"Peter!" Roz said when she opened her front door and saw him standing there with a grocery bag that looked like it might have jars of food in it. She was wearing a red, blue and black flannel nightgown that showed off her figure. She looked like a plaid grain silo. "Are you going to come over to my house every day because don't."

"I just want to help," Peter said defensively.

He tried to hide the grocery bag behind himself. He was wearing a parka, a navy blue one, the puffy kind with the fake, nappy fur-lined hood and orange lining, so it shouldn't have been hard to hide something behind, but the coat was so thick he couldn't get his arms to go that far back. The air was crisp and his breath frosted in front of his nose. The end of winter hadn't reached mornings, yet.

"You want to help? Don't help," she said. "I can take care of myself. I've been doing it since I killed my mother."

"You did that, too?" Peter said with a surprised grin.

Roz smiled, shook her head, sighed and moved aside to let him in. The house smelled like freshly brewed coffee. Roz liked her coffee strong and the heavy aroma of it lay thickly on the air. The smell alone could induce heart palpitations. In coma victims. Without noses. (That's enough Geoff.) In another county. (Okay, I'm done.)

"Okay, what's in the bag?" she said, knowing he'd be trying to figure out how to just surreptitiously leave it behind for her if she didn't acknowledge it.

"Mom's head," Peter said.

"You're going to hell," Roz announced, then went into the kitchen to get her coffee cup. She'd had only had one small sip when he had knocked on the door.

"You started it," Peter said, following her. "Anyway, I cooked some Yankee Pot Roast. It's hardy and nutritious. For both you and little Neville."

Roz was about to hand him a cup of coffee, but pulled it back and looked at him in such a way that, had he been a flower, he'd have wilted. He wilted.

"What would you name him, then?" he asked even more defensively. It didn't endear him to her. She wasn't hard-hearted, just winter early morning bleary without enough coffee fortification. Of course, it probably wouldn't have endeared him to her on a warm summer afternoon. She wasn't an easy mark.

"Peter," she said.

"You want to call him Peter?"

"No," she said emphatically.

"Then why did you say it?"

"Because it's your name," she said with an annoyed sigh. "You're really starting to bug me. And you're doing it fast, like a microwave bug."

Peter dropped a few petals.

"I'll only name it that if it's a girl," she said, a little more softly. "I can take care of myself. I can take care of my baby."

"Our baby," Peter said before he could consider the consequences of the correction. She'd still had only a half cup of coffee.

"Okay, our baby," she said. "I'll take care of it. Really. No smoking. No drugs. No cross country skiing or working a jackhammer, I promise. And boxing only once in a while. Go to work. I have to wake up, here."

"I'll call you, okay?"

"Yes," she said. "Okay. Call me. I don't want to see you here again tomorrow. Really."

Peter looked a little hurt. He tried to hide it, but wasn't at all good at that.

"Thank you for the stew," she said, and he brightened a little.

"Pot roast," he said, wondering what he'd cook for her and little Neville next. "Yankee."

"Go to work," she said. "Carpetbagger."

(Carpetbagger? Yeah, he called her a Yankee. No he didn't, he was talking about the pot roast. I know. It's a joke. Jeez. Do I have to explain everything to you in lower case letters?)

It was Monday morning. Stella opened the theatre up in a daze, almost missing the coat hook when she hung her coat. Even more of a daze than usual. Since the previous Wednesday, when she had discovered what that nagging thing that had been pulling at the edges of her consciousness in the weeks since Peter had stabbed her in the back by quitting and starting his own theatre was, she had been moving in a high speed fog, surrounded by a hastily assembled cadre of volunteers. It had revealed itself, in a very unpleasant confrontation with the director of End of the World, to be something very important she was supposed to have done.

While she had stood, on Wednesday, watching the director melt down all over her office, letting her know exactly what she was supposed to have done, her left hand absently thumbing through one of the many, ever growing stacks on her desk, hoping the program she was supposed to have submitted to a printer had miraculously been done and would appear under her forefinger like it used to when Peter was there, he had suddenly stopped raving and disparaging her ancestors and had breathed in dramatically to calm himself. Very quietly, he asked for a copy of the cast and crew list. Miraculously, there had been a copy right under her left forefinger in the stack she had been thumbing through. She looked at it, surprised at her momentary good luck, pulled it out and handed it to him.

He took it, removed a stack of papers from Peter's old chair, sat down and started calling people to see if anyone was available to come in and help alleviate the current disaster. After a couple of calls, he'd looked up at her. She hadn't moved. She was still absently fingering the pile. He'd politely suggested she get on her own fucking phone and call everyone who had ever volunteered at the fucking place and get their fucking asses over here, god fucking damnit.

By the end of Wednesday, the volunteers had pulled together a rough flyer that they photocopied, called the Bee to make sure an announcement could be put in the next Sunday's and Wednesday's papers and made sure a reviewer would be at the opening, and called all the radio stations to get announcements in all their community bulletins.

By the end of Thursday, they'd proofed the copy for a program, gotten it to the printer and photo-copied a bunch for the opening weekend. The photocopies weren't pretty, but the printer said he absolutely, positively couldn't get the programs done by the weekend, so they had to have something. By the second weekend of the play, everything would be as it should be.

