“You'd better put some clothes on,” Sam suggested helpfully. “My mom might wake up and come to see what we're doing, and you'll scare her if she sees you like that. She doesn't like anyone walking around naked, not even my dad when he lived here.”

“Okay,” Paul said, and disappeared into his bedroom for an instant, only to emerge in a fuchsia satin bathrobe with purple tassels and yellow pom-poms that even Gianni Versace would have balked at creating.

And with that, I saw them turn the corner in the hall and disappear toward the kitchen. I left them alone, satisfied that they would share a private moment over the salami sandwich they made. It was good for Sam in a way to have a man to talk to, even if he was bionic. I felt certain that nothing untoward would happen, and went back to bed to catch up on the little sleep still left to me before I had to make Paul's favorite waffles for breakfast. And in the morning I inquired innocently about the salami rinds in the sink and the open jar of peanut butter on the counter.

“Did someone get hungry last night?” I asked, as I put a plate of bacon between Paul and Sam. As usual, Charlotte was still dressing.

“Yeah, we did,” Sam confessed easily. “The hippo was back under my bed, and Peter made me a sandwich. He said to leave half a banana under my bed, the hippo'll be scared of it and he won't come back.” Sam sounded in control of his fear of it for the first time I could remember.

“And salt … don't forget the salt,” Paul reminded him, “it's the salt they're really scared of.” Sam nodded thoughtfully, and then smiled up at him for a long moment, as I watched them.

“Thanks, Peter,” he said softly. Paul hadn't told him how silly he was. Instead he had offered tools, however absurd, to fight it. And it might just work, I knew, if Sam believed him, and he appeared to.

“It works, you'll see,” Paul reassured him, and then dove into his waffles, explaining why waffles were better for you than pancakes, because the little squares were filled with vitamins, even though you couldn't see them, and all the vitamins fell out of pancakes when you flipped them. Listening to him, I almost believed him, and even tired as I was, I loved the sound of Sam's laughter.

Paul was great with the kids, he was one of them, and his patience with them was endless. He took them out on the weekend, and played with them tirelessly, took them to the movies, and went bowling with Sam. He even went shopping with Charlotte, which was pretty scary and resulted in the purchase of a patent leather miniskirt I vowed to burn when he left us. They were absolutely crazy about him.

But at the end of the second week, knowing it would all be over soon, he started getting depressed, and very quiet. I know Paul was thinking about leaving. He was going through cases of Cristalle, Yquem, and bourbon. But he held it remarkably well, and because of his delicate mechanisms, he never got hangovers and was immune to headaches. The only sign of drinking excessively he ever showed, was when he got in a little accident on Third Avenue in Peter's Jaguar. He managed to hit a cab, and careened away from it, narrowly missing a truck parked outside Bloomingdale's, and hit six parked cars and a traffic light. No one got hurt, but he totaled the front of the car, and managed not to injure the trunk, where he was carrying three more cases of Chateau d'Yquem. He felt just awful about it, and didn't want me to tell Peter when he called, so I didn't, out of loyalty to him. He said the car needed a new paint job anyway, the silver was so mundane. In spite of his fondness for silver lame shirts and underwear, he thought it was a poor choice of color for a car, and had it repainted canary yellow. He swore to me that Peter would be much happier when he saw it. And he had the wheels painted red, which was sweet of him.

It was an interlude in my life filled with ecstasy and thrills I'd never before dreamed of, and on our last night, at the thought of leaving me, he was too depressed to even try the double flip. He said his neck hurt too much. He just wanted to lie in bed with me, and hold me. He talked about how lonely it would be for him now, going back to the shop. He said it just wasn't going to be the same for him anymore, and I couldn't disagree with him. As much as I had missed Peter, I couldn't imagine living without Paul now. It was a time of roller-coaster emotions for both of us that were deeply confusing. I wondered if Peter would even mean as much to me now. In two weeks, Paul had done everything he could to broaden my horizons. He had even bought me a gold lame minidress with cutouts for my breasts. He wanted me to wear it to dinner at Cote Basque, but I never got the chance. And although I didn't want to admit it to him, I think I was saving it for Peter. It was the only thing I saved. The rest had been liberally shared with both of them.

The last morning was the true test, because he couldn't say good-bye to the kids. We both understood that it wasn't possible for them to know that there were two people involved with me, or rather one, and a Klone. They had to think it was the same person coming home that night when Peter arrived. I made waffles for Paul for the last time, for now at least, and instead of syrup, he smothered them in bourbon. He was crazy about my waffles.

And then the final moment came. I helped him pack, all the silver and gold lame, the chartreuse velour jeans, the spandex suits in zebra and leopard. Touching each of them brought back memories for me, and looking at him nearly tore my heart out.

“Leaving you is the hardest thing I've ever done,” he said with tears rolling slowly down his cheeks, and for an interminable moment, I held him close to my heart. So much so that his diamond peace sign was embedded in my chest and left a mark there.

“You'll be back,” I whispered, fighting back tears, “he'll go away again.”

“Soon, I hope,” he said, sounding distraught. “I'll be so lonely in the shop without you.” He was going to be in a lab in New York this time, but when I asked if I could come and visit him, he shook his head. “They take me apart, and rewire everything each time,” he said. “I don't want you to see me that way. They rebuild my body and take my head off.” It was an image I still found hard to adjust to.

