“He told you I was coming, didn't he?” he asked, as he straddled one of my kitchen chairs, and ran a hand up the skirt I was wearing. It was a gesture he had never before made with the kids so near at hand. But fortunately, they were both in their rooms, doing their homework.

“Who?” I was confused by the question. No one had spoiled the surprise, how could they? I hadn't met many of his friends yet. It was still too soon, and he hadn't had time to introduce me.

“Peter,” he said, sliding his other hand up the other leg, as I pulled away gently. If one of the children walked in, I didn't want them to see that. It might shock them, but the sensations he was causing were certainly pleasant.

“Peter who?” He was so distracting, between the way he looked and the way he behaved, and the very fact that he was there, that I couldn't concentrate on what he was saying. I still couldn't get over the fact that he hadn't gone to California, and I was pleased that he hadn't.

He spoke as though to a child, with careful patience, as I gently avoided his hands this time and looked at him, trying to understand what he was saying. “Didn't Peter tell you I'd be here?”

“Very funny. No, you didn't tell me you'd be here. You told me you were going to San Francisco, and I'm thrilled you didn't.”

“I did,” he said smiling ingenuously. “I mean, he did. He left this morning. He told me to get here by dinner. He told me you'd be out before that, picking up the children at school.”

“You are utterly outrageous,” I said, laughing openly. “Are you pretending not to be Peter? Is that the game here?” It was very clever, and it totally amused me. He looked so out of character, it was perfect.

“I'm not pretending anything. It has taken years to perfect me. It was only an experiment at first. But it's been so successful, he wanted to share the secret with you.”

“What secret?” I was amused but baffled. He was talking in riddles. Perhaps it went with the costume, which was a great one. The fluorescent green pants looked like they were going to burst into flames as he moved lithely around my kitchen.

“I'm the secret!” he said proudly. “Didn't he tell you anything before he left?” He was smiling, and I was too.

“He said I was going to get a surprise,” I said, falling into the game with him, without intending to. It was hard not to.

“J'w the surprise,” he said proudly, “and the secret. They cloned him.”

“Who cloned him? Cloned who? What are you talking about?” I was laughing, but suddenly nervous. This was unnerving. I was beginning to wonder if he had a twin, or a far more unusual sense of humor than I had at first suspected. The fluorescent green pants were the first clue.

“The lab,” he explained, while opening cupboards and looking for something. “Peter must have told you he was in bionics. I'm his most successful experiment so far,” he said proudly.

“What are you looking for?” He was pulling everything out, and seemed very determined to find whatever it was he wanted.

“The bourbon,” he said simply.

“You don't drink bourbon,” I reminded him, wondering if that was part of the act too. And then suddenly I had a terrifying insight. What if he was schizophrenic, or had multiple personalities? Was that possible? Gould that happen? Maybe as loving and wonderful as he was, he was crazy. Maybe there was no genetic engineering firm in San Francisco. Maybe there had never been a wife, or a son, or any of it. I started to panic as he poured himself a full glass of straight bourbon. This was no longer funny. It was much too convincing. “What are you doing?” He had filled the glass by then, and all I could think of was Joanne Woodward in the movie about the woman with the dozens of different personalities possessing her. I had seen it as a child and been terrified by it. This was almost as scary. Maybe worse. He seemed to believe what he was saying to me.

“He doesn't drink bourbon,” he explained, sitting down again, but this time the roving hand was holding his glass of bourbon. He didn't even bother to put water, soda, or ice cubes in it, and began guzzling it like Dr Pepper. “I drink bourbon,” he said happily after the first long swallow. Half the glass was instantly empty. “He drinks martinis.”

“Peter, stop it. I'm happy you're here. It's a wonderful surprise. But stop playing this game. It's making me nervous.”

“Why?” He looked hurt when I said it, and took another gulp of the bourbon, and then burped loudly and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Don't be nervous, Steph. It's not a game. This is Peter's present to you. He had me sent from California just for you.”

“How did you get here? By UFO, with aliens driving? Peter, stop it!”

“My name's not Peter. It's Paul. Paul Klone.” He stood up and bowed low, sloshing a little of the bourbon on his fluorescent green pants, but he didn't seem to mind it. I was mesmerized by him.

“Why are you doing this?” I grinned at him. “Stop teasing me. This is crazy.”

“It's not crazy. It's wonderful,” he said proudly. “Ten years ago, no one could have done this. It's his research that made me possible, you know. He's a genius.”

“No, he's a nutcase, apparently.” And then I narrowed my eyes at him, wondering suddenly if this was his twin, and the surprise was that I'd never known it. But it was a hell of a way to introduce me to him. “Tell me the truth, are you his brother?”

“No, nothing that mundane. I am truly what I told you. My name is Paul, and I can do everything he does … except,” he looked apologetic, “wear khakis. I can't stand them. He tried programming me for that at first, but it kept screwing up my systems. You know the blazer, the white shirt, those awful ties he wears. Short-circuited me completely, so he lets me pick my own wardrobe.” He pointed to the satin boots with the rhinestone buckles, and I stared at them. This was madness in its highest form. After all the wonderful times we'd shared in the past month, this was suddenly a nightmare. This was worse than Roger telling me he didn't love me. Peter was crazy. “You're the same color as my pants,” he said sympathetically. “Are you pregnant?”

“I don't think so,” I said wanly, but I was actually dizzy. If it was an act, it was the best one I'd ever seen. If not, if he truly believed what he was saying, he was a very sick man. I had fallen in love with someone so sick, so insane, that it didn't bear thinking.