By the end of Friday, they had sorted through and dealt with and filed most of the stuff on and around Peter's old desk and even a lot of the stuff on hers. The whole three days, while they worked, the volunteers seemed to be talking a lot about Agnes Livingstone, but Stella had been too numb and driven to get everything done as efficiently as possible to pay much attention to anything but the tasks at hand.

She'd worked the whole weekend going through and dealing with and filing most of the rest of the stuff on her own desk. She'd told herself it wasn't out of any sense of guilt. It just all needed to be gotten to, and what better way than on the weekend when there would be no one there to interrupt her. Of course, the nagging thing at the edge of her consciousness now was guilt, even if she refused to acknowledge it. And, of course, there had been people there. All weekend. The box office volunteers had kept interrupting her to ask inane questions. She'd wondered how the hell they ever got along on normal weekends when they were on their own. The tech crew from the play, who'd been there both Saturday and Sunday afternoons to check all the lights, props and sets, had constantly interrupted her to bring her receipts and reimbursement requests, wanting checks cut right away, which she, of course, couldn't do because they had to all be okayed by Bear and signed by Adrienne Gomez, the treasurer of the board. She'd wondered how the hell they had ever had the patience to just leave them for her on all other weekends. And Bear, speaking of Bear, had spent the whole weekend interrupting her by turning and walking in the other direction whenever he'd seen her. She'd wondered how the hell such a simple thing could pull at the nagging thing at the edge of her consciousness so dramatically.

She was exhausted. She would have called in to say she'd be late, had there been anyone there to call in to. Instead, she'd slogged in, opened up, hung her coat and slumped down in her chair. At least her desk looked good. She hadn't seen that much of the surface of it in years. She sighed and started going through the receipts and expenses for the show when the phone rang. It was Hal Smith, the chairman of the board of directors of the Willow Lane Theater. He informed her that the board was having an emergency meeting in the conference room of his bank that afternoon and that she needed to be there. He hung up before she could ask why and the nagging thing at the edge of her consciousness blossomed into full blown paranoia that no amount of denial could dispel.

Kim and Jim were already hard at work building the platform that would be the Renaissance stage. Peter took off his parka and wondered if either of them had a job, and if not, how they managed to survive. Being good looking young people couldn't possibly be enough, could it?

"Don't you two have jobs?" he asked.

Kim looked at him strangely, then laughed.

"I'm a ward secretary at the hospital," she said as she measured a two-by-four and marked it. "I work graveyard shift in the emergency room. You didn't know that?"

"How would I know that?" Peter said and set the coat neatly on a counter that they'd built the day before.

"Everybody knows that," she said a little indignantly. "I know where you worked."

"That's because I worked at the theatre. With you."

She sort of understood, and began sawing the two-by-four. Even Jim sort of understood that.

"I have a paper route," he said proudly as he held the wood for her.

"Good for you," Lee said under his breath as he came in from the kitchen area. He was carrying a newspaper and motioned for Peter to look at it.

"I'm done by seven every morning except Thursdays when I have to collect. Last Thursday, someone gave me a quarter tip."

Lee asked him if it was damp, but Jim just looked at him nonplused and scratched his ear.

"Never mind," Lee said, and he handed the paper to Peter.

"What?" Peter asked as he took it.

"Look at the review," Lee said, more than a little pleased with himself.

"Oh, my God," Peter said. "End of the World opened this weekend. I completely forgot. How is that possible?"

"I've been so busy, I was just letting the newspapers pile up," Lee said. "I just got to Saturday's." He seemed very impatient for Peter to look.

The headline said, "End of the World Not Quite End of the World". Peter scowled. It wasn't a terribly bad start, he wasn't sure why Lee looked so smug. Then he read the review. It started, "The opening night audience for the Willow Lane's production of End of the World With Symposium to Follow last night was mercifully small." It went on to imply that the few people who were there were bored to tears and that the general quality of the production was surprisingly sub par, mentioning that the programs were actually Xerox™ copies.

"Xerox™?" Peter said, incredulously. "Oh, my God. Stella forgot to get the program to the printers. Poor Stella, she must be frantic."

"Poor Stella," Kim said. "Peter, she practically greased the doors so you could leave faster."

"Well... ," Peter said. "Still."

"And she dumped me," Jim said. "I still don't really know why."

Lee mumbled something about everyone having dumped Jim. Kim looked at Jim and told him softly that whatever the reason, it allowed him to move up to her. He smiled and they exchanged a cute, drippily saccharin kiss. Jim had some sawdust on his face and left a little spot of it on Kim's nose. He wrinkled his nose cutely when he saw it, brushed it off and kissed her again. Lee pulled a gun from his pocket and shot himself in the face and neck area six times. Then he stabbed himself and drank hemlock. Then he told Peter to read the rest.

"Okay, where was I? 'The direction was pedestrian, the actors uninspired. The only saving grace was the set, which was sparse but effective and the lighting, which was sublime.' Good old Bear. I miss Bear."

"Me, too," Lee said.

Just then the front door opened, which startled them all because everyone they expected to be there was already there. It was Bear. (No, it wasn't, Steve. But I miss him. Me, too.) It was Twain, which startled Lee and Peter. Jim and Kim just looked fondly at each other and returned to the two-by-four.

"Twain," Lee said, genuinely pleased to see him. Despite the filthy apron that was protruding from underneath his filthy parka. It was a nasty green one, the puffy kind with the fake, nappy fur-lined hood and orange lining. The parka, not the apron. It had probably already been nasty green even when it was new, but no one would ever know, now. "What a surprise."