“Make sure they don't change anything I love,” I said, smiling at him, and he grinned at me then, mischief dancing in his eyes again. I'll never forget that moment. He was wearing fuchsia satin pants, and a yellow vinyl shirt with rhinestone polka dots on it.

“They can rebuild anything you want smaller or bigger,” he said, “there are endless options.”

“Don't change a thing, Paul. You're perfect as you are,” I reassured him. And then, without saying a thing, he closed the purple alligator suitcases they'd made for him at Hermes, and walked slowly to the door of my apartment, and then stopped to look at me.

“I shall return,” he said victoriously, and we both smiled knowing it was true, or hoping so at least. And then he was gone, and I was left alone in the empty apartment to think about him, and the quadruple flip. It was hard not to think about it.

I had exactly two hours to compose myself, to readjust, to try and turn my thoughts from him, and turn my mind, and heart, back to Peter. He had asked me to pick him up at the airport, and I wasn't sure I could do it. It wasn't easy going back to Peter, after Paul. The Klone had made a lasting impression on me. And I was no longer sure what Peter meant to me now. My two weeks with the Klone had literally changed my life, and I knew it.

I took a bath thinking of Paul, and the time we had spent talking there, and I took out a photograph of Peter to remind myself of what he looked like. They were identical, of course, but there was something in Peter's eyes, in his heart, that was very different and spoke to my soul. And then I had to remind myself that Paul was only a Klone, a mass of wires and computer parts that had been brilliantly made, but he was not real. And in truth, however much fun I'd had with him, he was not Peter. I was slowly returning to earth now.

I put on a new black suit from Dior, and a hat, and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked so dull, almost as dreary as I had in the old, flannel nightgowns in days gone by. But to cheer myself up, I put on the new diamond bracelet and the ruby pin Paul had bought me just before he left, with matching earrings. They were from Van Cleef, and as he always did, he charged them to Peter. He was sure he'd be happy to know he'd bought me something I was so fond of.

I was still feeling subdued in the limo on the way to the airport. Paul had tried to convince me to rent the white one with the hot tub on the back, but I had the feeling Peter might be happier with a smaller black one. I just couldn't see him using the hot tub, although Paul had, and loved it.

The plane was late, and I stood at the gate for half an hour waiting for Peter, still wondering how I would feel when I saw him. It was hard to say after the two weeks I had just spent with Paul. I wondered if everything would be spoiled now. I hoped not.

And then, as I waited breathlessly, as people in track suits and jogging shorts and boxers began filing out, I saw Peter. He was slim and tall, with a new haircut and a serious air, and that incredibly powerful way of walking. He was wearing a double-breasted blazer and gray slacks, a blue shirt of course, and a Hermes tie with a navy background and tiny yellow dots. And just watching him move toward me took my breath away. This was no imitation, no Klone, this was the real thing, a real man, and I felt my heart pound as I watched him approach me. I could tell in an instant that nothing had changed between us. Much to my own surprise, I loved him more than ever. It was hard to explain, especially after the fun I'd had with the Klone. But Peter was real, and Paul wasn't.

We talked endlessly on the way home, about life, and the kids, his work, and everything he'd done in California in the past two weeks. He never asked about Paul once, or how it had all worked out, or when he'd left. The only thing he wanted to know was why I had come to the airport in a limousine, instead of his Jaguar. And I had to explain that Paul had had a little mishap with it. I assured him that they had put out the fire in the engine immediately, and other than the totaled front end, there had been very little other damage. The trunk still opened easily, all the tires were being replaced, and he was going to love it canary yellow with red wheels. I saw a muscle tighten in his jaw, but to his credit, he said nothing about it. He was a gentleman, and a good sport, as he always had been.

He seemed happier to see me when we got home. He left his bags in the car, but came up for a while, for a cup of tea. And then he kissed me. And when he did, I knew nothing had changed between us. Peter kissing me was more powerful than the double or triple or quadruple flip with Paul. Just seeing him again turned my knees to mush. I was crazy about him.

He went back to his own place then, to shower and change, and when he came back that night to see me and the kids, they both looked disappointed when they saw him come through the door. He was wearing jeans, a blue Oxford shirt, a navy cashmere sweater, and the Gucci loafers. I had to remind myself that this was Peter, and not Paul, and my days of leopard spandex and gold lame were over for the time being. I tried not to think of Paul, with his head off in the shop. More importantly I had lost my head over Peter again, though I had no regrets about Paul.

And while I was fixing him a martini in the kitchen, Charlotte came in and whispered, “What happened to him? He hasn't looked like a dork in weeks. And now look at him.” But the truth was I loved the way he looked, better than G-strings, and spandex and purple cowboy hats. I loved his “dork” look, and thought it irresistibly sexy and very “cool.” But that was hard to explain to Charlotte, who preferred the fluorescent green jeans, and the fuchsia satin overalls he had promised to lend her.

“He's just tired, Char,” I explained vaguely. “Maybe he's in a quiet mood. Maybe he just had a bad day at the office.”

“I think he's schizophrenic,” she said bluntly. Possibly. Or maybe I was. That was also an option.

But they were even more surprised to learn that he had moved back to his own apartment again. I explained that the construction he was doing there was going so well that he no longer needed our guest room, now at least. And Sam looked heartbroken to hear it.

“You're not staying here?” he asked miserably, and Peter shook his head.