Of course, no light shone anywhere. He let himself in quietly, although the wood had swollen with the warm weather, and he had to push the door to get it closed. Tomorrow, he thought, he'd fix that-plane it true. Working with wood was something he'd once been good at, even passionate about. Then maybe he'd do some more household chores. Spring cleaning. They could open all the windows and let the air blow out the last of the winter's must, maybe put on some old Beach Boys, or the Eagles, and turn it up loud, get that peaceful easy feelin' going while they all worked together putting the house into summertime shape. Unplug all the telephones.

Flicking on the hall light, he stepped into the living room and dropped the flowers into his reading chair. Frannie's note was under one of the elephants on his mantel, just where she knew he'd see it when he got in.

"Dismas. Decided to take the kids to Monterey for the weekend. Back late Sunday afternoon. Fran."

No "dear," no "love," not even "Frannie."

He crumpled the note in one hand, leaned against the mantel with the other. His head dropped as though he'd been struck.

20

By 8:00 the next morning, Hardy was on the road.

He didn't know in which of the dozens if not hundreds of hotels and motels they'd be staying, but if Frannie and the kids were in Monterey, he considered it a dead lock that they'd hit the aquarium first.

The place wouldn't open for another fifteen minutes, but already a long line of visitors stretched up the hill from the entrance. He started there, got to the end, then found a low wall across the street on which he could sit, keeping an eye on the line as it grew while he waited.

He'd seen no coastal fog as he'd driven down Highway 1, and there was no sign of any now. Normally Monterey was as fog-bound as San Francisco, but clearly it was going to be a postcard day-soon he wouldn't even need the light jacket he was wearing.

They came around the corner two blocks uphill. The kids were in the midst of some of their typical goofiness-even from this distance, Vincent's giggle carried down to him, then Rebecca's scream as she lunged back at him. Frannie walked a few steps behind them, head down, tolerant or uninvolved, her hands shoved into the pockets of a Stanford sweatshirt. She was in shorts and running shoes, and with her long red hair down and loose, she could have easily passed for the other kids' older sister, maybe eighteen or twenty years old.

Hardy stood up by his low wall, continuing to watch their approach. The kids were playing like puppies, poking at each other, tickling and laughing. This silliness often if not always drove Hardy crazy at home, especially in the past few months. Suddenly, at this remove, he could view it a little more objectively. His children were doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing. They were good kids suddenly on a surprise vacation, and they were having a great, appropriate, carefree, and healthy time with each other.

What, Hardy wondered, was his problem that he couldn't enjoy them more?

Now Rebecca had her arm around Vincent's shoulder-they were almost exactly the same height. Suddenly Frannie skipped a couple of quick steps downhill and caught up with them with a joyous yell, a tickling goose under each of their ribs. "Gotcha!" More screams, more laughing, the kids turning back on their mother now, darting in and out of her reach while she parried and thrusted to keep them away. Hardy almost couldn't imagine the level of pure fun they all seemed to be having.

He started crossing the street as Vincent broke away after his latest raid. They'd now come down to about a block from Hardy, and his son stopped and stared down at him. After a beat, the recognition became certain, and he screamed in what seemed complete abandonment and happiness. "Dad!" Five seconds later, he plowed into Hardy at full speed, arms and legs all around him. Then a real hug before Hardy put him down. "I didn't think you were coming. Mom said you were too busy."

"I decided not to be."

Rebecca, too, ran down and threw her arms around him. "I'm so glad you're here, Daddy. It's such a perfect day, isn't it? I can't believe how beautiful it is here. I am so happy."

"Me, too." Hardy held her for a moment, then raised a hand, sheepishly greeting his wife. "Hi."

She had her arms crossed. "Hi."

Rebecca, who never missed a thing, asked, "Are you guys mad at each other? You're not getting divorced, are you?"

"Never," Hardy said, still holding his daughter. "Even if we were mad, we wouldn't get divorced."

"You're sure?"

"Jeez, Beck." Vincent didn't have much patience for his sister's paranoia. "How many times they got to tell you? They're not getting divorced." He whirled on his parents. "Right?"

"Right," Hardy said.

Frannie still hadn't ventured a word on the subject, but suddenly the expression of frustrated bemusement that she'd been holding shifted, and she walked the remaining few steps to where Hardy stood with his arms around the Beck. "I love your father very much," she said, planting a kiss on his cheek, "and we will never get divorced, ever." She gave him a long look. "Although someday I might have to kill him."

His daughter's jaw dropped, her eyes wide in terror. "Mom!"

"Joke, Beck. Joke." For his parents' benefit, Vincent rolled his own eyes at his sister's stupidity. "Like she's really going to kill Dad." Suddenly, then, seeing an opening, he poked at her with a finger again. Immediately, with a squeal of delight, she spun out from Hardy's embrace, after him down the hill.

Leaving Hardy and Frannie, standing there.

"Do you want me here?" he asked.

"Of course. Although I wish it didn't have to take kidnapping your children to get your attention."

"I wish that, too. But I guess sometimes it does."

"I don't think you're hardwired for that. Maybe you could work on it."

"That's what I'm doing, believe it or not. I'm trying. Even as we speak," he added. Then he shook his head. "I'm sorry."

She put an arm around his waist, started walking down the hill. "I'll get over it."

Bracco lived in three converted rooms over a stand-alone garage behind his father's house out in the Sunset District, on Pacheco Street.

He'd been pulling long hours this past week, so this morning he slept in. After an hour on free weights, he'd done some jogging and eaten five bananas with most of a box of Wheaties. Now, showered and dressed, Darrel sat with his father at a wooden table by an open window in the kitchen. The back of the house had a southern exposure and sunlight washed half the table. From time to time, a wisp of breeze would ruffle the lace curtains at the window.

Angelo Bracco had once looked a lot like his son, and there was still a resemblance in the face. But he'd lost his wife six years before-she'd cooked him healthy meals and also kept him interested in looking good. After she was gone, he went back to meat and potatoes. Then he started driving for the mayor, sitting all day. In these past few years he'd bulked up to where his five-foot, nine-inch frame carried around two hundred and twenty pounds. This morning he was wearing a form-fitting T-shirt. After they'd had their first sips of coffee, Darrel decided to say something. "You know, you wanted, you could use my weights sometimes. They're just sitting out there."

His father chose not to answer directly. "I saw you go out this morning. How far'd you run?"

A shrug. "I don't know. Five miles maybe. It was a good day for it."

"Couldn't resist, huh? Feel the burn, is that what they say?" Angelo sipped his coffee. "If I ran five miles, I'd drop dead."