The discussion turned to Labor Day. Her in-laws would be visiting over the three-day weekend. Adam mentioned company Astros tickets.

"Anybody interested?" he asked.

Josh jumped to his feet, pumped his fists in the air, and did his Rocky victory dance.

"I think he's happy," Hannah said.

"Wrong sport." Adam signed, a forced smile on his face.

Grace picked up on the tightness around Adam's mouth. Exhaustion, maybe? The other woman?

"Don't go there," #2 whispered.

Josh plopped back down and stuffed near-whole meatb.a.l.l.s down his throat.

Grace blinked hard and stared at her son. Adam and Hannah stopped eating to watch the spectacle.

"Slow down. Chew." Adam's voice had lost its hint of a smile and now bordered slight irritation.

Josh winced, either from swallowing the large wad of food or his dad's unusually stern tone. He slammed down water from his gla.s.s. "I need to count my money. Can I get a jersey? Number seven? I've been saving my allowance. Please?" Josh said, foregoing the courtesy of signing while talking.

"Biggio?" Hannah fingerspelled.

Grace shrugged.

Adam nodded.

"Finished!" Josh cleaned his plate and remembered his manners as efficiently as beating the buzzer in a calf-roping compet.i.tion.

Grace continued to stare, her fork suspended mid-air, while Josh scooted around the kitchen, through the family room and up the stairs. "What was that?" she asked.

"R2D2 on crack?" Hannah signed.

Both set of adult eyes rounded at their daughter.

Hannah smiled, obviously pleased with her joke and then shrugged. "Just kidding." She stood, took her dishes to the sink, and followed her brother upstairs.

Grace watched Adam make the move to the kitchen. She remained seated, willing the day not to end. The fall semester always zoomed by like a rock catapulted through a sling shot.

"I forgot how much he likes going to the games," she said.

"Yeah." Adam's tone was as bland as grits without salt.

"Thought you were gonna have to Heimlich that last meatball." Grace took her last swig of iced tea. "Do you think we should take him to some more before the season ends?"

She waited for a response. None came.

"Adam?"

"Hmm?"

Grace repeated the question.

"Uh...yeah, probably."

She had moved to the counter beside him to spoon leftovers into a plastic container and froze at the "uh...yeah, probably" remark. She stole a glance at him standing at the sink, his lips stretched tight across his face, his shoulders hunched. It's ba-ck. The words floated around inside her in a little girl Poltergeist voice. She only prayed the malevolent abductor, it, didn't have a name. Like Jennifer Aniston...or Lindsay.

She wanted her closet. "Are you...mad?" she asked, softly.

"No, of course not."

Adam's answer shot out way too quick for any comfort or rea.s.surance. "Then...what?" She couldn't believe she actually asked.

"Nothing." Pause. "Just tired."

Grace's eyes narrowed, a meatball-size knot in her stomach. "Okay, I'll finish up. You go rest."

Adam dried his hands, needing no further encouragement. "Maybe you're right. I'll lay down for a while before I get back to work." He stifled a yawn, kissed her forehead and left the kitchen.

Their eyes never met.

A fake yawn, she thought. She wiped down the counters, then repeated the maneuver. Her thoughts registered completely off the Richter scale. Ugly visions of a naked, kissing beach scene starring Adam and Jennifer clouded her head. No, wait...they didn't have beaches in Chicago. Do they? She felt sick. She cornered the market on bizarre behavior, not Adam. He couldn't have a turn-especially with Jennifer.

After wearing the kitchen sponge to a nub with the obsessive counter-wiping, she checked the bedroom. Empty. She tiptoed in the shadows of the hall past the study. Adam sat at the computer, staring at the monitor, shoulders still hunched. His right hand maneuvered the mouse, his left hand holding his cell phone to his ear.

Her pulse hammered through her body. She smelled fear as violently as a vampire thirsts for blood. She held the look on his face in her mind to examine. Sadness? Worry? Something secret. Something wrong. Something very wrong.

Two weeks later. Oh yea. Oh yea. Oh yea...her first day of cla.s.s. She woke with the low-level nausea she hadn't experienced since volunteering for summer camp.

Adam had left for the office at a ridiculously early hour. Grace woke the kids and headed for the kitchen. On the table she found a note in Adam's familiar scrawl: ~Play nice with the other boys and girls~ At least he remembered, she thought. She made breakfast for the kids and sipped herbal tea while they ate. Her stomach couldn't handle coffee this morning. Although walking around campus with a Starbuck's concoction could look cool. She'd have to rethink a drive-by on her way to cla.s.s.

