Pete stil lives in the house we shared for almost twenty years. Though it is worth hundreds of thousands of dolars, the fence is mended with a wooden block, and a makeshift goal sags in the backyard, testimonial to Katy's soccer years. The house is painted, the gutters cleaned, the lawn mowed by professionals. A maid maintains the inside. But beyond normal upkeep, my estranged husband believes in laissez-faire and the quick patch. He feels no obligation to protect area real estate values. I used to worry about neighborhood protests. The separation relieved me of that.

A furry brown face watched through the fence as I swung onto the drive. When I climbed from the car, it crinkled and gave a low 'rrup!'

'Is he here?' I asked, slamming the door.

The dog lowered its head, and a purple tongue dropped from its mouth.

I circled to the front and rang. No response.

I rang again. A key stil hung from my chain, but I wouldn't use it. Though we'd been living apart for over two years, Pete and I were stil stepping carefuly in establishing the new order between us. The sharing of keys involved an intimacy I didn't want to imply.

But it was Thursday afternoon and Pete would be at the office. And I wanted my cat.

I was digging in my purse, when the door opened.

'Helo, attractive stranger. Need a place to sleep?' said Pete, surveying me from top to bottom.

I was wearing the khakis and Doc Martens I'd donned for the morgue at six that morning. Pete was perfect in a three-piece suit and Gucci loafers.

'I thought you'd be at work.'

I wiped knuckles across the mascara smears on my lower lids, and took a quick peek inside the house. If I spotted a woman I'd die of humiliation.

'Why aren't you at work?'

He glanced left, then right, lowered his voice, and gestured me close, as if imparting secure information. 'Rendezvous with the plumber.'

I didn't want to contemplate what had gone so wrong that Mr. Fix It would cal in an expert.

'I came for Birdie.'

'I think he's free.' Pete stepped back. I entered a foyer lighted by my great-aunt's chandelier.

'How about a drink?'

I driled him a look that could slice feldspar. Pete had witnessed many of my Academy Award performances, and knew better.

'You know what I mean.'

'A Diet Coke would be nice.'

While Pete rattled glassware and ice cubes in the kitchen, I caled up the stairs to Birdie. No cat. I tried the parlor, dining room, and den.