well, I'd better get down there. Battin' practice starts in a coupla minutes. Anythin' you want me to say to Tim for you?"

"Nope," she told him brightly, blinking fast, to keep back the tears. "Not a thing."

... why don't you pick one and just do it, and then you won't have to worry about the other two?

I made a game effort to argue, but two things
were against me: the umpires and the rules.

Tim watched as Suzanna slowly opened her eyes and sat up. She'd wadded her sweater into a pillow
and had been half leaning against the door all the way home— about as far away from him as she
could get without crawling into the backseat—pretending to be asleep.

He knew she'd been pretending, because there had been a tension inside the car all the way home, a tension thick enough to chew on.

He also knew because when he'd met her outside the clubhouse door, she'd looked at him as if he'd
just crawled out from beneath some rock, telling him she wanted to go home, not stay at the apartment, as they had planned.

"Suze? What's wrong? Come on, smile. We won. We're tied with the Mets for first."

"Yippee-ky-o," she'd said without an ounce of emotion, and then headed for the car.

Two minutes after getting in the car, she'd rolled up the sweater and gone into her "don't bother me,
I'm sleeping" routine.

He'd given serious thought to driving home via West Virginia, just to give himself more time to figure
out what the hell had happened between their hot kisses in the super box and now.

The only thing he could come up with was Dusty Johnson, and that was ridiculous. Dusty was just a
kid. A nice kid. Suzanna couldn't be angry that he'd left him there to talk to her for a while, keep her company.

Still, whatever had set her off had been stewing inside her for about five hours now, and he knew there was an explosion on his horizon, God help him.

Tim hit the lock release and walked around to Suzan-na's side of the car, to help her out, be the gentleman, but she'd bolted from the seat the moment the locks popped and was already in the house.

"Nice night," he said, standing on the steps, looking up at the starry sky, then headed inside. "Wonder
if I'll live to see the morning."

He could hear Suzanna in the kitchen, banging cabinet doors, clunking crockery on the counter.

"Suze?" he said, entering the kitchen. Well, standing at the entrance anyway, half in and half out, thinking about that wooden block of very sharp knives that sat on the counter next to the stove.

The water came out full force, missing the spout and splashing all over, spraying up at Suzanna's face.

"Maybe you should have taken off the lid, filled it that way," Tim said, knowing he probably wasn't
being helpful—to Suzanna, or to himself.

Tim had always prided himself on his sharp reflexes. Not that he'd need them, because Suzanna would never throw a teapot at him or anything.

Except that when he looked at her as she headed for the drawer containing the dish towels, and she looked so silly—all wet and dribbling—he laughed.

Bad move. The next thing he knew, good old Suze had grabbed the sugar bowl, and it came winging toward him.

"Don't laugh at me!" she yelled at him as he ducked, and the ceramic bowl hit the wall beside him, taking a good-size chunk out of the plaster. Yeah, well, he was thinking maybe Keely had been right, and they should put wallpaper in here. Guess that was one decision now made for him.

"I'm not laughing at you, honest," Tim said, daring to bend down, pick up the bowl that had emptied, but not broken, and place it on the counter. "I'm still too busy trying to figure out who you are and what you did with my wife."

Tim ignored the character attack and went down on his haunches. He grabbed the paper towels from her, finished the cleanup. "What in hell are you talking about? You're my wife because I asked you to marry me and you said yes."

She stood up, and he followed her toward the back stairs that led up to the bedrooms.

She turned around as she passed the last step and stood in the hallway. "Let me help you answer that. No. You didn't marry me because you're crazy mad in love with me."

"What rush? We don't see each other for ten years, and then we meet again, and less than a day later, we're flying to Vegas. And you didn't marry me because we went to bed together. Hell, Tim, if you married every woman you went to bed with since high school, you'd have more wives than some
Saudi Arabian sheikh or something."

Tim summoned a small smile. "It did have something to do with it, Suze. We're great in bed."

"Yeah, sure. Great in bed. It's out of bed where we're not so great, right, Tim? Bastard."

There she went again: bastard. Was it becoming her favorite word? "What do you mean? I think we
get along really well," he said, following her as she headed into her walk-in closet and began opening drawers, pulling out a ratty-looking set of green-and-blue-striped pajamas he'd never seen before.
"Where did those come from?"

She looked at the pajamas. "They're my not feeling good pajamas. They're comfortable."

"They're ugly," Tim said, watching as Suzanna stripped out of her clothing right in front of him, pulling
on the bottoms that had a hole in one knee.

"Yeah," Tim said, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I sort of sensed that already."

She turned her back to him, undipped her bra, and quickly pulled the top over her head, emerging from the neck hole with her hair all spiked and tousled. "Move it or lose it," she warned, and he stepped aside, let her pass.

But then he followed her. He wanted to know just what the hell was going on. But if she called him a bastard one more time, it was going to be no more mister nice-guy, damn it!

She took the decorative pillows off the bed, then turned down the spread. "You want to know why
you married me, Tim?" she asked, tossing his pillow at him.

"I married you because I wanted to marry you. I like being married to you. And, until a couple of
hours ago, I thought you wanted to be married to me."

"Well, you were wrong. I don't want to be married to you." She whirled about to look at him, and he could see tears shining on her cheeks. "You know what I do want? I'll tell you what I want, Tim Trehan. I want the curse to work. I want your career gone, I want you to have a wife who wants nothing but
your money—and I hope someone leaves triplets on your doorstep!"

He sat down abruptly, on the striped chair. It all made terrible sense now. "Dusty. That big-mouthed—"

"No, damn it, I'm not going anywhere. We've got to talk. You've got to let me explain."

"Explain? Sure. Fine." She climbed into the bed, pulled the covers up over her stomach as she sat
against the pillows. "This oughta be good. Go ahead, Tim. Explain."

"Well, that was succinct," Suzanna said. "Tell you what. Let me help you. You've been having nightmares, Tim. For over a year now. Big, bad nightmares where you get hurt, have to leave the game. Just like Jack. Other nightmares, where you end up holding a baby, just the way Jack opened his door one day to find little Candy in a basket on his doorstep. Only yours comes via a curve ball."

Tim put out his hands, pressed them down as if trying to lower the level of intensity of this conversation. "It was a nightmare, that's all."

"Yes, a nightmare. Over and over again, a nightmare. The one with the pitcher dressed in a wedding gown must have been a real hoot. And then—"

"Don't interrupt—and stay right where you are! You were having these nightmares, Tim. One at a time, even all three of them together, a real triple play. Waking in a cold sweat, your arms out, trying to catch the baby while all the time yelling, "No, no.' I was there for one of them, remember?"

"Vaguely," he said, feeling the pit widen beneath his feet. He should have told her. That night. At least before they had flown to Vegas. Anytime at all since then. Pick a day, any day. He should have told her.

"Hey! You know me; you just said so. You know how Jack and I always follow each other. How I
follow Jack."

"That, Tim, was coincidence. Kids break bones. Kids have crushes. Kids, especially twins, have most of the same interests, talents. Except I did most of your math homework, and Jack got A's all on his own. And two boys who've lived for baseball since they could walk could very easily both make the majors. It's you who made it all into some sort of woo-woo superstition. It's you, Tim, who let your mind give you nightmares."

"Ah, come on, lighten up just a little, okay? Let's talk this out. Maybe not all superstition, babe. You
just admitted that twins often do the same things."

"As kids, Tim. If Jack jumped off a bridge tomorrow, would you jump off one next week? I don't think so."

"Oh! You're not stupid! You're just a very smart man acting stupid. A curse? Get real, Tim."

One problem. One big problem. How was he going to make any of what he did sound even the least
bit reasonable?

She swiped at new tears running down her cheeks. "How could you do this to me, Tim? Use me again, just like you've always used me. Good old Suze. She's crazy about me, always was. She'll help me out; she'll marry me. Dusty said so. Pick one, he said. And you did—and I never asked why. I'm so stupid!"

"You're not stupid, Suze," he began, figuring if she'd already said it, he could turn it around, say it back
to her. "You're just—"

"Gullible. Pathetic. God! Jack knows, doesn'the? And Keely? Mort? Aunt Sadie? Oh, my God, Mrs. B.? They all know, don't they? Good old Suze, married because she was there, she was good old Suze, and she looked like the lesser of three evils."

She turned onto her stomach, burying her face in the pillows. "I want to die, Tim. I just want to die."

Tim put his hand on her shoulder, to comfort her, and she jackknifed up in the bed, to glare at him.
"No. I don't want to die. Why should I? You know what I want, Tim?"

"You mean, besides wanting the curse to work?" He shook his head. If only she'd let him get a word in edgewise. He had a lot of convincing arguments, he must have them somewhere, but all he could think about right now was that he was lower than pond scum.

"Yes. I want you out of this room, now, and I'm taking me out of this house, first thing tomorrow morning. Me, Margo, and all my belongings. And then, Mr. Trehan, I want a divorce. You got that?"

"A divorce?" Tim felt the bottom falling out of his world. ''You can't mean that, Suze. We're married; we're good together. I mean, I couldn't have a better friend than—"

He stopped, because her face was so white, her eyes so huge and sad. "We'll talk in the morning?
Okay, Suze?"

"Sure. I'll leave. Just let me apologize, Suze. I know we got started on the wrong foot, as Aunt Sadie would say, but I think we've had a pretty good marriage so far. And now you won't be traveling, and
we can be together more, and I like that, I really do. I can make this up to you. I know I should have
told you, but once we were married, it didn't seem all that important to talk about why we got married.
I think we're good together. I think—"

She sort of moaned, then turned on her side, her back to him, and he shut up. It was probably a good time to shut up. Because, he also knew, the only thing he could tell her was the truth, and the damning truth was that he had married her because of the curse, his damn stupid superstitions, those miserable nightmares.

She already knew that. She knew he had tricked her, hadn't exactly played by the rules. And now she
was tossing him out of the game.

Suzanna nodded, poked her dark sunglasses back up on her nose. Her eyes were still red and pufly
from a night of crying.

She wasn't sure why she was sitting in Keely's kitchen at seven o'clock in the morning. She only knew she couldn't stay in that house at the end of the lane another moment, and she desperately needed someone to talk to, someone who might have some sympathy somewhere to dish out to her.

"He left. I packed him a bag during the night and threw it at him this morning. He... He's staying in the Philly apartment until I can move out. He's being very cooperative, except when the big jerk says that
he knows I can't stay mad at him just because he did one dumb thing and we'll be fine, just fine. Fine? What does that mean, Keely? Fine?"

Keely took a drink of milk, then walked over to listen near the intercom, make sure Candy hadn't awakened yet. "Because it wouldn't look good? I don't know you that well yet, Suzanna, but I don't
think you'd care about what anyone else might think it looked like, divorcing so soon."

Suzanna shook her head. "No, I don't care. It's because... because I think I might be pregnant. Strike
two in Tim's nightmare. Serves him right," she said, putting a hand against her flat stomach. "Daddy
rat bastard. Has a certain ring to it, doesn't it, Keely?"

Keely raced back over to the table, sat down, and grabbed Suzanna's hand. "Omigod! Pregnant? Have you taken a test? Seen a doctor? I've got this great doctor, Suzanna." She got up again, not all that swiftly thanks to her own pregnancy, and headed for the phone. "Let me call her. No, wait, it's too early for the office staff to be there. But that's okay; we'll call later, set up an appointment Oh, would you listen to me? I'm babbling. We can't do that; it's Saturday. Okay, Monday. First thing Monday morning."

"No, I don't want to do that yet," Suzanna said, wincing. "I mean, I've skipped periods before. It isn't
all that unusual for me."

"But you don't know. You should know as quickly as you can. Get vitamins, that sort of thing. How late are you?"

Suzanna sighed. Maybe coming here wasn't such a good idea. But she needed, desperately, to talk to somebody, and other than Mrs. B., Keely was pretty much it. There wasn't anyone else in her life, any
of her old friends, she wanted to know about any of this.

"I haven't had a period since we were married. But," she added quickly when Keely gasped, "like I said, that isn't so unusual for me. I've never been regular. If I'm on the road, if I'm under a lot of stress? I can sometimes skip a month."

"But this is more than one month, Suzanna. You've been married for—what? Two months?"

"Nine weeks and four days, yes. So I guess I could have skipped two periods, now that I really think about it. I don't want to think about it."

Suzanna felt her cheeks growing hot. "That's another reason I want him dead. He says he thought I was on the pill."

"I used to, years ago. But I decided I'd been on them long enough, and stopped them. I'm not real big on taking pills. My mom was on hormone replacement, and she swore that's how she developed some pretty scary problems after menopause. Who knows? But I stopped my pills when she told me."

Suzanna shook her head, trying not to blush. "Not even after we figured out what he thought. Me? I just thought he didn't care if we had a baby right away. You and Jack are, and you've already got Candy. I thought he thought it was okay."

Keely propped an elbow on the table and leaned her chin on her hand. "Don't talk much, you two, do you?"

Suzanna readjusted her dark glasses. "We... We've been busy. Either he's out of town, or I'm out of town, and when we're... together, well, we're just together."

Suzanna reached into her pocket and pulled out a wad of tissues. "It was like one long honeymoon, Keely. More tfian a honeymoon. Like we were these secret lovers, who could meet only once in a
while. We just wanted to be together. It was... It was romantic."

"And fruitful," Keely said, as Candy's chirping voice came through the intercom. "Come on, let's go get Little Miss Sunshine, and I'll see if I still have a pregnancy test left in the linen closet. I sent Jack out for one when I was late, and I swear he came back with half a dozen."

Keely grinned at her. "I know, sweetheart. But there's one thing that's been true since the beginning of time.

"But you don't start looking like you swallowed a basketball, the way I do, for a while. We can delay
this a litde bit, Suzanna, if you don't mind me butting in?"

"Good. I say you stay here tonight, in one of the guest rooms. Not that we won't tell Tim where you
are, because I know he'll worry, and there is that party here for Aunt Sadie tomorrow night. You can
see him then. But you can't be lying awake all night tonight, wondering if he's going to be coming home, bothering you. Or are you ready to see him?"

"I can't see him. Not yet. My mind's gone to mush. He lied to me. I could be pregnant And when the pitcher throws the baby at him he yells, 'No, no!' I'm not sure I can tell him, not ever."

Keely turned around, put her hands on Suzanna's shoulders. "I'll hide you out, keep Tim away until the party tomorrow, but I won't be a party to that one, Suzanna. He has to know. He has a right to know, even if I don't blame you for wanting to keep the news from him. What I'm saying is, you could delay
it a little, until you know what you want."

"I... I want him to love me, Keely. That's all I've ever wanted. Even when I want to strangle the jerk,
I want him to love me."

"And not just say so because you're carrying his baby? Is that what you're thinking? You think he'd
say he loves you, even if he doesn't, because of the baby?"

"And I had to be sure. I love Candy so much. How could I know if I loved Jack, or if I was just seeing some romantic notion of happy families?"

Keely smiled, a sort of dreamy smile. "Oh, when you know, you know. I can't explain it any better than that. But you'll know when you know. Trust me."

Then she grinned. "But, in the meantime, let's not put the cart before the horse, okay? We'll see if I
still have one of those pregnancy tests somewhere around here, and then if you really are pregnant,
we'll devise a few tortures for one Mr. Tim Trehan. Marry someone because he's superstitious? Does
he really believe that's why he married you? What a jerk!"

It was midnight Saturday night. Tim sat sprawled in the big leather chair in the living room of his Philadelphia apartment, glaring at the telephone.

He'd called Mrs. B., who had told him (sounding entirely too happy) that Suzanna had driven away
early that morning, right after he'd gone as a matter of fact. No, she hadn't come back. No, she hadn't taken Margo with her. No, Mrs. B. hadn't seen any luggage. But, then, she'd been out shopping most
of the day.

"No? Why not? You've got to tell her, Tim, before she figures it out on her own. Remember, there's
no such thing as being a little bit pregnant," Mrs. B. had scolded with a positively evil laugh, and he'd invented an excuse to hang up.

Margo. Man, that cat had seemed like such a big problem only a few days ago. Now it didn't matter. Suzanna already hated him.

As a matter of fact, this might be a good time to tell her about the cat, about Lucky. Get it all over with
at once.

Tim lifted the can of beer to his mouth, then made a face when he realized the nearly full can had gone warm. What a mess he was. He couldn't even get drunk, drown his sorrows.

The Phillies had lost Big time. Sixteen to two, a real laugher—for the Mets that is. And he'd gone hitless, striking out with the bases loaded in front of the home crowd. A few more poor showings like tonight's, and the infamous Philadelphia Boo-birds would be after him.

Hell, if he didn't figure out some way to get back in Suzanna's good graces, get his mind back in the game, he could end up like Phillies Hall of Famer Mike Schmidt, who had gone through such a bad
slump one year that he'd actually run out onto the field one day with a wig and fake mustache on, pretending that the booing crowd wouldn't recognize him that way.

"Divorce," he said, glaring at the television screen and ESPN's nightly baseball wrap-up. Just what he didn't need right now, a recap of the game that had dropped them a full game behind the once more first-place Mets. He picked up the remote, switched off the set.

"She didn't mean that," he said, trying to convince himself. "Suze has a temper. Mrs. B. said so, and
I know so. And she has a right to be mad, definitely. Totally pissed. But I was going to tell her. One
day. We were going to laugh about it. One day."

He knew what it was; it was Lucky's fault. He'd been so worried about telling Suzanna how that sex-crazed cat had knocked up her pedigree Persian, that he'd not thought enough about what could happen if Suzanna ever found out why he married her.

But damn it, it wasn't why he stayed married to her. He liked her. God, how he liked her, cared for her, enjoyed being with her. That wide smile of hers. The way she seemed to know him better than he knew himself, anticipated his every need. In bed and out of it.

And, oh, they were good together. They laughed at the same jokes, shared the same history. She knew his foibles and liked him anyway.

"That's it," Tim said, getting up from the chair and heading for the kitchen and a can of soda. "That's
the big one," he said, sighing. "She loves me."

But it got worse. When she found out, when Dusty told her what he should have told her himself,
months ago, then Tim had said he liked her; she was his best friend.

Why couldn't he have told her he loved her? Why had the words stuck in his throat?

Because she wouldn't have believed him. Why should she? He didn't quite believe it himself.

He just knew that Suzanna was in his life, should never have been out of it, and he'd have no life at
all if she left him again.

"And if I tell her that, she'd have every right to tell me to go to hell. I can't tell her. I've got to show her."

He collapsed back in his chair and stared at the dark television screen. Okay, how was he going to show her? He didn't even know where she was.

But he'd find her. She couldn't hide; he'd find her. He'd find her and he'd tell her, and she'd take him back. Maybe not right away, but after a while, once he'd proved that he was sorry for what he'd done, how he'd deceived her in order to help himself.

And, somewhere in there, he was pretty sure he'd have to tell her about Margo, too.

"God. Someone ought to do a public service and just shoot me," he said, slipping low in his chair.

The more self-centered and egotistical a guy is,
the better ballplayer he's going to be.

The handle turned, and Keely walked into the bathroom. "You've been building up your courage since yesterday morning. It is now almost noon on Sunday. Rome was built quicker. Tim knows where you
are now, thanks to my big-mouthed husband, and he knows you'll be here tonight for the party. So look. We've waited long enough."

"We've waited long enough?" Suzanna held tight to the pregnancy kit. "You're already pregnant. You
have no surprises left. You even know you're having a boy."

"Jack told me you were pushy," Suzanna said, grimacing. "But he said he likes that."

"You'll learn to love it, trust me," Keely said with a laugh. "Now, let's see what you're supposed to see," she added, picking up the empty box. "Okay, it's a plus for pregnant, a minus sign for not pregnant. Not exactly rocket science. We can do this."

Suzanna sighed. This was silly. She either was or she wasn't. Waiting certainly wasn't going to change anything; fervent prayers to the fertility gods weren't going to change anything.

She turned the white stick over, looked at it, practically had to push Keely's blond head out of the way
to look at it.

''And we have a winner!'' Keely said, grabbing a numb Suzanna in a crushing hug. "Oh, how wonderful! Our babies can play together."

"No, you're not. You weren't feeling sick a minute ago, so you can't feel sick now. That's psychological. Trust me, there will be days when it's not, but right now it is. Still, let's get out of this bathroom and sit
in the kitchen. I'll make you some soup."

"I don't want soup," Suzanna said as they entered the kitchen, feeling mulish. "I want to go to Philadelphia and murder Tim."

Keely stepped away from the pantry, holding a can of chicken noodle soup. "Oh, I'm sorry, Suzanna. You're really upset? I guess I think babies are such wonderful news that I just went a little nutso. You don't want the baby?"

She leaned her elbows on the table and sighed. "I think that's enough, don't you?"

"Certainly enough for now," Keely said, opening the can and dumping the contents into a microwave-safe container. "Will you tell him tonight?"

Suzanna blinked back tears. "I don't think so. He's probably angry with me by now, you know."

"I know. Men get mad at us because they did something dumb and then we had the nerve to get mad
at them for it."

"That, too," Suzanna said, summoning a weak smile. "But it's that they lost to the Mets last night. He went 0-for-5 last night, Keely, with two strikeouts. You do know, of course, that that's my fault? If
they don't win today, and at least get a split with the Mets for the series, they end up down two games after being tied on Friday night. Well, I don't even want to think about it."

"Jack's the same way when the Yankees lose. I've learned to enjoy the game, and I know how much he loves it; but those two are so intense, aren't they? It is just a game."

"Also true. I met Jack right after he had to retire, and he was miserable. I thought he was just spoiled
and self-centered, but I slowly came to realize that to Jack, his life was over; his world had ended. If Candy hadn't come along? I think he would have sulked forever. But the thing is, Suzanna, Jack learned that baseball isn't all there is to life. He still loves the game, but there's so much more now in his life. Candy, me, the baby.

"Tim's always lived for the game. God, Keely, he married me because he was so afraid he might lose
the game."

"So he says," Keely said, putting a bowl of microwaved chicken noodle soup in front of Suzanna. "So
he says. But you know what, Suzanna? I think his subconscious is smarter than that. Somewhere, deep inside himself, that big dumb jock looked at you and outsmarted himself."

"Oh, never mind. I'm pregnant I get to say silly things once in awhile. You'll see, it's in the expectant mothers' manual. Now, eat up."

Three out of four. They had dropped three games out of four to the Mets. What could turn out to be the most important series of the season, and they had blown it. Back out of the tie for first place they had grabbed on Friday, and now two full games out, with the Philly sportswriters already saying, "Choke city," and "Not enough good pitching," and, worst of all, "What's up with Tim Trehan?"

Tim left Philadelphia behind him, gratefully, and headed up the turnpike to Whitehall.

By the time he hit the Quakertown exit, all thoughts of the game had fled, and he was wondering about his reception at Jack and Keely's when he arrived.

Suzanna would be there. Jack had said that Keely had said that Suzanna had said she'd be there.

She, obviously, didn't need to be with him. Because Jack had said that Keely had said that Suzanna had said she wanted him to come to the party, yes, but that she was still going to be staying in the guest room at his brother's, and that he was to pretend everything was just fine between them for Aunt Sadie's sake, for Mrs. B.'s sake, and not cause any trouble or she'd have to hurt him.

And why did he feel as though they had all reverted to elementary school? He told me to tell you that
he said that she said—cripes!

Tim pulled onto the narrow macadam road that led back to Jack's house and several other homes that were either brand new or under construction, and ended at the small bridge running across Coplay
Creek to his own house.

He was early—it didn't take long to lose two-zip. He could stop in at the house, hope that Suzanna might be there. Drop off his bag. Glare at Lucky.

Looking to his left as he neared his brother's house, Tim could see a huge black four-by-four parked in the circular drive. "Oh, great. Cousin Joey. The shorter the man, the bigger the vehicle."

He pulled into the drive, figuring he might as well check to see if Suzanna was there, before making an ass out of himself, running through an empty house, calling her name like some pathetic loser.

Besides, it had been a couple of months since he'd seen his cousin, Joey Morretti. Used to be Joey called himself Two Eyes, back when he wanted to believe he was part of the Bayonne, New Jersey, Mafia. If there even was a Bayonne chapter of the wise guys.

Aunt Sadie had said Joey called himself Two Eyes so he could remember how many he had, a statement that pretty much summed up Joey Morretti.

Candy's biological mother was Joey's sister, Cecily, once known as the airhead of the family but now better known as the conniver, thankfully at a distance from Candy, both physically and legally. When Cecily had temporarily adopted the handle Moon Flower and gone off to Tibet to find herself—or so she'd said—she'd left Candy on Jack's doorstep.

Of course, along the way to his current happiness, Jack had found himself having to deal not only with Candy, and a fairly belligerent Keely, but also with Cousin Joey, who had tried to gain custody of the baby.

Which, Tim thought now, would have been about the same thing as handing the kid over to be raised by penguins or something.

"Like he could have gotten worse?" Tim muttered to himself as he got out of his car and looked at
Joey's license plate that read, studley 1. "Cripes. Studley One? Studley five million and six, I would have believed."

Tim looked at his cousin. Still short, of course, but with his dark blond hair no longer dyed black to make him look more like the Italian side of his heritage. No longer dressed head-to-toe in black, either. Although plaid Bermuda shorts and black Banlon socks were never going to take the fashion world by storm.

"I think your wheels are safe here, Joey," Tim said, adding to himself, at least the ones that haven't already fallen off your trolley.

"Yeah, guess so. Hey, nice wife, Tim-bo. I brought a wedding gift with me, ya know, since I wasn't invited to the wedding."

"What what is?" Tim asked, stepping left, then right, trying to get past his cousin. Suzanna was in there.
If he had to pick his cousin up and toss him on top of his "wheels," he'd do it.

"The present. Don't you want to know what I got you guys? It's one of those things that shoots salad all over the place. The deluxe model. Nothin' but the best for my cuz, ya know. Besides, if you're looking for Suzanna, she's not here. She and Jack went to the store for more liverwurst for Aunt Sadie. Bruno already ate it all."

"Bruno? Who's Bruno?" If Suzanna wasn't inside, he might as well stay outside. Because if he was in
for lectures from Aunt Sadie and Mrs. B., he could wait to hear them.

Joey rolled his eyes, then hitched up his plaid Bermuda shorts. "Ya know. Bruno. Bruno Armano, my fighter. Well, used to be my fighter, until he went to cooking school. Now he's assistant to the pastry
chef in this really hotshot place in Bayonne."

"Yeah, well, not anymore. Seems someone asked him his name one night when we were hanging at a local bar—because we're still friends, ya understand? I'm loyal that way, ya know. Anyway, Bruno
says his name is Sweetness, and this guy, he takes exception."

Tim was barely listening. He was too busy listening for a car to pull into the driveway, with his wife
in it. "How so?"

Tim looked at his cousin, noticing that he was wearing about half a dozen gold chains around his neck, one holding a large round charm that looked like it contained a tiny photograph of the cast of The Sopranos. "Yeah, Joey, I've heard that. I even believe it"

"Well, this guy, this really strange guy, he takes exception to Bruno calling himself Sweetness, which
was just his boxing name, ya know? Sweetness, the Beast of Bayonne. He says to Bruno, he says,
'Hey, there's only one Sweetness and you ain't him.' "

Tim nodded. "Walter Payton, right. Chicago Bears. Hell of a player, and a real class act as a man.
I can't really blame the guy if he was a fan."

Joey shook his head sadly. "Crystal. Down he goes, splat. When he got up, he said that's it, from now on he's Bruno again. So, he's Bruno again. Don't call him Sweetness, Tim-bo, not unless you want to see a six-foot, six-inch guy ducking behind Candy—for cover, ya know. According to Bruno, you never know when there's another fen out there somewhere what could take exception."

Tim smiled. Good old Joey, always good for a diversion. "I'll remember," he promised, then stepped
past his cousin, who finally seemed willing to let him go, as he was already moving off to check his wheels. "Is the birthday girl inside?"

"No, the birthday girl is standing right here on the porch, waiting for her kiss. Terrible game, Timothy. I've seen better swings on a rusty gate."

"Thanks, Aunt Sadie, I can always count on you for a pep talk," Tim said, climbing the steps to drop a kiss on the woman's papery cheek. Sure enough, there was the paper hat, the leis, the birthday button,
the whole nine yards. "You look great. Not a day over ninety."

She aimed a slap at his behind as he entered the house, then followed after him. "No need to be facetious, Timothy. And if you're looking for your wife, she's not here. And, if you're planning to be sulky or nasty or anything else we don't like, I'm warning you now that Keely, Margaret, and I, solely or once formed into a very small but very nasty mob, will throw you out of here on your ear."

Tim turned to look at his aunt. "Jack said that Keely said that Suzanna said that I was to act like nothing was wrong. But you know?"

Sadie Trehan sniffed. "Poor, poor Timothy. We're women. Of course we know. We know all of it,
every last little detail. And I'm horribly ashamed of you, Timothy. I always thought you were the
smart one."

Aunt Sadie gave an exaggerated sigh. "You do know you and Jack are identical twins, correct?"

He gave her another kiss on the cheek. "What I know, old woman, is that I'll never get anything past
you, will I? Now, where's Mrs. B.? I want to know what she's told Suzanna about Margo."

"The unwed mother, you mean? Margaret hasn't told her anything. We've decided to leave that up to you. Ah, such a sad frown, Timothy. Were you hoping we'd do it for you?"

"Until this moment, no, I hadn't thought about it But if you guys want to, hey, that's okay with me."

"I'll just bet it is. Don't be a wimp. Ah, there's Suzanna now; they must have parked out back and come in through the kitchen. I recognize her laugh. Make her cry, Timothy, and I'll have to punish you."

"You'd have to get in line, Aunt Sadie. Suzanna's got first dibs. Now, if you'll excuse me... ?"

Tim headed down the hallway toward the kitchen, pursuing the sound of voices, of laughter.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Mrs. Butterworth piped up from behind him, "Poor boy. And
just think, only yesterday, all Tim's troubles seemed so far away."

"Hmmm, maybe years. It's always the ones who ride the highest that have the ferthest to fall. That's not the Beatles. That's the old pride cometh before the, etc. Oh, and you look terrible."

"Only because I crawled here from Philly on my hands and knees. Is Suzanna in the kitchen? I thought
I just heard her laugh."

"Yes. She laughs, she talks, she is proving that other than her ridiculous notion that you're one of the good guys, she is a sensible human being. You married her because she seemed the lesser of three evils, Tim? What were you thinking?"