Twain looked around and nodded.

"Must be after the breakfast rush," Lee said.

Twain nodded and walked around the room, looking at the paint job and floor and the new counter and the platform that Kim and Jim were building. He nodded again.

"When's opening night?" he asked. When Lee and Peter looked at him, both obviously embarrassed, he added, "you're not very good at this, are you?"

"Want the tour?" Lee said brightly to change the subject.

Twain nodded and Lee led him into the kitchen. Peter, Jim and Kim followed. Twain looked around the kitchen, nodding, and told them they were at least doing something right. After a moment of silence, Lee realized that, besides the bathrooms, that had been the whole tour. He stood there for a moment more, then led Twain back out into the dining room. Peter, Jim and Kim followed. When they got to the dining room, they stood another moment, not sure what else to say or do. Finally, Twain reached into his parka, pulled out an envelope and handed it to Lee.

It was Lee's turn to be nonplused. It seemed so incongruous for Twain to be giving him an envelope that it took him a moment to be able to decipher the glyphs on its front. Finally, his brain focused, found the proper pathways and the markings coalesced into something recognizable. It was a letter. From Beverly. Addressed to him. At Twain's. He scowled. His stomach slipped down in his abdomen and twitched a little. What the hell does she want from me, now? Hasn't she taken enough from me, the witless feck, he railed silently. He opened the envelope and a brick fell out. He picked it up, threw it back into the air then pulled a letter out and unfolded it.

As he read it, his heart stared beating strangely and the color left his face.

"Lee?" Peter said, concerned.

Lee sat down. It was a good thing there was an overturned bucket to land on. It wouldn't at all have been good timing for a slapstick moment.

"What's wrong," Peter said.

Jim, Kim, Peter and Twain were all crowded around Lee, concerned and very curious. Some were more concerned than curious. Well, Peter was.

"What's the Dish want, now?" Twain asked casually.

"She's pregnant," Lee breathed hoarsely.

(Keep reading, Lee, she finds out it's not hers.)

"That's just stupid," Lee said and Geoff agreed.

(See? That's what I get when I argue with fiction.)

"Hey, Champ, you're a daddy?" Jim said heartily, beaming, ready to slap Lee on his back, wishing he carried cigars around or that he wore suspenders to put his thumbs behind. Ex-dicks always put their thumbs behind their suspenders when they were proud. And rocked on their heels. And drank hooch. He wished he had some hooch to pass around. He wondered how the hell people rocked on their heels. He tried and wasn't very successful. Which was part of the reason he was an ex-gumshoe. He wondered what paperboys did when they were proud. Probably just smile and slap people on the back.

"No, not me, you witless feck," Lee said before Jim could land the slap.

Jim scratched his ear.

"It's the Jerk's," Lee said, much more quietly. "God."

Peter asked why she was telling him after everything that they had gone through.

"I don't know," Lee said absently. "It's Beverly. She probably just thinks it's appropriate. Like calling cards and thank you notes. And sleeping with window painters. Damn her. A baby. Fuck."

Peter's own heart started flip-flopping a little. This news put his own impending fatherhood into a strange, sharp relief. And even more so since he wanted to talk to Lee, to commiserate with him, but no one there but Lee knew, so he had to wait until Twain, Kim and Jim left. And he really wished at least one of them would change their name, at least until they stopped dating each other. It was just too silly. Jim and Kim. Sheesh.

"Now you're both going to be fathers," Jim said and slapped Peter on the back like a proud paperboy.

Peter was very startled, not only because of the unexpected, manly slap which almost doubled him over. How the hell did he know? Was he psychic? Did he know Roz? No. Of course. Abby. Kim. Jim. Fuck. Now everyone knows. Twain raised an eyebrow.

"Does everyone know?" Peter asked.

"No," Jim said. "Just Kim and me. And Headline. And Billy. Hey, did you know some kid touched Agnes's boob?"

Twain raised his other eyebrow. Kim smacked Jim in the ear. He scratched it.

"Place is coming along well," Twain said. "Gotta get back to the diner."

After Twain left, Lee threw the letter to the ground. It was a completely unsatisfying gesture. There should have been a big boom. Now would be a good time to have a brick.

"Damn Beverly," he said angrily, then, for good measure, added, "fuck!"

Peter instantly forgot his own stress at having his secret out, his attention now completely on his friend who obviously needed some sort of help.

"I didn't know you wanted kids," Peter said quietly.

"I don't," Lee said sharply.

"Then why are you upset?" Peter asked, trying to piece it all together but doing it haphazardly.

"I DON'T KNOW!" Lee said in anguish.

Kim was about to say something, to ask him about his reaction, to talk about the consequences, to get all the details of his relationship with his ex-wife and their breakup – this was good stuff – but Lee pointed at her sharply.

"Don't," he said emphatically, "say anything about this to Abby. I will talk to her about it tonight."

"I... ," she said, trembling a little at his forcefulness. "I would never."

Her pants tented. She pulled Jim back to the sawhorse and attacked the two-by-four aggressively.

