There was suddenly the heavy sound of boots, as though a man had arrived in their midst, a wild woof! and a muffled crash, the slamming of another door, more barking, and then suddenly Sam and Andy, the Irish setter, exploded into the kitchen. The dog was leaving paw prints everywhere, leaping on the boy with the shining dark hair and green eyes just like his father's. He wore a broad, happy-go-lucky smile, his hair was wet, and his boots and the dog's feet had dragged in tons of snow, which were rapidly turning into puddles on the kitchen floor, as Andy leapt to lick his face, and put two paws on Sam's shoulders.

“Hi, guys! Boy, it smells good in here. What's for dinner? Meat loaf?”

Agnes turned to smile broadly at him, and then saw the disaster he was rapidly making of her kitchen, as Sarah and Benjamin laughed. Sam was hopeless, he could turn any room into a trash heap in a matter of moments.

“Get out of here, you wicked boy! And where's your hat? You'll catch your death with wet hair like that!” She waved the wooden spoon at him as she had at Benjamin before, but this time with greater zeal, and hurried off to get him a towel, clucking and growling and scolding.

“Hi, Mom.” He hurried over to kiss her, Andy wagging his tail ferociously as he watched and Sam played with him, kicking off his boots then and leaving them in a heap in the middle of the kitchen floor, where Andy found them with delight and fled with one of them to the living room couch, where he deposited it amid shrieks from Agnes.

“Get out of here! Both of you! Go upstairs and take a bath!” she called after him, as he hurried up the stairs with Andy in hot pursuit, as Sam left his coat on the floor at the foot of the stairs and Sarah called after him.

“Come back and pick up your stuff!” But he was already long gone, down the hall, with Andy barking after him, and Agnes was already busy mopping up her kitchen. Benjamin hurried up the stairs to his own room to organize his books for that night, and when Sarah walked slowly up after them, she couldn't help thinking how much she would miss them.

The phone rang as she reached the master bedroom. It was Melissa calling to say what Sarah already knew, that she was staying at school late to rehearse with the drama club, and Benjamin would pick her up on his way home. And then Ollie called, and he wanted to go out that night, even without their friends, just as Agnes had suggested.

“Well have a quiet dinner, just the two of us. I think I'd like that better anyway.” She could feel the warmth of his voice all the way from New York, and there were tears in her eyes when she hung up the phone. What was she going to say to him? Nothing. Not tonight. She'd have to wait. She had already promised herself she wouldn't tell him till after Christmas.

She puttered around their room, straightening things, listening to the sounds of the children beyond, touching familiar objects, and thinking about her husband. And then she lay down on their bed, thinking of all of them, of what they meant to her. And yet they were costing her something, too, without knowing it, without meaning to, each one in his or her own way had taken something from her, and given something back too … but suddenly what they gave her wasn't enough, and it was no longer what she wanted. It was a terrible thing to admit. A terrible thing to say to them, and she knew she never could. But she wanted her own life now. She was ready for it. She wanted to be more than Agnes was, standing in the kitchen waiting for them to come home every day, and eventually waiting for them to leave forever. It wouldn't be long now. Benjamin would be gone in the fall. And Melissa two years after that, and then there was Sam … but she'd be through with what she wanted to do long before he left home. So what difference did it make? Why couldn't she do what she wanted to for a change, yet while saying that to herself, she felt unbearably guilty.

The phone broke into her thoughts again and it was her father-in-law, sounding distressed and tired. He had had problems with his heart of late, and Phyllis hadn't been well either.

“Hi, George, what's up?”

“Is Oliver there?” He was curt with her this time, which was unlike him.

“No, he's not.” She frowned worriedly, she was fond of him, although she was less so of Phyllis. “Is something wrong?”

“I … no … actually, I'm not sure. Phyllis went out shopping at noon, by herself, and she hasn't come home yet. And with this weather … well, I was concerned, and she hasn't called. It's just not like her.” She was sixty-nine years old, and strong, but lately they had all found her a little distracted. She had had pneumonia a few months before, and afterward she hadn't seemed quite herself, and Sarah knew that George worried endlessly about her. At seventy-two, he seemed somehow more alert than his wife, yet at the same time much frailer. He was still handsome, like his son, tall and straight with gentle eyes and a lovely smile, and yet there were times when he seemed older than he was, and Oliver worried about him.

“I'm sure she's just forgotten the time. You know how women are when they go shopping.” Sarah wanted to reassure him. It wasn't good for his heart to fret about every little thing, and undoubtedly Phyllis would walk in at any moment.

“I was wondering if I ought to go looking for her. I thought maybe Oliver …”Lately, he was relying on Ollie more, which wasn't like him either.

“I'll have him call the minute he comes home.” And that would mean the end of their dinner out, unless she came back before. But on the other hand, maybe it was just as well. Suddenly, Sarah didn't want to be alone with her husband.

But George called again before Oliver got home. Phyllis was home safe and sound. She'd had trouble getting a cab, and didn't have the change to call. He didn't tell Sarah that she looked disheveled to him somehow, and the cabdriver had told him she'd had trouble remembering her address, and when George questioned her, he realized with shock that she no longer knew their phone number, and that was why she hadn't called him. “I'm sorry I troubled you, my dear.”

“Don't be silly, George. You can call us anytime. You know that.”