He rubbed at the back of his neck. "Thinking? I wasn't thinking, Mrs. B. I was ... I was temporarily insane. No sleep except for nightmares, my game was going to—"

"—heck, going to heck. Reporters with their secret joke about the Trehan curse, and that was going to
hit the papers any day if I didn't start hitting again. And then there was Suzanna, smack in front of me
like manna from heaven, and we had such a great time, and the next thing I knew..." He put up his
hands as if to end, "And that was that."

"What a sorry excuse for an excuse that was, Tim," Mrs. Butterworth said, shaking her head. "An
excuse, by the way, that mentions nothing about why you haven't told Suzanna about your stupidity,
and how lucky you are that everything worked out so well, that you now know that you love her. You know, Tim, all that mushy stuff?"

"Nope. Not good enough. You've had nearly three months to work your way up to it."

"But I was getting close, honest. It was probably the Margo and Lucky thing that got in the way," he
said, trying again. "I didn't want to confuse things."

"And that's just pitiful," Mrs. Butterworth said, rolling her eyes. "Really, really pitiful, Tim. If those are your arguments, your excuses, then Sadie's right. Unless you're up to a siege, Tim, Suzanna is going to run, not walk, toward the nearest exit."

Okay, this was good. Mrs. B. was going to give him some hints. She knew Suzanna; she was a woman. She'd tell him how to fix this.

''You do remember your history, don't you? Attacking forces surround the castle until those inside surrender?"

"Gee," Tim said, his hopes not so high after that statement. "And here I left my catapult in my other slacks. What in he—heck are you talking about, Mrs. B.?"

"Think, Tim. You need to lay siege to Suzanna. Not toss rocks from a catapult or starve her out, for goodness sake. Use your imagination. You have to lay siege to her heart."

He leaned one shoulder against the wall in the hallway and looked at Mrs. B. thoughtfully. "To her
heart. Siege. So, what you're saying is, I don't go into the kitchen, grab Suze, take her outside, and
tell her that I'm the world's biggest jackass, but I love her?"

"Yeah, well ... sort of. I mean, I'm not so sure it would work, and it probably won't, but I've got to start somewhere, right? I decided on the drive from Philly that I can't go too slow. It would drive me nuts."

"I thought sweeping a woman off her feet was romantic," he said, laughter coming to him from the kitchen again while he stood there, feeling as if he'd stepped in quicksand.

"In some cases, yes. But you're not one of those cases. You tricked the woman, Tim. You lied to her,
if only by omission, and now you're hanging on by a thread, boy. One wrong step, and it's all over."

He walked three quick paces toward the kitchen, turned around, walked back to Mrs. Butterworth. "I can't believe I'm having this conversation. Okay, okay. What do you and Aunt Sadie think I have to do?"

"Don't you sass me, Timothy Trehan," Mrs. Butterworth said, wagging a finger under his nose.

"I'm not, I swear. I want your help. I need your help. But, first, are you also helping Suzanna? Because you can't be pitching for two teams, Mrs. B."

"I'm old. I can be anywhere I want to be," she said rather smugly. "Now, here's the plan."

He shoved his hands into his pockets. "No. But I'd already thought of that one. Make nice, don't push her, prove to her that our marriage was—is—a good idea. But you know Suzanna. She can be so damn ... darn stubborn. It could take months. I'd hoped you'd have a better plan. A faster one?"

Suzanna had seen Tim's car parked in the circular drive and was grateful when Jack had driven around
to the garages, giving her another moment or two before she had to face the inevitable.

The inevitable was that she was pretty sure she was going to melt like warm butter when she saw Tim, the jerk. And if she did that, not only would Aunt Sadie, Mrs. B. and Keely never forgive her, but she'd never forgive herself.

A one-sided love was doomed from the beginning. She'd figured that out during her senior year in high school, and then applied only to west coast universities, knowing that Jack and Tim were staying on the east coast.

Yes, a one-sided love was doomed from the beginning. She'd forgotten that somewhere during one crazy night in Pittsburgh, of all places. But she remembered it now.

Tim knew she loved him, as she kept reminding herself. He'd have to be completely unconscious not to know that. He'd always known.

He was going to come waltzing in here with his hangdog look, his eyes all puppy sad, looking so damn adorable, and push all her buttons, hoping she'd still react the same way she'd always done:

I fell asleep after practice, Suze. Could I copy your English homework in first period study hall?
Come on, Suze, save my life.

All the way back to elementary school: Suze? Was today the day we were supposed to bring in popsicle sticks to make an African hut? Because, you know, I just plain forgot—hey, you brought extras. Good old Suze, you saved my life.

Every time, she'd give in, help out, "save his life," come to the rescue. Break her own heart.

He had to be expecting her to give in, having made him suffer for a couple of days. He had to believe
she was too good-hearted, and too stupidly in love with him, to do anything else.

Except, she'd learned a few things over the years. She'd learned that she could live, function, even succeed, without Tim in her life. That had been an important lesson.

Because, no matter what, she was not going to hang on to him because there was a child involved now, not hang on in a marriage begun in deception, be the one giving love, always giving love, and getting Tim's sincere thanks in return.

Oh, where in hell was the man? Was he planning on hiding out in the living room or something, hoping she'd come to him?

And then, suddenly, there he was. Walking through the kitchen and into the den, heading toward her, no sign of a birthday present for his aunt in his hands— undoubtedly figuring that she'd "saved his life" and signed his name to her own present. And he was right, of course.

She clutched Candy to her protectively, tight enough to make the child begin to struggle to be free.
Clearly Candy wasn't old enough to join the Association to Shun Tim Trehan, because the little girl
was holding out her arms, squealing for her uncle to take her.

Maybe shunning him isn't enough. Maybe some rope, some honey, and a convenient anthill?

Suzanna turned away, realizing she'd gone just a little hysterical. Now she was jealous of a sweet baby like Candy? What kind of sick, twisted, pathetic mind would even give out signals like that, let alone believe them, even for an instant?

Had to be being pregnant. Keely had sworn there would be changes in her moods and thinking processes that would sometimes startle her, surprise her, even embarrass her.

Being jealous of a baby because Tim had called her "my girl" had to be one of those hormone-induced aberrations.

"Hello, Tim," she said, lifting her chin, praying her tone was light, her smile at least halfway believable. After all, there were at least twenty-five guests milling around in the kitchen and den, all of them knowing that she and Tim were still relative newlyweds. She had no choice but to put a brave face on things, hope Tim did the same.

Suzanna felt her stomach flip, and psychological or not, she went racing out of the den, heading for the powder room, where she prompdy brought all of the orange soda she'd drunk on the way home from
the store back for an encore.

"Just shut up and come with me, bro," Jack said, as Tim had started after Suzanna. "Come on. You
don't want to go chasing her right now."

Tim looked back over his shoulder as Jack led him out the kitchen doorway and darn near dragged him
all the way down to the pool, where a couple of kids Tim had never seen before were playing Climb the Bruno in the shallow end.

"Did you see her?" Tim said once Jack had let go of his arm. "She turned green when I kissed her.
Green, Jack. Does she hate me that much?"

Tim narrowed his eyes. "Now, there's a news bulletin I already got. Just tell me one thing, Jack.
Whose team are you playing for?"

Tim grabbed a mesh folding chair and pulled it over next to the chaise lounge, sat down. "Exactly. Suzanna's already got Aunt Sadie, Mrs. B.—your wife. Who have I got? Joey? Cripes, I might as
well just forfeit the game now."

"It's not the guys against the gals, Tim. It's nothing like that." Then Jack grinned. "We're all pretty
solidly on Suzanna's side."

"Candy's not all that discriminating. You'd better watch that when she gets to be a teenager. She might end up falling for some guy like me."

"Oh, come on, you're not so bad. As a matter of fact, I was you, not so long ago. It's just time to grow up, bro."

Tim avoided his brother's eyes. There were just some conversations Tim stayed away from, even with Jack. This was one of them. "I've always loved Suzanna."

"Sure. Suzanna the pal. The buddy. The great kid. The convenience. There were times, Tim, when
even I could have decked you for the crappy way you treated her, knowing she was crazy about you."

Tim tried to get angry, but it was hard to get mad when you knew yourself to be wrong, dead wrong,
and guilty as sin. "I was a kid. We were all kids."

Jack stood up, motioned for Tim to follow him as they walked away from the pool area when a splash came too close. The kids were sitting with a couple of women now, and Bruno was entertaining them, doing cannon-balls into the deep end. Diving whales displaced less water.

"She was on the committees," Tim said, wondering if there was anything lower than a snake's belly, because if there was, he was it.

Jack led Tim to the garage, where he picked up two gloves and a baseball, handing one glove to Tim,
then headed out onto the lawn.

"Bet it was a heck of a shock, seeing Suzanna again, and with her looking so great."

Tim, backing up on the lawn, caught the ball Jack threw, and threw it back to him. "You know, it actually took me a minute to recognize her at all. That smile? She hardly ever smiled in high school, probably because of all that hardware in her mouth. She should have smiled more. God, I'm crazy about that smile."

"The rest isn't so bad, either," Jack said, throwing the ball a little harder this time.

Tim snagged the ball out of the air, palmed it a few times, then sent it winging back at his brother. "You're going to think I'm nuts, but it wasn't that she'd gotten so pretty, and with that great body,
and all. It was the smile, Jack, and how we could just sit down and talk after all those years, just like
we'd never been apart"

He grabbed the ball low, spinning in a circle, pretending Jack's velocity had forced him into that spin,
and threw it back with equal force. "Not that I'm complaining about the rest of it, you understand."

"We're getting to current events now, right? To my nightmares? The Trehan curse?"

"Nope. Those are water under the bridge, as Aunt Sadie would say. Now you have to figure out what you're going to do next. And why you're going to do it. That's most important, bro, the why of it.
Answer carefully, Tim, because otherwise, I'm not going to help you."

They put the gloves and ball back on the shelf in the garage and headed up the hill once more, toward
the house.

"I was wrong," Tim said, collecting his thoughts. "Wrong not to tell her, wrong to take advantage of her, wrong to be so stupid as to believe in something as dumb as a curse, or superstition, or whatever the hell
I was thinking."

"We're great together. I mean, you can't spend your life talking about high school. I'm not dumb enough to believe that one. But we always got along; we were always friends. Who would have believed what happened when I kissed her? I mean, I just about fell apart. There was this spark ... no, this blaze. I mean, I couldn't get enough of her."

"Hey, this is brother to brother. Keep the women out of it, okay? Aren't I already suffering enough?"

"All right, but only if you say the right thing. Because then I'll be in just as deep as you, and Keely would murder me if I told her that I told you what I might tell you."

Tim stopped, looked at Jack. "You know, we're twins. We have twin-speak, always have. We can talk
in shorthand to each other, understand each other better than most people. But I'll be damned if I can figure out what you just said."

"Just answer one question, Tim. Don't avoid it, don't twist it, just answer it, because it's important. Do you love her?"

Tim nodded. "Yeah. That, too. I'm about as sloppy about Suze as a person can get, and I'm not
ashamed of it."

His brother slapped him on the back, sending Tim stumbling forward a few feet. "Well, okay then. I hereby declare myself a free agent, and I'm ready to sign with your team, Tim, if the price is right."

"Should we call Mort out here?" Tim asked, shaking his head. "He does handle all our contracts. I'm
sure I saw him in the kitchen, scarfing up potato chips."

"We don't need him for this one. Mostly, I'm only going to tell you what you already know. You can't expect Suzanna to forgive you right away. Hell, you're just lucky she's agreed to go home, not stay in
the guest room."

"Don't get too happy, bro. I heard her telling Keely that she's already moved all of your stuff into another bedroom. She likes the tester bed, or whatever it is, and figures you don't deserve it."

"Not all the way out, Tim. You're still in the house. Be grateful for small favors. Keel would have thrown my stuff on the lawn, then set fire to it and invited the neighbors over for a marshmallow roast. Now, to continue?"

"Lay siege to the castle of her heart. Heard it already. That message has been delivered."

"I figured it was. So, my last question. This is the big one, Tim, for all the marbles. Are you going to do what everyone feels you should do? Court Suzanna? Convince her that you love her? Eat some crow,
do some groveling, pay for your mistake? Take it slow, take it easy, give her what you stole from her, flying her off to Vegas like that? If it takes weeks? Even if it takes months?"

Tim nodded. "I already know that telling her I love her is only going to get her mad. She wouldn't believe me, and I can't blame her." Then he frowned. "Months?"

"But you'll stick it out? Even if it does take months? Hell, you're lucky it probably won't take years, even luckier that she even seems willing to give you a chance.''

"Cold showers, right. Candy and flowers, got it. Courting?" He made a face. "How am I going to do that one?"

"I have no idea, Tim. And now, because you answered my questions the way I hoped, and because you're looking so pitiful, here's a little present. Something the girls don't want you to know, something
you can't let anyone know you know. But you're my brother, and I can't go along with that one. You're two-for-three for the game, Tim, and at two-for-three, I don't think you have to worry about being injured anymore. Two-for-three is more than you've ever done in our follow-the-twin game."

"Yup. Suzanna's pregnant. That's why she ran off, to toss her cookies. Morning sickness, Tim, and as I've found out, that doesn't just hit women in the morning. And it sure doesn't make women always feel all warm and cozy about the man who gets none of the problems, but just gets to hand out cigars. You're going to be a daddy, bro. Welcome to my world."

"You got it, Ace. Just remember, you've got to play dumb here. Well, dumber than usual, bro. You
can't let her know you know."

Jack chuckled softly, patted his brother on the shoulder, and walked away, heading into the house,
leaving Tim to stand there, unconsciously rubbing at his own stomach.

Suzanna watched Tim as he pulled a can of beer from the refrigerator, grabbed a piece of cold, rare
roast beef, and rolled it in one slice of rye bread, then headed into the den.

Most of the guests were outside now, as Aunt Sadie had asked them all to come see her birthday present to herself, a brand-new, compact four-by-four in bright blue. With racing stripes and a bright yellow Tweetie Bird painted on the hood, a Sylvester the Cat painted splatted against the tailgate.

It was too late to go with them, so Suzanna just sat there, waiting for Tim to join her.

"You should eat more than that," she told him as he sat down beside her on the couch. "Keely made enough food to feed a small army."

She gratefully grabbed on to the subject of Joey Morretti. "Joe is taking courses at his local community college. Criminology."

"Joey is taking classes in crim—criminology? He wants to be a cop? Now, there's a switch. If you can't join 'em, beat 'em, is that it?"

"I think it's very good for him. Keely told me all about how Joe had a few problems, how his sister got
all their parents' attention, so that Joe sort of drifted into some ... some small fantasy about joining the Mafia. He just wanted attention, that's all. Someone to notice him."

"Suze, Joey's been a weirdo from day one. He threw my new mitt in the toilet when I was about ten.
I almost made him dive in after it, but my dad stopped me."

"Oh, really? Let me take a wild guess here. You took some psych courses in California? Bet those La-La-Land wackos put a hell of a spin on that stuff."

"For your information, I found the courses very... enlightening. Especially those on being an enabler.
Oh, and in case your east coast university didn't cover that, that means I should have let you either
get in trouble or do your own damn English homework."

He took a sip of beer, then looked at her closely. "Is it easier to fight about stuff that happened long ago than to talk about what happened to us since we met up again?"

"I don't know," she said, blinking back tears. "I may have to start with kindergarten, and the day you talked me into eating paste, and work up from there. Unless you think it would be easier for us to just
get a divorce."

"All right," she said, inwardly rejoicing, even as she wondered if, even with Tim's best intentions, they would ever be able to get past what he'd done. "Just as long as you know you'll be making it up to me from the guest room."

She could feel his eyes on her as she stood up, walked away. She even heard him as he muttered, "Kindergarten? Cripes. It's gonna be one hell of a long siege."

She still wanted to kill him. He didn't even ask if she felt better. Did he think only of himself? Or was
he trying to save her embarrassment?

"So I reminded him about the paste in kindergarten. How he tricked me into eating some."

Jack nodded, then forked more of Keely's great chocolate cake into his mouth. "I remember that one."

"But what you probably don't remember, and I'm sure Tim doesn't remember, is that I liked the taste of it. I ate paste through at least the second grade."

Jack laughed. "So, Suzanna, is this the plan? To drag up every stupid, selfish thing Tim ever did and make him apologize for it, pay for it?"

Suzanna shook her head. "No. It isn't as if he was holding a gun to my head. I wanted to be near him, and I'd have done just about anything to accomplish that."

"That's another thing," Jack said, waggling the fork at her. "Why Tim? Why not me?"

"Well, hey, we look alike. Remember those old reruns of that TV show Patty Duke was in? The look-alike cousins? How did it go?"

"Yeah. Dressed alike, and what else? They walked alike, at times they even talked alike? That was Tim and me, until we could finally talk Mom out of dressing us the same. But, back then, we were pretty interchangeable. Just two dumb kids. Was it because of the alphabet? First in the row, Jack Trehan. Second, Tim Trehan. Followed by one Suzanna Trent I guess what I'm asking is, if I'd been named Walter, or something, would that have changed anything?"

Suzanna took a bite of her own slice of cake. She'd gone from feeling sick to wanting to eat everything
in the kitchen. How long had it been since she'd tasted homemade, baked from scratch chocolate cake? Years and years.

"No, Jack, that wouldn't have changed anything. I've always liked you, but it was always Tim who caught my attention. With his silliness, his mad dash through life, the scrapes he'd get himself into all the time, then get back out of again without a scratch. His confidence in himself, even his arrogance. Always Tim."

"Interesting. Keely says she likes Tim, thinks he's a riot and a nice guy, but if she had to live with him, she'd probably have to put a large dose of rat poison in his cereal within a month."

"So you're not as alike as you think you are," Suzanna said, smiling. "Keely and I are your proof."

"I guess so. Everybody always points out our similarities. You and Keely see the differences. Interesting."

Suzanna rolled her eyes. "And there's one of the similarities. You're both so damn cocksure of yourselves, although it was always Tim who, I could tell, would never even conceive of the idea of
ever failing at anything he tried to do. I always envied that."

Jack looked at her for a long moment. "You do know that you're beautiful, don't you? That you're
smart, you're talented, have a great heart—all that good stuff?"

Suzanna shrugged, feeling the flush of embarrassment rising in her cheeks. "Let's just say I'm one of those people who looks in the mirror and still sees teeth braces, baby fat, and a bunch of silly romantic dreams that had a snowball's chance in hell of ever coming true."

"I hadn't been, not for a lot of years, ever since college, I guess. And when Tim looked at me, seemed
to want me, I was so... so... And then I found out why, and I just..."

She sighed. "Well, I'm back to that hopeless romantic in the mirror, I guess. And now I'm going to get
fat again. All I need is to dig out my old retainer, and I'll just be good old Suze."

Suzanna shook her head, blinked at the sudden stinging in her eyes. "I think he thinks he should. And,
if I tell him about the baby, that's the first thing he'll say to me. 'I love you, Suze.' "

She looked at Jack, feeling one tear escape, roll down her face. "If he does that, Jack, I'll never be able
to believe another word he says."

Tim sat on the floor in the den, his legs tucked up in as close to a Yoga position as a ballplayer with aching knees could get, wearing the paper hat his Aunt Sadie had forced on him earlier. She'd called it
a "cone," but he was pretty sure it was a dunce cap.

The sun was going down on one of the longest days in his life, after one of the longest weekends in his life, and he was alone in the rapidly darkening room.

He looked at the toy he held in his hand, one of the toys he'd been picking up, tossing into the toy box
in the corner of the room.

Damn. There it went again. His stomach, doing that rotten flip it had been doing on and off all afternoon. He'd eaten a little of everything, because Keely liked it when people showed that they liked her cooking, and now all of it was sitting like a rock in his gut, topped off by a huge wedge of chocolate birthday cake.

He wasn't really sick to his stomach. He couldn't be. He had a cast-iron stomach; everybody said so.
He'd never been able to dredge up any desire to drink anyone else under the table, even in college, but
he could eat most anybody under the table. A full restaurant meal, followed by a stop later for tacos, some hot salsa dip to cleanse his palate, a few of those round green peppers that made most people start to perspire under their eyes, and maybe a couple of hot dogs picked up on the way home, with chili sauce, mustard, and onions, just to top everything off.

There went his stomach again. Cripes. He clenched his teeth together hard, tried to ignore the bitter
taste at the back of his throat.

But, hey, he'd been cool. He'd talked to her, lots of times. Mostly, she'd been with the other women,
the lot of them probably plotting against him, with Aunt Sadie, Mrs. B. and Keely as the ringleaders.

What time was it? He looked toward the clock on the mantel. Damn near ten. A lot of people, those
with kids who were in Candy's play group, had already left, as well as some of Aunt Sadie's friends
from ceramics class and the theater group.

There were still a few neighbors hanging around, and Joey of course, along with Bruno.

Good kid, Bruno. He'd kept the children occupied all afternoon, as pool float, jungle gym, even as a sort of maypole for a while.

He pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped at the perspiration gathering on his forehead. Man, it was hot in here. Too many people, even for a state-of-the-art air-conditioning system.

"Oh, thanks, Tim," Keely said, walking into the den, flipping on the wall switch that turned on the recessed ceiling lighting.

Tim blinked at the sudden brightness. "No problem. I wasn't doing anything else," he said, tossing yet another toy into the box.

Keely bent with a small groan, to pick up a few colored blocks, and looked straight into his eyes.
"You feel all right? You don't look well."

Tim shoved the handkerchief back in his pocket and stood up. "I'm fine, really. It's been a hell of weekend, one way or another. And who was that bozo in the green-and-white-striped shirt?"

"John Donnelley? He's one of our neighbors. And he's not a bozo; he's an orthodontist. Why?"

"Nothing. Just that he cornered me for about ten minutes, telling me he thinks I'm holding my left shoulder too high at the plate. Everybody's an expert. Hey, Keel? I... I want to thank you for taking
care of Suzanna for me. I know she was upset."

"Upset? I've never thought of you as a master of understatement, Tim. She was pissed."

Tim looked toward the kitchen, hoping to see Su-zanna there, come to rescue him. "I... I was thinking about going home, Keel. Like I said—been a long day."

"You did a terrible thing, Tim," Keely told him; this sweet, blond, wonderfully chubby, blooming
woman said to him, "When Suzanna came here Friday morning, she was devastated."

"You didn't have mine, Tim," Keely said, rubbing at her stomach. "Oh, he kicked me! He can be quiet
for hours, and the moment I want to be quiet, he thinks it's party time."

Tim pressed a hand against his mouth, because his stomach was doing flips again.

''Want to feel him kick?" Keely asked, then took Tim's hand before he could say no, or run away, or move to Antarctica and change his name, or any of the other things he could think of in half a second.

Tim smiled weakly as he felt the baby's foot push against his hand, as he watched Keely's swollen belly almost stand up, circle, and settle back down. "Wow," he said, swallowing hard. "Doesn't that hurt?"

"Thank you, but you're still going to get the lecture. Oh, never mind. I've been watching you, Tim, and you look like you're already suffering. In fact," she said, pushing herself up slightly and looking toward the kitchen, "I think you've suffered enough that maybe I should help you out a little here."

Oh, no. Not more help. Any more help, and Tim was pretty sure he couldn't help but screw things up even more than they were now.

"Keel, that's okay. I already know I have to take it slow, get Suzanna to trust me again, get her to understand that I want this marriage. I really want it."

"That's very commendable, Tim. However, intelligent as Suzanna is, levelheaded as she is, I don't think appealing to her intellect is going to get you too far."

"Oh, great! Finally, one person agrees that I should toss her over my shoulder and carry her off to my cave."

She hit him on the chest. Not hard, but she had a pretty good backhand swing. "Idiot! You can't do that. And, even though I know you love her, even if you don't know that yet, you can't tell her that, either.
Not in her condition."

"No, Tim, that's not what I mean. Look, Suzanna would kill me if she knew I was telling you this, and Jack, too, because we've all agreed to keep Suzanna's secret. But I really believe you should know that Suzanna is... well, she's... Let's just say she might be having some mood swings right now. Stuff that she'd usually not do, or say, but that she might do or say right now. So you can't get angry with her if
she doesn't react the way you might expect, okay?"

Now Keely kissed his cheek. "You know, Tim, a woman would have understood what I just said. But
I can see I have to draw you a map. As long as you promise you won't tell Jack or anybody. And for God's sake, don't let Suzanna know you know. That would be a disaster."

"No disasters on my horizon, Keel, other than the one we all know about," he lied with hopeful sincerity, "because I have absolutely no clue as to what you just said."

And then she said it. The darn woman just went ahead and said it: "Suzanna's pregnant, Tim."

The path Suzanna had taken to the powder room had included a deft step around the huge ottoman.
Tim hurdled straight over it....

There's a soft liner, which is caught by the second baseman.
And the ball game is over! For this inning.

Suzanna watched as Tim walked through the hallway, automatically touching the head of one of the wolfhounds incorporated into the tapestry. He did it every time, and probably didn't even know he did it.

She put down her purse and followed after him, as both were carrying what Keely laughingly called "leftovers" from the party. There were enough of them to have another party.

"Why didn't you tell me you were sick?" she asked as Tim stood back, holding open the refrigerator for her, so she could stash the silver foil covered tins beside the ones he'd carried in from the car.

She put a hand on his forehead, pretending she wasn't using the excuse to touch him. "You don't feel
hot. Keely said you threw up."

Suzanna followed after him as he went into the den, picked up the TV remote. "But you could be sick."

"You threw up," he said, punching in the numbers for ESPN. "And you're fine now, too, right?"

"Right," Suzanna said warily. So that was it? He saw that she'd felt better, and then decided either not to mention diat she'd been sick, or hadn't cared enough to ask. No, he cared enough. He was a good man. She was angry with him, disappointed in him, but she couldn't go blaming him for every vice in the world.

She shook her head. "No, there wasn't time. I'm sorry. Candy decided that today would be a good day
to want to hang on Keely's leg, so I took her out for a walk, then helped Keely once the baby was down for her nap. What did I miss?"

"Another loss," he said, just as the recap of the Phillies game came on the screen. "So you didn't see it?"

"Good." He turned it off. "Nothing much to see. One of the... um... Brandenberg tried to take me out at the plate. Barreled into me, into my gut, but I held on to the ball." He rubbed at his stomach. "I guess I took a bigger hit than I thought."

He was lying. The man was standing there, looking straight at her, and lying through his teeth.

"Really. You know, Tim, maybe there's internal bruising. Even internal bleeding. Let's go."

"To the Emergency Room, Tim. You got hit; you've thrown up. Maybe it isn't your gut. Maybe you
have a concussion. What did the trainer say when he checked you out?"

"He said I'm fine, that's what he said," Tim told her, his voice tight as he threw the controller onto the couch. "Let's go to bed; I'm wiped out."

"About what? I screwed up, you caught me at it, and now you're punishing me. Oh, yeah, I heard all about it, Suze. About my clothes being moved to another bedroom. Everybody's having a lot of fun
at my expense, laughing at me."

Tim Trehan, Suzanna knew, didn't give a rat's ass about what the world thought of him—unless he thought badly about himself.

''You were embarrassed," she said, nodding her head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone to Keely."

"No," he said quickly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "That's not what I meant. What I mean is...
Oh, hell, Suze, I don't know what I mean. Look, let's just go to bed. Where did you put me?"

"In the back bedroom. It's the only other one that has furniture, remenber? You don't mind?"

"Of course I mind," he said, and she was pretty sure it was the first really honest thing he'd said to
her all evening.

He stepped closer to her, put his hands on her upper arms. "I missed you, Suze. I missed you so much."

Give in, her body cried out, even as her brain delivered a mental kick to her backside.

"We've been apart longer than this, Tim. Ten days for one of your road trips, another week when I
had to go to Seattle. Ten years, when we went off to college."

He rubbed his hands up and down her arms. "This was different. I didn't know if you'd be here when
I got back. I ... I need you, Suze."

She had to say it. She had to say something, because if she didn't, she'd fall into his arms, give in, give up, and they would spend the rest of their lives reliving the old patterns. That old pattern where Tim asked, and she gave.

"Because of the curse? Because, otherwise, you could get hurt? Have to leave the game?"

"Yes, you were. And so was I. This isn't just about the curse, or your superstitions, or some crazy belief that you'd end up doing at least one of the three major things Jack did this past year. There's more to it than that, Tim. A lot more."

"We weren't kids in that hotel room, Tim. And yet you reverted straight back to the old days. You had
a problem, and good old Suze could help you out. You seduced me, Tim."

"Yeah, that took all of ten seconds," he grumbled, just like a man, and she was suddenly so glad she hadn't forgiven him.

If she had hit him with a lamp, he couldn't have looked more shocked. It had never occurred to the man. Never. She might not want him?

He'd seen some glimpse of light, realized that he'd made a mistake. Had even suffered, a little. But,
deep in his heart, he was so damn sure she'd forgive him.

He changed the subject. "We have a free day tomorrow, just a practice, so I can come home again in
time for dinner. Then the Cardinals are in Tuesday and Wednesday, we're off Thursday, and the Cubs will be here for a three-game weekend. Then we hit the road, for two with the Marlins and two more
with the Braves, and then to Shea Stadium to finish the season with three against the Mets."

"I just thought I'd tell you, that's all. That's what husbands do, right?" he said. "So you can plan? We could go out for dinner tomorrow night? You could come stay at the apartment Tuesday and Wednesday? Didn't you say you still had some vacation time coming to you?"

"We'll see," she said, feeling rather powerful. It was a new feeling where Tim was concerned. Not that
he was exacdy pleading with her, but he was close. "Now, go to bed, Tim. You got knocked down, remember?"

"Aren't you coming? Oh, I know, I know, separate bedrooms. But it's late, Suze. You need your rest, too, right?"

She looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then decided he was just trying to get her upstairs, where he'd make his next move. Well, good luck to him, because she had found the key to the master bedroom door.

"I'll be up soon," she said. "I brought the cats home today, before they forgot who we are. I just want to make sure they have some dry food and fresh water. Otherwise, Margo will be standing on my chest, nose to nose with me, at five in the morning, yowling."

Tim just about knocked her down as he headed over to the plastic pad on the floor in front of the pot-and-pan closet and picked up the dishes. "I'll do that."

She pulled out the foil bag of cat treats and shook it. "Thank you. But you forgot Margo's nightly treats. I'm surprised she wasn't waiting for us when—ah, here she comes. She heard me shake the bag."

Suzanna went down on her knees and poured a few treats into her hand. "Come here, sweetheart. Look what I've got for you."

