"A gentleman never speaks of such things."

"You know what? You're absolutely right."

"Okay, I'll tell you . . ."

I waited as Jeff Slade took his time. Then, finally, he said: "I did what you would've done."

When I got home that night, Kate met me with news of Teddy. "What's more heartbreaking than a small child throwing up? They take it so personally. At least Teddy did. Between dry heaves, he was crying, saying, 'But, Mommy, I did nothing wrong.' "

Only after scrubbing the small throw rug in the boys' room, only after Teddy's pajamas were hand-washed in the kitchen sink, and only after we started to get ready for bed did Kate and I speak of the earlier part of the evening.

Kate, while looking for her nightgown, said, "Was he upset when I didn't come back?"

"Disappointed, but I think he understood. He said something about how he can relate now that he has Korky . . ."

"You mean the dog?"

"Yeah, his dog. That dog with the giant d.i.c.k."

Kate either ignored the d.i.c.k remark or didn't hear it because she was busy pulling her nightgown over her head. "Did you have a nice time after I left?"

"Oh, pretty much the evening fizzled without you there."

"You're nice to say so."

"He said he comes to New York a lot. He said we should go out again. He said he was very tight with the owner of n.o.bu."

"That would be Robert De Niro."

"He didn't say that."

"Only because he's discreet."

I had to laugh. Kate asked why I was laughing. "Well, Jeff Slade is anything but discreet." To prove my point, I told her Jeff's Angelina Jolie story.

"Okay," Kate conceded, "so he's not discreet."

"So do you think he slept with her?"

"First of all, it's not our business-and yes, of course he did-and what do I care if he slept with Angelina Jolie?"

"Liar. You're lying."

"No, really, I don't care."

As I lay there next to Kate, I reheard Jeff's words: I did what you would've done. This prompted me to ask, "Aren't you the least bit curious about what I'd do?"

"It's beside the point, though, honey, isn't it? I mean, she would never . . . not you . . . especially now that she's the biggest movie star/ coolest mom in the entire world. But if she were to ever throw herself at you, I only hope you'd ask if I could roll around with Brad."

Then Kate turned out the light.

In the dark, I stewed over what to say. Should I be insulted?

Kate broke the long silence when she sighed contentedly. "He's turned out to be an okay guy."

"Yeah." I sighed back.

An even longer silence followed.

Then Kate: "Is there something you want to ask me?"

Actually, no, there wasn't, but maybe there ought to have been, so I started to think only to be interrupted by Kate, who said, "Look, I won't lie. There's a lot about his life that is attractive. But the answer is 'No, not for a minute. I'm more certain than ever I married the right man.' "

Funny. I didn't even know that was in question.

No doubt about it. A storm was coming. It was more a matter of when. But that particular afternoon, the Pierrepont Playground was overflowing with moms and nannies and babies and half-day kids. I stood on the fringe, over by the swings, pushing Sam as high as he could go.

A mother I'd just met-Squeaky Voice Mom-and I had been discussing the ominous sky over New Jersey and how the storm appeared to be heading our way. Others must have noticed the mammoth black clouds, the repeated flashes of fractured light. But Squeaky Voice Mom and I seemed to be the only ones worried. I figured the storm would hit within the hour, but that may have been wishful thinking. Squeaky Voice Mom thought sooner, and what followed was the first low rumble of thunder.

Most impressive was the amount of lightning. Squeaky Voice Mom said, "It's like that laser light show at Epcot. Except at Disney World, you don't get wet."

"Wouldn't know about it."

"You haven't been to Disney World?"

"No," I said, "but it's been a dream of mine." Which was true. Kate swore we'd never go there, arguing that it was redundant, since our boys had been weaned on The Lion King and every other Disney extravaganza. We'd either rented or owned every Disney animated movie, and we had more than our share of Disney treasure, the Finding Nemo toothbrush, the Simba blanket. While we weren't a religious family, the case could be made that for our boys, Disney had been their church.

Squeaky Voice Mom (or Minnie Mouse Mom): "We go every year. Six years running. And we still haven't seen everything. You really should take them. Take them while they still believe in things."

I lifted Sam out of the swing, left that corner of the playground, and headed toward a cl.u.s.ter of familiar mothers. Claudia Valentine, Tess Windsor, and Debbie Beebe sat on their regular park bench, sipping large cups of aromatic chai.

"We were just talking about you," Claudia called out a little too loudly.

I smiled, a.s.suming it to be a good thing.

"We were just saying how nice you look today."

Normally, I would have appreciated the attention. But not that day. So I waved it off, thanked them. "It's no big deal," I said. And then I offered up my idea of a joke: "I bathed."

"We're not used to seeing you so put together," Claudia said. "It's not your usual style."

I should have seen it coming. Claudia sometimes liked to give what appeared to be a compliment. But as usually happened, her warm words slowly revealed their true intent. I have a name for her technique-the Reductive Compliment. Kind-seeming words said kindly, which somehow results in the diminishment of the person being praised. I knew better than to engage with her. Why couldn't she just leave me alone?

"So, Tim, you're keeping something from us. What's the occasion?"

Was it that obvious? Okay, so maybe I'd actually washed and combed my hair that morning, as opposed to my usual ritual of shower and shampoo later in the day, and yes, I'd worn a b.u.t.ton-down shirt that brought out the best in my blue-gray eyes, and yes, I'd worn slightly baggy cargo pants, Converse high-tops, and a beige/brown fuzzy/furry pullover. My look was casual but cla.s.sy. The only true indulgence-other than the newly purchased roll of wintergreen Breath Savers in my pocket-was the faint application of my favorite and only cologne, Chanel for men.