“Would you like to get pregnant?” he asked me then, pouring himself another full glass of bourbon. He had a mild case of the hiccups, and then suddenly I smelled something burning. It was our dinner. I had a chicken in the oven that looked like it had been incinerated when I opened the oven door to check it. “Don't worry. I can take you out to dinner. I have his American Express card. He doesn't know.” He looked very pleased about it.

“Peter, I am feeling too ill to go anywhere. This is not funny.” And I meant it. I had had enough of the game by then. But he was loving every minute of it.

“I'm sorry.” He looked crestfallen. He could see now how upset I was, but it only made the hiccups worse. What were the children going to think when they saw him, if he kept telling this insane story? Either he or I belonged in Bellevue. And I was ready to volunteer if he didn't start sounding normal again shortly. “You know, if you want to get pregnant, Steph, it's probably easier for me than for him. They worked all the kinks out of that last year.”

“I'm relieved to hear it. And no, I don't want to get pregnant. I just want you to behave like the man I fell in love with.” I was about to burst into tears, but I didn't want to seem like a bad sport, if he was just kidding. I was praying that it was just a side of his sense of humor I'd never seen before, combined with the bourbon. He poured a third glass then, while I stared at him.

“I'm actually a lot nicer than he is, Steph. To know me is to love me.” He giggled then and set down the bourbon, and came over to put his arms around me. And suddenly everything about him felt familiar again, despite the aftershave that tickled my nose. I leaned my head against the ridiculous black shirt, and I could see his chest through it. He was wearing a large diamond peace sign on a diamond chain that I hadn't noticed until then. And he saw that I'd seen it. “Great-looking, isn't it? I had it made by Carrier.”

“I think I'm having a nervous breakdown.” All I wanted was a Valium. I still had some left from the prescription the doctor had given me when Roger left me. But I wasn't sure if I should take it. Five more minutes of this, though, and I knew I'd have to.

“Sweetheart, look at me.” I looked up at him then, and realized that it was over. He was going to be Peter again, and stop playing mind games with me. I was exhausted. The “surprise” had gotten out of hand, and was now the size of the cloud over Hiroshima. “I'm here for two weeks, while he's gone. Let's just enjoy it.”

“You're making me crazy.” I was almost in tears by then, and it was going to take more than Valium to restore me. By then my sanity, if not his, was in question.

“I'm going to make you so happy you won't even want him back when he comes back from California.”

“I want him back now” I shouted at him, hoping to frighten away the insane spirit that had possessed him, and was now trying to unhook my bra as he put his arms around me. “I want you to leave here.”

“I can't,” he said gently, reminding me instantly of Peter's tenderness with me, and I started to cry as I leaned my head against his shoulder. This was insane. I was in love with a complete lunatic. And even this other, utterly crazy, side of him was endearing. “I promised him I'd take care of you till he got back. I can't leave you. He'd kill me.”

“I'm going to kill you if you don't stop this,” I said wanly.

“Just relax. Come on, I'll help you cook dinner. You just sit down for a minute, and I'll get things organized for you. Here, try this, you'll feel better.” He handed me the glass of bourbon, and put the other apron on. And as I stared at him, he whipped around the kitchen with ease. I felt as though my life had been taken over by Martians. He added half a dozen spices to the soup I'd had on the stove, and put a frozen pizza in the oven, and without saying a word, made a salad and a loaf of garlic bread. And ten minutes later, he turned to me with a smile and announced that dinner was ready. “Do you want me to call the children?” he asked helpfully. The hiccups were gone by then, and he took another swig of bourbon.

“What am I going to tell them?” I asked, feeling desperate and a little woozy. I'd been drinking his bourbon. I needed it a lot more than he did. “Are you going to keep this up all the way through dinner?”

“They'll get used to me, Steph. And so will you, I promise. None of you may want him back in two weeks. I'm a lot more fun than he is. And I cook better … not to mention…” He reached for my bra again and I leaned away from him in terror.

“Please! … for God's sake, Peter … not now!” What was I saying? Not now. Not ever! Not with this crazy man. Peter had always kept his passion confined to the bedroom. In this new guise, he seemed to have no inhibitions whatsoever.

“I'll call the kids, you just sit there!” he said sweetly, and before I could stop him, he had taken off down the hall to call them. “Kids! Dinner!” And before I could say anything at all, Sam rushed in and then stopped dead when he saw him, and grinned from ear to ear.

“Wow! Is that how you dress in California?”

“Actually, I got the pants in Milan last summer,” he said proudly. “Do you like them?”

“Yeah … kind of … they're rad!” Sam was smiling up at him in amusement. “I'll bet Mom doesn't though.” He glanced at me to check my reaction, and I was feeling too sick to say anything. I just nodded and smiled, as Charlotte walked into the kitchen and whistled.

“What happened? Did you go down to the Village today, Peter? I thought you were in California. You look like a rock star.”

“Thank you, Charlotte.” He smiled at her, as he put dinner on the table. “Your mother thought you'd be horrified.”

“No, but I'll bet she was,” she guffawed as she sat down at the table across from me, and I felt as though I had lost control of my life in a matter of moments. “I bought a shirt like that once. Mom made me take it back. She said I looked like a slut in it.” I took another swig of bourbon while Peter or Paul, or whoever he thought he was, sliced the pizza.

“I'll lend you this one, if your mother lets me,” he said magnanimously, as the children commented on how good the soup was. He had put too much spice in it, but they seemed to love it. And I was always so careful not to. Sam hated spicy things, and Charlotte always complained about my cooking. But they ate everything he'd made, and even had seconds. I was drunk halfway through dinner.