The conference room of Mr. Smith's bank was larger than Stella expected it to be. Of course, it was there for the board of directors of the bank, which was probably a lot bigger than the board of directors of the Willow Lane Theater. Stella was also surprised that she had never actually met a couple of the members of the board. She knew Hal Smith, of course, and Adrienne and Phil Gomez and Reginald and a few of the others, but there were several guys sitting around the large table that she had never seen. She wondered if they actually ever even came to the plays. How could you be on the board of directors of something if you never came to the plays? Not that she saw every one of them. The plays, not the members of the board, a few of which she had just realized she'd never seen. What did they expect, anyway, she was at the theatre all day, did they expect her to be there all the time at night, too, and see every play? She shook her head in dismay.

When she'd gotten to the bank, Mr. Smith's secretary had efficiently asked her to wait and led her to a chair just outside the conference room, then efficiently asked her if she would like some coffee or tea or soda. Or pot. Stella hadn't needed a beverage, so she sat waiting, wondering how odd it was that she had never actually been to a meeting of the board of directors, either the bank's or the theatre's, which was probably why she had never met some of the members. The chair she sat in was facing the glass wall of the conference room so she could watch the meeting already in progress.

A few minutes later the secretary efficiently told her they were ready for her and ushered her in. The conference table sat sixteen, seven on a side and one on either end. Mr. Smith sat at the end away from the door. Adrienne and her husband sat on one side, along with three other men, and Reginald on the other with four other men. Mr. Smith indicated that Stella should sit at the other end. It was separated by the nearest person on either side by three chairs, which made her feel, somehow, very small, a feeling she decidedly disliked. It also assured she would have to look directly at Mr. Smith, and he could look directly at her, which he did right away. It also assured she would have her back to the door. Adrienne Gomez was the only other woman in the room. Stella was at a complete disadvantage. She swallowed and sat up straight.

As she sat assessing the situation, waiting for someone to start, to tell her why they'd asked her in, she felt strangely like she'd felt that time she'd been pulled over by a cop and had no idea why. Actually, she had sort of known why he'd pulled her over, she hadn't really stopped at that stop sign. And she was putting on her lipstick while she did it. And she was, after all, a knockout, I mean, come on. But this felt a lot like that. He had actually just wanted to let her know that her tail light was broken, which she hadn't known. She wondered if the board was going to tell her something like that, something simple and unthreatening that could be fixed by a visit to Pep Boys™. Of course, that stupid nagging at the edge of her consciousness, which had been getting stronger and louder all day, was laughing at her naiveté and causing her heart to beat too fast and making her sweat. Which wasn't comfortable at all, especially since her beautiful blouse was Dacron™ and didn't breathe well, and she wished it would stop and they would just spank her, holler a little and get it over with. Why the hell wasn't anyone saying anything?

"Stella!" Mr. Smith said again.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said and told the nag to shut up so she could pay attention.

"This week was an unmitigated disaster," Reginald Vanderding said snootily. "No one was at the opening of End of the World. I don't think we've ever had such a small house for an opening night in the twelve and a half years I've been on the board. Such small houses for the whole opening weekend."

Stella opened her mouth to say something to that, but Adrienne interrupted her.

"The cast and crew had no flyers to hand out. And the programs were photocopies, for God's sake," she said. She, at least, came to the shows. She'd have to to know that. "As if we were some podunk theatre in some boondock town somewhere in middle America." When everyone stared at her, she added, "Which we're not. They even mentioned it in the Bee, for God's sake. In the review! For God's sake."

Stella was again about to say something in response, when Phil interrupted her, which was odd, because, in Stella's experience, Phil usually let Adrienne do all the heavy lifting and just stood around being prominent.

"I had to field at least three calls from the director and several from members of the cast about there being no announcement in the Bee," he said, and Adrienne added she'd fielded at least that many calls.

The other board members nodded and Reginald harrumphed, as if everyone had called each and every member of the board, which Stella really doubted. I mean, how many people do you need to complain to? Mr. Smith went to Washington (Steve?) and this little piggy went wee wee wee wee (Steve! Do you need some sugar? Yes, thanks) just sat with his elbows on the table and his fingertips tented. His pants, however, weren't. They hadn't tented since Cagney and Lacey had been canceled. But that has nothing to do with this admonishment.

"Do you have anything to say?" Mr. Smith finally asked, after everyone had finished indicating how inconvenienced they had all been fielding complaints.

"Yes," Stella said, and flipped her hair, which seemed to have the desired effect; most of the men at the table now seemed completely in her thrall. Except Mr. Smith, of course, and Reginald, who was, somehow, suspect in any case. "In my own defense, I did get a whole bunch of volunteers in to get it all handled. Which they did. There was an announcement in the Bee yesterday and we have flyers, now, and the programs will be delivered on Wednesday. Plenty of time for the weekend."

"You only did all that after the director told you to," Adrienne said.

"You should have done that the moment Peter left, you stupid, stupid woman," Phil added.

"Phil!" Adrienne admonished him. "She only deserves one stupid, you idiot."

(Are you done, Steve? All the way home.)

"I... I... ," Stella said, then for good measure thought about flipping her hair, but decided it was too early for an encore.

A couple of the members she didn't know started indignantly talking about Peter having been right, that she really was incompetent, which really hurt. How the hell could Peter have been so cruel to tell them that, and when the hell had he done it? As they wound down, it became obvious that he'd said that right before he quit, as if they'd been there when Peter had quit, the slackers. And they added that, perhaps, they had been hasty in accepting his resignation, and that the raise they'd recently given her seemed to have been premature. That really piqued her irritation. She deserved that raise. And, as it turned out, it was prescient, not premature. Soon after she'd gotten it, she'd been expected to run the whole place single-handedly, without any help, because their golden boy had jumped ship and left her dangling, the fuck. What did these guys expect, anyway.

