I reach instinctively for her without opening my eyes and come up empty.

No Donna, no David.

I squint against the early Friday morning sunlight streaming into the bedroom through the open shades.

I call a little louder over the muffled sounds coming from the kitchen.

She appears in the doorway with David in her arms, a blonde Madonna wearing nothing but a white tank top and a pair of my boxers.

Daddy's finally awake, isn't he? She says to David in the baby­voice only new parents find endearing.

What are you doing?

We're baking brownies, she admits, sitting down on the bed.

I take David from her, nestling our son's tiny body against my right shoulder.

For Freddy's care package.

Freddy? My little brother? Donna teases. You know, the one who's moving into the Georgetown University dorms this morning? The reason you took today off work?

You're awful feisty this morning, aren't you? I yawn.

She leans over my bare chest and sends a shiver down my spine when her tongue traces its way up my scars.

If David weren't awake, I'd show you just how feisty, Donna growls.

I close my eyes and sink into the bed, enjoying the feel of her lips on my skin as they make their way to my ear.

There's something highly erotic about a man with a baby, my wife whispers in that sultry voice she reserves just for me.

***

Josh is putty in my hands; I think he's even forgotten David is tucked into the crook of his neck.

It's almost as big a turn on as a man who can bake.

he exhales, his skin flush with excitement.

I place both hands on his chest and give him a shove. So get up and help me bake brownies!

He blinks his eyes in confusion before training them on me questioningly.

I enunciate slowly. Get up and help me bake brownies.

What makes you think I know how to bake brownies? Josh protests. I guess he wasn't as far gone as I thought.

I cross my arms and glare at him.

What do I get in exchange? he asks, switching tactics.

Josh! Come on, I plead, resorting to the long­suffering wife face.

You ought to patent that look, Josh grumbles, but he sits up nonetheless, jostling David in the process.

David is a little displeased at being moved from his favorite spot and tells his daddy so in no uncertain terms. Shaking my head in silent laughter, I return to the kitchen, leaving my men to fend for themselves.

Aw, come on, little bear, I hear Josh attempting to soothe our squalling, ten­week­old infant. Daddy has to get up and show Mommy what a young man like your Uncle Freddy really wants in his care package. This is valuable information you'll benefit from down the road.

***

David starts fading to a red­faced hiccupping as I keep talking.

Do you need changing? I ask him.

I have yet to understand how Donna can tell he has a dirty diaper just by feeling his butt. I've got to smell him and usually open the damn thing up to figure it out.

His cries increase again when I put him down on my pillow to grab a pair of boxers out of the dresser. Picking David back up quiets him a little.

Let's just check you out, shall we?

I carry him into the nursery and lay him on the changing table. Grabbing a rag, I undo the pins on the cloth diaper and open it up.

Baby poop is the single most disgusting thing in the universe. In a testament to how much I love my wife, I learned not only how to change one of these damn cloth diapers, but how to put up with the stink of what fills it.

No wonder you're unhappy, I tell my son and deposit the rag on top of his little Spongebob. A handy trick my mother­in­law taught me when I was learning about diapers over Christmas. Due in no small part to her teachings, I have yet to get peed on while changing a diaper. I lift David's butt and start mopping up the semi­liquefied gunk with a baby wipe.

What has Mommy been feeding you, little bear?

He's stopped crying and is staring up at me; his dark brown eyes open wide and his mouth making little sucking motions.

You put out some nasty stuff, you know that? Our one­sided conversation continues uninterrupted while I toss the dirty diaper into the bio­hazard pail and pin the clean one in place.

There you go, all clean and I stop rambling when my attention refocuses to his face.

she calls from the kitchen.

COME IN HERE! I holler back.

I hold up the two outfits I grabbed and show them to David, trying to keep him occupied until Donna gets here. Blue or gray?

Donna demands breathlessly.

***

David is lying on his back on the changing table, looking up at Josh with

He's smiling. I look from David to Josh in amazement.

Developmentally, our son is a little behind where the charts all say he should be at ten weeks. The pediatrician attributes it to his premature birth and the three weeks he spent in NICU. He insists David will catch up before we know it.

Josh grins back at me while he works flailing little arms and legs into the respective openings of the outfit he picked.

He's smiling, I repeat, awed by the toothless expression on David's face.

Josh whispers again, wrapping his arm around my waist, his face mirroring my own.

We stand there grinning like a pair of idiots while David entertains himself by kicking his legs and sucking on his fist.

He wants brownies, I decide, trying to get this day back on track.

