Author's Note: To the reviewer who asked what season this was set in (thanks for bringing that up—I had planned to explain, then forgot), and anyone else who was wondering, it's a season 3 story. I don't mention any of the stuff about Ryan Hunter, mostly because… well, I just didn't want to write about that. It was building up to be an interesting storyline on the show, I think, but I had other plans for this story. Anyway. I did watch the first season DVDs twice before writing this, so there may be a little bit of first season influence in the early chapters. Also, I'd like to point out that this chapter was originally longer, but I split it into two. And thanks for the reviews, guys. I'm glad you like what I've got so far. Stick with me 'cause there's lots more to come.

COO COO CA CHOO

The Girardi kitchen sparkled in the warm October sunlight, its rich blue and yellow tiles refracting streams of light that bounced from one corner of the room to another like pinballs. The curtains were parted, held fast on either side by delicately braided and tasseled ties, windows open to the earthy-smelling breeze that drifted in with the sound of neighbors' chimes and a barking dog in tow. This was Helen's favorite time of year. The temperature was part of it, though it usually wasn't so humid as today. But there was more: a deep, instinctive zest for life that skirted in on the coattails of the summer months like the burst of energy and health that sick people were said to sometimes experience before death, the symbolic death represented by winter. Maybe that's all dying really was too, another season you had to pass through to reach a blissful, eternal spring.

Helen stood at the island in the kitchen, reveling in the golden glow around her and singing along with the radio as she sliced a mushroom. "And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson, Jesus loves you more than you will know," she crooned, bobbing her head the slightest bit. "Coo coo ca choo, Mrs. Robinson, Heaven holds a place for those who pray. Hey, hey, hey..." Those weren't the right lyrics for that part of the song, but she didn't care. She liked saying the coo coo ca choo line.

Somewhere between hey hey heys, Will had returned home from work and slipped in through the back door. He grinned to himself, a crooked, boyish slant of the lips that squeezed one eye shut more than the other, as he hung back in the breezeway entry and watched his wife rocking her body in slow graceful motions. The song was corny as hell, but as long as it incited Helen to dance in this particular fashion, he could appreciate it. Very much.

"Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Robinson," he called softly, careful not to startle her.

She jumped anyway, but turned to him with a smile, an embarrassed one that lured him over to wrap his arms around her trim waist, lean into her back, kiss her on the neck. God, he loved her smell. He had spent the day drenching the armpits of his button-down work shirt, but she still carried the fragrance of the lotion she applied every night before bed. Lavender and honeysuckle, or whatever. The important part was it smelled delicious. And there was an underlying scent too, one that was all her own. He couldn't articulate its components, that was for the artsy types like her, but he knew he never wanted to live without it.

"You're home early," Helen said, lining up the knife blade and easing it through the mushroom. Part of her was interested to know why, the other just wanted to drive him crazy by being aloof to his flirty greeting.

It must have worked. Will slid his hand to the curve of her hip and squeezed. She was extra ticklish there. "Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to seduce me," he asked, laughter in his voice as Helen bucked him away and cried, "Will!"

"I'm trying to make your dinner is what I'm trying to do." Helen had meant to sound irritated, but it came out lilting, girlish instead. She gave in and did her best to channel Anne Bancroft as she said, "I am not trying to seduce you."

They both lost it, entertained with their Graduate role playing, and Will gave Helen a squeeze or two more. Joan chose that moment to come downstairs and walk in on them, her Horny Parents radar on the fritz yet again, and she watched in horror as they snorted and snickered, hands in places she didn't even want to think about.

"Ew, no groping in the kitchen," she admonished, shielding her eyes as if seeing her parents in a compromising position might cause blindness, like staring at an eclipse of the sun. "People have to, like, eat and digest in here, y'know. And Mom. Goofing off with a knife? Shame on you. Why not just run around holding scissors?"

"What're you, her mother?" Will asked, laying the Italian accent on thick. Mutha. He winked at Joan.

"Sorry, your father brings out the wild side in me," Helen said, eyes dancing.

And they were at it again. Joan dropped heavily into her usual seat at the table and put her face in her hands. "I need therapy," she muttered over Helen's high-pitched giggles. "So much more than usual."

The fun came to an abrupt end when Helen brought the knife down on her finger, gliding it from nail to knuckle and leaving behind a red line that stung like a god-awful paper cut. "Damn," she said, dropping the knife and instinctively bringing the wound to her mouth, nursing it.

"Are you ok?" Will tugged at Helen's wrist, attempting to get a look at the damage. "Joan, get the Band-Aids," he said. "Let me see, Helen."

"Mom?" Joan was on her feet but waited.

"I'm okay," Helen assured them, relenting her hand to Will. "It's not deep, just stings."

"Band-Aids," Will repeated.

He was holding Helen's hand under the tap, cold water nozzle turned full blast, when Joan returned with two boxes: standard Band-Aids in various sizes and the Looney Tunes prints Joan liked because they made cuts heal faster, she said. Kevin tormented her for it, but she had caught him wearing Bugs Bunny on his elbow once. She would never let him live that down, not even when they were old and forgot who Bugs Bunny was.

"Here." She rattled the boxes at her parents. "Take your pick."