"I'm really disappointed, Stella," Hal Smith said when the rest of them had finished maligning her. He sounded incredibly paternal, which surprised her, and cut her short. He sounded like a hurt, judgmental father. It seemed the ultimate slap. Until he continued. "In any case, we have made an offer to Titania Moon. She has accepted. She will start tomorrow. There will be no drama between the two of you. You will get along."

It wasn't a question, or a request. It wasn't even an order. It was stated simply. As a fact.

"I... I... ," Stella said.

She was close to tears. Closer than she liked getting. The nagging irritation at the edge of her mind broke free into a full fledged torrent and she felt the full force of its guilt, righteous anger, indignation and humiliation. It was an overwhelming amount of sensation, way too much for her body to process, and all feeling left her entire torso and most of both arms. It felt like swimming in helium only it was warm. It was a good thing she was sitting down. She wanted to assert some mastery over the situation. In fact, she almost said "talk to her about that, she's the one with the attitude," but some rational part of her abused brain suggested that might not be the best course of action right then. In her current emotional state, she doubted she could pull it off in any case, so she simply harrumphed.

(Harrumph again? Spell check doesn't like that, is it really a word? It's in the dictionary. Hey, we should sell a dictionary for dummies with only six words in it. Like "the - a word that starts many movie titles". Steve, a dictionary IS for dummies. Is that why you have so many of them? Shut up. They were gifts. Oh, I see. Just like the Farrah poster? No, I bought that.)

When they were done with her, she left, glad that she hadn't actually burst into tears or begged them to give her another chance or pleaded with them to understand how hard the last few weeks had really been. She'd have to be very subtle about how she got back at Titania.

After the glass conference room door closed behind Stella, one of the guys brought up a rumor he'd recently heard about Agnes Livingtsone and some young man, and the board members talked about that with all due righteous indignation for a few moments until Phil said that he'd heard Peter Principal had gotten some woman pregnant.

"Really?" Reginald said. "I'd always thought he was gay."

It was chilly that afternoon. Matt took off his coat and made sure the front door of the diner was securely closed. Twain was sitting at the counter. He turned and looked at Matt. He wasn't staring, just looking, but he did it for a very long time.

"What?" Matt asked, getting more and more uncomfortable. He wished he would just stare and get it over with.

"You tell me," Twain said.

Matt was about to say, "nothing," in the way that only a teenaged boy could say it, but as soon as he opened his mouth the whole story of his ride home and the moving of the furniture and, well, the breast and everything, all the way to slamming his door practically in his mother's face came spilling out like sugar from a ripped bag or beer from an old man's bladder or guilt from a young man who had touched his first boob and didn't like it at all, but did and wasn't at all sure what to think of it all except that he felt all soft and warm and guilty and had buzzing skin all over his body all the time, now.

Twain nodded, got up from the stool and went in back. He had an odd expression on his face. Odd even for Twain. Matt's shirt felt like sandpaper. Very nice sandpaper. He wished it would stop. And keep stopping forever.

When Abby got to Lee's house he was already on his second beer. He didn't even look at her sweatshirt when she took her coat off. It said "Hey, look at me. Look at me. Are you going to look at me? Look at me! Mom! Look." She was disappointed that he didn't look.

"Hey," she said, "look at my shirt. Look. Are you going to look at my shirt? Look at my shirt! Lee! Look."

He looked at her shirt. It said, "Butte is for Lovers."

"Okay," she said as she cracked a beer for herself. "What's up?"

"I got a letter from Beverly today."

Something fluttered in Abby's chest. Does she want him back? Wouldn't he just say no and be done with it? Why would any news from Beverly make him drink two beers before she even got to his place? Was he still thinking about her? After everything?

"She's pregnant," he said with an odd finality.

Her throat got dry and a strange gauze bandage wrapped itself around the top part of her head and pulled itself entirely too tight. She did some quick calculations in her head. He had come to town in the early fall. It was now March. Much less than nine months.

"How far along is she," she asked, her voice tight with a strange squeaky undertone to it.

"I have no idea," Lee huffed, a little perturbed. He looked at her and realized she was counting months in her head. He could always tell when someone who wasn't used to it was trying to calculate. "It isn't mine! Did you think it was mine?"

The constriction in her throat and forehead instantly eased and the blood started to flow to her face again. This would be the final break. This was good news. She looked at him and saw how upset he was. Which he wouldn't be if this were the final break. He was still conflicted. Because his ex-wife was having someone else's child. A sign painter, of all things. He was still thinking about her. This was really bad news. Abby turned on the television and sipped her beer. There was a Green Acres marathon on. She hated Green Acres. At least that night she did. So she watched Charlie do nothing in his cage. She didn't talk to Lee.

Lee wondered why everyone hated him.

Peter was feeling off kilter when he got to the Ren the next morning. He'd had to refrain from bringing any food or comfort to the mother of his child and it threw his entire momentum off. Lee was sitting on an overturned bucket writing on a piece of paper. Lee looked up momentarily, vaguely annoyed and not sure why. Something about truncating the name of his new venture. Peter gave him a "get over it, I can call it Ren in my head" look. Lee went back to his paper, wondering why Peter was being so sensitive.