Yeah, right, Josh drawls sarcastically. He releases me and picks up David before heading to the kitchen.

Tell me something that's been bothering me for years. I sit cross­legged on an empty spot of counter. Josh hands David to me and I settle him onto my lap so he can watch.

He replies, distractedly surveying the supplies I set out earlier.

Your mother claims she taught you to cook, but where did you learn to bake?

Josh clambers down on all fours, digging for something in a cabinet. Pulling his head out, he looks up and raises his eyebrows. Are you sure you want to know?

Of course I want to know.

He frowns, gets to his feet and starts adding ingredients to the stainless steel mixing bowl.

Josh! Tell me! I laughingly insist after a few minutes of silence filled only by David's nonsensical babbling.

When I was a freshman at Harvard, I hated my roommates and didn't have the guts to rush a fraternity during the fall semester. So, I spent a lot of time at a diner not far from campus that was open until like 2 or 3 a.m. I'd drink coffee, study and order just enough food to not piss off the guy who ran the place. Josh pauses to get something out of the fridge.

***

The late night cook was a twenty­two­year­old student at the Cambridge Culinary School

Donna has this knowing little smirk on her face.

who wanted to be a pastry chef. One thing sort of led to another and we started going out. She got a job at some hotel and her hours changed mid­semester. Instead of hanging out at the diner, I started going to her apartment to study.

Does the mystery cook have a name? Donna asks.

Cindy McNeil. She had a fetish for spatulas, I waggle my eyebrows and hold out the chocolate covered spoon for Donna to lick.

Spatulas, eh?

I reply, sticking the pan of brownies in the oven.

You know, my parents and Freddy aren't going to be here for another three hours.

I wave the double boiler at her. Somebody wanted me to make brownies.

***

I pout at him briefly. But since David is still kicking and squealing and is obviously not interested in taking a nap, I decide to continue bugging him about Cindy McNeil.

Were you in love with her? I draw out the word Ôlove.'

He shrugs indifferently, but the blush spreading across his cheeks is a dead giveaway. I know for a fact Josh didn't date in high school. My husband was the quintessential nerd. Cindy McNeil must have been his first girlfriend.

Oh come on, Josh! I whine teasingly. Admit it. She was your first true love.

He turns down the heat on the double boiler and stands in front of me, allowing David to grab his finger while cupping the other one to my face.

She taught me more than just how to bake, he says huskily. But you are my only true love.

Our lips meet in a lazy, lingering kiss.

Good answer, I murmur when we finally part.

Brown eyes twinkle mischievously inches from mine.

Oh yeah. But, Josh? I glance at the smoking pan on the stove. The chocolate's going to burn.

Wouldn't be the first time, he answers, reaching out to kiss me again.

I pull back after the fourth or fifth kiss. We have three hours, Josh. If you get the frosting right the first time, you'll have time to show me what else Cindy McNeil taught you while the brownies cool and David takes a nap.

I like naps. Josh gives me one more kiss before returning to his frosting.

***

The frosting is finished about the same time the brownies are. Which, fortuitously, is about the same time David's eyelids start to droop.

Donna takes him into the bedroom while I put the brownies in the fridge to cool faster.

She's standing on one foot peeling off her shorts by the time I wrap up in the kitchen.

Leave me something to do. I come up behind her and stay her hands before she can remove the last scraps of clothing covering her body.

She turns around and drapes her arms over my bare shoulders.

So what else did Cindy McNeil teach you? Donna's voice is deep and erotic. From the way she grinds her pelvis into mine, I can tell how much she wants me.

My hands grip her hips, pulling her closer to me still. Without answering her question, I lean in and lick her lips with my tongue, gently prying them apart and seeking out her tongue.

she moans into our kiss, her fingers toying playfully with my hair.

You taste like chocolate, I murmur when we finally come up for air.

***

My fingers scrape down his biceps and they flex under my touch.

Josh groans encouragingly, dipping his lips to his favorite spot on my collarbone.

Biceps, forearms, waist, there's a natural progression of skin, muscle and sinew demanding to be touched as I make my way to the elastic band of his boxers.

Strong hands cup my butt and pull me closer to his hips, I can feel the heat of arousal through the thin, cotton material.

I want you so much, Josh tells me between kisses; kisses which are becoming insistent with need and desire as he strips the tank top and my bra off.

I tilt my head back, giving up all pretense of equality, and allow him to ravage my neck while he guides us, stumbling, backwards until we collapse onto the bed.

The feel of Josh's hands makes me gasp and writhe with want. I want him to touch me everywhere at once; I want him to kiss me everywhere at once; I want him to make love to me.