Margo was a great cat, but like many Persians, she also was very much her own cat. She was the queen, and she made very sure everyone knew it. Big, bad Lucky never approached the feeding dishes until Margo was done eating. She allowed affection, gave much in return, but even Suzanna couldn't turn her into a cuddly lap cat. Still, she kept trying.

"Oh, look, Tim, she's letting me cuddle her," she said, smiling up at him as she stroked Margo's long,
lush coat. Margo was all fur, and looked twice as big as she actually was. At her last appointment at the vet, she'd weighed in at only six and one-half pounds.

"Okay, they've got fresh food and water," Tim said, sort of nudging Lucky with the toe of his sneaker,
as if pushing him out of the kitchen and into the hallway.

Suzanna bent her head so that Margo could lick her nose, still running her hands over the cat's body.

"Not yet. Tim, I think Margo may have worms or something. Do you think she could have worms? Her belly's sort of tight, and fuller than it's ever been. You know how she can stretch out on the couch? She looks like she's three feet long, and pencil slim. Lucky goes outside, so God knows what he gets into and could bring home to Margo. When did you last have him at the vet?"

"It's... It's been a while," he said, nudging Lucky again with his foot. "But he didn't have worms then. Dogs get worms. I don't think cats get worms. Probably not. So, no, Lucky didn't... didn't give her anything. Maybe she's just eating a lot. Aunt Sadie may have been overfeeding her."

"Her nose is cold and wet, and I think that's good. But this isn't at all like Margo, Tim. It's probably all my fault. I know Mrs. B. takes very good care of her, but she's more used to Mrs. Josephson, I guess. And I've been away from home so much lately. Do you think she senses tension in me, and is trying to comfort me?"

Suzanna's internal radar, which had been trained on Tim for most of her life, turned itself on, scanned
the room, and landed on Lucky.

Was Margo sick, or just being unusually sweet? Or did she think that she and Suzanna were kindred spirits?

"Tim," she said, dragging out his name. "Lucky is fixed, right? That is what you told me."

He scratched at a spot just above his left ear, a sure sign he was about to say something she wouldn't like.

"About Lucky getting snipped..." he said, grimacing as if every word was painful.

"Timothy Patrick Trehan," Suzanna said, still holding Margo as she got to her feet. The cat objected, cried out, and Suzanna let her down before walking straight up to Tim and pointing a finger at him.
"You didn't have him fixed, did you?" She poked her finger into his chest. "Did you?"

He let out a long breath. "You wouldn't understand. It's... It's a man thing, Suze. How could I look
Lucky in the face if I did that to him? Snipped? Cripes. I just couldn't do it. He's only about a year old, Suze; he hasn't even lived yet. How does a guy do that to another guy? But... But I was working my
way up to it, honest I was. I'd made up my mind to have a little man-to-man talk with him, explain
things, and then get him an appointment. But then Mrs. B. told me—"

"Mrs. B. told you, Tim?" Suzanna's eyes narrowed. "She told you what, Tim? She told you that Margo was pregnant?"

Suzanna glared at him for a few moments, then went looking for Margo, who was sitting on the kitchen table, daintily licking her paws. She picked up the cat, her hands gripping the animal behind her front
legs, and went face-to-belly with Margo's stomach.

"Oh... my... God, "Suzanna said as Margo struggled to be free. She put down the cat and whirled around, to face Tim once more. If her eyes could turn to lasers, he'd be just so much dust on the floor.

"You said she was pretty much still a kitten," Tim said quickly. "Lucky's not a kitten, but he's not that old, either. I thought I had time. You know, to break it to Lucky gently?"

"I could kill you. I could just kill you," Suzanna said. "How can I believe anything you say to me?"
she asked him, and then she stomped up the back stairs.

And the "Phightin' Phils" were now three games out of first. The rest of the team had been great, but Tim's play could pretty much be summarized as stink, stank, stunk.

He had taken to putting music disks in his car radio and avoiding the call-in all-sports talk stations.

Two errors in five games. A solid Golden Glover, and he'd made two stupid errors in five games. And
his batting average had dropped seven points so far in September. That was a big drop, this late in the season.

She hadn't come down to a single home game, because she'd gone out of town, to San Diego. She'd
told him she'd have to travel with Gloria for a while, show her the ropes, but Tim wasn't buying it.

She had gone out of town because she wanted to be out of town while he was at home, and now she
was home again, and he was on the road.

"You have to put it all out of your head and concentrate on the game, bro," Jack told him, long distance.

Tim sat down on the edge of the Atlanta hotel bed, the cell phone pressed to his ear. "How am I supposed to do that? She's avoiding me. I call home, and I get the answering machine, have to listen to my own stupid voice. I call Mrs. B., and she tells me Suzanna's home; she can see her car in the driveway. She's using the Caller ID and just not answering. Next thing, Jack, she'll be moving out. Lay siege to the castle of her heart? Sounds good, if soppy, on paper, bro, but we're never in the same place."

"You will be if you keep dropping games while the Mets keep winning. In fact, the way I figure it, unless you sweep the Braves and take two out of three games from the Mets, win this thing outright, you'll be lucky to get a wild card and play in October at all. All while hoping the Mets drop at least two of their three to Cincinnati before you head to Shea. Statistically, you're not out of it, but you've got to win,
Tim. You've got to win."

"Don't remind me," Tim said, unconsciously rubbing his belly. He'd just been sick again. Hell, he'd
been sick every morning, waking up with his stomach roiling, so that the moment he picked his head up off the pillow it had been a mad dash for the bathroom.

"Oh, yeah. Even had a sonogram, because she wasn't sure when you two got lucky."

"Not the cat's, Tim, for crying out loud, although I do know it. Aunt Sadie figures it'll be next week, around October fifth. If you guys get into the divisional series, you'll probably be out of town, playing."

Jack laughed. "I'll bet you can. I've been teasing Keely that I'm going to be out of town the last two weeks of October. She isn't amused."

"Nine months isn't that long a time, bro. She's due October twenty-eighth. Do you want to know when Suzanna's due? Seems like you were a busy boy in Pittsburgh."

"The sonogram, Tim. Pay attention. Now, do you want to know the doctor's estimate on the due date,
or not?"

"Go ahead," Tim said, lowering his head almost between his knees, because the nausea was coming back.

"April fourteenth. I checked the schedule for next year. Lucky for you, that's three days into a ten day home stand."

"April," Tim repeated. He'd been throwing up for two weeks, every damn morning for two weeks, ever since he found out about the baby. April? He wouldn't live until April. "Is she... Is she okay? Or is she
still having that morning sickness stuff?"

Maybe, just maybe, if Suzanna stopped, he'd stop. Which was about the damndest, dumbest thing he'd ever thought of, because that was just not possible. He was sick, damn it! Sick!

"I really don't know, Tim. I do know that she and Keely made hot fudge sundaes last night after dinner. When I was stupid enough to say that maybe Keel shouldn't have whipped cream, she shot some at me, straight out of the can. So, mostly, I'm staying away right now."

Tim bit down hard, clenched his teeth for a few moments. "How can she eat that crap?" he asked, his mental picture of ice cream, fudge, whipped cream, all making him want to head for the porcelain bowl again.

"That's the way it goes, Tim. First they're sick, and then they're eating all the time. Although Keely's getting heartburn at night, a lot. She did that in the beginning, but it had gone away. Last night, she slept sitting up in the recliner in the den. I'll be glad when this is over, although probably not as glad as Keel
will be."

"What else?" he asked, pulling the notepad and pen from the bedside table. "We've got morning sickness, heartburn ... and what else?"

"Don't bother, bro. We've got plenty. I'll sneak them to you when you get back home. Because, you know, it's not just the woman anymore. Everything is directed at both mother and father. We are pregnant, not just Keely."

"Uh-huh," Tim said, reaching for his can of soda. Ginger ale. It settled his stomach sometimes. So did soda crackers. They came free when he ordered soup. He'd started collecting little packets of soda crackers.

Jack was talking again. "And then there's the classes. That breathing stuff for natural childbirth? Keely says she's pretty sure she'll want drugs, lots of them, but she felt she should at least take the classes.
You can do those over the winter, Tim, be Suzanna's coach."

Tim's head was swimming. He was getting way too much information. "Hey, gotta go. Sam wants me
at the stadium early, for some extra batting practice. Good luck to your Yankees tonight, Jack. Shame we're going to beat them in the Series."

"In your dreams you'll beat them, Tim," Jack shot back. ''But let's not jinx it. We still all have to get through the playoffs, take the pennants."

Tim hit the button, ending the call, and slowly got to his feet. He felt so old. Too damn old.

"No good," he said to his reflection in the mirror over the low bureau. "I guess it's time to see Jerry."

The bathroom door opened, disgorging Dusty Johnson and a lot of steam. "Jerry?" Dusty repeated, rubbing at his wet head with a hand towel. "Who needs to see Jerry? You? You sick again?"

"Not really," Tim said, turning away. "I just thought I'd check with him, see if he could give me something to settle down my stomach."

Tim picked up his jacket and headed for the door. "I'll meet you over there, okay?"

"Sure thing," Dusty said, hanging on to the towel wrapped around his waist What a kid. He undressed
in the dark, carried his underwear with him to the shower room after a game. Mr. Modest. His mama probably told him never to get naked with anybody he wasn't already married to—if even then.

Tim grabbed a cab to the ballpark and hunted down Jerry in the training room making use of the whirlpool.

"What did you do, Jer," Tim asked, pulling up a chair next to the whirlpool, "throw out your shoulder wrapping Rick's ankle? Or maybe you're just checking the temperature, to be sure none of us bums in there?"

"Put a sock in it, Trehan," the trainer said, sinking lower in the tub. "What can I do for you?"

Tim picked up a ten-pound weight someone had left on the floor and absendy began doing curls.
"Nothing much. I've just got... a small problem."

"It's my stomach," Tim said, standing up, beginning to pace the room. "I keep ... I keep throwing up.
In the mornings mostly."

Jerry was out of the whirlpool, wrapping a towel around his ample middle. "Any pain? Like, on the right side, or around your navel?" He put a hand on Tim's forehead. "No fevers?"

Tim mentally counted backward, ending at Aunt Sadie's birthday party. "Today's eleven days."

"Yeah," Tim said nervously. "Chronic appendicitis, huh? How do we know for sure?"

"We don't. Usually, it's pain, elevated white blood count, fever. That's acute. But chronic? That one's harder. We can start with blood tests, but it really doesn't sound like appendicitis, Tim. You said you're only sick in the mornings?"

"Once or twice at night," he said, trying to steer Jerry back to that appendicitis thing.

"Gee, and we all wondered why you didn't go all the way, become a doctor. You're such a freaking genius."

''Oh, yeah? Well, I'll have you know, buddy, that even if men can't get pregnant, they can feel pregnant. My cousin, Fred? You remember him? The guy with the six kids, all girls? Fifth one, he got pregnant along with Maryanne. She threw up, he threw up. Her breasts got sore, his... chest got sore. She burped, he did the encore. She waddled like a duck, he—well, you had to be there, Tim. We were sure he'd go into labor with her, but it didn't get that bad."

Jerry chuckled. "Of course, that's only because Fred passed out when Maryanne's water broke, bam, smack in the middle of our Fourth of July picnic. Hit his head on a croquet mallet, got a concussion,
and was admitted to the floor above Maternity. We've got it all on video."

Tim was shaking, but he hopefully hid his reaction from the trainer. "Jerry, that's a great story. What
the hell does it mean?"

"It means, Tim, that sometimes the man gets symptoms, right along with the woman. It's all mental, of course. We think that with Fred it was because he wanted a boy so bad that he talked Maryanne into another pregnancy. Once they had the tests, learned it was another girl? He started getting sick. But it didn't happen again, with the sixth girl. Fred just said that with six you get eggroll, something like that. And it was Maryanne who wanted the sixth one. Probably to see if Fred would start barring again."

"Guilty? Yeah, I suppose that was it. Guilty. But it doesn't matter, right? Your wife's not pregnant. Or
is she?"

Tim shook his head. As long as Suzanna wanted the pregnancy kept a secret, he wasn't going to say a word to Jerry the Mouth. "Nope. So we're back to that appendicitis stuff?" he added hopefully.

"All right, I guess we have to follow up on this. I'll arrange for blood work at the local hospital, some
time this afternoon. And, now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some ankles and knees to wrap."

"Sure, thanks, Jer," Tim said, collapsing back into the chair once the trainer left the room.

Guilt? He could be throwing up because of guilt? And who could he ask about it, anyway? Suzanna? No. Because he wasn't supposed to know she was pregnant, and because she'd taken those psych courses in La-La-Land.

And no shrinks! No way was he going to a shrink. Sam went to a shrink, and look where that got him,
for crying out loud. The man had started humming some sort of mantra when he got his shorts in a knot. And eating sunflower seeds. Now he was making noises about group meditations before games.

So no shrink. No Suzanna. And no Jack, because he liked his brother, and if the guy laughed, he'd have to kill him.

Which left... What? Who? Who could he talk to who wouldn't go running to Suzanna? Who could he
talk to who wouldn't start rolling on the floor, laughing at his expense?

Who else cared that his game had gone to hell, his life was going to hell? That he was two quick seconds away from calling a cab, heading for the airport, and saying screw it to the rest of the season?

He headed back outdoors, pulling out his cell phone. He pressed the second button on the speed dial, waited.

—Announcer Ken Coleman,
calling a long home run

"Well, here we are," Keely said, settling into her seat in the private super box Mort had wrangled for
them at Shea Stadium. It was Friday night, and the first of the last weekend of games in the regular season. The Phillies were two full games behind the Mets, with three games to go.

"You're welcome, although Jack can't quite understand why I didn't go to Yankee Stadium with him.
Big deal, they clinched their division weeks ago. Although I can't believe I'm going to be rooting against my very own Mets."

Suzanna looked at her new friend, her dear friend. "Jack says you can't name a single player on the
Mets team."

"Can so," Keely answered, lifting her chin. "I just won't give him the satisfaction, that's all."

"Oh, absolutely. Jack's still a little torked that I didn't recognize him as the great Jack Trehan when we met. And then, when I did find out, I told him I'm a big Mets fan. Mets fans are never Yankee fans, Suzanna. It drove Jack nuts. You have to keep them in line a little, Suzanna, keep them guessing. Although I now can name every player on the Yankees, and if Tim's Phillies end up playing them in
the Series, I'll be rooting for the Yanks. I hope you don't mind."

"With Jack as a former Yankee, and now their color commentator? How could you do anything else?"

"Oh, look, Suzanna, some little kids are going to sing the Anthem. Aren't they cute? Isn't that sweet?"

Suzanna stood and watched as Tim joined his team at the edge of the dugout for the playing of the National Anthem, then took his place on the bench.

"He doesn't look sick," Keely said, turning a pair of binoculars on her brother-in-law. "Maybe Mort just said that, so you'd show up."

Keely gave Suzanna a quick poke in the ribs. "Did you hear that? More and More Moore, super agent, never lies. Duck, Suzanna, I think there might be a lightning bolt heading in this direction."

"Very funny," Mort said, making his way down the steps inside the super box, planting kisses on their cheeks. "Suzanna, you can't tell Tim that I talked to you about anything other than offering you this
super box for the weekend. I think he thinks I'm like a priest in the confessional, or something like that. What we talk about is sort of sacrosanct."

"Okay, that's it, definitely a lightning strike," Keely said, pushing herself to her feet. "And I've got to go visit the little girl's room again. Remind me not to drink too much, Suzanna, or the limo will be making
pit stops every ten minutes on our way home."

Suzanna watched Keely go and wondered, not for the first time, if she would be as laid back about her own pregnancy when she got to the elephant stage. She doubted it.

"He's good, good. I saw him this morning. I gave him the books he asked me to buy for him, told him he's not being all that peculiar. Did it with a straight face, too, just the way I didn't act surprised when he told me you're pregnant, seeing as how Sadie told me all about it the day of the birthday party. I didn't let on that I knew, or that he isn't supposed to know—none of that I'd say I'm up for sainthood, but then that lightning Keely talked about would be sure to strike."

"I still wish he didn't know," Suzanna said, feeling tears gathering behind her eyes. They kept doing that. Gathering, waiting, ready to spill over. She was turning into a damn sprinkling can. "I didn't want him to know."

"Yeah, Sadie explained all of that. But since he doesn't know that you know he knows, it's okay, right? Although I have to tell you, sweetheart, I think you're both nuts."

"I can't explain it, Mort, but I have to do what I'm doing. If I give in now, the way I've always given in, we'll never be happy." She pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. "Except now he knows I'm pregnant, so how am I ever going to know if he really loves me?"

Mort nodded. "That should make a difference, don't you think? Even if I told him you're going home
with Jack and Keely, and that you don't want to see him."

"I'm coming back tomorrow night, too," Suzanna said, twisting the tissue in her hands. "Aunt Sadie's coming with me. And then it's Mrs. B.'s turn, on Sunday."

"Last regular game of the season. Two out of three aren't enough. We have to sweep and win it all outright. I hate going down to the wire like this. Ages me, I swear it."

"Poor Mort," Suzanna said, smiling, but she was also nervous. "He'll be fine. He's been better lately,
and had good games against Atlanta."

"He's a professional. He has to be able to push everything else away and concentrate on the game. I had
a pretty hefty Come to Jesus moment with him about that the day he called me, and he's sucking it up, concentrating on the team. Tim was always a real team player."

"I know, and I shouldn't be making it hard on him, not right now. My timing has never been really good."

"Are you kidding? Your timing was great, showing up in Pittsburgh like that in July. He was going down, Suzanna, straight down. Look at the August he had— fantastic. All we need now is to clinch the division, and I defy management to tell me they won't meet our price."

Suzanna sat back in her seat and looked at the agent. "That isn't why Tim plays, Mort. You do know that, don't you? He'd play for free, just so he could play."

"They were good people, Suzanna, and they raised good sons. Okay," he said, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "Here we go. I brought you a program, in case you want to keep score again. Kolecki just singled."

"Thank you, Mort," Suzanna said, feeling those darn tears threatening again. "Just remember, Mort.
This is just between the two of us. Jack and Keely and everybody know Tim wasn't feeling well, but
they don't know why. I couldn't do that to Tim."

It would be easy, so very easy, to just give in, let what would happen just happen.

But then she'd never know, would she? Did Tim love her? Or did he need the "luck" she brought him? Did he think babies were neat in general, or that a baby they had together would be special?

Aunt Sadie and Mrs. B. said Tim was coming along, but he still had some growing up to do.

She was here, in the stadium. Mort wouldn't tell him where, or what he'd said to get her here; but she
was here, and Mort had relented enough to tell him that Jack would be picking her up outside the
players' entrance after the game.

He stepped to the plate, smiled, because the Mets thought so little of his hitting anymore that they didn't care if he batted leftie.

He looked up at the stands, toward the luxury boxes, and waved, then pointed to right center field.
Shared a moment, shared their private joke on the Mets.

Lowering the bat, he drew an imaginary line across the plate. He took two quick swings, then coiled the bat, stared at the pitcher, sure his nod to the catcher meant he'd just agreed to a low fast one, outside.

He waved at the super boxes again as he rounded the bases and headed home behind Jeff Kolecki, his tape measure home run making it two to nothing in the top of the first.

He got to the dugout, where he shared high fives with his teammates, then raced into the clubhouse and threw up a whopping helping of ziti in marinara sauce.

Suzanna had planned, hoped, to be gone before Tim could track her down; but Jack's game had run late, and they were still waiting for the limousine to pick them up when Tim came outside and spotted them.

"Good game, Tim," she told him with an overly bright smile, then turned her head so that his kiss landed on her cheek. "One down, and two to go."

"Uh-huh," Tim said, obviously not paying attention to Mort, as he kept staring at Suzanna. "How are
you feeling?"

''Fine,'' she said, then frowned, hopefully a perplexed frown. "Why do you ask?"

"I wondered when you'd see me. I didn't think I was invisible," Keely said, putting both hands on her huge belly. "But you never know."

Suzanna tried not to look directly at Tim. He looked so good, if a little thin. Sure. I get fat and he gets thin. Women are cursed.

"I was thinking. Maybe, instead of driving all the way back to Whitehall, you could, you know, stay
here with me?"

"No, I mean I can't. Didn't you know that Sam sent out telegrams to all the wives? No cohabitation until this series is over. He said that cohabitation would sap your strength. Except he said it a little differently. It was probably all the stops in the telegram that made it seem a little, well, tacky."

"Cripes!" Tim shoved a hand through his hair, which still bore the indentation from his cap. "What does the man think? That we're all going to have orgies, or something?"

Suzanna felt her cheeks growing hot. "Tim," she warned quietly, wishing Keely would stop giggling.

"No," he said, avoiding the hand she tried to place on his arm. "No, it's dumb, stupid. We're grown men, for crying out loud. Curfews on the road, the team bus, the damn meditation crap he pulled with us tonight And now this? Stay here, I'll be right back."

Suzanna watched as Tim, looking so damn sexy in his black pullover and khakis, slammed back through the door, leaving the three of them standing there.

"Mood swing," Mort whispered quietly, so that Keely wouldn't hear. "I read a few chapters before I handed over the books. Typical mood swing."

"Oh, here we go," Keely said, pointing to the long black limousine that had pulled into the restricted parking area. "And here's my hero. How did it go, darling?" she asked as Jack stepped out of the limo
and took Keely in his arms.

"We lost," he said. "I don't think the guys can get themselves up for the games, knowing we've already clinched. But that's not good. Streaks are streaks, winning or losing. They'll be better tomorrow. But you're not coming in, right, Keel? I think you're done with trips to New York until after the baby's born."

"Yes, master," Keely said, rolling her eyes at Suzanna. "See? They get all bossy when they think they can. Jack already knows this is my last trip to New York, because I told him so. He's just trying to look like macho-daddy."

"I think he's sweet," Suzanna said, those ready tears stinging her eyes once more.

"And I think I'm out of here," Mort said, kissing both women. "Sadie said when I couldn't remember
who knows what and who I lied to last, it was time to get back behind my desk. See you tomorrow
night, Suzanna?"

"Right," Suzanna said sincerely. One secret. Plus the one that Mort had told her about Tim. That Tim knew she was pregnant, and that he was throwing up every morning. Keely and Jack, and all the rest of them, couldn't know that. Of course, since Mort knew, it was always possible that Aunt Sadie also knew, although she probably wouldn't tell anyone else. Except maybe Mrs. B. But not Jack and Keely. And she wasn't going to confide in Keely, not this time.

It was getting difficult to remember who knew what or, as Tim might say it, how to tell the players without a scorecard.

Suzanna smiled, thankful to see Tim heading toward them once more. "Look at that face. I don't think
he won this one," she said to Jack.

"I have to go back to the hotel on the team bus," Tim said, his eyes still sparking blue fire. "But that doesn't mean you can't sneak into the hotel, get a room. Dusty wouldn't tell on me."

"Dusty?" Suzanna shook her head. "Would that be the same Dusty who told me about the one-in-three odds? That Dusty?"

"Never mind," Tim said, then muttered something under his breath. "Okay, okay. So I've got to stay
with the team this weekend. But after we take this series—"

"Shut up, Jack. Like I was saying, after we win this series, we'll have a free day before the divisional playoffs begin, but we'll need that for travel. That means anotfier trip out of town for a five-game series we'll win in three. Your turn, bro."

"Thank you. Now, after we take the division, we go best of seven for the pennant That's another week, more if we get rained out. Then four more to beat your Yanks, Jack—maybe six, if you're lucky—and then, by damn, I'm coming home."

Suzanna mentally added up the days, for games, for travel, possible rain outs. "But ... But that means
it could be well into the middle of October before you're home."

Tim put his hands on her upper arms. "I'll call every day, Suze, promise. And you still can come to the games, stay with the other wives who travel with the team. I really wish you'd do that, Suze."

"But... But Margo's going to have her kittens. I mean, Aunt Sadie isn't sure of the day, but we're pretty sure it will be within the next week or two. I can't leave her."

Tim backed up two steps. "You're kidding, right? I'm going to be playing for a chance at the World Series, and you're going to stay home and watch a cat?"

Suzanna tipped up her chin. "Yes, Tim, I'm going to stay home and watch a cat. You have a problem with that?"

But, instead of exploding, he surprised her by taking a deep breath, letting it out slowly, then saying, "Okay. Okay, Suze. Just come back tomorrow, and Sunday. After that, we'll play it by ear."

"Me? No, I'm not angry. It's all my fault anyway; everybody knows that. I should have had Lucky... snipped."

"Sam's waving at you from the bus, Tim," Jack said, with an inclination of his head. "I think you have
to go. So do we. Time I got little mother here tucked up in bed."

"Ah, so thoughtful. And my feet hurt, Jack. Maybe you could carry me over to the limo?"

"How about I go find a wheelbarrow, sweetheart," Jack shot back at her, and Keely laughed as she took his hand, dragged him to the limousine.

"That's another thing, Tim," Suzanna said once Jack and Keely were in the backseat of the limo. "Keely's due October twenty-eighth. But Dr. Phillips ... I mean, but her obstetrician told her she's showing signs that she may be earlier than that. If the Yankees make the Series, Jack has to be there for the radio broadcasts, so someone will have to stay with Keely."

"Mrs. B. is going to Tampa, to visit her sister. She leaves Tuesday and won't be back for at least two weeks, remember? Then, when she gets back, there's rehearsals every night."

"I forgot," Tim said, edging closer to her again, looking like he might want to kiss her. "Still, there's
Aunt Sadie, right?"

"Tim," Suzanna said, sighing. "How do you want Keely to get to the hospital? In Aunt Sadie's little red sports car, or after trying to climb into that four-by-four with the Tweety Bird on the hood? And, before you answer, remember that I've driven with the woman. She's got a lead foot and thinks Stop signs really only mean pause."

Tim was silent for a few moments, a silence broken only by Sam Kizer's bellow of "Get your ass on board, Trehan!"

Then he said, "This is a conspiracy, isn't it? I've got this whole pack of women conspiring against me. Cripes, Suzanna, when will you think I've suffered enough?"

"Yeah. You won tonight I know. And I'll be here tomorrow night, and again on Sunday. I promised
Mort, who said I owed it to the team, even if I didn't owe it to you. But after that, Tim, you're on your own. I'm not expecting you to give up the pasta, or the bubble gum, or any of the rest of it. I just want you to decide if you want me because I seem to have stopped the curse from getting you, or because
you want me."

She glared after him. He'd just shut his mouth, and he'd gone, without looking back.

Jack knew Suzanna was pregnant, because Keely had told him, and Jack had told his brother.

Keely knew Suzanna was pregnant, because Suzanna had told her, and then Keely had told him.

Aunt Sadie and Mrs. B. knew Suzanna was pregnant, because either someone told them or they read it
in the vegetables swirling around in their witches' cauldron, along with the bat wings and eye of newt.

Mort knew that Tim had been told by both Jack and Keely that Suzanna was pregnant.

Interesting. The major player in all of this was the only one who seemed to be out of the loop.

But only Mort knew about the morning sickness and all the rest of it And, unless the man wanted to see all of his toupees strung together, weighted down with rocks, and tossed into the nearest river, he'd keep his mouth shut.

Which meant, realistically, bottom line, that only Aunt Sadie and Mort knew about the morning sickness.

Mrs. B. was out of the picture, at least for two weeks, visiting her sister in Tampa.

Margo was nesting, or so Aunt Sadie called it, constantly having to be dragged out of closets and boxes and back to the padded bed Suzanna had bought for the birthing.

Lucky had come back from the vet yesterday morning, okayed for surgery, and was hiding out at Aunt Sadie's. According to his aunt, the cat would not be allowed back in the main house until the kittens
were at least six weeks old, because otherwise he might hurt them.

Banished. Just like his master. Tim decided he was lucky he wasn't Lucky, or he'd be "snipped," too.

It was October eleventh, and the Phillies had won the playoffs, three to two in five games, and were now on their way to the next series, and the pennant. No time to go home, only time for meetings and more practice and Sam's latest innovation, Yoga.

Except that the manager had canceled the Yoga sessions after Romero's right leg had gone into such a cramp in the Lotus position that Jerry had had to get out of the whirlpool to help unbend him.

Tim looked at his watch, then at the phone stuck into the back of the seat in front of his. It would be
too late to call when they landed.

"Trehan residence," a male voice said after five rings, just as Tim was wondering if the machine would pick up and he'd end up talking to his own voice again.

Tim took another quick look at his watch. It was after nine. "Who the hell are you?" he asked, sitting forward, so that his seat belt grabbed at his hips.

"Oh, is that you, Tim? This is Sean. Sean Blackthorne. I'm afraid Suzanna can't come to the phone
right now."

"Yes, she's gone into labor. Since I breed Persians— Margo's from one of my litters, you know—Suzanna asked if I'd come over when the big event was imminent."

"Oh, oh no, no, of course not. It's just that Margo seems to have decided to have her kittens under
your bed, Tim."

"My bed?" Gripes! Why didn't she rent a billboard? Tell everyone they slept in separate bedrooms.

"A lovely piece, Tim," Sean was saying. Tim barely heard him through the red haze that was building behind his eyes, inside his ears, everywhere. "Tester. Early Tudor. A very good reproduction."

The haze cleared a litde. Blackthorne was talking about his bed. His and Suzanna's bed. Okay, okay,
he could deal with that.

"Why? Because, Tim, she's under the bed, with Margo. Thankfully, it's a very high bed, but we still have to get her out from under there. Really, Tim, I hate to be rude, but I really do have to go help Suzanna."

"Uh-huh, okay. Sure," Tim said, stabbing his fingers into his hair. "Look, Suzanna already knows where the team is staying tonight, but she'd have to call before midnight, because Sam makes sure the switchboard won't put calls through to the rooms after that. So have her call me just as soon as Margo... just as soon as you know anything. Leave a message at the desk if she has to, okay?"

"Fine," Sean said, then added, "You're doing very well, Suzanna tells me. Congratulations."

"Don't watch, huh?" Tim asked, sure Suzanna could never be attracted to a man who didn't like baseball.

"I play the occasional game of handball at my gym," Sean said rather proudly, "but I'm afraid I don't really follow sports, per se."

"That's great, Sean," Tim said, trying to relax. "Look, Margo's okay, right? I mean, Suzanna's crazy about that cat."

"She'll be fine. Unless, of course, she isn't. Breech births, things like that. She really is too young to be having a utter. She's already ruined for showing, mating with a common domestic shorthair, and who on earth would want nonpedigree kittens? I told Suzanna to have her aborted, but she wouldn't hear of it."