Waving the kids off to the bus, she headed to the closet. Decision time. What does a forty-year-old woman wear on her first day of school?

"Anything she d.a.m.n well pleases," came the reply.

She should have known #2 wouldn't miss this opportunity.

"Besides, who cares?" #2 said.

"I do, if it's any of your business." Grace found strength in her own sarcasm.

"Of course, it's my business. I'm you. You're me. I'm you. So, let's git'er done."

Grace shook her head. She didn't need this today. "Look, I don't know if you think this is helpful or what, but I'm nervous. Okay?"

"Really? Hadn't noticed."

Without too much arguing, the two decided on black Capri pants and a tailored b.u.t.ton-down white blouse. #2 voted for a tighter-fitting top showing more cleavage. Grace put her foot down-probably a first. #2 backed off.

After her second cla.s.s, Grace found her way back to the car and did a sit-down happy dance. "I did it...I did it...I did it!"

She survived the first day without a hitch, if she didn't count being late; or the Caramel Macchiato splash down her front; or the sweaty armpit stains on her white blouse. Who knew she'd have to park five buildings away from her first cla.s.s?

Okay, so maybe day one didn't go without a hitch. But no one seemed to notice or care she had decided to return to school at forty, an age where acne breakouts were no longer life altering.

"So, how does it feel to be the only one in your cla.s.s with clear skin?" #2 hounded.

"Don't knock it."

"It's a com-pli-ment," said #2.

"Really." Grace meant the retort as a question, but was thankful it sounded snarky.

"That so hard to believe?"

"Yeah." Grace felt a smirk creep to her face. She liked being the snark-er for a change.

"Okay. I've been thinking."

Grace waited a moment. "About?"

"Calling a truce," #2 said.

Suspicious, Grace kept quiet.

"You don't seem to need me as much. What do you say we come to, oh, I don't know...an agreement or something."

"What sort of agreement?" Grace didn't feel she could trust #2 any more than she could toss a semi across a parking lot.

"How about...." #2 paused, "I only speak up if-or when-the little pansy-a.s.s starts running the show."

"Spoken like a real lady," Grace said. "You sure you're ready to go that far?"

Silence and then, "Ah...sure. Why not?" She drew out the word sure with unnecessary sarcasm.

Grace contemplated, willing to give it a shot. "Okay, but I have something to add."

"Like what?"

"Shut up. I'm not as nice as I used to be."

"No s.h.i.t." #2 almost sound offended.

"You are also permitted to speak up to encourage and/or support."

More silence from #2.

"Well?"

"I'm thinking." Another pause from the alter ego. "Encourage or support. Encourage or support." #2 dragged out the moment. "Okay, I think I can handle that."

"So, it's a deal?" Grace wondered if #2 should have her own name. Multiple personalities do, don't they?

"Deal. Wanna shake?" #2 asked.

"Funny."

CHAPTER 28.

QUINLAN AND ANGELA.

A commanding voice broke the silence. "Edward!"

Quinlan, glancing down, saw a striking woman with blonde curly hair and broad shoulders. She wore a gleaming white pants suit with a wide braided gold belt securely wrapped around her narrow waist.

My ground patrol? Quinlan wondered.

The woman's glare was directed upward to the travel escort hanging precariously from the tall pine tree; her hands were firmly planted at her waist.

"Yes ma'am?" Eddie answered in a Steve Urkel voice.

"I see you've made your usual graceful landing," the beautiful blonde-haired woman said, clearly irritated. "What is it Edward, third time this month?"

"Fourth," Urkel corrected.

The woman shaded her eyes, surveying his silhouette against the midday sun. A clump of pine needles stuck out from behind one of his ears. Several twigs wedged up a pants leg.

"Unbelievable," she muttered. "You think he'd learn."

Quinlan hung with her legs dangling freely from her parachute harness. Very unlady-like.

"Release!" sounded the command from below.

The straps of the monstrous blue ghost parachute melted away. With the ease and grace of Mary Poppins' floating umbrella, Quinlan glided to her final descent. Her feet met the ground, bringing her face to face with yet another woman dressed in all white. Unlike Mary with her dark hair and regal beauty queen-ish manner, this woman had bouncy curls and a beach volleyball physique. Although different in stature, both women screamed respect and authority.

"Welcome." The woman extended her hand. Her smile dimpled. "I'm Angela, your ground patrol. Survive the landing okay?"

"I guess." Patting her hair, Quinlan found a lingering strand of moss which she pulled free, then straightened her sparkly Catwoman gla.s.ses. "Everything...." she said, checking for torn clothing or missing body parts, "seems to be here."