***

We lay, still touching, gathering ourselves to face the day. Josh's head rests sleepily on my shoulder, his eyes shut and his breathing even, one hand possessively covering my abdomen, the other tangled in my hair.

I sigh and snuggle closer to him for warmth. The air conditioning blowing across my sweaty body leaves me chilled.

The sound of my men sleeping is hypnotic. Josh's deep, relaxed breathing is a stark contrast to David's shallow snoring.

Yes, our baby snores.

A fact Joshua continually blames on me, because my dad snores like a freight train.

I decide it's time to get the show on the road when the clock in the living room chimes nine. My folks should be here soon and we need to at least be showered and dressed.

Get up, baby, I shake Josh's shoulder. You need to shower while I feed David.

He groans in protest but finally gets up, leaving a string of kisses from my shoulder to my fingertips.

***

I swear, when Webster's defined multi­tasking they simply took the definition of parenting and relocated it.

Thus, Donna is in the shower; I'm trying to entertain David, pack the diaper bag and get myself dressed.

Then the phone rings and the cordless handset is in the living room.

I'm completely out of breath by the time I find it.

David's crying sends me dashing back into the bedroom.

It's okay, little bear, I attempt to calm him, ignoring the phone cradled to my ear in my efforts.

Is everything okay, Josh? my mother­in­law asks.

Hi, Deb. Yeah, everything's fine. I survey myself in the full­length mirror and determine Ôfine' might be stretching reality. I'm clad in boxers and not­yet­buttoned jeans; my damp hair is sticking out in every direction; David is clutching and gnawing at my shoulder, red­faced and bawling, having just upchucked his last feeding all over me.

Either that or I've reassessed the meaning of the word fine.'

Deb chuckles. We're lost.

Do you have any idea where you are?

she repeats in a tone of voice that tells me they've been driving in circles for at least an hour.

Are you in D.C. or are you still in Maryland? It's my turn to laugh, which makes David squeal and smile.

The kid shifts moods faster than his mother.

I think we're in Maryland, Deb answers. Her annoyance at Paul's unwillingness to ask for directions is blatantly obvious. But we've been through Virginia and I'm pretty certain we've crossed the Potomac twice.

Tell me what exits are coming up.

Highway 50 is three miles, she replies.

You weren't lying. You are lost, I joke. Take 50 east into the District.

I give her directions to a public parking lot near old RFK Stadium and tell her to wait for Donna and I there.

***

Josh is standing in the middle of the bedroom, bare­chested and covered in baby puke, laughing at the phone in his hand.

What's so funny? I ask, taking David from him so he can clean up, again.

Your mom just called. They're driving around the beltway ­ lost, and Paul won't stop for directions.

I can't help but join in his giggling. My dad would as soon drive until he runs out of gas than stop and ask directions. We spent a summer vacation once driving around Nebraska aimlessly for four days.

We were trying to find Mt. Rushmore.

You know ­ the big tourist attraction in South Dakota?

It takes us another twenty minutes to get ready and loaded into the Trailblazer. I let Josh drive because he knows where he sent my parents to wait for us.

***

You're sure this is where Josh told you they'd meet us? Paul is looking around the desolate, overgrown parking lot with skepticism.

He's got a lot of nerve for a guy who drove us all the way around Washington, D.C. at rush hour.

Twice.

Fred is slumped in the backseat as if he doubts we'll ever find Georgetown University.

We've only been waiting about five minutes before another SUV pulls into the lot and parks next to ours. My son­in­law's face appears in Paul's window. He is obviously finding this situation amusing.

Paul rolls down the window and Josh points back over his shoulder. You realize Georgetown is on the other side of the District, right?

I'm beginning to understand why so many TV and newspaper people think he's a pompous ass.

He shifts his attention from Paul to me. Here's the plan. Deb, you'll ride with Donna. Paul, you'll move over and I'll drive yours.

Paul grumbles, but unsnaps his seat belt and opens the door.

Is this okay with you, Freddy? I turn to find his sour look firmly entrenched.

Can we get the show on the road? he begs, bluntly.

I frown at him, but bite my tongue, this day is going to be hard enough as it is.

Peering into the kids' Blazer, I open the rear passenger door. I'm just going to sit back here with my grandson.

Donna meets my gaze in the rearview mirror and her eyes dance with motherly pride.

He's so tiny. All of my children were well over 9 pounds when they were born, I haven't seen a baby this small in many years.

He's up to just about 6 pounds.