"Again, I really have to—oh, good, Suzanna, you've got her. Wonderful. Tim? I have to hang up now."

Suzanna stood in front of one of the large windows in the living room, watching the rain, watching for headlights coming up the drive.

She'd been standing here, in this same spot, for over an hour, ever since Mort had phoned to say that finally Tim was on his way home from the stadium.

To lose, that was bad. To lose in front of the hometown crowd, that was awful. Terrible. The pits.

They had lost the first game of the league playoff, the one that would give them the National League Pennant. Then it had rained, for four straight days. And not just rain, but a mini monsoon.

How many hours had Tim spent on the phone with her from his hotel room? She'd played cheerleader, shoulder to cry on, devil's advocate and, all too often, weather person, telling him she was sure the storm would blow out soon, and they would be able to play again.

But when the rains stopped, the losing went on. They had come home down two games.

She'd wanted to go to the stadium, wanted to see him. Wanted. Just plain wanted.

But Dr. Phillips had put Keely to bed because she'd spotted a little, and Candy was just too much for Aunt Sadie to handle all day long. So she'd had to say no, I'm sorry, I just can't "But I'll be watching every game, and cheering so loud you'll probably be able to hear me."

How hard it had been to sit in front of the television set and watch those games in Philadelphia. The Phillies had won one, and Tim had hit a home run; but they had dropped the next game when their ace reliever had walked the bases loaded in the tenth, then walked in the go-ahead run as Tim had argued vehemently that the last pitch had been a strike.

"Umpires always hate Philly," he'd told her later that same night, on the phone from his hotel. "We not only have to play better than the other team; we've got to work twice as hard to get past the bad calls."

"It's true, damn it Oh, okay, most of them are pretty good, pretty fair. But there's a couple who really
do hate us. It just figured that one of them would be behind the plate tonight."

"It was a ball, Tim. I saw the instant replay, five times. And, if that one had been a strike, the next one would have been a ball. He had you diving all over the place to save him from wild pitches. Sam should have taken him out when he walked the leadoff batter."

"And put in who? We've been working the bullpen hard, Suze. And Dave is our closer. He's had forty-eight saves this year."

"I know, Tim, I know, really I do. But I wish you could have taken him out. He was just plain wild tonight He didn't have it."

"Whose side are you on?" he'd shot back, and she'd just sighed, then waited for him to calm down. He had a temper, but it always blew hot, then cooled quickly. She just had to wait him out

"Okay, enough of that," he said in a few moments. "Can you come down tomorrow night?"

"Maybe, since Jack might be home before the Yanks go on the road. But I think it's going to rain."

Down three games to one, the rains had made it across country, to Philadelphia. Two more days of postponements followed before they finally took the field in a fine drizzle that soon turned into a near downpour.

But they played. The Yankees had already won the American League Pennant, although Jack couldn't
get home, with all the pre-Series telecasts to do, and October was rapidly approaching November.

"Poor baby," Suzanna said, wiping away a tear, They had tried so hard, but trying to come back from
a four-to-two deficit when the rain just got worse and worse as the innings went on was darn near impossible.

Suzanna closed her eyes, able to see how the national television cameras had zeroed in on Tim as he
sat in the dugout and watched, through a veil of rain, as the new National League Champs celebrated
on his field.

She would have expected him to stand in the dugout with his teammates for a few moments, and then take off for the clubhouse, to throw a few things, to kick something. That she could have understood.

Five minutes, maybe more, Tim had been shown sitting in that dugout All by himself. Holding that bat.

Finally, as Suzanna sobbed, he'd picked up his catching gear, angled his mask over the top of his head, and walked away.

Half-drowned puppies dragged out of a sack tossed into a river didn't look so pitiful.

"Did they have to keep the camera on him so much?" Suzanna said now, wiping away new tears.

It was her fault, of course. She should have been there. Not because of any stupid curse, or superstition, or anything like that. But because she was Tim's wife, and he'd wanted her there. She had failed him, plain and simple.

Mort had kept her up to date on Tim's symptoms. The poor guy still got sick in the mornings. She
wished she could tell him that she didn't, but how could she do that, when he believed that she didn't know he knew about the pregnancy?

Tim wasn't shy. He'd never been the reticent sort If he wanted her to know that he knew about the
baby, he would have come right out and told her. He hadn't, and he must have a reason.

The same reason: their marriage had to be a real marriage first, based on real love and real commitment, and then and only then could either of them see this baby as anything else but a reason to stay married.

Not that he wouldn't have to give up the pretense of not knowing soon, even if she didn't tell him the news. Lord, but she was blossoming, much faster than Keely had, to hear her friend tell it Her slacks were way too tight, so that she'd bought new ones, with elastic waists, and even those were getting
snug. She'd have to buy more, in a larger size.

Still, she felt good. Remarkably good, as a matter of fact, while Tim was getting worse.

He'd had to leave one game, Mort had reported to her, with stomach cramps. He'd had two nosebleeds, which didn't make a bit of sense to Suzanna, but a check on the Internet—everything was on the Internet—told her that, yes, nosebleeds were also common with men experiencing "male pregnancy symptoms."

The article she'd read had termed the phenomenon "sympathy pregnancy," also noting that psychiatrists called it couvades syndrome, which was from the French word for "hatching."

But what good would that do? She'd never know, not really, if he was having the symptoms because he felt guilty, or if he was just doing what the article said that twenty-two to seventy-nine percent of all American dads-to-be did, at least to some degree.

The reasons given had not included guilt, but had only mentioned that the symptoms could come from sympathy for the mother, temporary, unexplained hormonal changes in the father, or feelings of displacement, which meant that the father felt the wife was getting all the attention and wanted some
for himself.

That didn't sound like Tim, but when she'd read the words "make people know that he is a major player in the pregnancy," well, that one had definitely worried her.

But it didn't matter. None of it mattered, not tonight. Tonight, her big bad warrior was coming home,
a loser. There would be no World Series against the Yankees.

No trophy, no ring. No "Hey, Tim Trehan, now that you've been named MVP of the World Series,
what are you going to do next?"

"Who wants to go to Disney World anyway? Seen one mouse, you've seen 'em all," Suzanna muttered, then blinked as she thought she saw headlights approaching through the tree branches that still held so many leaves this late in the fall.

She ran to the front door, waited until she heard the beep of Tim's car's alarm system engaging, and
then opened the door, praying she'd know the right thing to say, now that he was here.

He had his head down as he approached the steps, then stopped, looked up at her, the rain rapidly
turning him into a drowned rat.

"Hi, Suze. I'm late, I know, but I had to stop for gas. You want to hear something? Something Dizzy Dean once said? You remember Dizzy Dean, don't you?"

''I remember, Tim. A famous pitcher, and a very quotable man. You and Jack were always testing me with famous baseball quotes. Come inside, and you can tell me what he said that you thought about tonight."

Inwardly, she was hoping it wasn't one she remembered: "The good Lord was good to me. He gave me
a strong body, a good right arm, and a weak mind."

"No, that's okay, Suze. I kind of like being in the rain. I've been in it so much lately, I think I'm growing fins. Anyway, I stopped to get gas, and I thought about Dizzy Dean. You remember now?"

"No," Suzanna said, blinking back tears. He was being so brave. Her heart was breaking for him.
"You'll have to tell me, Tim."

"Okay. He said, and I think I've got this one exactly: 'It puzzles me how they know what corners are
good for filling stations. Just how did they know gas and oil was under there?' Isn't that a riot?"

"I know," she half whispered, not caring that he'd called her babe. "I'm so, so sorry."

He looked up at her, and his smile flashed white in the light from the lamps on either side of the door. "Hey, no big deal. Somebody has to lose. Besides, I've just saved Jack ten bucks. He bet me we'd lose
to his Yanks in the Series."

Suzanna tried to wipe at her wet cheeks as if the rain had hit her. "Ten bucks, huh? Well, it's nice to know Candy and the baby won't have to go without new shoes. Tim? Please, come inside."

"I wasn't planning on asking you to entertain. But you're getting very wet, and you're going to drip on
the foyer floor. Now come on, come inside, get a hot shower, and then I'll make you some soup or something."

"I am," she said. "I'm thinking chicken noodle, and then I can show you the kittens. You're going to just love them, Tim. The biggest one? He's already starting to open one eye."

"Uh-huh," he said, heading for the stairs. "Maybe in the morning, all right? I'm beat."

She looked after him, watching as he held on to the banister, seemed to have to half pull himself up the stairs.

"Are you sure?" she asked him, feeling as if she'd just been rejected, deserted, proven useless to help
him. "Because I could make something else. Ham and bean soup? Chili?"

"Night, Suze," he said, rounding the second-floor landing, heading for the back bedroom.

"Night, Tim," she said quietly, then walked into the kitchen, because the box of tissues was in the
kitchen and she was pretty sure she was going to have herself a good cry.

Suzanna picked up the newspaper Tim had left on the kitchen table, and read the headline on the sports section one more time: champs again; yanks in five.

Jack had to be so happy. With Keely due in only another six days, the last thing he'd wanted was for
the Series to stretch to the full seven games.

Tim had sat with her to watch the away games, and he had driven to the Bronx to sit in the booth with Jack for the home games. How he had done it, Suzanna would never know, but Tim had been great, helping with the commentary on radio, complimenting the National League Champs, all that good stuff.

He smiled for the cameras, talked to all the reporters, answered all their asinine questions.

How long was the mourning period for losing a ball game? Suzanna was darned if she knew, but she was getting pretty tired of tiptoeing around Tim as if his best friend had just left him and his dog had died.

He slept, all the time, and when he wasn't sleeping, he was playing tapes of the playoffs. Watching himself catch, watching himself hit, watching himself strike out.

Keely had told her that Jack had been pretty much of a basket case when she'd met him, having just
had to retire from the game because of a career-ending injury. She'd said he'd sulked, been snippy—
yes, she'd said snippy—a general pain in her hindquarters.

But enough was enough. Tim's career wasn't over, far from it. Mort had called Tim to Philly only five days ago, to ink a new contract with so many zeroes in it that Suzanna got dizzy trying to count them.

Suzanna stepped outside for some fresh air, saw the mailman turning around at the dead end, and
headed down the drive. She walked back up the hill after collecting the Saturday mail, sorting through
it as she walked.

Three of the envelopes intrigued her. One had a local postmark and was handwritten, obviously by a child, and the other two were from the two Philadelphia children's hospitals, CHOP and Saint Christopher's.

"Tim?" she said, dropping the rest of the mail on the kitchen table and heading into the den, where he
was just sitting, the television set off, staring at nothing. "What are these?"

He reached for them, and she kept the handwritten envelope, handed him the other two.

"No, not donations. Aunt Sadie handles that end. These are different requests. Now that we have the schedule for next year, everyone wants to get their dibs in. I'll look at them later."

Suzanna opened the first envelope and unfolded the letter, quickly scanning it. "You mean you loan out the box to sick kids? I knew about the Tiger's Den, and I think that's wonderful; but I didn't know you did this, too. That's really sweet of you, Tim."

"Yeah, well, it was Aunt Sadie's idea. We went to one of the hospitals one year, to see the kids, sign some autographs, and I came home pretty jazzed. I mean, those kids were so sick, and yet we could make them smile. I wanted to do more, more than just go there once in a while, or just send a check
for new toys for the playroom or something. This is what Aunt Sadie came up with."

"You're a good person, Tim," Suzanna said, folding the letter that had been effusive with thanks even while requesting certain dates for the use of the box next season. "Sometimes, when I want to slap you silly for moping around here, I forget that."

He turned to her, grinning, and put his arm around her shoulders, surprising her straight down to her toes. It was the first time he'd touched her since before that awful night of their final loss. "As long as you're feeling so warm and fuzzy about me, what do you say we go upstairs?"

"How romantic," she said, pulling away from him before she could give in. Sex was the one absolute no-no. They were living together, coexisting, but not because they had great sex. They had to get to
know each other again, know each other better, as grown-ups. Love each other. Then, and only then, was there going to be any sex.

"What's in this one, I wonder," Suzanna said, trying to make it look as if she was only reaching for the envelope and not trying to avoid him. "May I open it?"

"Sure," Tim grumbled, slouching against the back of the couch once more. "Knock yourself out."

The letter was filled with horrible misspellings, so that Suzanna knew no parent had seen it. "I wonder how he got your home address? Oh, here, he explains it. He's our paperboy. And he wants to know if you'll sponsor his baseball team next year."

She kept reading. "Oh, dear. It seems that Hardcastle Plumbing has decided not to be a sponsor
anymore, and Scott—that's our paperboy—thought you'd like to do it, since it's your old team."

"You're kidding," Tim said, grabbing the letter from her. "Jack's and my old team? Yeah, here it is, he says so—they play on that old field behind the Fire Hall, just like we did. Man, when that alarm went
off, we had to stop the game until the noise died down. My dad started that league. Hey, this is great.
I'll bet they need new uniforms. We always needed new uniforms. You remember, Suze, right?"

"I remember the year you all got head lice because nobody ever washed out the batting helmets," she said, grinning at him, knowing he was only half listening to her.

"Yeah, that, too. And we had to share our gloves, and there were never enough bats or balls. Look, he put his phone number at the bottom," he said, standing up. "I'm going to go call him, okay?"

"Sure," Suzanna said as he headed for the phone in the kitchen and the scratch pad and pencil she kept there. "I think that's a great idea."

One step forward, she thought, resting her head against the couch cushions. Bless Scott. And bless baseball. Because baseball may taketh away once in a while, but then it always giveth again.

Tim eased himself into the seat between Jack and Suzanna, shaking his head. "It's a madhouse back there," he said, having just returned from backstage in the Whitehall High School auditorium. "A palm tree fell down, the female lead has a frog in her throat—I heard her talk, and I mean that literally; I
think she swallowed one—and Mrs. B. is having one of her dictator on a rampage moments. Remember those?"

"You mean, when she starts warning everybody that if they don't shut up and shape up, she's walking straight out the door, and they can all just fall on their fannies by themselves?" Jack asked. "That kind
of moment?"

"Oh, yeah," Tim said, grinning at Suzanna. "I remember you trying to calm her down before Oklahoma. I've always privately wondered if you have some sort of death wish."

"She'll be fine," Suzanna said, rolling her program into a log, then gripping it with both hands. "She just gets a litde ... emotional."

"Teenage boys catching a glimpse of Jennifer Lopez get a little emotional. Mrs. B. goes ballistic."

"Cute, Tim," Suzanna said, then picked up her head when a hand landed on her shoulder. "Oh, hi there, Joe. Aunt Sadie said you were going to be here. Hello, Bruno, so glad you could make it."

"Yes, ma'am," Bruno said, looking at the seat behind him as if wondering how anyone could truly believe the seats were one size fits all. "We wouldn't miss it, would we, Joe?"

Joey Morretti leaned down next to Tim. "I've got a minitapee stuck in my pants. Powerful little sucker,
ya know. We'll be able to get it all on tape."

"Gee, that's ... great, Joey. You planning to copy them, sell bootleg tapes to the cast?"

"Of course," Tim said, shaking his head. "One thing about you, Joey, you know how to work all the angles."

"Hey, it's business. It's family, sure, but it's business," Joey said, sitting down in a huff just as Aunt
Sadie came rushing up the aisle in her grass skirt.

"Bruno!" Aunt Sadie called out in a voice that was made to be heard in auditoriums, if the auditorium doubled as the floor of the New York Stock Exchange in the middle of a bull market. "Thank God
you're here. We need you backstage."

"Me?" Bruno said, standing up. Bruno, standing up, was sort of like finding yourself in the shade of an elephant. "What'dya need, Aunt Sadie?"

The woman took several quick breaths, fanning herself with one of the leis around her pudgy neck. "It's Willard Osslid. He's not coming. I don't know," she said, fanning faster. "Something about emergency open-heart surgery, as if any of us believes that. The man's always bragging about his great lipids. Anyway," she went on, waving that off, "now we need a new islander. This is, after all, South Pacific."

Tim raised his hand, as if he wanted to be called on in class. "Wait a minute. Willard Osslid? The janitor in the middle school? How's Bruno going to fit into his costume? The guy's about five-foot-three."

"It's not that small a costume," Aunt Sadie said, rolling her eyes. "Besides, the palm tree keeps tipping, and Bruno can just stay on stage and hold it up while he's being an islander."

"I don't know, Aunt Sadie," Bruno said, raising his shoulders as he seemed to be trying to sink his head between his shoulder blades. "I'm not real good at singing, and I don't know the words or nothin'."

"No, no, you won't have to sing, sweetheart," Aunt Sadie said, standing on tiptoe, to pat Bruno's cheek. "You just have to stand there. That's all." She lowered her head, adding quiedy, "And keep everybody's mind off the fact that Marilee Wescott's voice sounds like metal scraping across the bottom of a very deep barrel."

Tim stood up, motioned for Aunt Sadie to back out of the row, so he could talk to her privately.
"How small is this costume you want to put on Bruno?" he asked.

"Okay. And, since I just saw Willard Osslid peeking his head out from between the curtains, whose idea was it to use Bruno?"

"It... It was sort of a joint decision, Timothy. Margaret and I just thought..."

"You are a shameless, wicked woman, Sadie Trehan," Tim said, trying to be stern.

"Thank you, Timothy. Now, if you'll excuse us? Curtain is in five minutes, the overture any moment now, and we still have to adjust the loincloth."

"You'll see," he said, and took her hand in his. "I don't know why I thought this was going to be boring."

The orchestra hit the first notes just as Jack's cell phone went off, and he quickly pulled it from his pocket, put it to his ear.

"What? I can't really hear—you what? Three minutes? Did you say three minutes?"

"Okay, okay. You just stay there, honey. What do you mean, where else would you go? I know you, Keel, you'll take a cab if I'm not there in ten minutes. So you just stay there. Did you call the doctor?"

Suzanna leaned across Tim, put her hand on Jack's knee. "Jack? Is it Keely? Is she all right?"

Tim didn't say anything. He was suddenly too busy trying to keep down the steak and French fries
he'd had for dinner. Now he was having pregnancy symptoms for Keely? What in hell was the matter with him?

Jack flipped his cell phone closed and grabbed his coat from the empty seat back in front of him. "Gotta go, Keely's in labor. Damn woman's been in labor all day, she says now, but she didn't want to spoil
Aunt Sadie's big night. Someday I'm going to kill that woman, I swear I am."

Suzanna was already on her feet, shoving her arms into her own coat. "I'm going with you, Jack. Someone has to stay with Candy."

"Me, too," Tim said, starting to rise, but Suzanna pushed him back down. "No, you stay here. Aunt
Sadie has to have someone from the family in the audience."

"So, like now I'm chopped liver?" Joey groused from the next row. "You guys never did want me around."

"Not now, Joey," Tim said, then turned and looked at his cousin. "Hey, wait a minute. You're Candy's uncle, you go. Suzanna and I can stay here, then drive Aunt Sadie and Mrs. B. over to the hospital. How's that, Suze?"

"Reasonable, I suppose," she said, also looking at Joey. "Candy's already in bed for the night anyway. Joe? Is that all right with you?"

"Sure," Tim said, wincing as Joey reached into the front of his pants and pulled out a small black rectangle that was warm when he took it in his hand. "Maybe you could sterilize this thing first?"

"Okay, gotta go," Jack said as Suzanna grabbed him, gave him a quick kiss. "I'll... I'll—see you later."

Tim nodded, then put his hand on his brother's arm for a moment before Jack sighed once more, then turned and ran up the aisle just as the overture ended and the curtains opened.

"Hey, down in front," someone called out from behind them. Tim helped Suzanna off with her coat,
and they both sat down once more.

Tim looked at the stage, and the mountain of a man standing at the extreme stage right, one shoulder propping up a papier-mache palm tree, both hands crossed in front of him in the hope, the very vain hope, that nobody would notice that he was almost entirely naked.

"We're going to get raided and have to bail Aunt Sadie and Mrs. B. out of the pokey," Tim said, and Suzanna pressed her face against his shoulder, laughing.

Suzanna and Tim arrived at the hospital, Aunt Sadie and Mrs. B. in tow, within an hour after South Pacific ended to a standing ovation, and some raucous cheering when Bruno took his individual bow.

"Excuse me," Tim said, approaching a nurse on the Maternity floor. "I'm looking for Jack Trehan?"

The young nurse looked at him quizzically. "Aren't you Jack Trehan? Where's your greens? I gave you greens. You can't go back in there, you know, until you're in your greens."

"Greens? What the hell are—oh, no. Wait. I'm not Jack Trehan. I'm his twin brother. Where is he?"

"Tim? Hey, bro, I thought that was you," Jack said, walking down the hallway. "How was our star? Where's your roses? We bought you roses," he asked, kissing Aunt Sadie's cheek.

"Never you mind about me, and the roses are in the car," Aunt Sadie said. "How is Keely?"

Suzanna stood to one side, the newest member of this family, and let them all talk. Besides, she had
seen the nursery as they had passed, and was longing to go back, take a good hard look at all the babies.

"Oh, nothing much. Just telling everybody she thinks her labor stopped, so she wants to go home."

"It can," Jack said, holding up a pair of green wrinkled cotton pants with a drawstring waist. "Man, these are weird. Anyway, the doctor's here, and she says Keely should please shut up and let the experts decide. In this case, the expert is a big monitor they've got strapped around her belly, and it's recording contractions. It's terrific. We can hear the baby's heartbeat, everything."

"Oh, yeah. Even if the labor stops, she stays put. They already broke her water."

Tim sat down, and Suzanna thought he looked a little green himself. "Broke her what?"

Jack stripped off his shirt and pulled the green scrubs top over his head. "It's the damndest thing, Tim.
I read about this stuff, and we talked about it in parents class, but to see the doctor walking in there with this big ... this big hook? Let me tell you, I was pretty happy when the nurse said I had to leave, to get these scrubs on."

He rubbed a hand across his mouth. "Sure, I'm fine. So you're going back in, Jack? They're going to let you stay?"

"That's it. Head cheerleader. And she concentrates on her focal point. For Keely, it's Candy's rubber duck," he said, then slipped into the bathroom to put on his scrubs pants.

"Keely is hoping to try natural childbirth," Suzanna explained to Tim, longing to touch a hand to his forehead, because he looked as if he might have a fever. "She's also investigated all the different drugs, and may use some, if it gets too difficult."

Tim nodded, took two deep breaths. "Okay. So how long? She's already been here for at least three hours, right?"

Aunt Sadie sat down on Tim's left, and told him, "Oh, honey, this is a first baby. We could be here until morning, even longer."

"No, Tim," Mrs. B. said from her chair across the small room. "Keely has to dilate, and that takes time. There are three stages to labor. The cervix has to—"

Suzanna found all of this fascinating, a sort of rehearsal for the day she'd have her own baby. Tim, on
the other hand, looked as if he was rehearsing his trip to the guillotine, poor thing.

Jack came back into the room, looking rather adorable in his greens, and Suzanna thought about how
Tim would look when his time came. Probably as green as the scrubs, if he didn't stop having all these male pregnancy symptoms.

"Why don't you guys go get some coffee or something?" Jack said. "I'm going to go stay with Keely."

Tim was the first on his feet. "Good idea," he said, taking Suzanna's hand. "Come on, my treat."

They all followed Jack to the door, then stopped behind him as he put his hands on either side of the doorjamb. "Wasn't that—Keely? What the hell? Keely!"

"Mr. Trehan?" the nurse who had been behind the rapidly moving litter asked, looking at Jack, then
Tim, then at Jack again.

"Me," Jack said, poking himself in the chest. "I'm Mr. Trehan. See? Scrubs? What's going on? I thought Keely would give birth in the room she's—she was already in?"

"There's been a complication, Mr. Trehan," the nurse said; then Tim grabbed Jack with both arms as
his brother moved to run down the hallway after his wife. "Don't worry, Dr. Phillips is very good."

"Yes, dear, hello. Nice to see you again, even if you never got more than a C in my class. I suppose
your talents lay elsewhere. Now, what's going on?"

The nurse looked from Mrs. B. to Jack, who was still struggling to get out of Tim's grip. "Ah... the placenta, Mrs. B. It started separating all of a sudden, and the baby's heart rate dropped."

"It's called placenta previa. It means, sir, that Mrs. Trehan has started to hemorrhage, and we have to take the baby now. Dr. Phillips may have to do a C-section, but she's hoping not, because the cervix dilates all the way when the placenta separates. We just have to get tihat baby out now, and the doctor wanted your wife in the operating room. I'm sorry, but you can't go in there."

Suzanna pressed both hands to her mouth as she looked at Jack, who was rapidly falling apart.

And that was when Tim stepped up to the plate. "Have you seen this before, Susan?" he asked, his
voice calm. "How serious is this? To Keely? To the baby?"

"Tell him, Susan," she said in her teacher voice. "We're all adults here." She bent down, put a hand on Jack's shoulder. "This man has a right to know everything."

"Yes, ma'am. It's not without its risks, sir, to both mother and child," Susan answered, "but I've seen more good results than bad. Please, let me go check and see how things are progressing. Whatever happens, happens very quickly."

"Sweet Jesus," Jack said, burying his head in his hands as Tim half lifted his brother to his feet and clumsily gathered him into his arms. "We were going to have a baby, Timmy. That's all. People have babies every damn day. This isn't supposed to happen...."

Suzanna brushed back tears as she walked down the hallway, toward the operating room. Jack needed a private moment, with family, and she had this overwhelming need to be closer to Keely, as if she might
be able to will everything to be all right.

The nursery was ready back at the house. She and Keely had put it together while Jack and Tim were gone. Knowing the baby would be a boy, Keely had done it up in blue and green, with a wallpaper
border of baseballs, mitts, and bats.

The diaper holder was stacked and ready. All the little shirts and kimonos were neatly in their assigned drawers.

Suzanna approached the double doors and tried to look through the glass, but she couldn't see anything but people in greens, so many people, all with their backs to her.

She pressed her hands against the glass, closed her eyes, willed Keely to be strong.

"You're a fighter, Keel," she whispered. "A real fighter. You won't let anything bad happen, I know it."

How long she stood there she didn't know. Hours, minutes. The longest minutes of her life.

And then she heard it. She heard the cry. A baby's cry. The most beautiful sound in the world.

Before Suzanna could say anything, Susan was there, and she was smiling. "Mr. Trehan? You can
come with me now. It may look a little messy in there, but everybody's just fine. Your wife, your son."

Jack just stood there, his shoulders heaving, so Tim gave him a small push. "Go on, Daddy. Go see
your wife and baby."

Jack nodded, just nodded, then slowly walked toward the door. He stopped, looked back. "It's all right," he said, tears streaming down his face, the look of joy still edged by fear on his face difficult to witness. "Keely's all right."

And then he was gone, and Suzanna walked into Tim's outstretched arms, to cry against his shoulder.

"Me, me," Candy said, holding out her arms to her mother, and Keely helped the child climb up onto
the couch to get a better look at her little brother.

"Are you sure you can hold her?" Suzanna asked. "She's all elbows and knees, Keel, and you're still pretty sore."

"I'm okay, Suzanna," Keely told her, kissing her daughter's curly blond head. "Candy has to know that she hasn't been replaced. Don't you, sweetheart?" she asked, nuzzling the child's neck.

"Me, me," Candy said, which was pretty much her answer to most anything, her question for most everything. In fact, Aunt Sadie had been rechristened Me-Me by the child, and seemed to revel in the name.

"Can I get you anything? Tea? Some of those sugar cookies I baked the other day?"

Keely looked at Suzanna quizzically. "And here I thought you liked me," she said, then grinned.

"Oh, come on, they're not so bad; you said so yourself. Although they're certainly not my mother's,
even if I used her recipe."

''Not unless your mother was into baking sugar-coated hockey pucks, and I'm pretty sure she wasn't. We'll get back to your lessons in the next week or two, I promise. In the meantime, though, Suzanna,
I think you're going to have to do some studying. You know, like learning that a capital T means tablespoonful, and a lower case t means teaspoonful. Just the basics."

"Got ya," Suzanna said, walking over to the bassinet as little Johnny began to stir. "Do you think he's hungry?" she asked, wishing she didn't feel so nervous around the baby. But he was so small, and his entrance into this world had been so traumatic.

As if his mother's suggestion was an order from on high, Johnny closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

"Oh, he's so adorable," Suzanna said, blinking back tears. It was silly, but she'd been crying on and off for three days now, and her emotions showed no signs of calming down. "He's the most beautiful baby
I ever saw."

"Sure. That's because he came flying out in such a rush when Dr. Phillips grabbed him. He didn't have time for his little head to go all cone-shaped or anything. But he is cute. I think he has Jack's mouth."

"Both," Keely answered, rubbing Candy's back, as the child had now stretched herself belly to belly with her mother and was noisily sucking her thumb. "And I think he's going to have that same blond streak Jack and Tim have. Not that he has much hair right now, but I think I can see the different shade near
his temple."

"I wonder if our..." Suzanna began, still leaning over the bassinet, then quickly stopped when Jack and Tim walked into the den. "Hi, guys," she said, standing up straight once more. "Did you find the right kind?"

Jack lifted a small plastic bag. "Do you people have any idea how many different kinds of pacifiers are out there? I know what you said, Keely, but when we got there, and saw them all, my mind sort of
went blank."

"So he bought one of each," Tim said, giving his brother's shoulder a playful punch. "Johnny's going to have his pick. Suze? Ready to go home? Aunt Sadie's on duty in ten minutes, but maybe we could give Keely and Jack some time alone?"

"How considerate," Keely said. "Thank you, Tim. God bless Aunt Sadie, and Mrs. B., and everyone,
but I was never alone in the hospital, and now I'm never alone here, at home. Not that I'm not happy
for all the help."

Suzanna looked at Tim. "Well, I don't know about you, but I can take a hint. Come on, Tim, let's go."

That had sounded good, she thought as she and Tim exited the front door for their walk back to their
own house. She'd sounded light, and upbeat, and all that good stuff. She didn't think anyone would even come close to guessing that the last thing she wanted was to be alone with her husband.

"Keely looks good," Tim said as they cut across the grass rather than walk down the curving drive to the road. "And Johnny's a lot better."

"He still has to take sun baths," Keely said, talking about the child's elevated bilirubin that had kept mother and baby in the hospital an extra day so that Johnny could be put under special lights in the nursery. "But his little nose isn't so orange anymore, is it?"

"I don't know; I didn't look," Tim said, guiding Suzanna so that she walked at the edge of the road,
where macadam met lawns, and he took the outside position. Very mannerly and correct, just as his mother probably taught him, even if there were seldom any cars on this private road that led nowhere
but to the houses built there.