Peter took his coat off and looked over Lee's shoulder at the neat list of positions they'd have to fill that Lee was creating. It annoyed him that Peter was reading it over his shoulder. He thought about turning his shoulder in and covering the paper with his writing arm. Then he realized that would be a supremely infantile thing to do. He even moved his shoulder a little bit just to test it. Yup. Infantile. He sighed and handed the list to Peter.

"Am I missing anything?"

Peter looked over the list again, then suggested they find a more comfortable place where they could work on it. The Petting Zoo wouldn't be open until the afternoon, so they went into the kitchen and sat on the counter. They thought and conjured and discussed and imagined and disagreed and came up with a list that seemed fairly complete. It was bigger then either of them had thought it might be, which worried them both a little, although neither was willing to say so.

Besides being worried, Lee looked at it a little bewildered.

"What's wrong?" Peter asked, hoping Lee wasn't about to say he was worried about how big the list was.

"What do we do, now?" Lee said a little sheepishly.

Peter thought for a moment, then said that they needed to put classified ads in the Bee, then schedule interviews. Lee still looked a little bewildered. He'd never hired anyone before. He had no idea what to look for. Or ask. Or anything. He knew what forms needed to be filled out, of course. And how to calculate their withholdings. Peter assured him that they'd be fine, that they were both intelligent people and would probably be able to figure it out.

"You've never hired anyone, either, have you?" Lee asked.

"Well," Peter said. "I used to interview the volunteers. Of course, that was just to see the best place to put them. Before Stella took them from me. No. I've never hired anyone, either."

Lee looked a little panicked.

"We'll be fine," Peter assured him, although he didn't look sure at all.

"Someone here to see you, Big Guy," Jim said as he poked his head into the kitchen. When Peter started to get up, he pointed to Lee. "No, you Chief."

It was Twain again. He didn't look particularly happy. He handed Lee an envelope and told him he needed to tell her his new address, then turned and left. Everyone waited for Lee to open the envelope. He looked at it briefly, then folded it neatly in half and put it in his front pants pocket. There was a general air of disappointment in the front room of the Renaissance that late morning. (Let's take all the "o"s and turn them into "u"s.)

He luuked at it briefly, then fulded it neatly in half and put it in his frunt pants pucket. There was a general air uf disappuintment in the frunt ruum uf the Renaissance that late murning. (Nu, Steve, that duesn't wurk. Surry, Geuff. Nuw stup! Ukay. Puup. That's jost domb.)

Editor's Note: The authors apologize for the excessive amount of forced interruptions in this installment. It has been a long time since they've posted and they have a lot of nervous energy stored up. And while we're waiting for them to calm down, please enjoy this selection of numbers from Stop the World, I Want to Get Off. "I talk to the trees, but they don't listen to me... " (That's from Paint Your Wagon. You are gay. But you know the words. We learned it in choir. And I'm gay? Yes.)

By early afternoon the disappointment had transformed to morbid curiosity, which was a really odd phrase to use to describe anything besides a curiosity about grisly bears. Peter kept wondering how he could manipulate Lee into accidentally taking the envelope out of his pocket. He thought about asking Lee to make change for him, but couldn't come up with a reasonable reason that he needed change. He considered asking Lee to borrow his keys, but again, he couldn't imagine why he would need them. And what if he kept his change in his back pocket. And his keys in his other front pocket. If only Lee had put the envelope in his back pocket. Pieces of paper had a way of working themselves out of back pockets and falling to the floor unnoticed in a way that pieces of paper in front pockets didn't. And if it were in his back pocket and it partly worked its way up but didn't fall, Peter was sure he could somehow flick it without Lee noticing, if he were really careful, and make it fall unnoticed to the floor. There was little chance of him flicking it even if it did partly work its way out of the front pocket.

Kim and Jim both kept trying to drop subtle hints, trying to get Lee to open the damn thing and read it. Well, Kim kept dropping subtle hints. Jim's were more like, "I wonder what's in that letter. Hmmm.... I wonder." Jim didn't really know how to be subtle. It was one of the reasons he had been such a bad private eye. He was a really good paperboy, though, so he was happy.

Suddenly, he started to laugh.

"Graveyard shift," he said when Kim looked at him questioningly. "At a hospital. That's funny."

Kim had never wondered at the irony of using that word to describe anything at a hospital. She laughed and looked at Jim with newfound respect. He can be subtle, she thought with a soft glow. Jim noticed the glow, which made him glow a little. Peter didn't notice any of those things, because he had just noticed that he'd spent the last hour and a half thinking about Lee's pants and was devastated by the realization. He went into the kitchen so no one could see the color of his face.

Early that evening, right before Peter was about to shout, "Just open the damn thing, read it and tell us what's in it, you stupid, stupid man!" the front door opened. A swirl of cool evening air came in with the soft blue twilight that silhouetted a tall figure in the frame of the doorway. The silhouette closed the door. It was Fred Ogg. Peter immediately forgot about Lee's damn letter. And his pants.

"Hi," he said in a very controlled way because he couldn't quite decide what his reaction was to seeing someone he was really attracted to suddenly appear in front of people who didn't or shouldn't know that he was attracted to people like this and he didn't want his voice to betray any hint of either the attraction or the confusion. His skin suddenly felt prickly and red under his shirt and he wanted to scratch it, but was afraid to, in case anyone might notice.