He looks like Josh.

It's rather disturbing, isn't it? Donna laughs.

***

It's nearly 11 a.m. by the time we drive across town, find a place to park and carry the first load of Freddy's stuff up the 10 flights of stairs to his room in the East Wing of Village C.

You need less shit, Josh gasps, dumping his stack of boxes on the desk.

Mom and I follow the guys into the room. Industrial is a good way to describe it: long and narrow with bland, white cinderblock walls and linoleum floors. Two windows filter the broiling August sun streaming into the room.

Mom, why don't you stay up here with David? I offer. She looks ready to drop from the humidity.

Why don't you both stay up here with David, where there's air conditioning? Josh suggests firmly, clearly not fond of my traipsing up and down ten flights of stairs while carrying stuff.

Josh, I'm perfectly capable of helping, I put my hands on my hips, girding myself to battle his Neanderthalistic tendencies.

I'm sure you are, but he trails off when a short, stocky, dark­haired kid stumbles through the door.

It's a party, he gapes at the six of us, dropping his suitcase.

Freddy wipes the sweat from his hand before sticking it out. I'm Fred Moss. These are my parents and my sister and her family.

Josh and Dad both smile at him and excuse themselves to bring up the next load. Mom and I do the same, but settle for finding a couch in the dorm's lounge to people­watch instead of killing ourselves with Freddy's stuff.

What was that about? Mom asks. She's fawning over David, counting his toes and tickling him.

I ask, closing my eyes and relaxing.

The little tiff you and Josh were about to have.

He doesn't want me lifting anything, I sigh.

He's completely back into over­protective father­to­be mode and it's getting on my nerves.

Mom looks up from making faces at David. She says nothing; she simply raises her eyebrows to ask her question.

I bite my lip. I'm pregnant again.

The corner of her mouth twitches upward just slightly.

April 3rd, I answer.

I thought you were breastfeeding?

Dr. Williams thinks because I wasn't feeding him every few hours in the hospital, my body started ovulating again. Breastfeeding as contraception is only 98% reliable anyway. I'm, evidently, in that special 2%.

Mom groans, but smiles. I always knew there was something special about you, Donnatella. Are you both okay with this?

It isn't exactly what we planned, but Josh and planning

Don't go together very well? Mom finishes.

***

I'm going to die of a heart attack. We got all of Freddy's crap lugged upstairs and then started helping his roommate, because it turns out Andy's mother and little sister brought him to college and Andy's mother and little sister are not exactly movin' on up' material.

I set the kid's TV carefully on the floor, take two steps toward the closest bed and collapse.

How's everything going in here?

As the only person in the room, I pry my head off the mattress to glare at the voice's owner.

I'm Blake. I'm the Resident Assistant. I just wanted to make sure the move­in is going okay.

Sure, great, fine, I grumble, wondering why I didn't think of borrowing some Secret Service agents. Don't they owe me one?

I'll stop back by later, then, the kid stammers. Excuse me.

You look like death warmed over. This announcement comes from a far more familiar, feminine voice. The body the voice emanates from is the likely cause of the RA's sudden difficulty in speaking and rapid exit. In my experience, twenty­year­old resident assistant types are overwhelmed by the radiant beauty of Donnatella Lyman.

Where's everybody else? I ask my wife without moving.

She sits on the edge of the bed. At the bookstore. I had no desire to navigate that scholastic war zone with a two­month­old.

Good move, I agree, a low groan escapes as my body protests sitting up.

Are you going to live? The look of concern on her face tempers the sarcastic words.

I might, I reply. Or I might drop dead and leave you a widow with two kids.

And an extremely healthy bank account, Donna reminds me.

Good point, I agree with a chuckle.

***

Josh and I busy ourselves unpacking some of Freddy's stuff. I make the bed while Josh handles the clothes Ð I have zero desire to refold and put away my brother's underwear.

I can't believe they don't supply a computer for the room. Josh is fixated on this detail.

I guess I wouldn't have expected one. The rooms at U­W didn't have computers either. Of course, it was 1993 when I went to college and computers weren't as pervasive even ten short years ago.

God, it's been ten years since I went to college. Ten years since I graduated from high school. Shouldn't I have a ten­year reunion coming up soon?

I jump when Josh touches my shoulder.

You okay? he asks.

I nod, picking David up off the other bed where he's babbling and waving his arms around. I was just remembering when I moved into the dorms.

You lived in the dorms? Donna, your parents lived like down the street. Josh is looking at me in disbelief, one arm gesturing towards the door to illustrate his down the street' point.