"I don't know. I look at Johnny, and all I can think about is holding Jack, feeling him tremble and shake, listening to him cry. My brother, crying? I don't think I've heard that since we were kids. Not even when Mom and Dad died—or if he did, he did it in private. He just fell apart in that waiting room, Suze, like
his whole world was ending. Is it worth it? He could have lost Keely."

"But he didn't. Keely's fine, Johnny's fine, and they're all happy as pigs in mud. Tim, you can't stop living just because sometimes things don't work out the way you think they're supposed to. Why, if everyone thought like that, nobody'd have babies. Or get married, for that matter."

"You're right, you're right," Tim said, then sighed. "I just... I just didn't realize how complicated it all could get, I guess."

She wanted to tell him, longed to tell him. I'll be all right, Tim, please don't worry. Please.

"At least Margo had an uncomplicated birth, and the kittens are so adorable. I shouldn't like the one
that looks just like Lucky, but I have to admit that he's my favorite."

"Candy gets one, right?" Tim asked, taking her hand in his. "And Sadie wants one, but I'd like to keep
the other two, if you don't mind. One mini-Margo, one mini-Lucky."

They turned into their own property, crossing the bridge that ran above the Coplay Creek, and she stopped there, walked over to the railing.

"It's so pretty here," she said, looking at the tall, nearly bare trees, the red and gold leaves swirling in the water as it tumbled over smooth rocks. "So quiet, so peaceful. Oh, look, Tim—geese."

Tim rested his arms beside hers on the railing. "They'll be heading south soon, for the winter. Then the seagulls will be here."

"Seagulls?" she repeated, turning away from the railing and heading up the long, curved drive. "In Pennsylvania? You're kidding, right?"

"Nope. It started a few years ago, I don't know why. Used to be you only saw seagulls at the shore, when we'd go Jersey to the beach house Jack has there. But, a couple of years ago, we started seeing them in the wintertime, in the parking lots of the local malls. Now we even get them up here. Aunt Sadie feeds them, which could be one reason. Then, in the spring, they're gone again. I guess they decided all birds should have a winter home."

"They probably come here for the food, once all the tourists leave the shore," Suzanna said as she waited for Tim to open the door, turn off the alarm in the kitchen hallway. "I mean, think of all the restaurant dumpsters around here."

"Possible," Tim said, looking through the mail Suzanna had placed on the kitchen table before heading over to Keely's. "So, Suzanna—when are you going to tell me you're pregnant?"

He put down the mail and turned, looked straight at her. "I said, when are you going to tell me you're—"

"I heard you," she said, pulling out a chair and sitting down before she fell down.

"Heard, but haven't answered," he pointed out, walking over to the counter and lifting the lid on the cookie jar. "I like these," he said, holding up one of her hockey puck sugar cookies. "If we're ever attacked by marauding seagulls, we can use them as weapons."

"Do you want to know how long I've known?" he asked, his tone still light, although his eyes seemed to have gone cold. "Do you, Suze? I've known since Aunt Sadie's birthday party. Nearly two months,
Suze. I've known for almost two months. I even know your due date, April fourteenth. It's November, Suze. So I'll ask you again, when were you going to tell me?"

This wasn't going right. When Suzanna thought about this moment, she thought about him coming to
her, telling her he loved her desperately, with or without a baby, with or without the Trehan curse,
with or without anything but the fact that he loved her. Her.

Didn't he understand that? First he would tell her he loved her, and then she would tell him about the baby.

But he hadn't said a word. He still slept in the back bedroom. He rarely even tried to kiss her. She still went to work each day, and he still spent most of his free time with Jack, the rest of it overseeing his bowling alley and the irrigation project at his golf course. They were living together, but they were living separate lives.

"I... I was working my way up to it," she said at last, knowing he was waiting for her answer, knowing that answer sounded lame, so very lame.

"I mean, why were you working your way up to it? You're pregnant. I'm the father. I am the father, right?"

"That's what I thought. Relax. I know I'm the father, Suze. I always knew that. But you'd be surprised
at the insane thoughts that can dig into your mind when you know your wife's pregnant and she won't
tell you."

"No, I know you didn't. I'll bet you also didn't think about what it was like to call here from the road and wonder if you were still here, or if you'd decided to leave, have our baby somewhere, send me divorce papers."

"I wouldn't have—oh, Tim. I ... I never looked at any of this from your side, did I?"

She nodded, embarrassed, and sorry, and—wait a minute. He was pushing all the old buttons, and she was still responding in all the old ways.

"Excuse me, Tim, but when did this all become about you?" she asked, getting up from her chair.
"What about me?"

"Me, Tim. Your wife. You know, the woman you married because she was the lesser of three evils?"

"Sure, you explained that. Right after Dusty spilled the beans, you explained that. Was that supposed to make it all better? Tell me, Tim, what would have happened if you'd gotten hurt? Couldn't play anymore? Had to retire, like Jack? Would that have meant that good old Suze had failed to come through for you this time? Would I have been expendable then? You don't want this baby. We never even talked about babies, except when you got all weird about birth control."

He made a face. "That's nuts. We're married, and we're going to stay married. And I want this baby."

"Damn it," Tim said, leaning against the counter. "What happened, Suze? We used to be able to talk to each other. Why has getting married ruined such a great friendship?"

"I... I don't know, Tim," Suzanna said, heading toward the back stairs to the bedrooms. "Maybe it
wasn't such a great friendship in the first place. Maybe it was all me, giving, and all you, taking. Did
you ever think about that?"

He didn't follow her when she climbed the stairs, and a few seconds later she heard the back door slam.

Tim cut around the house to the front and headed for the bridge, and maybe Jack's house. Because Coplay Creek was just that, a creek, and not deep enough to drown himself in.

He walked along, his hands dug deep into his pockets, replaying his and Suzanna's fight in his head.

God, how he hated that. How he hated himself for ever thinking that, ever saying that.

And yet today, after three days of near agony, when he'd decided it was time, way past time, for him to let her know he knew she was carrying his child, everything had gone from bad to worse.

No, not Jack. Jack was busy being a happy father, he and Keely playing happy family. He couldn't rain on that parade.

So who was left? Not Mort, not this time, because he had to be the one who had told Suzanna about
his pregnancy symptoms. Not even Jack knew about those.

Not Aunt Sadie, because she was at Jack's house, and not Mrs. B., because she was substitute teaching all this week.

"Oh, shit," Tim muttered under his breath. "Is the whole world out to get me?" he asked as Joey pulled
up beside him in his humongous four-by-four.

"Hey, thought that was you. I was just going to see the kid; but when I saw you, I let Bruno out, and I kept coming. We came to see the baby, ya know, but that can wait. What ya doin', walking around out here?"

"Trying to be alone?" he answered, knowing there was litde hope that suggestion wouldn't just go zinging right over his cousin's head.

"You look pretty bad, Tim, like you just lost your last friend," Joey called out as Tim kept on walking. "Just let me park this thing, and I'll walk with you, okay?"

Joey hopped down out of his vehicle, hit a button on his key chain that activated the security system,
and jogged over to Tim. "Me? Help you? There's a switch. Okay, let's try it. How can I help you?"

Tim looked around, and his gaze landed on some boulders the builders had bulldozed into a pile on the
lot where a three-story Georgian colonial was almost under roof. He'd have new neighbors soon after Christmas. "Let's sit down," he said, motioning toward the boulders.

"Hey, sure, "Joey said, bounding toward the boulders and hopping up on one of them, like a kid just offered a treat. "Man, this is cool. We never talked, ya know that? Never."

"Yeah," Tim said, selecting another boulder for himself. "There's a lot of my not talking going around."

"Huh?" Joey asked, shaking his head. "You been, ya know, tippling?" He lifted an imaginary bottle to
his lips.

"No, but it was going to be my next choice," Tim said. "Joey? Do you know that Suzanna's pregnant?"

For the next twenty minutes, maybe longer, Tim talked, and Joey listened. He told his cousin everything: about the curse, about meeting up with Suzanna in Pittsburgh, about the birth control—or lack of it—even about Lucky and Margo. And when Joey just sat there, looking almost pontifical, he went for broke and told him about the male pregnancy symptoms, and the fight he and Suzanna had just had.

Tim slapped his hands on his knees and stood up. "Leave it to you, Joey, to tell me the obvious. Hey, never mind. Thanks for listening. I think I needed to say it all out loud, you know?"

He started walking away, but Joey clambered down from his boulder and followed him. "Hey, wait.
You want help? I'll help you."

"No, really. I'll help you. I'm taking this psych course at the community college, and—what? Why're
you rolling your eyes like that?"

"No reason. Go on, Joey. Let me have it. Tell me how I've got to court her and take things slow, and prove that I love her. I don't know how to do any of that, now that she hates me this much, but you
can tell me anyway."

"I'm not telling you anything like that, Tim-bo. She's just as in the wrong as you are."

"Heck, yeah. You're tossing your cookies. Your nose is bleeding—you might want to dab at it there with something, Tim-bo. You've got headaches, and cramps, and you're telling me you have a toothache? You're telling me you read about all these symptoms, and you're having all of them? Sounds to me like you're already suffering plenty, ya know? So what's she doing? Except maybe busting your chops."

Tim chewed on this for a few moments, after getting over the idea that he was actually listening to his cousin. "So, what you're saying is, we're both at fault? Not just me?"

"Hey, mostly you, definitely. But she's not being any walk in the park, now, is she?"

"You wanna know what's lacking here, Tim-bo? I'll tell you what's lacking here. Trust. T-r-u-s-t-t, trust. You can't have anything else if you don't have trust. I know that, because we're studying it."

"Only two Ts, Joey," Tim said absently, as the gears in his head had begun to spin. His wacky cousin
had a point, a real point. Hadn't he and Suzanna just been yelling at each other about how he couldn't trust her to be there when he came home, and she couldn't trust him to stay with her for any reason except that she was pregnant? Trust. Yeah. That was it. There was no damn trust.

"Right, Joey," Tim said, putting his arm around his cousin's shoulder. "Now, what do we do about it?"

"Well," Joey said, hitching up his pants, then swiping a finger under his nose. "First, you prove to her
how much you want this baby, but you want her even more, right? She needs to know that, right?"

Tim nodded, wiping at his own nose, his handkerchief coming away with a few spots of blood on it. "Right."

"And no pressure, okay? None of this chasing her around the table, stuff like that. Women don't want
sex so much as they want holding hands, and intimate dinners, shit like that."

"Naw, my mom told me, years ago, back in high school. Right after she found the condom pack in my wallet on prom night. So, you gonna listen to me? It's going to take time, because you two really screwed up, but I think you can do it. Trust her. Give her time to trust you."

"Okay. I'll try it," Tim said, looking over his shoulder, in the direction of his house. His and Suzanna's house. "What have I got to lose?"

Since Tim knew anyway, Suzanna finally broke down and headed to the maternity shop in the mall,
Aunt Sadie going along with her.

"Fat clothes," Suzanna said, holding up a pair of jeans with a huge elastic front panel in them. "I don't want to wear fat clothes."

"This from the woman who just downed two hamburgers and fries? How much have you gained, dear?"

Suzanna hung her head. "Fifteen pounds, seven of them this month," she said, a sudden memory of her mother, years ago, gendy steering her away from potatoes and toward the broccoli invading her head. "Dr. Phillips told me that the month I really begin to show is the month I'll gain the most weight. At least that's been her experience with her patients. I've got a thirty-five-pound limit, so I'm still doing okay."

Aunt Sadie began ticking off on her fingers. "December, January, February, March, most of April. Five months, divided by twenty, leaves four pounds a month. Can you keep to that?"

Suzanna held up a knit, turtleneck top, cut on the bias, and large enough to use as a couch cover.
"I have to do this, Aunt Sadie. I used to be fat, and I don't ever want to be fat again. It's all Tim's fault, you know."

"No, seriously, Aunt Sadie. He used to feed me. Constantly. His mom was such a great cook, and he always shared with me so I'd share the great lunches my mom packed for me. Except he got the home-cooked roast beef sandwiches, and I got the lemon sponge cake. He'd eat two sandwiches, I'd eat two desserts. And, believe me, the last thing I needed every day was two desserts. But it didn't stop there."

Aunt Sadie pulled a nursing bra off the rack, looked at it, quickly put it back. "No? Where else did it go?"

Suzanna sighed. "I started eating to feel good. There's really no other explanation, although nobody had that one back then. It's only in the last few years that science has started talking about eating as a comfort in teenagers. Tim went to a dance; I stayed home and ate a half gallon of chocolate marshmallow ice cream. Tim gave Mindy his class ring, and I ate a whole bowl of raw chocolate-chip batter. God, I was sick for three days after that one. Not that I only started in high school. I was already pretty hefty in
grade school, thanks to my mother's own great cooking." She looked at the other woman. "Do you suppose that's why I don't cook? Because, if I did, I'd eat it all?"

"Only because I finally wised up, realized what I was doing, and changed my diet. And moved away
from Tim. Now I'm back and what do I get—baby fat."

"Yeah? Explain that to my stomach, would you? All I want to do is eat. Eat, eat, eat. When I'm upset,
it's all I do. Eat."

"Keely ate everything that wasn't nailed down for several months, as I recall, once the morning sickness stopped. You know you're trying to make a perfectly rational reaction to being pregnant just another
thing that's wrong in your life, don't you, dear?" Aunt Sadie said, moving on to the rack of maternity underwear. "Now, these don't look so bad."

"Am I, Aunt Sadie?" Suzanna asked, taking a pair of underpants off the rack. "Darn, and I wanted to blame Tim."

"Cute," Aunt Sadie said, "but nothing but a discount is going to get me to open my purse any wider than I've already planned."

"I know, dear, but I've planned your wardrobe as my Christmas present to you. Your wedding present, too, since we never got to throw you and Tim a party."

The clerk looked from Suzanna to Aunt Sadie, measuring both of them, an avaricious glint in her eyes. "You want to start with undergarments? That's a good place to start. When are you due, dear? You're definitely blooming. How about we go into the dressing room, dear, and I'll measure you?"

And she did. She hated that maternity bras, while not really terrible, weren't exactly great, either. She hated that maternity underwear, as explained by Martha, the salesperson, was to be worn with the waistband inches higher than her rapidly disappearing waist.

Standing in front of the mirrors—why on earth anyone would put three-panel mirrors in a maternity
shop dressing room was totally beyond Suzanna—dressed in nothing but maternity bra and the above-the-waist underpants, she decided that the next time Tim saw her naked would be in his dreams!

Aunt Sadie came into the room without knocking, carrying an armload of slacks, sweaters, blouses, and
a few dresses. "Ready to start?"

"Ready to go hide," Suzanna said, grabbing a pair of the slacks and quickly stepping into them. Oh, this was great. These fit around her expanded waist... and now the underwear stuck out above them. "Quick, hand me one of those tops."

A very long ninety minutes later, Suzanna and Aunt Sadie sat in the pizza parlor across from the maternity store with several bags on the floor beside them, Aunt Sadie sipping a soda, Suzanna working on her second slice of pepperoni pizza. She'd skipped the garlic bread, and figured she was at least making a start on eating more sensibly.

"Martha told me she thinks you look just a little too advanced to be only four months along. She wanted to know if you've had a sonogram."

''Had one,'' Suzanna said around a mouthful of pizza. "On my first visit. I don't get another one for a couple of months, as long as I'm doing well. Why? What does Martha think?"

"Other than that, if she's on commission, she's made one great sale today? Well, dear, she mentioned twins. So I told her that Tim was a twin, and—"

"Funny. I thought it was," Aunt Sadie said with a grin. "When do you go to the doctor again?"

"He's nuts, that's what he is," Suzanna grumbled. "Like I want him there when I step on the scale?
I don't think so."

"Yes, he's going. I warned him that I'm going to tell Dr. Phillips about his male pregnancy symptoms,
and he doesn't care. He says they're not so bad now. But I saw him downing some antacids last night,
so he's lying to me. I'm telling you, Aunt Sadie, the man is driving me crazy."

Suzanna looked at the rest of her pizza and knew she wasn't hungry anymore. "How? It's school lunch
all over again. He takes me out to dinner, that's one. He rents movies and insists I watch them with him, then pops popcorn—with butter—and all but hand feeds it to me. And he reads. He has more books on pregnancy and delivery than Dr. Phillips, I swear it. He's obsessed with my labor and delivery."

Aunt Sadie nodded sagely. "Because of Keely. He's worried, Suzanna. He's really worried."

"Well, he should be," Suzanna said, knowing she was being entirely irrational. "He is the one who got
me this way, remember."

"I mean, he's being so good, trying so hard. We told him to court you, and he's—"

"Wait. Back up a moment. You told him to court me? Who's you? Keely? Mrs. B.? Or did you just
send out postcards all over Whitehall, asking for a vote?"

Aunt Sadie nodded, not realizing that suddenly, Suzanna had designs on the woman's neck, and her
hands squeezing it. "He's been so lost. We know he made a mistake, Suzanna; but he really meant well, and we told him he'd just have to take his time, prove to you that he—"

Suzanna held up her hands, really angry now. "You can stop there. I think I get it. Does anyone in this family have any idea what the concept of private lives is all about? Since when did Tim and I become some darn committee project?"

Aunt Sadie didn't even blink. "Since the two of you began making total asses of yourselves, I suppose."

Suzanna's mouth opened, then shut again, and she sagged in her seat. "Oh," she said in a small voice. "Okay."

"He loves you, Suzanna," Aunt Sadie said, reaching across the small table to take one of Suzanna's hands in hers. "He didn't know it when he married you, but he knows it now."

"Doesn't he? He's reading all the books. He wants to go to the doctor with you. He's popping you popcorn."

"With double butter," Suzanna said, trying to maintain her anger, but it wasn't working.

"It's you now, isn't it, dear?" Aunt Sadie asked, giving Suzanna's hand a final squeeze, then sitting back
in her chair. "You're the one who isn't sure."

Suzanna lowered her head, feeling the heat rush into her cheeks. "I love him... but..."

"But you think maybe it's leftover puppy love, like the puppy fat you got rid of years ago?"

"Tim, to save himself from a worse fate, and you, because you figured it was time you finally won one?"

Suzanna made a face. "That's it, in a nutshell." She put a hand on her belly. "This baby deserves better than that, Aunt Sadie."

"Yes, dear, he does. Or she does. Or"—Aunt Sadie paused, smiled—"they do."

Tim dutifully turned his back as Suzanna stepped on the scale, then turned around as the nurse,
obviously not part of Suzanna's secrecy plot, brightly called out, "One hundred forty-three. Hmmm,
that's another eight pounds, Mrs. Trehan. Dr. Phillips is not going to be happy."

Suzanna mumbled something under her breath as she stepped off the scale, then glared at Tim.
"Not one word. Not a single damn word, you got that?"

Then he grinned, once Suzanna was walking ahead of him, into one of the examination rooms. What
was she worried about? She looked cute, damn cute. Her cheeks were fuller, her breasts were—no, he couldn't think about her breasts, not if he wanted to sleep nights. And her backside? Hey, there was a handful. He had a flash of a Lone Star song in his head, one of his favorite groups. Something about hating to watch a lover leave, but sure loving watching her go.

"Are you coming, or what?" Suzanna asked from the doorway, and Tim quickly caught up with her,
then wished he hadn't.

Small room. Big table. Those stirrup things for Suzanna's feet—somebody would have to hunt him
down and tackle him to get him in that position.

And artwork. A huge poster showing the nine months of fetal development, in color. Another showing
the stages of labor—the one showing the baby's head half out of the mother was particularly vivid.

And a sort of plaster of paris wall hanging with arrows drawn on it and words like cervix, and uterus,
and vulva and... Well, he really didn't want to look.

After helping Suzanna onto the end of the table, where she sat, glaring at him, he found a pamphlet and decided the safest thing he could do was take a chair and read it.

He put it back down when he saw it was a breast feeding instruction pamphlet, with photographs. Not
line drawings. Photographs.

What was he doing here? He felt about as out of water as a fish on top of the Alps.

"You could go back to the waiting room," Suzanna said as he stared at his feet. At least they were his feet. He could trust his own feet.

"No, that's okay," he said, rubbing at his gut. The burrito he'd had for lunch was lying there, like Gibraltar. "I have some questions for the doctor."

He looked up at her. She looked so cute in that long sweater and those slim jeans. Didn't she know
how cute she looked? "No, really. I want to know about those parents classes."

"Jack never made it to the delivery room," Tim said, feeling the muscles clenching in his jaw.

"Yeah, I know what you mean. You don't want me there. You don't want me to be your cheerleader."

"Oh, Tim—" Suzanna said, sighing. Then the door opened, and Dr. Phillips and a nurse stepped into
the room.

Tim ran a hand under the collar of his shirt, suddenly claustrophobic. What was he doing here with all these women and all these pictures of... women stuff? His had been a male household, except for his mom, who definitely had been outnumbered.

He had a sudden flashback of the day he'd been looking for another bar of soap and found his mom's sanitary products under the bathroom sink. He'd asked what the box was for, and got his one and only sex education lesson from his mother.

"Mr. Trehan, how nice to meet you," Dr. Phillips said, extending a hand to him as he stood up, remembering his manners. "You look very much like your brother."

"Interesting. One sperm, one ovum, and a split. Fraternal twins are more common. Well, Suzanna,"
she said, turning to her, "I take it any morning sickness is definitely all gone?"

"You're still under the limit, and even limits have extensions; but I would like to measure your belly if that's all right with you?"

Suzanna nodded, then lay back on the table, the nurse draping a paper sheet over her.

"What's that?" he asked as the nurse squeezed something from a tube onto Suzanna's now bare belly,
and then Dr. Phillips began moving a small plastic rectangle across Suzanna's skin.

"I'm looking for the baby's heartbeat," the doctor told him, and Tim had this sudden urge to sit down again. But he stood there, waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

"Ah, here we are. Hiding, weren't you?" Dr. Phillips said as a quick thump-thum-thump echoed in the room. The nurse held up her arm, watched her wristwatch. "So?"

Expecting something else high-tech, Tim was surprised to see the nurse hand the doctor a regular cloth tape measure. He looked away as she pulled Suzanna's slacks lower, then measured from there to Suzanna's navel.

She glanced over at Suzanna's opened chart, then looked at the tape measure again.

Dr. Phillips ignored him. "No, that's right. Suzanna, when was your last sonogram?"

"Nothing's wrong, Mr. Trehan," Dr. Phillips said, going over to the sink and washing her hands as the nurse helped Suzanna pull up her slacks and sit up once more. "It's just that your wife's uterus is growing faster than I expected. Unless we've got the due date wrong, of course. Suzanna? Are you sure of the date?"

"No, I told you I wasn't. The earliest I can figure is near the end of July," Suzanna said, looking at Tim.

He flinched, remembering the day he'd tossed that "if I am the father" line at her in the heat of anger.

"Yes, I remember now," Dr. Phillips said, paging through Suzanna's chart. "Irregular periods. All right, this is what we do. We get another sonogram. Iris? Set it up, please."

"So that's it?" Suzanna asked. "You think I'm farther along than we thought? But I can't be."

"Twins, Mr. Trehan. I only got one heartbeat, but twins can be tricky. One could be hiding behind the other one."

It was the longest ten days in Suzanna's life, waiting for the appointment at the hospital, and the
sonogram that would tell them if, just maybe, she was carrying twins.

She looked across the car at Tim as he cut the engine in the hospital parking lot. "I'm fine. Please stop looking at me as if I'm going to explode at any moment. You're driving me crazy."

"Or I'm just fat," she said, opening the door and stepping out into the late November cold. She pulled
her jacket around her, but it didn't quite reach, so she couldn't zipper it. She needed a new coat. Maybe
a horse blanket, if she hoped to wear it for the entire winter.

There had been a light, early snow two days after Thanksgiving, and the cold temperatures had kept it from melting, so she was glad when Tim took her arm as they walked through the parking lot.

"Tim, please, just stop asking that. If it's twins, it's twins. There's not a whole lot we can do about it now."

She rolled her eyes, trying not to laugh. "That's because you are, dummo. You and your little swimmers."

She loved doing that to him. Anything faintly related to conception made him go all confused and flustered.

Except this time, he didn't get flustered. "I wonder, do you think they were doing the backstroke? Or
did they do a fifty-yard dash while your egg stood on the street corner, her skirt hitched up, and a come-hither look in her eyes?"

"Hey, if we can't joke around at a time like this, when can we, Suze? Or aren't you as nervous as I am?"

"Oh, I'm nervous," she said as they approached the desk in the Ultrasound Department. "Suzanna Trehan, here for a sonogram?"

Suzanna looked at Tim, then took his hand. "She's here? She just got the report the first time. I don't
like this, Tim."

They sat quietly, still holding hands, until a technician called their names, and they followed him into a darkened room filled with several large pieces of medical equipment.

Suzanna got up on the table, and there she was again, bare belly sticking out with Tim standing right
there to see it all. How glamorous.

"Good morning, everybody," Dr. Phillips chirped happily as she came into the room in scrubs and a
white lab coat. "Just delivered Miss Elizabeth Anne, seven pounds, three ounces. It's a lovely day."

Suzanna squeezed Tim's hand, trying to relax. After all, Dr. Phillips was smiling. "That's nice, Doctor," she said. "Isn't that nice, Tim? Elizabeth Anne. What a pretty name."

"You two have any names yet?" Dr. Phillips asked, washing her hands at the sink, then taking the piece of equipment the technician handed her.

"Just a couple," he told her, grinning. "Hermione, Archibald. You know, the usual stuff."

"Idiot," she said, wanting to hug him. He was being so sweet, and she was being such a bear.

Let it be one baby; let it be twins. Quintuplets, she didn't care. Just let them be healthy. And bless Tim
for understanding that this baby was all-consuming to her right now, that even he had to at last take a backseat in her life. As long as he came along for the ride.

Tim was there, taking some inventory. The course was closed, but the pro shop was still busy with Christmas shoppers, although they would close soon after the holiday, reopening when the course did.

"Okay," he said, his back still turned to his brother as he counted golf gloves. "The baby's fine."

"Nope. Just one. Dr. Phillips spent a lot of time, sure there were two, but she never found another one,
or another heartbeat. She says that happens sometimes. We get another sonogram next month."

"Nope," Tim bit out, putting down the stack of gloves. He'd lost count anyway. "Want a soda?"

"Sure," Jack said, following him into the snack bar, then sitting down on one of the stools as Tim went behind the bar and pulled out two cans. "Hey, your head looks all healed. That must have been something, fainting like that?"

Tim rubbed at the spot where a large scab had finally dried up and fallen off. He'd not only fainted like
a jerk, but he'd hit his head on one of the damn stirrups on the way down. "It was embarrassing; that's what it was. Damn nurse, leaning over me, shoving that smelly thing under my nose."

"Fine, I guess. Relieved. Dr. Phillips says the baby looks extremely healthy to her."

"Good," Jack said, turning the soda can in his hands. "Hey, bro, would you do me a favor?"

Tim looked at his brother, wondering at his serious tone. "Sure. An arm, a leg, a kidney. Name it."

"Nothing that serious, thank you anyway," Jack said, grinning. "Keely and I want you and Suzanna to stand as godparents to Johnny. Would you mind?"

"Mind?" Tim thought his grin might split his face. "God, that's great. What do we have to do?"

Jack held out his hand to high five his brother. "Way to go! She's agreed to let you be her coach?"

"As long as I promise not to faint, yeah. Dr. Phillips says I have to master that one, or nobody will let
me in the delivery room. Well, she'd let me in, but she warned me that if I keel over, they're just going
to let me lie there and step over me."

Jack shook his head. "Big, bad Tim the Tiger Trehan. Hitting the floor. I still don't believe it."

"It wasn't my most shining hour," Tim admitted, downing the last of his soda. "Hey, did I tell you? Suzanna's resigning, effective the end of the year. She's staying home."

"Fantastic. And you don't leave for spring training for a couple of months after that. Well, almost a couple of months. This is good. You need time together. Maybe you can take a trip, have that honeymoon."

''Honeymoon? You mean Suzanna, me, and her belly? I don't think so. I'm still sleeping in the back bedroom. The cats don't even sleep with me."

"That's progress? Keely says Suzanna's got a long way to go before she should solo in the kitchen."

"No, really, she's getting pretty good. You know Suzanna. When she puts her mind to something, it usually gets done, and gets done right. Although I have remembered that she was kept off high honors twice in our senior year because she got C's in home economics. Now I know why."

They were both silent for a few minutes, thinking their own thoughts, before Tim said, "Do you think she'd do it?"

"Do what? I was just taking a moment to catch up on my sleep. Johnny thinks we run an all-night diner."

"Go away with me. After the first of the year, I mean, once she isn't working anymore?"

Jack shrugged. "I guess you'd have to ask her, bro. Keely and I, and everyone else, have resigned from the Help Tim Club, you know. Suzanna got pretty peeved when she finally figured out that we all told you she was pregnant."

''Joey's still giving me advice,'' Tim said as they walked back to the pro shop.

"No, really. He sent me some psych books, and a couple of letters. I don't think they teach spelling in Bayonne. Anyway, he's coming up for Christmas, with Bruno. Suzanna invited them. I think he thinks he's Dear Abby or something."

"He sure has changed, hasn't he, now that dear sister Cecily's out of the picture."

"And good riddance," Tim said. "The last thing Candy needs in her life is a visit from Cecily."

"Senorita Cecily. Has a certain ring to it, I suppose. Wonder if she's starting a revolution—she could do that, you know," Tim said, locking up the pro shop and heading to the parking lot, where only his and Jack's cars waited. "Well, time to go home to Little Mother. Wonder who she's going to be tonight."

"Meaning, bro, that either I come home to a house smelling of supper cooking, or I come home to a woman waiting for me, coat over her arm, so we can go to Tony's for dinner. Good mommy day,
dinner at home, where we actually talk to each other a little, some television, early bed. Bad day?
Well, the early to bed stays the same."

"Tony's, huh? That's not so bad. I like their desserts. Banana cream pie? Could do worse, right?"

"Right. Except that Suzanna always makes sure she sits with her back to the dessert case, and then
gives in and orders something anyway. Then she glares at me, like it's all my fault."

"Ah, pregnancy. Those were the days, Tim. I'm not looking forward to the next time."

"No, Tim," Jack said, as his tone went quite serious. "We want more children, definitely. Dr. Phillips
says the odds are very high that this will never happen again. Life is life, Tim, and we have to live it. For Keely, and for me, that includes more children. If they come along, great; if they don't, then we'll live with that. But we will live."