"Hi," Fred said. He wanted to say how difficult it had been the last few days being in a hotel room one town over and only having telephone conversations with Peter every night when he wanted so much more, and how he had thought all day about leaving the store early, even though they were having managerial issues which it was his job to resolve and leaving early wouldn't really be in the best interest of the store, and how he had barely been able to breathe the whole drive to River Bend in his rented car, but all he could get out was, "I figured I'd come and help out."

"Oh," Peter said, again in a very controlled way because the thought of spending the remainder of the evening there right next to Og but in view of everyone else was too much to think about and he was starting to get very annoyed that Fred had just shown up without any warning and how could he do such a thing, my God he looks good standing there in the door what the hell was he thinking. Peter's breathing was forced and his pant legs rubbed uncomfortably against his shins. He'd never noticed how his socks felt being pressed into his skin by the tops of his shoes.

"Great," Lee said, happy to have more help, really happy to have the room focused on something besides his front pants pocket. "And you are?"

"Oh," Peter said, very flustered. "This is Og. Fred. Fred Ogg. My... um... he's... uh... a friend. Of mine."

"I'm Kim," Kim said brightly and offered him her hand. "And this is Jim."

Og shook their hands, impressed at what a cute couple they were.

"And I'm Lee Harris," Lee said.

"Of course," Og said. "Friend and business partner."

"That's me," Lee said with a sidelong glance at Peter, wondering if Peter had known Fred was coming. The brief glance assured him Peter had absolutely no idea. Lee relished the thought of witnessing how this evening would work itself out. At the very least, it would be a distraction from the anticipation of finding out what Beverly wanted. This was wonderful. Even if his new distraction was at the expense of his best friend and business partner. Poor Peter. He moved back to the other side of the room to watch.

Fred rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

"What can I do?" he said like a young man offering to help the his neighbor's very hot mother do yard work on a very hot summer day. Or maybe like someone who had been offered his choice of fudge.

"Peter's been working in the kitchen most of the day," Kim said. "I'm sure he could use some help in there."

Peter started to sweat.

"I'm... ," he said. "No, I... maybe you could help Jim and Kim."

"Yeah. We just finished building the stage and have to paint it, now," Jim said, helpfully, eager to play with the new guy.

Fred looked at Peter oddly, then at Kim and Jim, shrugged, put a grin on his face and asked for a paint brush. Jim handed him a roller and opened the paint bucket. As Og passed him to get to the stage platform, Peter could feel heat waft by, then sink right into his face, all the way through to his brain. It smelled like clean linen. When Fred had passed all the way by, the chill from the heat leaving made Peter shiver. He went back into the kitchen. And leaned against the counter. And tried to breathe. He wondered what Og expected from him. Did he expect him to invite him home? Then he wondered just what state he'd left his house in. Then he realized that wasn't even a valid question, he'd left it in the state he always left it in, and if Fred were going to be in his life, he'd have to get used to it. At least he knew the bathroom was clean. God, he thought, I can't let him see my house. Not until we've... dated... at least a few times. Then, there will already be a bond and it won't matter if the house smells of socks. And Cliche. God, I'm pathetic, he thought, and tried to breathe again. He needed cheese.

After they got the stage floor painted, which took about fifteen minutes, Og took both his roller and Jim's and brought them into the kitchen to clean.

"Hi," he said quietly to Peter when the door closed behind him.

"Hi," Peter said. There was annoyance in his voice.

Fred stopped and looked at him.

"I just came in to wash the rollers."

Peter nodded, not looking up from his task. Fred couldn't figure out exactly what task Peter was so engaged in. Actually, Peter had no idea what task he was performing, either, he just didn't want to have the conversation he wanted to have right there with Lee, Kim and Jim right on the other side of the door. Not that he ever wanted to actually have the conversation he wanted to have with Fred. Og turned the spigot and ran hot water over the rollers. Peter kept doing whatever it was he was doing. Fred squeezed the water and diluted paint from the fuzzy surface, releasing the acrid smell of house paint into the room. Peter kept at his task. Og shook the remaining water from the rollers, set them in the sink and looked at Peter, who hadn't yet looked up.

"Well, I guess I should go," Fred said.

Peter looked up. He really didn't want Fred to go, but he really didn't want him there. Lee came in with the roller pans, even though he hadn't been painting. Kim was right behind him. Jim was right behind her. Fuck, Peter thought. What's wrong with these people? Why don't they just leave me alone and mind their own fucking business? Fuck.

"Okay," he said, his voice more neutral than Og had ever heard it. "I'll call you later."

Fred looked at him for a brief moment and wiped his hands on a piece of paper towel. The chill emanating from Peter cut through him like a winter storm through a nylon Members Only™ jacket.

"Nice meeting you all," he said and left. Quickly.

Jim and Kim instantly started chatting nonchalantly with each other. Lee went into the other room, still holding the roller pans. Peter stood for a moment. His gut felt like it was trying to digest a hot piece of lead that was just now burning through his stomach lining and he felt like he had a bird's nest in his throat.

"Damn," he said. "Og... "

He quickly followed Fred through the front room and caught him on the sidewalk outside just before he'd been able to get into his car.

"Fred," he said urgently.

"What?" Fred asked. "I can tell when I'm not wanted. What the hell was that?"

"You took me by surprise," was all Peter could get out. He wanted to rail at Og for his insensitivity at just showing up and he wanted to tell him it was really rude and to explain why he had been so distant. He wanted to grab him and kiss him and throw him to the ground and he wanted to punch him in the stomach. He wanted to sort through his feelings and he wanted to know what Fred was thinking and he wanted the burning in his abdomen to quiet down a little so he could think. "I didn't expect you."