Of course I lived in the dorms, I scoff. Did you live at home when you went to Yale?

No. Danbury was a little far from New Haven to commute for 8 a.m. classes when I'd been in the library until four in the morning Josh concedes. But, seriously, your parents live two miles from campus at the most. You moved into the dorms?

I wanted the full college experience. For someone who couldn't settle on a major and didn't graduate, I might have been a little haughty right there.

Josh raises both eyebrows at me and starts to say something.

I order preemptively, attempting to forestall the snarky come­back he's got.

He studiously schools his features into something a little less obnoxious.

Do you ever wish you had finished?

Well, talk about your misdirection. Where did that come from?

***

I shrug. It's something I've wondered for a long time and never really had the time or place to ask. I just wonder is all.

A faraway look drifts over her again and I'm struck by what a lucky man I really am. She's beautiful, my Donnatella. Her long blonde hair glistens and her eyes sparkle; the small, flawless diamond I put on her finger reflects the light as she unconsciously pats David's back, comforting the miracle we created together.

she shakes her head, breaking my reverie with the single word. I couldn't ever decide what I really wanted to do when I was in school. I guess I knew, but I didn't know how to get there. Going to New Hampshire was the right thing for me, Josh. I grew so much and I learned so many things you just can't learn in a classroom. I don't need a piece of paper to validate my knowledge anymore. Two years ago, my answer might have been different, but not today. I know who I am and I know what I want to do with my life and I know how to get there. I'm not in Pat's situation anymore.

I narrow my eyes and look at her closer. My wife is an incredible woman.

A youthful insecurity mixes with the timeless wisdom I see in her eyes.

***

he grins at me, reaching out to stroke David's cheek. Just thinking about how lucky I am you agreed to marry me.

I snort rather inelegantly. I'm the only one who would have you, Joshua Elijah Lyman. Every other woman on the planet thinks you're a fabulous catch until you open your mouth and display that ego of yours.

I don't have an Josh trails off when I raise my eyebrows at him. He blushes sheepishly and concedes. Thus proving just how lucky I really am.

***

The rest of the day was spent at Target getting everything Fred and Andy didn't realize they'd need, like cleaning supplies for their bathroom. Paul and Deb spent the night at a hotel and heading back to Wisconsin this morning.

We're meeting for breakfast at the diner near Rock Creek Park that Matt Skinner and I frequent for our clandestine coalition­building sessions.

Deb, Paul and Fred already have a table when we get there.

I've never actually ordered food here, preferring to do my negotiations over coffee. Matt, however, swears by the biscuits and gravy.

Are you ready to go back to work? Deb asks Donna after we've ordered.

I think so, Donna replies with a wistful glance at David. It's nice to stay home with him, but if I don't get some regular adult conversation soon, I'm going to go insane.

She might go insane coming back to work. I cringe at the very thought of Donna returning to the office. Despite all my repeated screaming and threats, the bullpen is still a disaster area. I'm going in this afternoon to ride herd on Chris and Debbie in an last ditch attempt to clean things up.

This came to the house, by the way. Pat sent it along and I meant to give it to you yesterday, Deb is pulling an envelope out of her purse when I tune back into the conversation.

You'd think they could find me in D.C., Donna bitches, giving me David so she can open her mail. God, Jennifer Hatcher. I hated her. She was the homecoming queen, the prom queen, class vice­president, cheerleader, president of the drama club, the perfect little goody­goody. Her and Brent Mulroney.

Wow. The last person I heard her talk about like that was Sam's ex­girlfriend, Rachelle.

Tell us how you really feel about her, Donna, Fred quips. So? Are you going to go?

I ask in confusion, never haven gotten the purpose of the letter she was opening.

My 10­year high school reunion, Donna explains to me before turning back to Fred. I don't think so. I really have no desire to see any of those people. I didn't really like them that much the first time around.

When is it? I try to peek through her clenched fist at the invitation.

The third weekend in October. Homecoming weekend.

Third weekend in October

I'm sensing some unresolved hostility here. This could be fun. We should go to this, because I'll give 5 to 1 odds that Jennifer Hatcher is probably the antithesis of the person she once was. Donna, on the other hand, is an aide to the President of the United States.

You don't honestly want to go to this? Donna's fork stops half­way to her mouth.

I think you should at least consider about it. I hedge for safety's sake. She could very easily stab me with that fork, or, you know, withhold sex.

She looks around at her parents and Fred. Everyone is nodding in agreement.

Okay. Okay, she throws her hands up in surrender. I'll think about it.