Tim put his arm around his brother's shoulders, gave him a squeeze. "You've always been my hero,
Jack, do you know that?"

"And you're mine, except when you swoon like some Victorian lady. Now, let's go home to our wives."

Twenty minutes later, Tim walked into the kitchen to see Suzanna frowning over something in a frying pan on the stove.

"Problem?" he asked, leaving the door open before the smoke alarm could go off, then making his way through the haze, to the stove.

"Oh, Tim, I burnt the pork chops," Suzanna wailed, turning to him. "One minute they were fine, and
the next—"

"It's okay, babe, it's okay. I wanted some banana cream pie anyway, honest." Then he kissed her hair, snuggled her closer. He could swear he felt his heart growing larger, warmer, inside his chest.

Tim quickly took Suzanna's hand in his, gave it a squeeze. "Shhh, babe. Let's just listen. This is for
Keely and Jack, remember?"

So they listened. And then they both nodded their heads, and then they stood up, left the rectory, and drove home. In silence.

"Married," Suzanna said at last, once they were both standing in the kitchen. "We are married."

"But not in the eyes of the Church," Tim said. It had been a long ride home, and you would think he'd gotten every last secret grin out of his system. Sadly, he had one left, and he grinned it now.

"Ah, yes, that's me, all right. I, Timothy Patrick Trehan, do take thee, Suzanna—"

"Oh, stuff it," she said, filling the teapot. "I'm almost six months pregnant, Tim. What's it going to look like? Me? At the altar? Getting married?"

"Oh, I don't know. It's not like you'd be the first one to put the cart before the horse." Damn, but he
was enjoying himself.

"Oh, come on, Suze. We can do this. Father O'Mara said he'd cut all the red tape, just marry us real quick. Nobody has to know."

Her expression had been mulish. Now it turned sad. "I ... I wouldn't mind if Keely and Jack were there. And ... and maybe Aunt Sadie and Mrs. B.?"

"And Joey, and Bruno, and Candy, and Johnny," Tim added, putting his arm around her.

"No, because I'd look like the iceberg that took down the Titanic," Suzanna said, wiping away a tear. "Oh, I can't believe we're doing this. Las Vegas was one thing. But this ... This is so final."

She stepped away from him. "We're doing this so we can stand up for Johnny, Tim."

"Right. Sure. Definitely. We're handing each other a life sentence, right? For the kid—and for our own kid. Hey, count me in. Although I have to say that living-in-sin stuff did have its benefits, at least for a while."

"No, you don't. We're getting somewhere, Suze, and this is just another step in the right direction."

He watched as she walked into the den and stood in front of the Christmas tree they had put up together
a few days earlier.

They had had fun doing it, too. They had shopped together for the lights, the ornaments. They had picked out a tree at a local tree farm, and Tim had cut it down himself with the saw the owner provided.

Suzanna's cheeks had been bright red from the cold, and her eyes had sparkled as he tried to load the
tree into the back of his four-by-four, without much success.

They had driven all the way home with half a tree sticking out the back, Suzanna's bright wool scarf
tied to it to warn other motorists.

And then she'd made hot chocolate, and they had struggled with the tree stand, and Suzanna made him move the whole thing twice, to either side of the living room, and finally to the den.

"What's the sense of having it if we can't enjoy it. We're never in the living room." That was what she'd said, and he'd agreed. He'd have agreed to almost anything if it meant he didn't have to drag tree and tree stand another inch.

"It looks great, doesn't it?" he said now, walking up to stand beside Suzanna, who was carefully repositioning a crystal bell. They both ignored the fact that Margo and the kittens had taken up residence under the tree. How much harm could they do?

"I remember when I was a kid," Suzanna said, not looking at him. "Dad would put the lights on, and then Mom would put the ornaments on, and then I'd ruin the whole diing by throwing handfuls of tinsel all over it. This is so much prettier, but maybe it's too perfect."

"Just wait. One day our kids will be throwing tinsel, and you'll be wishing it was perfect again."

"I've been first long enough, Suze, don't you think? Come on, what's on your mind? Are you having second thoughts about saying yes to Father O'Mara?"

"No," she said, sighing. "I want everything right for this baby, and that means getting married again,
I suppose. This is something else. I... I was just wondering if—oh, this is silly."

"The kettle's whistling, Tim. I have to turn off the stove," she said, continuing on into the kitchen.

"So?" he asked after she poured herself a cup of decaffeinated tea, then added three heaping spoonfuls
of sugar. She was doing a litde better, but she still had that sweet tooth biting on all cylinders.

"Well," she said, turning to face him. "It's just that," she began, then stopped, shook her head. "Oh, this
is just too silly. Tim, there are five bedrooms upstairs. I'm in one, you're in another, and the other three are still vacant except for the carpets you picked out for each one, right?"

"Right. There was no reason to rush, not with the rest of the house to furnish. Keely said one guest bedroom would work for now."

"And she was right, to a point. I mean, we'll be turning the front bedroom into a nursery," Suzanna said, then hastened to add, "but not yet, Tim. I ... I don't want anything done until the baby's born. We can plan, we can maybe buy a few things, but I don't want to do much until the baby's born."

"Okay, no nursery until the baby comes. Plan it, know what we want, and then send me shopping, right?"

"Thank you, Tim. Keely promised to help. She says she'll have everything organized and make her assault— she called it an assault—on the stores the moment the baby arrives. I'm just going to pick
two different color schemes."

"We could have learned the baby's sex during the sonogram, Suze. Dr. Phillips said she was ninety-nine percent sure. Why didn't you want to do that?"

She dipped her head slightly, then looked at him. "That's ... That's what I wanted to talk to you about.
It's the bed."

"Which bed? I'm being invited to bed? Man, we should have gone to see Father O'Mara a long time ago.
I didn't know getting married again would work so well."

"Down, boy," Suzanna said, holding out her arms, so that he stayed where he was, when he wanted to
be where she was. "I'm just trying to tell you that I can't climb into that high bed anymore." She sort of wrapped her hands around her belly. "Actually, it's climbing out again that's such a pain. I go to the bathroom at least twice every night, and I'm afraid I'll take a wrong step, miss the stool, and..."

"I'll saw off the legs," Tim said, and he meant it. "I can saw a tree; I can saw bed legs."

"No, no. I just want us to change beds, that's all. You can have your bedroom back, and I'll take yours."

"I said, no. I have a better idea. I move back into our bedroom, and I help you in and out of bed. You just wake me up, and I'll help, honest. And Jack told me Keely was always a lot more comfortable if he helped her arrange pillows, between her legs, under her belly. And then he'd lie back to back with her,
to help support her. I can do that for you, Suzanna. I want to do that."

She pressed a hand to her mouth as she blinked rapidly, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Oh, Tim," she said, walking toward him. "We can't have sex. I'm not ready for that. I know you're trying, and I'm trying, but please, don't push it. Not now. Not yet. I'm so sorry..."

He took two steps back. "Who the hell is talking about sex?" he asked, stunned to realize he was actually angry. "You're my wife, you're pregnant, and I'm just trying to help. Don't make it sound like I'm only trying to get into your pants, for crying out loud. Give me a little credit."

Her face paled. "You don't want to have sex with me?" she asked, her voice small, her whole body going small—and at the rate she was growing, that wasn't an easy trick. "It's because I'm so fat again, isn't it?"

"No! You're not fat, Suze, you're pregnant. And you're beautiful. You're blooming, you ... you glow.
And I like your hair."

He winced. He thought he might be getting somewhere for a moment there, but then he went and mentioned her hair.

"Because I can't color it while I'm pregnant, and because it's all growing out and it's all orange again. That's what I am. I'm just one big, fat orange. I'm surprised someone hasn't stuck a Sunkist sticker on me."

"And the mood pendulum swings to the other side," Tim muttered under his breath, going toward her, quickly gathering her into his arms. "I wouldn't be pregnant for all the tea in China, babe. How do you
do it?" he asked, cuddling her close to his chest.

He laughed softly. "I get to take antacids. You don't," he said, kissing her short, spiky hair. Her, yes, sort of orange hair. "But I'd be lying if I didn't tell you I can't wait until this baby is born. I'm getting pretty sick of being sick to my stomach."

"That's because I do the cooking," Suzanna said, and he could tell that she was going to start crying again.

"Come on," he said bracingly, taking her hand and leading her toward the stairs. "I'm moving back in, babe, and I'm going to behave, promise. But we've got to make this a team effort. Isn't that what they called it in parenting class? A team effort?"

Suzanna held Johnny high on her shoulder, patting his little back so he could bring up a really big burp. The kid had no shame when it came to burping, that was for sure.

"Maybe you want to rephrase that?" Keely said as she sat on the couch, a mountain of clean baby clothes beside her as she folded each piece precisely. "I mean, it isn't much of a compliment to the guy, is it?"

Suzanna made a face. "You know what I mean. Sometimes my back just aches by the end of the day, but when I get into bed, Tim lies down right behind me, supports my back. And the warmth isn't so
bad either, considering how cold it is outside. That, and all the cats sleep with us."

Suzanna wiped Johnny's little mouth after his burp, then laid him back in the bassinet. "I think he's
being wonderful. Considerate."

"Yeah. You get married tomorrow, Suzanna. Don't tell lies the day before you get married."

"Ah, honesty. Now, there's something that's been sadly lacking around here, between the two of you.
Oh, that Joey, he's so smart about these things."

"Uh-hmm, our Joey. He's been tutoring Tim. Didn't you know that? Not that Tim needs any more help. God knows we gave him enough to screw everything up royally. This is helping Joey, and I think Tim's wonderful to pretend to listen to him."

"I don't understand," Suzanna said, picking up a small shirt and folding it neady, adding it to the pile. "What's Joey saying to him?"

Keely looked at her for a moment, as if deciding what to say. "Nothing much, Suzanna, and certainly nothing Tim didn't already know. He's just telling him that you have to learn to trust each other."

"I'm sort of scared about that," Suzanna admitted, picking up another shirt. "Dr. Phillips said no flying,
so we're just driving to Atlantic City, but Tim acts as if we're packing for an expedition to the North Pole. I looked into his suitcase, and he's got two childbirth books, a list of emergency phone numbers, and an extra prescription for my prenatal vitamins. He even bought a new charger for the cell phone, as if Atlantic City doesn't have phones. Oh, and my focal point thingamajig. You know, the baseball trophy Tim won in fourth grade and gave to me?"

"How organized. And this is the same man who, just last year, handed me his design for his bedroom, totally forgetting to put windows in it? Amazing."

"Oh, he did, he did. But then he changed everything. The builder and I had to beat him down a couple
of times, but his ideas are, by and large, pretty terrific. He and Jack aren't just jocks, Suzanna. They're two very smart guys."

"I know," Suzanna said, rather shamelessly swelling with pride. Opposed to just swelling, she thought, which I'm also doing. "But, if he's so smart, why doesn't he know I want him to sleep with his arm around me instead of back to back?"

"I know. It's my hang-up, not his, and I'm fighting it. Childhood trauma and all of that junk. Maybe I
was frightened by a chocolate cake sometime in my past. Maybe next week..."

Suzanna nodded.' 'Unless Tim and his X-ray eyes can tell us more. He keeps staring at me."

"No, silly. I hated that everyone thought it was fine to touch my stomach. I mean, total strangers, or
close to it. They just come up and put their hands on your belly. And Jack would just stand there, beaming. If anyone tried that when I wasn't pregnant, he would have clocked them. But, hey, get pregnant, and you're free territory. It's weird."

"Tim hasn't asked to touch my belly yet. He knows the baby's moving, but he hasn't asked."

Suzanna looked down at the rings she'd taken off last night, then had Tim slip back on her finger earlier today, in front of God and several witnesses.

For the first time, the very first time, she felt married. Not playing at married. Married.

She walked through the casino hotel suite, admiring the brass fixtures on the sinks. Boy, were there sinks! Two in one bathroom, one in the other, and yet another in a serving bar tucked into the short hallway between the living room and the bedrooms. There were as many sinks as there were television sets. In each bedroom, in the living room, even one sort of suspended from the ceiling in the bathroom, over the whirlpool tub that was large enough to float a small battleship.

Tim stretched out on one of the cushy leather couches. "Hey, can I help it if the desk clerk is a fan?"
He finished stretching, then stood up. "You ready to go downstairs? I'm feeling lucky."

"Speaking of Lucky," Suzanna said, and watched Tim's smile fade. "You already cancelled twice, you know. You are keeping his appointment next week, aren't you?"

"Lucky's keeping that appointment. I'm just the traitorous bastard who's taking him on his last ride as a man."

"Why what?" she asked as he held open the door for her and they stepped into the hallway.

"Why change vets? And, if someone does, why shouldn't it be me? You don't always have to do what
I do, Suze."

She pushed the down button on the wall. "Tim, believe it or not, and I know this is hard, considering
how moody I've been, but it just would be easier to go to your vet. Mine's way across town."

"Oh," he said, stepping into the elevator behind her. "But do I get good marks for being cooperative?"

She reached up and kissed his cheek. "Definitely. Now, let's find me one of those machines with the frogs. I'm also feeling lucky."

"Nothing. Not a darn thing. Hey, did I ever tell you the story about Joey and red meat?"

She lifted a forkful of salad, then let it hang there as she said, "No. And maybe I don't want to hear it.
I like Joe. I think he's sweet, and definitely smarter than you all give him credit for being."

Tim rested his elbows on the table. "Five bucks says you won't think so after I tell you the red meat story. You on? Your luck's been running pretty good all day."

She took a bite of salad, then motioned with her fork for him to tell her the story.

"Okay, here we go," Tim said, trying not to laugh. Every time he thought of this story, he laughed.
"We're out to dinner. For Keely's birthday, I think, not that it matters. We've all ordered steaks, New York strips. You with me so far?"

"Good. So we're eating, and we're talking, and we're eating, and then Joey says, 'That's it for me, this meat is too red.' "

Tim grinned. "He said, and I swear we didn't laugh at him at the table—although Keely had to quick excuse herself to go to the rest room—he said, in all seriousness, 'The doctor says I shouldn't eat so
much red meat' "

He sat back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest. "That's okay, I'll wait. This is one of those slow-building things."

"To you and me and the rest of the world, sure. But not if it's well done, according to Joey. I think his doctor should have realized that with Joey, sometimes it's better to explain using words of no more than two syllables."

Suzanna raised her napkin to her mouth and looked at Tim, her eyes sparkling. She coughed politely, lowered the napkin, and said, "That's funny. I mean, that's really— "

She giggled a time or two as she sat next to him at the roulette table, saying, "You know, the longer you think about that, the funnier it gets."

On the way back up the elevator to their suite, she suddenly said, "The doctor says I shouldn't eat so much red meat," and giggled again. "How can I ever look at Joe again? I'll just burst out laughing."

"I've got a million more Joey stories, but they'll keep. I can just drag out one every time you need a
good laugh."

"Is that so often?" she asked as he slipped the key card into the door of their suite.

"No, babe, it's not. Hey, this is our honeymoon. Should I carry you over the threshold? Maybe I should have done it earlier."

"Yeah, about six months earlier," Suzanna said, giving him a quick punch in the arm. "Sam would kill
me if you threw out your back two months before spring training."

"Now, there's a dare if I ever heard one," he said, and he quickly swooped down, grabbed her under her knees and around her back, lifting her high into his arms. "Where to, madam?" he asked, walking into the living room of the suite.

"The bathroom, unfortunately. I shouldn't have had that bottled water while we were downstairs."

"Your wish is my command," he said, and walked down the hallway to the main bathroom, the one that would have been just one huge playground, if Suzanna wasn't pregnant. And if she would have let him near her, which she hadn't done in a very, very long time.

"Thank you, kind sir, you can go somewhere and groan now," she said as he put her down just outside the bathroom. "I'll be right back."

Tim continued on to the bedroom, pulled down the bedspread, and then opened the large suitcase
holding the special pillows he'd brought from home.

Suzanna rejoined him about ten minutes later, dressed in one of his Phillies T-shirts and a pair of his sweatpants, pulled high above her waist, her face clean and sort of shiny.

"I'm really tired," she said, rubbing at the small of her back. "Its been a long day."

Tim took a quick look at the bedside clock. It was five minutes after eleven, definitely past Suzanna's bedtime. "I should have cashed in earlier."

"No, don't be silly," she said, lowering herself onto the bed, then allowing him to swing her legs up onto the mattress so that he could position one of the pillows between her thighs. "Oh," she said on a satisfied moan, "that's better."

He remembered when she'd moaned for him for quite another reason. But he batted down that thought and helped her carefully wedge a much smaller pillow just beneath her belly. "Comfortable?"

That's one of us, he thought, turning off the lights and then walking around to his side of the bed,
wishing his libido had gone wherever Suzanna's had, considering that they were both having these damn pregnancy symptoms.

He crawled into bed and moved across the mattress, putting his back against hers. "Better?"

"No," she said, her voice small. "I... I think I'd like you to turn around. You know, like spoons?"

"You know, Tim, like spoons in a drawer? You lie with your front to my back, and—oh, just turn over, okay?"

He didn't need any more urging. Lifting the covers slightly, he turned onto his left side, then shifted so that he was curled close to Suzanna's body. His belly against her back, his knees bent so that their legs also touched.

"Oh, what the hell," he muttered, and slipped his arm around her, so that his hand fell somewhere on
her belly. Any higher, and he'd probably get tossed from the bed entirely.

"I think so, too," he said, beginning to run coaching signs through his head, to take his mind off how he was feeling, south of the border. But her hair smelled so good, and she was so soft, and he wanted her
so damn much he'd—what was that?

Suzanna sighed. "Oh, he does that every night now. I try to rest, and he thinks it's time to party. Did
you feel it?"

Tim swallowed hard as he pressed his palm flat against her belly, and was rewarded soon after by the
feel of a healthy kick.

His stomach did a small flip, and he wished he'd skipped the chocolate mousse for dessert. His brow broke out in perspiration. But he couldn't move his hand. "Will he do it again?"

"Keep your hand there," Suzanna told him. "I think he sort of... gravitates to the warmth."

Tim closed his eyes, waited for the next kick. And there it was. His nausea subsided as he smiled in the darkness. "He's real, babe. He's really real."

They were still lying that way the next morning, after both of them spent a very restful, uninterrupted night's sleep.

Why couldn't Tim be here with her? He'd wanted to, she knew that, but both he and Jack had to fly
to California the previous day, to appear in the commercial Mort had set up for them months ago, and Tim had totally forgotten about, or he would have canceled it.

He must have told her that a dozen times: "I would have canceled the damn thing."

But how was he to know that Dr. Phillips would break her ankle, skiing, over the holidays, and postpone the sonogram?

So here she was, all by herself. Keely couldn't come, because Candy was down with a cold, and so was Aunt Sadie. Mrs. B. was substitute teaching again, and Joey was in Bayonne.

Until she believed she could look at him with a straight face, she hoped Joey would stay in Bayonne.

Suzanna looked up, to see the same male technician motioning for her to follow him.

She pushed both hands against the arms of the chair and got to her feet. She had a scale at home now, thanks to a Christmas present from Tim, whom she could have cheerfully murdered as he stepped on
the thing, showing her that it printed out digitally—in half pounds.

So she knew she'd gained another eight pounds this month, and nothing she did seemed to mean anything when she looked at food. It all still cried out, "Eat me, eat me!" Why couldn't she be nauseous, like Tim? Not that she actually could envy him that one. .. .

"There you are, Suzanna," Dr. Phillips said as she entered the room, hobbling a litde on her purple, knee-high cast. "I'm sorry for the delay, but since you saw my associate in the office, I know you're still doing just fine. Still blossoming, I see?"

The technician helped Suzanna up onto the examining table. "Flowers blossom, Doctor," she said. "I'm
a mountain being pushed up by some shift in the seismic plates."

"And now we're going to find out, once and for all, I hope, just why you're gaining so quickly. I'm still thinking multiples, you know, even if my associate couldn't find a second heartbeat. Babies can hide really well."

''I think the Twinkies have something to do with my weight gain. Tim watches me like a hawk, but I
still found a way to hide them in the laundry room, a place he never goes. I'm shameless, and I know it.
I complain about my weight, and then I eat."

Dr. Phillips chuckled, then took charge of the sonogram, moving the sensor over Suzanna's bare stomach.

''Well, I'm still just checking, but I can tell you without hesitation that you did not swallow a watermelon seed. You're definitely pregnant. Ah, nice full bladder, good."

"I always have a full bladder," Suzanna groused, wishing Tim were here, holding her hand. She was so nervous.

Suzanna lifted her head as far as possible while lying on her back. "Uh-oh? What uh-oh? Is ... Is something wrong."

"It would be, if I seriously believed your baby has three arms. As it is, I'd say we're looking at twins." The doctor did something with the dials that caused a white square to appear on the screen, then pushed
a button that made it sound as if she'd snapped a picture. "Got you, you little dickens. Did you really
think you could keep avoiding me?"

Suzanna heard the doctor as if from a distance. Twins. Not one life growing under her heart, but two. Double the reasons to make this marriage work. Not only work, but thrive.

"Yes," Dr. Phillips said, taking more pictures. "How is he, anyway? Still struggling with his couvades syndrome?"

"Yes. He had another nosebleed last week, which is silly, because I don't have nosebleeds. I'm waiting
for his ankles to start swelling."

"I can give you the sex of one of them, but that second little bugger is still being pretty modest, hiding behind the other one. Woman to woman, Suzanna, no wonder you're having backaches. So, do you
want me to tell you?"

"No, please don't. Tim and I—well, me, actually—I decided I didn't want to know."

Once the examination was over, Dr. Phillips told her that from now on she wanted to see her weekly, because although she was due in mid April, she might be as much as a full month early, which was not
all that uncommon with twins.

"Isn't that too soon?" Suzanna asked as the technician helped her off the examination table.

"Not for twins, no. And, since we're still not sure of your due date, and considering your size, and the
size of those babies—you're feeding them well, Suzanna— I wouldn't be at all surprised if you were early. Don't worry."

"March? Oh, no. Tim will be in Florida in March, for spring training. He leaves the third week in February. If I tell him this, he won't go."

"I don't want to butt in here, but he's your husband, Suzanna. You have to tell him."

"Maybe I shouldn't tell him we're having twins," Suzanna said, mosdy to herself. "But if I tell him I
might be early, then he'd ask why, because he knows I couldn't have gotten pregnant any sooner than
last July."

"Good, that's very good. But I don't recommend keeping this a secret from him, even if you think it's for his own good. He needs to know, then make his own decisions."

Suzanna sniffled, then wiped at her eyes. "I know. Thank you, Doctor. I'll ... I'll think about it. But, in the meantime, can I please ask you to keep my secret."

They stood in the large vestibule of the church the first week of February, where the baptismal font
was located, Suzanna holding Johnny, Tim standing beside her.

Jack and Keely stood on either side of the priest, beaming at them, Candy held high against Jack's shoulder.

Aunt Sadie sniffled into a white handkerchief with yellow ducks printed on it, and Mrs. B. stood with
her chin lifted, as if to make sure the priest wouldn't drown Johnny when the time came to drip water
on his little head.

Joey was recording the entire thing with a palm-sized video recorder while Bruno held up portable lights, high above his head—which was pretty high.

Tim was grateful Father O'Mara had rehearsed them so well, because he was feeling decidedly queasy, again. The closer Suzanna came to her due date, the more his symptoms snuck up on him at the damndest moments. He could tell Suzanna was worried about him—because most nights she suggested they eat out, rather than experiment with her home cooking.

"We do renounce him," he and Suzanna said, then continued through more responses, Suzanna's voice more steady, clearer than his. Ten minutes later the christening was over, and Keely had grabbed a definitely unhappy Johnny back into her arms, quickly stuffing the pacifier into his mouth.

"Poor baby," she crooned as Suzanna helped her rebutton Johnny's long white gown. "They strip you down, they get you all wet, they put salt on your tongue. You've had better days, haven't you?"

"That's not it. He's crying because he's wearing a dress," Jack said, earning himself a nasty look from
his wife.

Tim walked outside to join Mort, grateful for the cold, crisp air. "What's up, Mort. You missed the
whole thing."

"Nothing," Mort said, flipping his phone closed and sticking it back in the pocket of his topcoat—the cashmere one with the fur collar. "Oh, all right, if you're going to drag it out of me. It's Sam. He's had
a heart attack."

Tim blinked, unable to take in Mort's words. They had come flying toward him from so far out in left field that he couldn't believe them. "Sam? Our Sam? Sam Kizer?"

"Yeah, that Sam. Hell, Tim, he was a walking time bomb, and we all knew it. Anger management class?

"I suppose so. At home, in North Carolina. I was just on the phone with his wife. He wants to see you."

Tim pressed both hands to his chest. "Me? Why? I mean, sure, I want to fly down and see him, but
why now? He's still in the hospital, right?"

Mort took Tim's arm and led him down the walkway to the street. "Tim, who's been on this team the longest?"

"Me," he said, still not understanding. "I've never been anywhere else. You know that."

"His wife says so, once the doctors give the okay. Remember Dan Reeves? Football coach?"

"So why should it be any different for Sam, right? Maybe I can get him one of those cholesterol-lowering commercials. Ask him about that, okay? Hey, Jack, come over here."

Jack, carrying Candy, walked over, looked from Mort to Tim. "What's up? I can feel Mort's radar quivering. Mort?"

"Sam Kizer had open-heart surgery eight days ago. They've kept it from the press, all hush-hush, but they'll be going public later this afternoon. He wants Tim there with him tomorrow, when he's released from the hospital, to do a quick press conference. I couldn't talk his wife out of it."

"That's what all the phone calls were about. Sam's got it in his head that Tim's the stability on the team. That he'll keep everyone calm, keep the program going."

"He's got a full staff of coaches, Mort," Tim pointed out, trying to be reasonable. Of course, using "reason" and "Sam Kizer" in the same thought was pretty ridiculous no matter what the situation.

"But he wants you. You're good with the press. Face it, Tim, most of his coaches talk in grunts. And Larry Watkins stutters when he's upset. He never talks to the press. I can't help it if you're the silver-tongued devil, Tim."

Mort shrugged. "Bigger question, Tim. Does he care? And tell me, how do you turn down a guy with
a zipper in his chest? You've got Jack and Keely here, Tim. Sadie, right? What could go wrong?"

Tim looked back toward the church, watching Joey as he kept his hand on Suzanna's elbow, so that
she didn't slip on any remaining patches of ice left over from last week's fifteen-inch snowfall. Joey was being a real brick, driving up from Bayonne, helping Suzanna whenever he could. But leaving Suzanna with Joey? "Cripes," he said. "It's bad enough I was going to be leaving in a month. How am I going to tell her this one?"

Suzanna sat on the bedside chair and watched as Tim packed his suitcases. "Are you sure I can't help you?"

She pinned a bright smile on her face, even as she looked down at her swollen ankles as she rested her feet on the footstool Tim had dragged over to her. No more salt. That was it, no more salt! But Keely baked such a wonderful ham, she hadn't been able to resist. "I'm going to be fine. I'm surrounded by people who will take care of me, you know that. And I've got the cats to keep me warm at night."

"And you see Dr. Phillips again tomorrow? I wish I could go to the appointments, but I've been so busy since that damn snowstorm took out half the roof at the bowling alley."

"I know. But Mrs. B. has been a brick. And she even stops at Stop signs. Besides, it usually takes two hours of sitting in the waiting room to see Dr. Phillips for five seconds. You went to all of the classes. Thank goodness we got them out of the way early, because of your spring training."

He shoved several long-sleeved knit shirts into a duffel bag, and Suzanna winced, trying not to think
what they would look like when he took them back out again.

"You're doing a lot better with your weight," Tim said, reaching into his sock drawer.

"I know. Only five pounds this month. I still weigh less than you do. When you stepped on that scale,
and I realized daat I was actually only tfiirty pounds lighter than you? It was a real wake-up call, I can
tell you."

"You were skinny when we met up again. You could have used a couple of extra pounds."

She rolled her eyes. "Now he tells me. Although I'm sure you didn't mean this many extra pounds."

"I've already decided to sleep in the back bedroom, and I'll just stuff some extra pillows behind me.
And remember the cats—although they won't replace you. I'll be fine, Tim, just fine. And you'll be
home as often as you can."

"Every weekend, I swear it. Damn it," he said, getting to his feet again. "Two steps forward and one back. That's what my mom always used to say. We're doing so well, Suze. I don't want to leave."

She reached out to cup his cheek in her hand. "You know why, Tim Trehan, but I'm not going to say
it first."

"Okay—wait. Will you believe me when I say it? Have I proven myself yet? Do you... Do you trust
me now?"

"Oh, Tim, I trust you. I really do. Everything you've done these past months? Putting up with me when I've been so ... so silly? How can I not trust you? I love you."

His grin went nearly ear to ear. "Made you say it first," he crowed, then took her hands, pulled her to
her feet, and took her into his arms. "Ah, babe, I love you, too. I love you so damn much it hurts."

"Promise?" she whispered against his chest as he stroked her back, holding her, but gently, as if she
might break.

"Promise," he said, kissing her hair. "You're my life, Suze. It just took almost losing you to realize that. I'm a slow learner."

"Oh, Tim," she said, slipping her arms up and over his shoulders. "If I could only get closer."

She began playing with the hair at his nape. "Do you think there's an early flight tomorrow? Do you
have to go tonight?"

He put his hands on her shoulders. "Oh, babe, you do pick your times. There's nothing I want more
than to hold you, to love you, but the books I read—"

"The books are just books. Dr. Phillips says it's all right until it's not comfortable anymore. I think I
could be ... very comfortable."

"Really," Suzanna said, not caring that her belly button had, just in this last week, decided to become an "outie" rather than an "innie." Not caring that she was far from the slim-waisted woman who had fallen into bed with Tim last July. Not caring one single bit.

Because he loved her; he'd proven that in so many, many ways. Because he looked at her as if she were the most beautiful creature in the world.

Because she loved him. So much. Not the way she'd thought she'd loved him, when she was young,
and idealistic, and stupid. She loved him for the man he was, not the boy she'd put on a pedestal, worshipped from afar.

She felt like a princess as he guided her up onto the two-step affair that had first intrigued her, then troubled her, and now would help lift her on the way to a new paradise.

While she stood balanced on the top step, Tim put out his arm and, in one quick motion, swept stacks
of his clothing to the floor.

She half turned, to sit on the bed, and he helped her raise her legs onto the mattress. She was half sitting, propped against some of the many pillows that had become part of her bedroom ensemble.