“Thank you.” At the other end, he cast a worried glance at his wife, humming to herself as she wandered aimlessly around the kitchen. Lately, he had been cooking for her, but they both pretended that it was because he liked having something to do, and he liked to say that he was a better cook than she was. “Give Oliver my love when he comes home, and if he has time, please ask him to call me.”

“I will,” she promised, and promptly forgot when Oliver got home a few minutes later. He was hurrying to shower and dress and insisted that he wanted to take her out to dinner. “But Sam will be all alone tonight.” She wanted desperately to stay home, not to face him alone across a table. There was nothing she could say to him. Not yet. And it was easier to hide here in their own home. To hide behind the children and the television set. To hide behind anything. Anything was better than having to face him.

“Is Agnes going out?” Ollie questioned her as he shaved, watching the news at the same time, barely glancing at her, but pleased at the prospect of their evening together. He had a surprise for her. He had just gotten a big promotion and a raise. The top of the ladder, at his firm, was in clear sight now. At forty-four, Oliver Watson was the stuff that business legends were made of. He had it all, he knew, and he was grateful for that, a job he loved, a wife he adored, and three kids he was crazy about. What more was there in life? Absolutely nothing he could think of.

“No, Agnes'U be here, but I thought …”

“Don't. Get dressed.” He gently patted her behind as she walked past him, and then stopped her and put his arms around her as he turned off his razor. “I love you, do you know that?” She did. Only too well. And she loved him, too, which made everything she wanted to do now that much harder.

“I love you too.” Her eyes were sad and he pulled her closer.

“You sure don't look happy about it. Tough day today?”

“Not really.” There was no tough anymore. The kids were busy and almost gone, Agnes took care of the house, she had been slowing down her committee work for the past two years, to give herself time to write, which she never did anyway. What could be tough in the perfect life? Nothing, except constant emptiness and total boredom. “Just tired, I guess. Oh … I almost forgot. Your father called. He wants you to call him.”

“Everything okay?” He worried about his parents a lot. They were getting old, and his father seemed so frail ever since his heart attack. “Is he feeling all right?”

“He sounded fine. Once your mother got back. He called because she went shopping this afternoon and she was late coming back. I think he was worried about her in this weather.”

“He worries too much about everything. That's why he had that heart attack. She can take care of herself, I keep telling him that. He keeps insisting that she gets confused, but I think she's a lot less confused than he thinks. I'll call him when we get home, if it's not too late. Come on,” he urged her on with a smile, “hurry up. Our reservation's at seven.”

They kissed Sam good night when they left, and gave Agnes the phone number of the restaurant. Benjamin was already gone, and he hadn't said good-bye to them. He had taken the keys to Sarah's car and left right after devouring most of the meat loaf, two plates of vegetables, and a piece of Agnes's apple pie. And Sarah felt sure that as soon as he got to Bill's he would eat again, and probably finish off the pie when he got home that night. She used to worry that he'd get fat, but there seemed to be no fear of that, he was a bottomless pit, and if it hadn't been for the broad shoulders, he would have looked like the proverbial beanpole.

The restaurant was lovely when they arrived, cozy, quaint, with French Provincial decor and a fire roaring in a fireplace. The food was good, and Oliver ordered an excellent California Chardonnay. They both relaxed and Sarah listened as he told her about the promotion and the raise. It was strange listening to him now. For years, she had lived vicariously through him, and now suddenly she had her own life. It was like listening to someone else. She was pleased for him, but his success was no longer a shared accomplishment, It was his alone. She knew that now. And as they finished their meal, he sat back and looked at her, sensing that something had changed, but not sure what it was. He usually read her well, but not tonight. There was something distant and sad about the way she looked at him, and he suddenly felt a finger of fear touch his heart. What if she were having an affair? Even a passing one … one of those suburban wives' involvements with the insurance man, or the orthodontist, or one of their friends. He couldn't believe it of her. She had always been so loyal to him, it was the way she was, straight-arrow and sure and honest, it was part of what he loved so much about her. It couldn't be that. And he had never cheated on her. But he just couldn't figure out what was going on with her, and as he ordered champagne and dessert, he looked at her in the candlelight and thought she had never looked lovelier or younger. At forty-one, she was better-looking than most women at thirty. The dark red hair still shone, her figure was great, her waistline almost as trim as it had been before their babies.

“What's bothering you, sweetheart?” His voice was a caress as he reached out and took her hand. He was a good man, a decent one, she knew that, and she also knew how much he loved her.

“Nothing. Why? What makes you say that? I had a wonderful time tonight.” She was lying, but she didn't want him to know. He always did anyway. He knew her too well. Twenty-two years was a long, long time.

“I'd say on a scale of ten, tonight was about a two in your book. Maybe a one. If you count going to the dentist as a zero.”

She laughed at him, and he chuckled as he poured her champagne. “You're crazy, you know that?” she accused him.

“Yeah. About you. Imagine an old fart like me still being nuts about his wife. Pretty amusing, huh, after eighteen years of marriage.”

“I take it forty-four is an 'old fart' now? When did you decide that?”

He lowered his voice conspiratorially as he answered. “When I couldn't make love to you the third time last Sunday night. I think that pushed me over the edge into that category forever.”

She grinned. Their lovemaking was almost always terrific. “I thought twice in an hour and a half wasn't too shabby myself. Besides, you'd had a hell of a lot of wine to drink. Don't forget that.”