Will grabbed the plain kind while Helen dried off with a paper towel, the sleeve of her plaid shirt damp even though it was rolled up to the middle of her arm. She watched as Will thumbed through the bandages and pulled out the largest one. His thick fingers wouldn't cooperate with the packaging, which he gave up on, finally tearing it open in frustration.

Helen glanced at Joan, at the Band-Aid.

"Let me, Daddy," Joan offered. She worked her thumbnail between the sticky side of the Band-Aid and its backing, peeling them apart easily. She and Helen shared an amused but fond look as Will gently wrapped Helen's finger. There wasn't anymore bleeding; the cut was barely visible.

"See, now this is what happens when we mix porn and cutlery," Joan commented, speaking in the tone of a Kindergarten teacher addressing her students.

"Joan!" It was both of them, Will sternly, Helen with a scandalized expression that failed to hide the twitch at the corners of her mouth.

Joan put her hands up defensively. "I'm just saying."

Will brought Helen's palms to his lips and kissed both of them twice. Then he focused on Joan, slinging his arm around her shoulders in a chummy embrace, tilting her head down to be kissed too. It was hard to believe she could be so tall, his little girl.

"What is with all the love today?" Joan asked, but readily accepted the affection, hugging Will around the middle, her cheek on his shoulder. "It's like everyone's turning into hippies. I'm not moving to a commune."

As if a rewind button had been pressed and the scene revamped a bit, Helen was back to slicing and dicing, and, wanting an answer this time, she reiterated to Will, "Hey, you're home early."

"Yeah, it was a slow day," he said, helping himself to a sliver of mushroom. He offered Joan a bite first, but she shrank further into the nook of his arm and contorted her face in disgust. She contorted even more when she got a whiff of his armpit. "And I wasn't feeling too hot."

"You sure about that, Dad?" Joan asked, sounding stuffed up because she was pinching her nostrils closed.

"What's wrong?" Helen said.

"Nothing. I don't know. I was feeling achy, but I'm fine now."

Joan, still clothespinning her nose shut between the knuckles of her index and middle finger, raised her other hand and held it to Will's forehead. Only sweat. She could have gotten the same result from touching her own head or Helen's.

"Anyway, I hope you don't mind cooking for a few more on Wednesday," Will said, his opinion of a deft change of subject.

Helen gave him the look, the one that meant, There better be a really good explanation for this.

"I invited the new guy at work, and his family, to dinner. His name's Donovan Snow. Don. Real nice fella. He's got a wife, Annie or Ruth? And two kids. They moved here from New York and don't know anybody yet, so I thought..." He gave Helen his puppy dog eyes.

"Ruthie."

Will and Joan looked at Helen, and Joan said, "Ruthie Ruthie? From school?"

Will appeared lost.

"I already met his wife," Helen explained. "Her name is Ruthie, she's the music teacher at the high school. He didn't mention that?" - and in the same breath - "You talked to her, Joan?"

"Yeah, she's directing this choir thing the school's doing and I signed up. Auditions are tomorrow." Joan plucked at the dish of chopped onions that was sitting on the counter, sprinkling a few morsels into her mouth.

"No," Will said, answering his wife. He opened his mouth for Joan to insert some onion. "Choir?"

"That's weird." Helen used the knife to scrape the mushroom from chopping block to dish.

"Choir's not weird," Joan said, sounding dubious. "At least it shouldn't be with Ruthie in charge."

"I meant it's weird that he didn't tell you his wife works at the school. Didn't you tell him I'm a teacher?"

"Who?" Joan asked. "I didn't talk to her husband. I didn't even know he was a cop."

"I was talking to your father."

Will glanced up from the bowl of diced tomatoes. "What?"

"No, Dad. 'What's on second,' " Joan said, and laughed.

Helen finally shooed Will and Joan's hands away from the food and pulled the conversation into order. "Will, did you tell Don that I work at the school?"

"I think it came up, yeah."

"And he didn't tell you that Ruthie does too?"

"He might've. I don't remember."

"Ugh," Helen moaned, "Men." She headed for the oven, tipping bowls here, adding spices there, and concocting something in a dish that Will and Joan couldn't identify but knew whatever it was made their stomachs growl and their mouths water. "So, they're coming to dinner Wednesday?" She slid the dish into the oven, nudged the door shut with her foot. "I invited Ruthie today, but she wanted to run it by her husband to see when he'd be free."

"Well, he's free Wednesday."

"Okay then." Helen turned and rested her bottom against the handle of the oven, folded her arms and spoke to Joan. "Isn't she adorable? She has to be less than five feet tall."

Joan nodded, understanding the reference to Ruthie. "I know! And she's four-eleven, I asked her."

"Four-eleven?" Helen said in a loud whisper, as if Ruthie might be hiding behind the counter, ready to jump out and bust her for height discrimination. "Oh my God, she must weigh about ninety-five pounds."

"Ninety-six, I asked her," Joan said, then grinned and rolled her eyes when Helen looked appalled. "I'm kidding. But not about the height."

Will had tuned them out at 'adorable.' He patted Joan on the back and wandered off towards the den.

"Go take a shower before dinner," Helen called.

"Women," he muttered, switching paths and clomping upstairs to the bathroom.