He was stripping off his slacks as he rounded the bed to climb in the other side. He knelt on the mattress, pulled his shirt and crew neck sweater off in one quick motion, then grinned at her. "I don't believe this."

She looked down at her Phillies shirt and sweatpants. "It's not quite how I pictured this moment either," she admitted, putting both hands on her swollen belly.

Tim reached down and pulled up the sheet and one blanket, covering both of them to the waist, then leaned on one bent arm and grinned at her. "How are we going to do this?"

"I have no idea," Suzanna said, feeling herself blush. But then he touched her breast, her swollen breast, and she closed her eyes, sighed. He lowered his hand, slipped beneath the T-shirt, then claimed her
again, rubbed a thumb across her super-sensitive nipple. "Oh, that's good. That's so good."

"If this is baby fat, Suze, I'm all for it," he said, pushing up the T-shirt, then lowering his face to her breast, taking her nipple in his mouth.

Keely put her elbows on the kitchen table and dropped her chin into her hands as she looked at Suzanna. One of those people who seemed to do two things effortlessly at the same time, she was also jiggling Johnny's infant seat with her foot, keeping the baby happy. "I don't get it. Tim's gone, and you've been looking better, happier, than you have in months. I mean it. These past three or four weeks you've been positively glowing. Have I been wrong all this time, and you don't love him?"

"Oh, I love him," Suzanna said, knowing her smile bordered on the dreamy side of lunacy. ''He calls
me five times a day, I swear it, sometimes to moan and groan about being away, having to deal with the press, the owners, but mostly to tell me he loves me. He loves me, Keel. He really does. And I love him. It's real. For him, for me."

Suzanna lowered her head as she sipped tea, sure Keely would be able to read her expression. She'd
kept this secret to herself and didn't plan to be more than vague now. "Oh, I don't know. The day of
the christening?"

"Really. That long ago? We were all pretty busy that day, and then Tim was gone the next morning.
What did I miss?"

"I know I didn't get that big, but you told me Dr. Phillips said you're going to have a big baby."

"Or two small ones," Suzanna said, then giggled as Keely's mouth dropped open. "Okay, definitely two small ones."

Keely jumped up so quickly that Johnny began to cry, but she ignored him as she raced around the table to hug Suzanna. "Twins! I don't believe it! And you've been keeping it a secret? From us, right. Not
from Tim.''

Suzanna waited until Keely had picked up her son before she spoke again. "I haven't told Tim."

"You haven't—well, we know his cell phone number. Let's call him. This news is too good to—wait a minute. How long have you known this?"

"Over a month," Suzanna said, playing with her teaspoon so she could avoid Keely's eyes. "I swore
Dr. Phillips to secrecy."

"Why? I don't get it. You're telling me you and Tim are in love—not that everyone didn't know that. You're telling me everything's hunky-dory between the two of you. So why didn't you tell him?"

"I... I didn't want to worry him," Suzanna said, then winced. "Oh, okay, so that's only partially true. Keely, he's got all these pregnancy symptoms. He even gets backaches now."

Suzanna sighed. That was the problem with talking to people. They were always so reasonable.

"Nope," Keely said, sitting back in her chair, Johnny snuggled into her shoulder. "I still don't get it."

"Keely, think. The baby's due the second week in April. Tim will be on a ten day home stand then, so that's all right. He's only an hour away from home and has already planned to drive back here every night. But if I go into labor in March? He'll still be in Florida."

"The hell he would," Keely said, making a face. "He'd be right here, waiting for you to pop, and
nobody'd stop him. Oh, I get it. He'd go AWOL, right?"

"Exactly. It was bad enough thinking about that before Sam's heart surgery. But now? Sam is rejoining the club next week, the first of March, but he's still relying on Tim. He talks to the press, he's been keeping Sam up to date on everything, evaluating the pitching staff—who better to do that than the catcher, who's going to tell the whole truth, when the pitching coach just might not? To put it bluntly, Sam isn' t a very trusting soul. Besides, spring training gets under way tomorrow for everyone."

"Yes," Suzanna said, nodding. "Yes, I was. I had to get used to the idea first, but I was going to tell him. The day of the christening, as a matter of fact. It seemed like a good day for it."

"The same day you both knew for sure that you're in love with each other. The same day he learned about Sam. Busy day, Suze."

"Exactly. Still, I wanted to tell him. I was going to tell him. But then we got... distracted." Suzanna quickly took another sip of her now tepid tea.

"Okay. I understand. No, damn it, I don't understand. He has to know, Suzanna. He deserves to know."

"Wrong," Keely said, going over to pick up the cordless phone. "You'll tell him now. You were at the doctor's today. He's expecting a report. Tell him today. Don't let him know you've known yourself until today. I mean it, Suzanna. I know you're pregnant, I know you're scared, and I know you and Tim love each other. But we've already been around this park, and I know you don't want to go there again. Don't screw this up."

"It's what I do. My Aunt Mary always tells me that a person should go with her strengths," Keely said, hefting Johnny higher in her arms. ' 'Now, dial."

Dusty Johnson sat down on the bench outside the open lockers in the clubhouse and looked at Tim.' 'Hey, you feelin' all right?"

Tim looked at him, blinked, tried to remember his name. He knew him. He had carroty hair, just like Suzanna. "Oh. Dusty. Hi."

"No, no, that's not it. I'm fine." Tim slipped his cell phone back into his pocket, stood up, looked around as if trying to orient himself to exactly where he was. "I've ... Look, I've got to go."

"Go? Go where? We still have one more practice today. And then we're all gettin' together to plan
Sam's welcome back party, remember? We elected you to be in charge."

Tim sat back down again. "Oh, yeah, I forgot." He swallowed hard, then stabbed his fingers through his hair. "Look, if you don't mind, I'd sort of like to be alone for a few minutes."

"Sure, no problem," Dusty said, standing up. "We can talk later, if you want to."

"Yeah, thanks," Tim said, already forgetting that he'd even spoken to his teammate.

He reached back and absently rubbed at the backache that had been nagging him on and off for weeks, then closed his eyes, tried to picture what it would be like having twins.

His mom and dad had survived it, survived him and Jack and those wild years when his mom had called them Double Trouble. Jack was Double, and he was Trouble.

His stomach did a small flip, and he knew he'd be heading for the bathroom any time now to toss his cookies. That hadn't happened in a while, but it didn't surprise him.

The other night, on the phone, Suzanna had teased him that he'd probably go into labor with her. He'd laughed, but it wasn't funny.

He couldn't fall apart. He was her coach. And now she'd need him twice as much. He couldn't fail her.

Taking a deep breath, he willed his stomach to stop roiling, then headed back out onto the field. It was a good thing he was building up all these good deeds with Sam, because the moment he thought Suzanna needed him, he was outta here.

"Watch that baby... Outta here.'"

—Phillies announcer Harry Kalas,
calling a home run.

One thing about winter in Pennsylvania, it was never predictable. Tim could remember years he'd
played golf on New Year's Day; it was that warm. Then there were occasional winters like this one, where eastern Pennsylvania had more snow than Buffalo, and colder temperatures than Nome.

Years like this one, you could almost count on a late March snowfall. A big one.

He hadn't been able to come home in two weeks, because of all that snow. It would have taken him longer to wait out airport closings and rerouted flights than it was worth, and he might not get back to Florida on time, and Sam would have another heart attack. Besides, Suzanna worried about him, and
he didn't want her worried about him.

But Joey was there. He'd taken the semester off from community college, just so he could be there.

Tim had tracked down Dr. Phillips long distance, and when the doctor had returned his call, he'd bombarded her with questions about Suzanna, about the babies.

So he knew. He knew that the April date was just a target now, but might be nowhere near the bull's-eye.

He phoned Suzanna every chance he got, sometimes five or six times a day. Then he'd chew a couple more antacids and get back to work.

One good thing, the weather in Pennsylvania had finally turned warm. The snow, mountains of it, was melting at a good clip. Suzanna also thought it was a good thing, because she was pretty sure that one of these days, Joey was going to kill himself with the snowplow as he zipped up and down the long drive. He'd already taken out part of the railing on the little bridge over the Coplay Creek.

So March had come and gone, and then Tim was gone, off to Saint Louis, to open the season. March went, and the April rains came, so that the home opener was rained out. Shades of the lousy way the last season had ended. It was a good thing Tim had decided not to be superstitious anymore ... although he
did carry a copy of the latest sonogram with him wherever he went.

Tim stood at the window overlooking the drive, shaking his head. Rain, rain, rain. Sure, it was melting
the snow; even little Coplay Creek was high and rushing fast, trying to pretend it was a river. When
would it stop raining?

Tim remained at the window, cursing the never-ending downpour, then noticed that Joey's huge four-by-four was still at the bottom of the drive, the headlights pointing in a pretty strange direction.

Next thing he knew, Joey was running up the drive, holding both hands over his head—as if that might keep him dry.

"It's ... It's the freaking bridge. It freaking broke. I got one wheel stuck straight through it, and I can't
get it out. I guess I need to rock it, ya know? Come help me."

And then he saw her. She was standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen, and she had the strangest look on her face.

Tim pressed a hand over his mouth, to keep down the five-alarm chili Bruno had fed him for lunch, and looked at the floor. "I... I don't see anything," he said, then winced. Stupid! What a stupid thing to say.

"It's... It's not rushing out, Tim. I'm... I think I'm leaking. It's the strangest feeling..."

"Oh, babe," Tim said, rushing to her, taking her in his arms. "Let's get you sitting down, okay?"

Tim knelt down on the floor in front of Suzanna, taking her hands in his. "Are you having contractions? Do you need to breathe?"

"Tim, I always need to breathe," she told him, touching his cheek. "But, yes, I guess these are contractions. I just thought my backache was getting worse."

"How long?" he asked, squeezing her fingers. "How long have you had this backache?"

She looked up at the clock. He looked, too. It was almost six-thirty. "I woke up with it."

"And you didn't tell me!" He closed his eyes, swallowed. "Okay, okay. No big deal. Remember what
Mrs. B. said? First babies take a long time. We're good, we're good. We just get your bag and get you
to the hospital. Joey? Did you get Dr. Phillips yet?"

"Um... I got her service. She's, um, she's outta town. Her associate is somewhere; they just have to
find him."

"Sorry, Suze," Tim said, getting to his feet. He looked at Joey; dripping wet Joey. "Oh, cripes. Joey,
we have to get that damn monster truck of yours off the bridge. It's our only way out of here."

"Naw," Joey said with a wave of his hand. "My vehicle goes anywhere. We can go over the lawn, over the snow, through the trees. You name it. Of course, you got a lot a trees, Tim, and a lot of creek. But we can do it."

"But you said you were stuck on the bridge," Tim said, rubbing at his aching back.

"Nothing, babe, nothing. Are you all right here with Bruno? Joey and I have to go do something with
his truck. No, wait. Bruno, you come. Joey, stay. Sit. Wait for the phone call. Oh, and call Jack. Wait, don't call Jack, he's not home, he's in Baltimore. Damn!"

"Oh, okay, right. She'd want to know why Joey's truck is stuck on the bridge. Men," she said, rolling
her eyes. "You never want to look bad, do you? Ohhh ..." she ended, slowly sitting up very straight, "there's another one. They hurt now, Tim. And I can feel more water coming out every time I move
even a little bit. Could you please move Joey's truck?

"This isn't happening; this isn't happening," Tim repeated as a sort of mantra, as he and Bruno ran down the hill, toward the truck. The headlights were still visible, but they seemed to be a little yellow now. "Shit! Joey turned off the engine and left the damn lights on. His battery's going," he called to Bruno as they ran. "We've got to get that piece of junk the hell out of there."

Which was, once Tim shined the flashlight on the driver's side rear wheel, or what could be seen of it, going to be a neat trick if he could do it.

It had been all that snow, and then all this rain. And Joey banging the snowplow into the bridge, probably more than the single time Suzanna saw him do it.

''Are we going to have to do it?'' Bruno asked, trotting up the hill beside Tim, toward the lights of the house.

Suzanna looked at the baseball trophy Tim had given her so long ago. Just a little thing, and the bat had long ago broken off the plastic batter poised on top of the small block of wood. But she loved it. The trophy had traveled with her to college, and she'd kept it on her bedside table all these years. Like some dumb groupie.

"Anything else?" Joey asked, sort of bouncing on the balls of his feet as he stood in front of her,
rubbing his hands together. "I've got your suitcase, your pillows, that focus thing. Come on, Suzanna. Help me here. Anything else?"

"You can call Dr. Phillips's service again," Suzanna said, doing her best to remember not to hold her breath when the pain gripped her again.

She wasn't having cramps, at least not the way she'd read about contractions in the books. She felt very little pain in her belly, except very, very low. It was her back. Her back was killing her. She felt as if she were being bent like an archery bow being pulled on, could bend backward until her head touched the kitchen table. "I ... I think I'd like to lie down."

She stood up, which may have been a mistake, because suddenly it was Niagara Falls, right there in her kitchen.

"Good for you," Suzanna groused as she watched the cat. "See? Do bad things, and God always gets
you back, sooner or later."

She motioned for him to let her alone as she sat back down again. "Just call, Joey."

"Give me the cell phone, then get me the phone book," Tim called out, running into the kitchen, skidding to a stop. "Suze? What's the name of that place down the road? You remember? Don Hunsinger's dad owns it?"

"Hunsinger's Towing?" she offered, worrying because Tim's face looked so pale, and he'd asked such a silly question.

"Oh," Suzanna said, but then didn't say anything else, because another contraction had her locked in its grip. She managed to look up at the wall clock. Less than three minutes since the last one, and they seemed to be holding on for about forty-five seconds. "Tim? I think you should call the police instead. And, and an ambulance? And Keely? Oh, Tim, this hurts."

Joey took out his own cell phone and punched in 9-1-1 even as Bruno hit Keely's number on the kitchen phone's speed dial.

"Nobody answers at Don's dad's. Bruno, Joey, get that damn monster of Joey's off that damn bridge!
I can make it past the hole with my car," Tim yelled, racing to Suzanna's side.

"Hey, that thing cost a bundle, Tim," Joey protested. "He'll rip the undercarriage or something."

"I'll buy you a new one. Come on, babe, my car's right out front. We'll get you in the backseat, and Bruno will get the truck free." He grabbed the trophy, stuck it in the pocket of his rain slicker, and
helped her down the hallway.

"Right, right," he said, leaving her for a moment as he stripped off his slicker. "Here you go. Wait. I
want the cell phone."

He raced back into the kitchen, slid on the mess she'd left there, and cannoned into the side of the table.

Suzanna giggled. She knew she shouldn't, knew it was pretty much a giggle bordering on hysteria. Still, she couldn't help herself. She felt as if they were in an episode of I Love Lucy.

Suzanna raised her head from the slightly soggy pillows Bruno had shoved beneath her head as she lay
in the backseat, and glared at her husband. "Don't ask dumb questions. Can we go now?"

"Little problem," Joey said from behind Tim. "The rest of the bridge? It, ya know, sorta broke? We
were rocking the truck, and it was doing pretty good, and then—"

Tim dropped his head into his hands. "All right, all right, I get the picture. What about the police, Joey? The ambulance?"

Tim shook his head, and Suzanna said, from inside the car, "A moat, Tim. Joey means a moat. Ooh! Here I go again."

Brakes squealed down at the bottom of the hill, and a car door slammed, quickly followed by Keely, running up the hill, waving a huge flashlight.

"Where is she? I got Aunt Sadie to watch the kids, and—oh, brother," she said, shining the light into the backseat of the car. "What's she doing out here? You can't go anywhere." She pushed Tim away and leaned into the car. "Suzanna? How often are the pains?"

"No!" Tim slammed Keely out of the way and all but jumped into the car. "No pushing, Suze. No damn pushing."

"Let's get her inside," Keely said, but now it was Suzanna's turn to say no. She wasn't moving. She couldn't. Really, she couldn't. She just wanted to push.

"Can't she, ya know, cross her legs?" Joey asked, and Keely gave him a punch in the arm. "Hey, don't
hit me. I could help, ya know, except we didn't get to the delivering a baby part of my course. Cops do
it all the time. Except we're not there yet. Now, if she were, ya know, choking? Then I could—"

''Uh-huh," she said, and reached for him. A new pain gripped her, and she grabbed at Tim's shirt,
nearly ripping it off him as she twisted the material in her fist. Man, she was strong... .

Tim reached into the pocket of the slicker that was on the floor of the car now and pulled out the trophy. Keely grabbed it and held it balanced on the back of the front seat. "Okay, Tim, now help her get her slacks off. No, wait. Bruno? Run inside and get the afghan from the couch in the den. Tim, I'm assuming you've called for an ambulance? And why don't we drive down to the bridge. That way we're closer, when help comes."

Tim agreed, just waiting for Bruno to return with the afghan. He arranged it over Suzanna's hips, then helped her remove her sopping wet slacks and underwear. "Wait. I read about this. I mean, I read it all, cover to cover. We need a shoelace."

"No, really, we do. To tie off the cord. And newspapers, to wrap the babies in. Oh, God, I can't do this."

"Tim-bo?" Joey said as Bruno went running back into the house once more. "Phone's for you."

Bruno slammed out the front door with a plastic bag holding newspapers and ball of twine and ran to the driver's side door, climbing in as Joey landed half on Keely's lap. "Ready?" The boxer turned chef turned chauffeur asked, and then gunned the engine, moving the car all the way down to the bridge.

In the meantime, Tim, half falling on Suzanna, was yelling into the cell phone. "Hello? Hello? Who is this? Where's the ambulance? And we need a tow truck."

Tim looked at the cell phone for a moment, then pressed it to his ear once more. "Who is this?"

"It's Don. Don Hunsinger. I'm working Dispatch tonight. I understand you've got a little emergency? Something about a baby?"

"Dad's on his way, don't worry. So's an ambulance, and a couple of cops who won the bet and got the job. So, how's the little mother?"

Tim looked at Suzanna, who was staring fixedly at the baseball trophy visible in the interior lights Bruno had turned on. She was also panting. Panting real, real fast.

"Soon as we can, Tim. Hell of a crackup at MacArthur and 329, what with the rain and all. That's
where Dad is now. We're sending for another ambulance. In the meantime, how about we play ball?"

Tim's head was going to explode. He just knew it. He was nauseous, his back ached, and Suzanna
needed him. "Play ball? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Here," Joey interrupted, holding out a headpiece attached to a plastic-coated wire. "Headphone, just
for cell phones. So you don't get all that radio stuff from the battery. I love stuff like this."

"Radiation," Keely said, grabbing the wire. "Good going, Joey. Here, Tim, give me the phone for a second."

Within seconds, Tim had the headphone snapped over his head, the cell phone clipped to the belt on his slacks. "Don? You still there?"

"Still here, Timmy," his high school friend said, his tone unbelievably calming, which was nuts, because Donnie was the same guy who had, for a joke, glued his own ringer to his nose in fifth period study hall. ' 'Ready to play catcher? Are you behind the plate? Ready to go?"

"No, you're going to be the catcher. That's what we call the OB guys. Mama does the work, and you
just catch."

"Okay, okay," Tim said, looking at Suzanna, who was still staring at the trophy. "You okay, babe?"

"In the car, Don, near the bridge on the drive up to my house. There's a truck—"

"Four-by-four. Jeez," Joey yelled in Tim's direction, earning himself a cuffed ear from Keely, who had already complained that Joey could at least try to keep his elbows out of her back as she knelt on the front seat.

"It's stuck on the bridge, and the bridge is pretty much out. The creek's high, and I don't know how you're going to get in here, Don."

"Oh, we'll get in there. Do you hear sirens yet? They just left the accident on 329."

Suzanna reached up and grabbed his hand, squeezed it until he figured his circulation might be cut off, permanently. "Do you want to push, Suze?"

"She's pushing!" Tim yelled into the phone as he lifted the afghan and ducked his head underneath it, between Suzanna's already raised and bent legs. A moment later, Keely's huge flashlight was under
there with him. "Oh, cripes. I think I see a head," Tim said, sure he was going to faint.

"Would you please stop pretending this is a damn baseball game?" Tim complained, then took in a deep breath as Suzanna lifted her hips off the seat. "Uh-oh, here we go."

Tim thought he heard sirens, but he couldn't be sure, because Keely was yelling for Suzanna to breathe, and Joey was yelling that Keely was kneeling on his hand, and Suzanna was just plain yelling.

"Tim? Come on, you have to talk to me," Don said, still in that calm, measured voice. "Is she pushing?"

"She did, she did. But now she stopped. I can see more of the head, but not all of it. It's .. . Cripes, it's stuck."

"No, you're fine. Ambulance driver says they're at the bridge now, throwing a rope across so the EMS can get to you. Now listen, Tim, next push might just do it. A real bang-bang play, at the hot corner, okay? You ready?"

"I never freaking played third. You played third," Tim gritted out, blinking back the perspiration that
was running down his forehead.

"Where are they?" Tim yelled into the headpiece as he dived under the afghan once more.

"I don't know what you're playing, but I'm Mary. How about you let me take over?"

Tim felt the hand on his back and sat up, pushed the afghan away, and looked at the second most beautiful woman in the world. She was about forty, her hair was dripping wet, her uniform was too
tight on her pudgy body, and she was holding a medical bag.

"I am, and you're in the way. I've been listening in on Dispatch, so I know we're close. Why don't you
go around to the other side of the car and hold your wife's hand? Better, help her sit up a little for this final few pushes."

"You got it!" Then he ripped off the headpiece and grabbed Mary's shoulder. "There's... There's two
of them in there," Tim said, scrambling out of the car. "Do you know there's two of them?"

"Ah, double the pleasure, double the fun. Don't worry, I've already spoken to Dr. Bracken. He's on his way back from Easton and will meet us at the hospital. Hi there, Mrs. Trehan. Come here often?"

"Okay, Suzanna. Pretty name. I'm just plain Mary," she said, pulling on latex gloves, then climbing into the backseat. "Pretty exciting night, isn't it? What do you say we have some babies."

"O-okay," Suzanna said as Tim opened the door and slipped into the car. "Tim!" She reached back, grabbed his hand. "Don't leave me."

"Not a lot of places I could go, babe," he said, kissing her forehead. "I love you, Suze."

"All right, here we go. One hand on her back, one helping her hold up her head, and then sit her up a little," Mary instructed tersely.

"Hey, what's going on in—whoa!" Joey said, quickly drawing his head back out of the car. "Okay,
I'm gone. They got my four-by-four moved, Tim-bo, and they're laying planks."

"Did you guys sell tickets?" Mary asked, then disappeared under the afghan once more.

"Here it... Here it comes ..." Suzanna gasped, and Tim held her, telling her she was great, she was the best, she was magnificent, and he loved her. He loved her so much.

"Ohhhhh," Suzanna sighed at last, collapsing against him, and the next thing Tim heard was a baby crying.

The car was surrounded by cops in yellow slickers, EMS personnel, even the tow truck driver, Donnie's dad. Rain still came down in sheets, and there was even a little lightning, but somehow the baby was kept dry and transferred to the ambulance that had crossed the makeshift bridge on the newly laid planks.

The second baby was born as the ambulance, sirens blaring, pulled under the canopy at the hospital.

Mama and babies were taken upstairs and settled into dry beds, while Tim and everyone else—half the world, it seemed—lingered in the lobby of the Emergency Room.

"I think so. Allison and Elinor, for both our grandmothers," he said, rubbing at his back, which—miraculously—didn't hurt anymore, although it was still sore. "Suzanna was great, wasn't she?"

"You were great, too, Joey," Tim said, holding out his hand to his cousin. "Thank you. Thank you for everything. You, too, Bruno."

"Well, okay, guess we'll head back to the house, huh?" Joey said, scuffing his foot against the tile floor.

"Sounds good. Aunt Sadie will want to hear all the news, and I've still got to call Jack," Keely said, going up on tiptoe to kiss Tim's cheek. "Congratulations, Daddy. Here's the keys to my car; I'll ride home with Joey and Bruno. Go kiss Suzanna for us, then go home yourself, get dry."

"Thanks," Tim said, his voice choked, because his throat was tight. Daddy. Second best word in the English language, next to husband.

"Okay," he said, because he was cold, he definitely was wet, and he wanted to hug his wife. "Thanks."

Suzanna was asleep when he finally got to the room, and the room was dark except for a small light near the floor.

He tiptoed over to the two clear plastic bassinets to see two small pink bundles wearing pink knitted caps. They were sound asleep. "Had a busy night, didn't you?" he whispered, carefully kissing both of his daughters' foreheads.

And then he walked over to the bed. There was Suzanna, still fast asleep. His love, his life. Her orangy hair stood up in damp spikes, and the pale blue hospital gown had drooped halfway off one shoulder.
She was lying on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek.

Tim stood there for a long time, just watching her, then finally lifted the sheet and blanket and climbed into the bed, to lie down, spoon fashion, behind her, one arm draped across her belly....

"Talk to me, Suze," Tim said falling into the chair next to her on the grassy sweep behind his brother's house.

Suzanna swiveled her head toward him. "Ma-ma, Da-da, Me-me. That's it, that's all I can muster at
the moment. Sorry. Get back to me, okay?"

Tim reached over and kissed his wife's cheek. "Ally said Margo this morning. At least I think that's
what she was saying. Mostly, I was trying to get the poor cat's tail out of the kid's mouth."

"Margo's been a brick, hasn't she?" Suzanna said, reaching for her glass of iced tea—in which all the ice cubes had melted long ago, when she'd first tried putting the sixteen-month-old twins down for a nap on
a blanket safely located outside the fenced-in pool area.

Tim took a deep breath, then took the plunge. "Jack and Keely have offered to take the twins after the season's over, so that you and I can go away. Have a real honeymoon, like maybe a whole week's worth."

Susannah was silent for so long that Tim leaned over once more, gave her a little nudge. "Did you hear me?"

"Shhh," she said, her eyes closed. "I'm trying to imagine it. You, me, and nobody else? You're kidding, right? And where would we go? I mean, not that it matters. I can be embarrassingly overjoyed to go
food shopping on my own."

Susannah stood up, and he took her hand, walked with her toward the pool area. "Unless—until—you make the playoffs. Realistically, if we put in time enough for the World Series, we couldn't get away
until the third week of October."

He slipped his arm around her, nuzzled the side of her neck. "Paris has to be terrific in October."

"Paris?" Suzannah's face went white beneath her tan. "Oh, no, I couldn't—we couldn't do that. That's
too far away from the babies."

"Hey, I thought you said you'd like a vacation from them. As a matter of fact, I distinctly remember
you saying those exact words after Ellie climbed out of her crib the other night, and we found her in
the kitchen."

"I know, I know," Suzanna said, then bit her bottom lip. "Couldn't we be away... but closer?"

Tim pulled her toward Jack and Keely, who were preparing hamburgers and hot dogs on the gas grill located inside the pool fencing—a safety precaution Keely had insisted on to protect curious little hands.

"Hey, get this. You guys offer to take the Terrible Twosome so I can whisk my wife off to Paris, and
she says that's too far away."

Keely placed another hamburger pattie on the grill, and smiled at Jack. "Told you. That's five bucks
you owe me, buster."

"What?" Tim asked, looking at his sister-in-law. "But you're the one who suggested Paris. Oh, wait a minute. You set me up, didn't you, Keely. Jack and me both."

Jack made a face. "It's embarrassing. The woman will do anything for a sure five bucks. I think she's going to be a very bad influence on our children. Hey, Candy— not so hard!"

Candy giggled as she walked along the outside of the fence, half-leading, half-pulling her fuzzy black
cat, Brownie, by his leash and halter.

"Remind me to give Brownie some extra catnip tonight," Keely said, lining up rolls on the top shelf of
the grill. "I guess we should just be grateful she isn't trying to drag Johnny."

"Just wait. I find him trying to climb up on the kitchen counter one more time, and he will."

Suzanna slipped her arm through Tim's. "That's it, Keely. You're so busy with your own two. How
could you even think to offer to take our girls on, just so that we can go away?"

"Okay?" Tim said, leading Suzanna back toward the blanket spread under a large oak tree, and to the
two sleeping toddlers.

"Look at them, Tim," Suzanna said. Ally was on her belly, her knees tucked up under her, her rump in the air. Ellie lay sprawled on her back, her head resting on the stuffed rabbit that went everywhere she went. ''Aren't they beautiful?''

"I do like them with their eyes closed," Tim said, earning himself a half-hearted poke in the stomach.

He looked down at his daughters, his girls, his babies, as Suzanna unfolded a light, lacy blanket and spread it over them.

Three redheads. The love of his life, and a pair of angels, both the picture of their mother, who had
given him even more of Suzanna to love.

Suzanna stood up once more, and wrapped her arms around Tim. "I love you all, so much. So very much."

"And I love you, babe," Tim said, turning her fully into his arms. "What do you say we go home for
an hour, and let Keely and Jack practice being baby-sitters a little?"

"Do we dare? The girls will be up soon, and tearing all over again. We don't want to give Keely and
Jack a reason to beg off, do we?"

"Good point," Tim said, "but I think we can risk it. Think about it, Suzanna. A whole hour. Alone. You and me. Me and you. A whole hour. Do you remember what I can do in an hour?"

Suzanna looked at her babies, and then at her husband. She had the whole world here .. . but, once in
a while, she wanted her whole world to be Tim, only Tim.

"Race you to the car," she said, and he ran after her, knowing she'd let him catch her.

I thought you might want to read a snippet of conversation I overheard the other night. The
conversation took place inside my head, between two imaginary characters, but that's my problem.

The speakers are women, two of them. Jane and Molly. Cousins. One born to wealth, the other to hard-working parents.

One is now living a solid middle-class life as owner of a day care center, and the other is a little ... okay,
a litde flaky. Only when cousin visited cousin did our well-behaved girl step over the line, let loose, and sometimes get in trouble.

The other one, with her trust fund to keep her warm, is still playing at life, and currently on the verge
of being fired from her seventh "fun job" in six years.

I think you'll soon see which is which. So, since the only way to get these cousins to stop having their conversations inside my head is to write down what they say, here goes:

"Please, Janie, I have nobody else," Molly said, following her cousin into the private office, the one
with the child-proof plastic cover over the doorknob.

"No, no, nope, and most definitely not," Jane said, reaching for a botde of waterless hand sanitizer.
"I would not do this if I should; I would not do this if I could."

Molly grinned as she pressed her palms against the desktop and leaned closer. "No? I can get lower. Bobby Henderson? Does the name ring a bell? I seem to remember you wanting him to ring your
chimes, and begging me to help you get him to notice you."

