“You’ve been spending a lot of time helping Dr. Blake with his projects,” I said. “Maybe it’s time to let him learn about some of your interests. He’d probably enjoy it.”

“You think so?”

“Definitely,” I said. Actually, I cared a lot less about whether Dr. Blake would enjoy poison ivy wrangling than whether Dad would. As I watched a smile growing on Dad’s face, I realized that one reason I’d rather resented Dr. Blake was that he seemed to be monopolizing all of Dad’s time for his own projects. Dad’s garden, his poison ivy extermination efforts, and many of his pet projects had languished all summer—it felt as if Dad himself had been partially eclipsed.

To Dr. Blake’s credit, when he showed up a little while later he joined in the poison ivy hunt with reasonably good humor, and Dad and I spent a happy afternoon teaching him and Timmy how to recognize and safely remove the ubiquitous three-leaved menace. He even seemed entertained by Dad’s vast store of poison ivy lore and trivia. Maybe I was being too hard on him.

When Michael got home, he took over Timmy-wrangling while I fixed dinner. Then he slipped off with Dad and Dr. Blake on their still-secret mission while I put Timmy to bed. I was in luck—I’d managed to wear him out enough during the day that he barely made it through two Dr. Seuss books.

Or maybe my newfound resolution to be gentle but firm with him was paying off.

I was already in my skulking clothes—jeans and a dark t-shirt—when Sandie arrived.

“So where’s the little cherub?” she said.

“You’re in luck,” I said. “He’s already safely in bed. And if your luck continues, he’ll sleep through, and all you’ll have to do is entertain yourself while he sleeps. Still—just in case.”

I introduced her to the mysteries of Timmy’s now well-organized instruction manual. Showed her the stash of juice, milk, and fruit all ready if Timmy woke up and wanted something to eat or drink. Demonstrated how to secure the car seat, and then brought it in so it would be handy in case of emergencies. Made sure all the emergency numbers were right by the phone.

I was beginning to understand why Karen had lost touch with me after Timmy’s birth—why some new parents ceased to have a social life at all.

About the time I was finishing up my demonstration, I heard a knock on the door. I opened it to see Mother and Rose Noire standing on the front porch.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Meg,” Mother said. “You’re not dressed.”

I looked down at my jeans and t-shirt.

“Actually, I think I am,” I said. “Unless you’re trying to tell me I’m having an ‘emperor’s new clothes’ moment.”

“You’re not dressed for the garden party,” Mother said.

“That’s because I’m not going to a garden party.”

“It’s the garden club summer outing,” Mother said. “I know I told you.”

“If you did, I didn’t remember it,” I said. “Sorry. No can do. Unless it’s okay to bring Timmy.”