"I think he's up to something."

"Are you turning red?"

I needed the ladies to leave soon, for I was about to be busted. And because they'd made such a to-do over my combed hair and my burgeoning fashion sense, I knew they'd know the real reason once Anna Brody arrived with Sophie.

So I tried to use the weather to my advantage. Any roll of thunder, any distant flash of lightning, I'd ooh and ah and uh-oh and say, "Did you see that? Did you hear that? Looks like it's gonna be a big one!"

While I appeared concerned about the weather, the other mothers were more concerned about me.

This was to be Sophie and the boys' fifth playdate in as many days, but unlike the previous four, this one would take place in public, our first out in the world.

Playdate #1 has been previously described.

Playdates #2-4 took place on the garden floor of the AshworthBrody home, a vast, cavernous s.p.a.ce with an oversize stuffed bear, a miniature toy kitchen, enough foam building blocks for an entire preschool cla.s.s, cushioned floors, a ball pit, white and pink girlie furniture and a minibar for snack time.

Playdate #2 was all about a box I found in the Ashworth/Brody utility room. It had held a large flat-screen TV and hadn't been flattened yet. With a sharp knife, I cut into the corrugated cardboard, slicing out a door that swung and windows with shutters (flaps), and dragged it into the middle of the great room. I covered the base with an array of pillows. "It's all yours," I said to the kids.

Anna watched as they went wild. "Brilliant," she said.

"Let's save brilliant for Einstein and Marie Curie. To say it's a good idea-yes, it was a good idea. Thank you, Kate."

Anna said, "So it was Kate's idea. But you're the one here helping me."

"I'm just saying that these good ideas usually aren't my own. I learned from the best."

Anna, holding up a cup of lemonade, gave a mock toast: "To Kate, then."

"To Kate."

Playdate #3 began with my giving all three kids a ball of string, which Anna and I helped them unwind and wrap around the toy furniture, light fixtures, and doork.n.o.bs. Soon we'd turned the downstairs children's wing of the Ashworth-Brody house into a giant cobweb.

Anna was amazed that something so simple as string could keep kids busy for an entire afternoon. "Wait until we do the colored pipe cleaners," I said. "They can be bent into any shape imaginable. Or make our own Play-Doh. Or mix our own bubbles. As the great Dr. Seuss wrote, Oh, the Places You'll Go!"

Anna smiled at the thought.

Playdate #4: Anna and I sat in Sophie's ball pit among countless brightly colored plastic b.a.l.l.s while the kids climbed all around us. Anna confessed that our frequent visits had become the highlight of her day. Or so she said. Repeatedly. And I, for one, believed her.

She knew she was lacking as a mother, but she wanted to improve. I was useful to that end. She paid me with compliments, and it was cloying at first, all the praise. But I grew to like it. She also had a quality charismatic people often possess. When she spoke to you, you felt as if you were the only person in the world.

She was also a bit erratic and could say something impulsive and inappropriate.

For example, while we were in the ball pit, she said, "I bet you and Kate have great s.e.x."

I liked my answer. "That would be Kate's and my business, wouldn't it?"

"I'm sorry if I made you blush."

Dammit.

"I guess I just need to believe that someone out there is having . . ."

"Okay," I said, "we have great s.e.x."

"I knew it."

I neglected to mention: About once every six months.

I began to notice a pattern: If I talked about history, Anna appeared bored. Any mention of my dissertation induced a yawn. But whenever I talked about Kate's and my relationship, Anna got interested. She loved the details, especially in regard to our domestic life. She loved our joint bank account, how we divvied up the family responsibilities. She especially loved the coin jar and how we'd roll pennies to go out on a dinner date once a month.

It was at the end of Playdate #4 that Anna said: "Do you know your eyes get wet every time you talk about Kate?"

"Every time?"

Anna nodded slowly and said, "How come there aren't more men like you?"

Character, my father told me, is what you do when no one's looking. But during those playdates, character was what I did when Anna Brody was looking. Because when she wasn't around, I was just an average dad with average ideas. All those times when we met up with Anna and Sophie, didn't Anna know my best self was on display?

So that day (Playdate #5) when the rain came, it came hard, and it did what I couldn't do. It cleared the entire playground. Tess Windsor, as she put the plastic cover over her younger child's stroller, called out for me and the boys to meet over at her apartment at 2 Montague Terrace. Hot chocolate was going to be served.

I said, "No, thanks," and Teddy, Sam, and I stood against the shelter in the playground, having decided to stay. The cold rain fell hard and at a slant, and I thought that because the drops were so big and fat, the storm would be brief. I told the boys, "We're going to wait this one out."

Teddy whimpered for a moment, after everyone was gone, saying, "I want hot chocolate."

"I'll get you hot chocolate when the rain stops."

I'd been right. It wasn't long until the rain began to let up.

"Daddy, look," Sam said.

"I am," I said.

"No, here. Daddy, look here."

I looked down. Sam showed me his arms and how his skin had goose b.u.mps.

"It's from the cold air," I said, helping Sam on with his jacket. "It's something your body does to keep you warm."

By the time Anna Brody and Sophie Brody-Ashworth made it through the gate, the rain had turned to a drizzle. They were an hour late.

"You waited," she said, as if she hadn't expected me to.

Of course, I wanted to say.

"Do you know why you waited?"

I had my theories. "No," I said.

"Because, Tim Welch, you are a good, good man."

Hardly.