"Oh? Really? You don't want to talk about it? Well, how about this one? How about the night I took the blame for you when your dad caught us sneaking home at three, carrying a speed limit sign?"

"It was your scavenger hunt. You're the one who dreamed it up and then dragged me out at midnight."

Molly pushed away from the desk. "Details, details. I saved your butt, took the fall. And then there's
Billy the Bod. Remember him?"

"He had breatfi like a camel," Jane said. "Okay, okay. Enough. I'm still not going to help you."

"There is no big one. Just.. .just a whole bunch of little ones, all of which I'd like to forget, including Bobby Henderson. What a waste of a perfectly good virginity. I'm a grown woman now, Molly. I'm
past those things. You should try it."

Jane pushed away from the desk and stood up, walking to the window that overlooked the playground.
It could be fun. If she was totally demented, that was. "Tell me about it one more time."

"Yes!" Molly said, jumping up and stabbing a fist into the air. "Okay, here goes, in a nutshell. Senator Harrison is driving everyone nuts. Will he run for president? Won't he? If he will run, when will he announce? If he won't run, why won't he?"

"Where do you come in, you mean. Okay, one more time—there's this party. Week-long affair in Cape May. That's in New Jersey, Janie, right down at the tip. You can see the sun both rise and set on the water there. Really."

"Good. Anyway, this is some sort of annual intellectual, invitation-only retreat for brainy types. Sometimes the president of the moment even goes. They sit around and talk about Plato, and nuclear proliferation, the meaning of life, all that junk. The senator is going to be there. I had to get there."

"So you talked a friend who owns an escort service in Washington into pairing you up with one of the single attendees. That's spooky. I mean, who even thinks of stuff like that?"

"You have been listening. Good girl. Yes, it's all set. I go, hanging on the arm of some brainy type. Stricdy platonic, there's no hanky-panky on these retreats— akhough if you hear about any, don't be
a stranger, call me immediately. Anyway, and then I get all chummy with the senator, he tells me his plans, and I get the scoop and save my job. What could be easier?"

"Regis Philbin? I wonder if he's going to be there. They've got people from everywhere. Politicians, professors, actors, even some reporters—sworn to secrecy, of course. You know those guys, the ones that call themselves journalists? But that's the thing, Jane, nobody is going to know I'm a reporter."

"Because you're not. You're secretary to one of the editors. And you're on probation."

"Lose one small phone message with the name of the guy trying to blow the whistle on some trucking company dumping hazardous waste ..." Molly said, sighing, then brightened again. "This will work,
Jane. I get the scoop, and I save my job, get bumped up to reporter. Pulitzer Prize, here I come!"

"Janie," Molly said, sighing. "I told you. Senator Harrison is a widower. But he isn't bringing some
woman he knows. He's not coming alone. He's bringing his nephew."

"The one you used to date right after college, when you were interning in Washington. I seem to remember you mentioning that."

"Exactly. And he hates me. And I'm still sending those Christmas letters to everyone, him included,
about how I spent my year. So he knows I'm trying to get into the newspaper game."

"Jane, please. I wouldn't be able to get within fifty feet of Harrison. But you could. We don't look alike. We don't have the same last name. Nothing. You go in my place, and you get me the scoop. And in return I'll ... I'll... Well, I'll do something. What do you want?"

Molly turned in a slow circle. The room was piled high with kid stuff. Baby stuff. Outside the office
were the sounds of children. Laughing. Talking. Screaming. Crying. Their bottoms were bound to be
wet, their fingers all sticky.

"No," Jane said, walking toward her cousin, pointing a finger at her chest, desperately trying to hide
from her cousin the fact that the week in Cape May sounded exciting, certainly a change from her
usual placid, yet fairly humdrum life.

"Stop that. If I am doing something for you, Molly, then you have to do something for me. Something real. And that's what I want. You... here. We close for most of that week, because it's the Fourth of
July, so you'd only have to be here for two days. Two days. Even you can't mess that up."

"Wanna bet? Oh, hey, hey, don't make that face, Janie. I'll do it, I'll do it. And you'll get Senator
Harrison to bare his soul to you?"

"See? That's funny. You're already getting into this, aren't you, Janie? Loosening up. And we'll stay in touch by cell phone, every day. I'll feed you the right questions.''

"And then we're even? Even if Senator Harrison doesn't talk to me? We're still even? You'll never come in here again telling me I owe you? Because I'm a grownup now, Molly. I'm predictable, and practical, and stuffed full of common sense. I am not the same girl you led around by her nose and got into trouble when you visited every summer. I'm not."

What could go wrong? Ah, dear readers, that's the beauty of the tfiing. From here on out, I get to call
the shots.

Watch for Jane's story, THIS MUST BE LOVE, coming in paperback in February 2003, with Molly's
to follow. Hey, it's about time Janie led, right?

New York Times best-selling author Kasey Michaels has a knack for whacking her readers in the heart—and the funny bone—with her witty tales of unexpected love. Now she delivers a whole new twist on sexual tension, as mystery writer Maggie Kelly sees her fantasy man come to life... right
before a couple of her colleagues meet very untimely deaths....

Maggie Kelly is nothing if not resilient. She bounced back after getting fired from her old job as a writer of historical romances, reinventing herself as a mystery author. She bounced back when she discovered her lover—who also happens to be her publisher—cheating on her. And she bounces right back into her smoking habit whenever she tries to quit. But something just happened that's got tough-talking, quick-thinking Maggie swooning into her super-soft sofa cushions.

Something in the form of an incredibly sexy Englishman by the name of Saint Just. Alexandre Drake, Viscount Saint Just, to be exact. Tall, dark, handsome, with an accent to the for and charm to spare, he's everything she's ever dreamed of in a man. There's just one problem. He is her dream man. He's every woman's fantasy. He's the character who's made her a best-selling author. He's not real. No, he's not real—but he is, for some reason, standing in the middle of Maggie's apartment. With the adorable, bumbling sidekick she created expressly for him right by his side—and eating that piece of fried chicken she was saving for lunch.

But just as Maggie's getting used to her new houseguests, things start to get quite a bit more complicated—in the "homicide" sense of the word. It seems her ex-lover, Kirk Toland, ever the inconsiderate cad, has had the nerve to the right there in her living room ... of poisoning ... after eating
a dinner Maggie made. Her cooking isn't that bad—is it? And if that weren't weird enough, Toland's
death is soon followed by the murder of a colleague whom everyone knows Maggie hated.

So, the mystery writer has become the murder suspect. And the only sleuth who's really on Maggie's
side is the one she invented....

Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of MAGGIE NEEDS AN ALIBI, coming in hardcover
in July 2002!

It all began innocently enough. A desire to explore a larger world, that's what he said. A chance to step out, expand our horizons, spread our wings, and all of that.

I gave my approval, not that the man had applied for it, and came along because . . . well, that's what
I do. Besides, I will have to confess to some curiosity of my own, most especially about the food. The food really interested me.

So we were off, or out, or whatever the vernacular. He thought it would be informative. He said it
would be educational.

Rock music blared from the speakers on either side of the U-shaped work station, aimed straight at Maggie Kelly's desk chair.

M&Ms were lined up neatly to the right of the computer keyboard, color-coded and ready to eat.
Maggie was up to the reds, with the blues always saved for last.

A half-eaten cinnamon-and-sugar Pop Tart topped off the full trash basket shoved under the desktop.
An open bag of marshmallows spilled over dozens of scribbled 5x8 file cards to Maggie's far left. The
bag of individually wrapped diet candies, more a fond hope than a brave supermarket aisle life-changing epiphany, hadn't been opened.

Towers of research books littered the floor like literary Pisas. Others lay open around the base of her chair, scattered about like fallen birds, their spines cracked and broken.

A Mark Twain quote scribbled on a Post-it note was stuck to the edge of the huge, hutch-top desk: "Classic: A book which people praise and don't read."

The entire room, from noise to clutter to smoky haze, advertised the fact that Maggie Kelly was
wrapping up the manuscript for her latest Saint Just Mystery.

And, sure enough, in the middle of the mess, dressed in an old pair of plaid shorts, a threadbare T-shirt with F-U University printed on it, topped by a navy-blue full length bathrobe that should have hit the hamper a week ago, sat Maggie Kelly herself.

Thirty-one years old. Short, curly, coppery hair with really great, wincingly expensive dark-blond highlights. Irish green eyes; huge, round horn-rimmed glasses falling halfway down her rather pert nose. Unlit cigarette dangling from a full, wide mouth just now curved into an unholy grin. An All-American, cheerleader type . . . with an attitude problem.

That was a quick snapshot of Maggie Kelly, the quintessential "successful writer at home." Five feet,
six inches, one hundred sixteen pounds of New York Times best-selling author.

If she stood outside her Manhattan apartment with her empty teacup in her hand, she'd probably snag
a quick five bucks from pitying strangers in ten minutes, tops.

Two Persian cats lay at her feet, snoring. A black one, Wellington, and a gray-and-white monster named Napoleon. Napoleon was a girl, but that knowledge had arrived after the inspiration for her name, so Napper was stuck with it.

She lit the cigarette, squinted as smoke invaded her left eye, and collected her thoughts. After a few moments, her fingers punched at the keys once more as she hunched forward, eyes shut tight as she concentrated.

Maggie was on a roll. She could creep for chapters, that damn "sagging middle" she slaved over, but the end always came to her in a rush. The faster she wrote, the harder she hit the keys. She began chair-dancing, moving to the rhythm of Aerosmith at its most raucous, and the keyboard practically winced.

Saint Just, she pounded out, damnable, damned sexy quizzing glass stuck to one dazlzing blue eye, pivoted slowly to face the earl. "One of the people present in this room knows precisely what happened here the night Quigley was murdered. Actually, not to be immodest, two of us do," he drawled in his maddeningly arrogant way that melted the innocent (at least the females) and inspired dread in the guilty.

Pause. Open eyes. Hit Save. Read. Correct the spelling of dazzling. Eat two red M&Ms. What the hell, eat the whole row. Smile as the next song begins. Keep to the tune, keep to the rhythm.

Maggie tapped both barefooted heels against the plastic rug-saver beneath her swivel chair while doing
her best to "Walk This Way" while sitting down. She could do that today. She could do anything. She was Maggie Kelly, writer. And, hot diggity-damn, by midnight, she'd be Maggie Kelly, a writer having written.

'"For the remainder of our assembled company, my good friend here, Mr. Balder, will help
demonstrate as I explain. Sterling, if you please?"

"Again ? I'm always the corpse. Don't see why, but all right," Sterling said, walking toward the fireplace to join his friend.

"Ah, very good. Now, if everyone will refresh their memories of the evening poor Quigley met his Maker"? Just here, I believe. Sterling?"

Sterling Balder sighed, split his coattails, and lay down on the floor, crossing his arms over his
ample belly.

"So there he is, poor Quigley, his lifeblood draining away. Sterling, please try not to look so robustly healthy if you can manage it. Be more desperate, if you can, knowing death is imminent but wanting
to tell everyone who did the dastardly deed. Ah, wonderful. And now we need someone to play the murderer. My lord? If you would please be so kind as to take up a position providing a clear shot at Sterling? Pretend he's still upright, as he's looking quite comfortable down there, and we don't want
to disturb him."

"Me? Why me? Surely you don't believe... you don't think... what utter nonsense!" Shiveley backed up
a pace, trying to straighten his spine, and failing miserably. He cast his panicked gaze around the crowded drawing room, looking for allies, seeing only unsmiling faces. Condemning eyes. "What areyou all looking at? I would never do such a thing. He was my very closest, dearest friend."

"Oh, very well, but I'm doing this under protest. You're an ass, Saint Just. Always poking about, pretending to be a Bow Street Runner. As if the word flowers means anything to anybody."

Saint Just watched as Shiveley walked to precisely the spot he had concluded the murderer had stood that fatal night. How very helpful of the man, for Saint Just had come into this gathering tonight still unsure of Shiveley's guilt. It was so pleasant when one's hypothesis is proved correct.

'Yes, Shiveley, flowers," Saint Just said, shooting his cuffs, careful to contain his glee that Shiveley
was behaving just as he'd hoped. He winked at Lady Caroline, wordlessly assuring her that there
would be ample time for their assignation later that evening. Wouldn't do to ever disappoint a lady. Especially one of Lady Caroline's talents, who had just lost a bet.

"Excuse me. Where was I? Oh, yes. No one knows what it means. At least, not until one expands their imagination to include sources of flowers. Sources such as the markets in Covent Garden. Flowers. So much easier to spell out in blood than Covent Garden, I suppose, although dying utterances—or, in
this case, scrib-blings—have this nasty way of being unnecessarily cryptic, don't they? Difficult to believe a man known best for his mediocrity could rise to such heights just as he was about to expire, but perhaps approaching mortality concentrates the mind. Still, I digress. Flowers, and Covent Garden. One word, to mean both place and person. Do you know, Shiveley, what I learned when I mentioned Quigley 's name in the theatre at Covent Garden? Perhaps if I were to say the name Rose? Does that jog your

Maggie screamed with him. Some jackass was leaning on her doorbell. She hit Save—damn near snapping the keys in half—swiveled in her chair, glared at the door. "Go away. She's not home. She broke her leg and we had to shoot her."

Wellie and Napper, who could sleep through Aerosmith at top volume and squared, woke at the sound of Maggie'svoice and trotted toward the kitchen, believing it to be time for their afternoon snack, no doubt.

"Eat the dry stuff in the dish," she called after them, "and I'll open a can later." Damn it. The doorbell. Cats. Was it too much to ask to be left alone? She was just getting to the best part. So was Tyler:
"Dream on, dream on ..." She reached over to the portable stereo system sitting on the shelf of the desk unit and cranked up the volume.

"Had to shoot her? Maggie? Maggie, I know you're in there. Come on, sweetheart, open the door. Can you even hear me?"

Maggie's shoulders slumped. "Kirk," she mumbled as she turned the volume down a notch, angrily
ground out her cigarette in the ashtray, and threw her computer glasses on the desk. On a scale of one to ten, ten being the highest, if anyone were to ask who she wanted in her apartment at the moment, she'd give Kirk Toland a One and killer bees a Six, with a bullet. "Go away, Kirk. You know I'm writing."

"I know, sweetheart, and I apologize. Maggie, this is embarrassing. I can't grovel out here in the hall.
Let me in, please."

"Kirk," she said shortly, then turned her back on him and headed for one of the overstuffed couches in the center of the large living room.

He followed her, like an eager puppy coming to heel, hoping for a treat. "Maggie," he said, his carefully cultivated Harvard accent evident in that single word— which was a neat trick if you could do it. Kirk Toland could.

Kirk Toland could do a lot of things. Tall, as trim as his personal trainer could get him, distinguished-looking at forty-seven with his just-going-silver hair and smoke-gray eyes, Kirk was handsome, twice divorced, richer than God, and pretty decent in bed. But not great, which was one of
the reasons Maggie had tossed him out of hers. That, plus the fact that she didn't like threesomes, and Kirk's ego was always between the sheets with them. Kirk Toland, Maggie had decided two months ago, had been a prize, a rite of passage. And a complete mistake.

Unfortunately, Kirk Toland was also something else. He was the publisher of Toland Books, Maggie's publishing house. Which pretty much made it a little sticky to flat out tell him to take a hike.

Maggie had been tossed out of Toland Books once, and didn't much long for an encore. Six years ago
she had been Alicia Tate Evans, historical romance author (three names are always so impressive on a book cover). She'd also been a historical romance author cut loose by Nelson "The Trigger" Trigg when Toland Books had brought the bean counter on board and he'd blown away more than three dozen mid-list authors with one shot of his smoking red pen.

And, damn, the switch had worked. Her editor had slipped her new pen name, Cleo Dooley (Maggie
had decided that Os looked good on a book cover), past The Trigger, smack back to a spot on the list at Toland Books (See? Even Toland Books agreed on the Os). The tongue-in-cheek Saint Just Mysteries had started strong and grown rapidly, so that her house had just asked for two books a year, and had put her in hardcover. The third installment made the extended NYT list; the fourth had climbed to number seven, stayed in the top fifteen for three weeks, and had gone NYT again in paperback. Her Alica Tate Evans romances had been reissued, and this time hit the charts.

Maggie Kelly didn't need Kirk Toland. She didn't need Toland Books. But she felt loyal to her editor and good friend, Bernice Toland-James. Bernie liked Maggie's work and was a brilliant, insightful editor. And the topper—Bernie had been Toland Wife Number One and knew what a pain in the ass Kirk could be. You couldn't buy that kind of empathy in the open market.

Pulling the edges of her robe around her, Maggie flopped down on the couch and let the pillows envelop her. She watched, biting her bottom lip, as Kirk seated himself on the facing couch, careful not to lean back into the cabbage-rose jaws of life that regularly ate her guests.

The Aerosmith gang was still in good voice, still shouting and screaming, and obviously annoying the
hell out of Kirk, God love them all.

"Writing? Yes, I can hear that. Could you possibly turn it down?" Kirk asked, inclining his head toward the portable stereo.

Kirk reached up one manicured hand and adjusted the knot in his tie. "Is that what you call it? I guess
you know better than to call it muse-ic." And then he grinned, as if he'd just told a fantastic joke, and Maggie remembered another reason she'd broken it off with Kirk. The blue-blooded man's attempts at humor were so jarring and out of character, they were embarrassing—rather like being tied down and forced to watch George Dubya try to be coherent without cue cards.

"Very funny, Kirk. You crack me up, really. Did Socks let you in?" she asked, referring to her doorman, Argyle Jackson. Poor guy. He blamed his unfortunate yet inevitable nickname on his mother, whom he believed should have known better. "I've asked him not to do that. What did you tip him? Had to be worth at least a twenty to you."

"I could have had him for twenty? Damn. I did buzz, Maggie, not that you could have heard it over this noise," Kirk told her, shooting his French cuffs with the gold Gucci links. The man was forever fussing with his clothing, as if he couldn't get enough of touching himself, congratulating himself for being so perfect. What had she seen in him? "Anyway, you're right. When you didn't answer, Argyle was kind enough to let me in. Pleasant boy, Argyle, even if he is one of those light-in-the-loafers types."

Maggie winced again. What was that? Strike seventeen? There was so much she couldn't stand about Kirk Toland, mostly that she had been vulnerable enough, flattered enough, stupid enough, to have let him talk her into bed six months ago. "Socks is a nice guy, period. Try to get that straight in your very straight head, Kirk, okay? I mean, does Socks go around saying that we're pleasant types, even if we
are heterosexual?"

"As I've explained to you before, Maggie, you make too much money now to remain a damned liberal Democrat. There's no profit in it." Kirk stood up, began to pace the Oriental carpet Maggie had indulged in after the sale of her third Saint Just mystery. "But let's not argue, all right? That's not why I came here."

"It isn't?" Maggie uncurled herself from the couch, stood up, and turned toward the hallway leading to
her bedroom. "Have you come for the rest of your clothes? I'll get them for you."

And that was her second mistake. The first had been letting Kirk into the apartment. The second was turning her back on him. She'd taken only three steps when she felt his hands come down on her shoulders. He turned her around, stepped closer to her, pelvis first, spreading his legs slightly as he planted his feet and smiled.

Nothing. She felt nothing. The strings of her heart did not go zing. She was free. Really free.

Kirk had great caps, and liked showing them off. He did so now, his smile part indulgent, part determinedly sexual. "Maggie, you don't mean that."

She pushed herself away from him, delighting in the knowledge that Kirk Toland meant nothing to her, less than nothing to her libido. "What is it, Kirk? You can't lose? You can't be the one who gets his walking papers? Do I have to take you back so that you can drop me, tell everybody you dropped me? What? Work with me, Kirk. Give me a hint here, okay?"

The caps disappeared as Kirk turned angry. "It's my reputation, isn't it? It's Bernice, and the rest of
them. Damn it, Maggie, don't listen to them. I love you, don't you understand that?"

Aerosmith was really on the ball, as "Same Old Song And Dance" began blaring out of the speakers.

Maggie wrinkled her nose. "Actually, Kirk, no. No, I don't understand that you love me. I don't know why. Maybe it was the picture in yesterday's Daily News, showing some blonde with a really horrific glandular problem leaning her boobs all over you. Maybe it's the fact that we were together for four months and you cheated on me for three of them. Maybe I'm afraid you haven't had all your shots.
No matter what, it's over, has been over for two months, never should have started in the first place."

For a Harvard man, Kirk Toland could be as thick as a Gallagher's filet mignon. He took another step toward her; she backed up two, amazed that she didn't feel trapped, panicked. "It's my age," he said, nodding. "Sixteen years, Maggie. That's not so much. And I'm certainly not lacking for stamina, right?"

"You're a flicking god in bed, Kirk," Maggie lied sincerely. "Never had better. I'm a hollow shell without you. There, happy now?" She neatly sidestepped him, headed for the front door of her apartment. His clothes could rot in her closet.

He tagged along behind her, amusing her. She was beginning to warm to the doggy analogy. Here, boy. Wanna go outside?

Correction. He could be as thick as a McDonald's milkshake, and twice as full of empty air. "No, Kirk, we will not have dinner tonight. I told you, I'm wrapping up my book. A three-alarm fire wouldn't get me out of this apartment tonight, or for the rest of the week, while I reread, print out the pages. You know the routine, right?"

''Friday, then? Saturday? We could fly to one of those islands, maybe one with a casino? Anything you want, Maggie. Anything."

"Really? How about this. I want you to leave, Kirk," she said, opening the door. Then she caved. She always caved, damn it. Big mouth, no follow-through. "Tell you what—I'll see you at the party I'm
giving next Saturday night to celebrate getting this book out of here. Not this Saturday, Kirk, next Saturday. Can you remember that? Is that a deal?"

She watched, amazed, as Kirk digested this information, thought about it. A party? He liked parties.
Sit up, boy, give me your paw and I'll give you a treat.

And, once everyone went home, he could have a party of his own, with just he and Maggie. She could nearly read the words as they crossed his forehead, like a ticker tape of lascivious thoughts.

"Deal." He leaned down, his handsome face slapably smug, and aimed a kiss at her mouth. She turned aside, so that the kiss landed on her cheek. "I'll get you back, Maggie. Believe me when I say that. I
don't lose."

"Uh-huh. Sure. See ya," she said, quickly closing the door behind him, then glaring at it as she threw the deadbolts, shot home the chain. "Creep."

"A first-rate suggestion, my dear, if Mr. Toland in fact heard you. Quite an insupportable person. He definitely should be crawling away on his hands and knees, preferably over shards of broken glass."

"Not that kind of creep. I meant—" Maggie's hand stilled on the security chain. "Who said that?"

"And now an excellent question, and so much more commendable than a maidenly scream. Please accept my compliments, Miss Kelly, but then, I already know you've got bottom. As for who I am, if you were perhaps to turn around, I do believe all your questions would be answered quite at once."

She was hearing voices? This was good. Not. How could she be hearing, talking to, voices? Who was in her apartment? How did he get in? Maggie froze, her back to the room. Don't wanna look, don't wanna. Stupid fingers, stop shaking. Turn the locks, turn the damn locks. Get me the hell out of here.

"I reiterate, Miss Kelly," the fairly deep, highly cultured, damned sexy, and scarily familiar male voice continued in a remarkably pure British accent, "if you were to turn around? Mr. Balder is poking about in your kitchen, impervious to my suggestion that he behave. Therefore, we won't wait on the man, if that's all right with you. So, if you will simply turn around, allow me to introduce myself? Formally, that is. As it is, we've been rather intimately acquainted for several years."

The deadbolts were open. The chain was off. Maggie's hand was on the doorknob. The man wasn't coming after her, grabbing her; he didn't seem to be threatening her, unless he was planning to talk her to death. She could be out of the apartment in three seconds, four if she stumbled. If her damn feet would even move.

"I do believe my dear friend prefers to consider himself his own man, Miss Kelly, but you're quite correct, your Sterling Balder. Ah, how pleasant. It appears I've found the correct knob on my first attempt. I should be complimenting myself. I've come to harbor a certain appreciation for Mr. Aerosmith, thanks to you, but that particular composition is rather jarring. Frankly, I much prefer selections from The Scarlet Pimpernel. And Phantom of the Opera has a certain panache, don't you agree? I notice you prefer that music when you're orchestrating my romantic seductions."

It took Maggie a moment to realize that the stereo speakers had indeed gone silent. Which was rather unfortunate, as now she could clearly hear the beating of her pounding heart, on top of the amused male voice that showed no signs of falling silent anytime soon.

Swallowing hard, and feeling herself caught between episodes of America's Most Wanted and some of
the screwier X-Files, she turned toward her desk. Slowly. Tentatively. Keeping her gaze on the parquet floor as long as she could before raising her eyes an inch at a time . . . until she saw the pair of shiny, black, knee-high boots.

"Oh boy," she breathed, pressing her back against the door, her hand still on the doorknob. X-Files. Definitely X-Files.

The boots were attached to legs. The legs were encased in form-fitting tan breeches.

"No. This isn't happening. I'm working too hard. Or maybe it's nicotine poisoning from smoking too much.

Am I drooling?" She wiped at her chin. "You drool with nicotine poisoning, right? I don't know about hallucinations, but I could buy it if you're selling. Because this is not happening."

She dared herself to look higher. There was a white-on-white waistcoat beneath a dark-blue superfine jacket. A gold-rimmed quizzing glass hanging to the waist from a black riband. A fall of lace at the
throat, repeated at the wrists.

Maggie closed her eyes, took a deep breath, lifted her head—and stared straight at the man standing beside her desk.

And there he was, in all his glory. Alexandre Blake, Viscount Saint Just. All six feet, two inches, one hundred and eighty-five pounds of the well-built hunk of her imagination, come to life. She recognized him at once. After all, she had created him.

Hair as black as midnight, casually rumpled in its windswept style, a la Beau Brummell. Eyes as blue as
a cloudless summer sky, as mesmerizingly blue as Paul Newman's. Those winglike brows, the left one currendy raised in wry amusement, rather like a refined Jim Carrey. Her creation did wry amusement well. He also excelled at sarcastic, insulting, inquiring and, most of all, sexy.

His head was well shaped, his face longish, witfi a strong, slightly squared jaw, his skin lightly tanned. Full lips patterned closely on Val Kilmer's sensuous pout. Slashes in his cheeks and fascinating crinkles beside his eyes when he smiled, both copied from a younger Clint Eastwood, when old Clint was knocking all the women dead in his spaghetti Westerns (put a thin cheroot between this guy's teetfi, have him crinkle up his eyes, and the entire female population of Manhattan would melt into a puddle). Peter O'Toole's aristocratic nose.

"I beg to disagree, Miss Kelly. It is very possible. I fear I shock you, and make no doubt that you are experiencing some difficulty in believing the evidence of your own eyes. But please do try to come to grips with the obvious. I am Saint Just. Your Saint Just, if that makes any of this easier."

He was still there. Worse, his smile crinkled the skin around his eyes, serving to produce those sexy
cheek slashes. The man was a god. No, scratch that. The figment of her imagination was a god.

She'd been working too hard. She'd been under way too much pressure. Smoking too much, eating and sleeping too little. Because this couldn't happen. It just couldn't.

"Ah, we're alone now that odious man is gone. Good. The fellow's pushy and revolting, and all of that."

Maggie's head snapped around to see yet another Regency-era dandy advancing on her from the kitchen. Again, recognition was simple. This could only be Sterling Balder, Saint Just's good friend and compatriot. She'd invented Sterling Balder because every hero needs a sidekick, a foil, someone to talk to so he isn't talking to himself. Preferably, a hero needed a slightly bumbling friend, as bumbling, adorable sidekicks made for the best theater. So Maggie had made Sterling short, plump, balding (Balding, Balder. Get it?), and rather delightfully dim-witted. Her readers loved him; he even had his own fan club.

"Delighted and all of that, Miss Kelly," Balder was saying as Maggie tried to hear him through the sudden ringing in her ears. "We've been waiting for ever so long to meet you, haven't we, Saint Just? Do you mind? I have a question for you, not that I'm not completely grateful that you've allowed me to be a figment of your imagination and all of that. But, and here's my question, Miss Kelly—couldn't you have figmented me just a tad thinner?"

It was perfect. A perfect Sterling Balder question, right down to his self-conscious overuse of the phrase "and all of that." Maggie would have laughed, except that her gums were now going numb, along with
her lips, her forehead, and three-quarters of her body.

"I—I created you," she said, her voice coming to her ears from far away as she stared at Saint Just once more. God, he was gorgeous! She really did do good work. "But you're in my imagination, not my living room. Who gave you permission to drop in for a visit? It sure wasn't me! But no. I take that back. You're not really here. You can't really be here."

Saint Just raised his quizzing glass to his eye, put one foot forward, one hand on his hip, and struck a pose. A perfect Saint Just pose based on a perfect Beau Brum-mell pose she'd seen reproduced in one of her research books. "Far be it from me to point out the error in that statement, Miss Kelly," he drawled
in that wonderful young Sean Connery as James Bond voice, "but we most definitely are here. Now, if I may brook a suggestion, might I say that Sterling and I are most happy to excuse you while you...
forgive me... freshen yourself?"

"Yes," Balder said, nodding. "Not to be insulting, but you do look a trifle hagged, and all of that.
Probably do you good, a wash and a brush up."

Arrogant. Yes, she'd made Saint Just arrogant. She'd had to, as no character is perfect, not even the perfect hero. In the end, she gave him a few other less than kind characteristics.

Arrogant, a bit sarcastic, perhaps a tad overbearing. More than slightly proud, a completely confident
man who didn't suffer fools gladly. Those were the defects (could they be strengths?) she'd picked for
the Viscount Saint Just. Not that it mattered. All she had to do was shut down her computer and he'd
shut up, go away. At least that's the way it was supposed to happen.

And that was the way it did happen, damn it. Saint Just and Balder were not in her living room. They couldn't be. She was dreaming, that's what she was doing. She'd locked Kirk out, then lain down on the couch and fallen asleep and begun to dream.

"Ouch!" Okay. So pinching herself didn't wake her up, banish these imaginary intruders. Clearly she had to find another way to wake herself up, regain her sanity.

Maggie lifted her chin, just the way defiant heroines did, and commanded herself to walk forward ... to put out one trembling hand ... to poke a hole straight through the washboard-flat belly of this absurd, absurdly handsome figment of her imagination.

But before she could touch him, that figment of her imagination took hold of her hand, bowed over it, turned it at the last possible moment, and planted a kiss in her palm.