"I can't tell you how difficult it's been the last few days being in a hotel room one town over and only having telephone conversations with you," Og said. "I thought all day about leaving the store early, even though we're having managerial issues which it's my job to resolve and leaving early wasn't really in the best interest of the store. I was barely able to breathe the whole drive to River Bend in my fucking rented car thinking about surprising you here. I thought you'd be glad to see me."

"I was," Peter said. "I am... I... "

"You don't show it very well."

"I didn't expect you."

"You said that."

Just then, Peter noticed that the front door of the Renaissance was slightly open and there were three pairs of beady little eyes peering out at them. Fuck, he thought. What's wrong with these people? Why don't they just leave me alone and mind their own fucking business? Fuck. He wondered if they'd heard anything.

"Let's go somewhere where we can talk," he said, hoping Fred didn't notice the audience. The only place he could think of on such short notice was The Petting Zoo, so he started walking toward it. Fred followed.

"Why were you so cold to me in there?" Fred asked, his hurt palpably permeating the words like marinade.

"You know no one knows about me, don't you?" Peter asked in an intense whisper, feeling the three sets of beady little eyes burning six little holes into his spine.

As they stepped away from the door and closed it, Jim asked why Peter had been so mean to his new boyfriend. Lee sputtered and asked how he knew about that and Jim pointed to Kim with an expression on his face that communicated that it should have been obvious. Then Lee asked how she knew.

"Abby," Lee and Kim said at the exact same moment.

Peter and Og sat down at a small table with a strange, hooded green lamp on it that reminded Og of something out of a film noir. The smell of the air was uncomfortable and oddly arousing, thick with layers of heavy, medium priced perfume, flat beer, old cigarette smoke and cheap cologne and the subtle but unmistakable undercurrent of testosterone. Rhythmic music with a heavy bass line was thrumming through the air, interrupted by the syncopation of cracking pool balls. His eyes began to adjust to the dark room just as a waitress bounced up to the table.

"Hi, Amber," Peter said.

"Hi, Muffin," she said.

Og just looked very confused at her spiked high heels and skimpy little skirt and white, frilly shirt open all the way down and tied at the midriff so it just covered the very tips of her ample bosom and didn't cover her belly button or belly or much else and the thought occurred to him that he might never come to River Bend again. Even if Peter did manage to redeem himself. Which seemed less likely as each second passed and Fred began to realize with growing horror that Peter had taken him into a strip bar. A strip bar where women took off clothing. In front of people. And might in front of him at any moment. He needed a beer.

Lee sat on his couch staring at the envelope, which was wrinkled, now, and sitting on his coffee table right next to National Geographic's Best of Rand McNally: A Visual Compendium. His front door opened and Abby walked in.

"Hi," he said as he looked up at her. Then he looked back at the letter.

"Hi, there, Muffin," she said.

She saw what he was looking at. It took her only a brief moment to realize what it was.

"Why are you reading that letter again?" she asked.

"It's a new one," he said.

"What's this one say?" she said coldly.

"I don't know," he said, not even remotely noticing the coldness in her voice. "I haven't even opened it, yet."

"What is wrong with you?" she said, and snatched the letter up from the coffee table.

He grabbed it from her and opened it, but didn't take the letter out.

"Oh," he said instead, realizing he had one strategy that was guaranteed to distract her. At least for a moment. "I met Fred Ogg today."

She raised both eyebrows.

"He came by the Renaissance to help out. I don't think Peter expected him."

She was hooked, and asked what he was like and how he looked and what Peter had done and if they hugged or kissed and if he went home with Peter afterwards. Lee told her he was very nice and seemed to have a nice sense of humor. You know, normal. He said he was tall and thin with short hair. You know, average. And that he was wearing very tight white pants and a bright red angora sweater and white boots.

"Really?" Abby said, her eyes actually agog.

Lee stared at her and savored the moment. He inhaled deeply on his cigarette and took a sip of his brandy. Well, he would have if Fred had actually worn those things.

"Yeah," Lee said. "I really met him."

Abby back handed him on the arm and called him Buster. He smiled.

"He wore boring middle management clothes. You know. Tan pants. Pale shirt."

Abby looked at Lee's tan pants and pale shirt, but didn't say anything. She reminded him about the rest of her questions.

"I don't know," Lee said, allowing a little exasperation into his voice. She'd expect it in these circumstances. "No, I don't think they hugged. I'm pretty sure they didn't kiss. In fact, Peter didn't seem very happy to see the guy."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. Peter's gay. I did catch them doing the box step, though."

She hit him again. Then told him it was a good try, but he was going to have to read the letter and he'd better do it soon. He was out of excuses. Abby's excitement at the Fred and Peter gossip faded and her irritation at Lee's reaction to Beverly's news reasserted itself.

She watched as he slowly, deliberately took the letter out and carefully read it. It was just over two pages on fancy, pale pink stationery with faux parchment finish and dainty flowers on the top right corner and bottom left corner, written in a precious script in silver ink. Abby thought she might puke right there. And she'd make sure some of it splashed on Lee. Lee's face got stranger and stranger. He slowly put the first page behind the second and read that. His arm muscles got tight and his hands gripped the paper, antiquing it right there.

"Beverly!" he shouted.