Dena’s mother, caterer Irina Cohen, starred in a cable television show, Irina Cooks! It had made Ashkenazi Jewish cuisine wildly popular in the Sacramento area. “Why not?” Alex asked.

“You didn’t hear? Oh, this happened when you took Tamara to that cancer place back east.”

“Sloan-Kettering.” The treatments there had left Tami sick and bald. Alex swallowed down the painful memories with a gulp of brew.

“Yeah. Mom took the kids to the set one day, sure everyone would love her adorable grandchildren.”

“They really are cute.” Messy, but cute. Alex watched Jack tease Goldie with a tennis ball. Far from seeming offended, the retriever wagged her tail and barked, jumping up and down. She chased Jack around the side of the house.

“Anyway, Miri got into the food. She was in her meal-wearing phase, when everything went into her hair or on her chest.”

“She must have been quite a sight.” Alex knew that his child would never do any such thing.

Dena continued, “You know how much Jack likes to climb? He got onto one of the gaffer’s booms.” Picking up her bottle, she stood and stretched. The movement lifted her breasts inside her snug T-shirt. “Well, I’m gonna hit the shower. See ya in a while.”

The door slammed behind her as she went into the house.

Alex picked up the newspaper, but the discussion of mutual fund investments in high-tech security systems couldn’t hold his interest.

Unwittingly, his thoughts strayed to Dena. He imagined her ascending the stairs, entering her bedroom and stripping off her dirty clothes, exposing her strong body and round breasts. They’d rise higher when she unclipped her long, wavy hair.

He yanked his mind back to a columnist’s analysis of the Fed’s recent change in interest rates. This train of thought was disrespectful to Tamara. Besides, he didn’t find Dena attractive. Did he?

She’d switch on the shower and step in, wiggling her toes with pleasure at the splash of the warm water. When she shampooed, the water would slick her hair into dark, wild whips. Foam would cascade down her curvy form, clinging to her nipples. Without inhibition, she’d toss her head when she rinsed.

Was Dena’s libido as fiery as her mane?

What was he thinking? His X-rated fantasies starring Dena shocked him. He hadn’t found anyone sexy for well over a year—hadn’t had an erotic impulse since Tamara had started chemo and grown so sick. He’d devoted himself to her healing. Then, when it became clear she wasn’t going to make it, he’d helped to ease her way out of this world into a better place.

His body’s yearning spun him into tumult. He hadn’t wanted to make love for months. And now, it was Dena Randolph who had prodded his dormant libido into life.

Dena, of all people. She didn’t turn him on, he silently argued to himself. It was just that he’d been without a woman for so very long. She happened to be nearby when the natural reawakening of his sexual urges took place.

His soul cried out for Tamara. In a way, he felt he was losing her again. Another little bit of his life with her had receded into the past.

He desperately wanted to make love again, but he could never have the woman he needed: his wife. With a sickening lurch in his stomach, he accepted that he’d never again touch her, never hold her, never bury himself deep inside her.

Never love her.

He blinked back tears. Dear God, how he missed Tami. He took out a handkerchief and rubbed his face.

Closing his eyes, he recalled one of their last conversations. She’d framed his face in her hands and, looking at him with those lovely blue eyes, said, “Alex, listen to me. After I’m gone, I want you to go on.”

He’d argued with her, telling her that she’d soon be well and they’d be happy together again.

She’d shaken her head. “No. Please don’t belittle me by hiding the facts. I know I’m dying. Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Promise me you’ll go on. Promise me you’ll have a good life, Alex. Promise me you’ll find someone to love.”

Now he leaned back and sighed. “I’m trying, Tami,” he said aloud. “But it’s so damn hard—”

A wet nose thrust into his palm, making his body jerk and his thoughts scatter. Goldie again nudged his hand, inviting him to play. Alex blinked, returning to the present.

He looked across the lawn for the twins, but Dena’s yard, dim and quiet in the waning light, held no chattering, screeching children.

Where were the twins? Jumping to his feet, Alex scanned the front yard. Guilt flooded him. How could he have been so inattentive?

He groaned. If he couldn’t watch two four-year-olds, how could he raise a baby alone? How did Dena do it? His respect for her soared.

His shoes clattering down the three wooden steps to the lawn, Alex left the veranda when he realized that he couldn’t see anything. He strode to the rear of the house. The backyard had an eastern exposure and didn’t catch any of the western sun.

“Jack! Miri!” he called.

Alex could hear the low murmur of a fountain, part of a water feature Dena had installed last summer. He walked over to make sure that neither of the kids had gone swimming. His mind refused to entertain the possibility that one had drowned.

Water chuckled over the rocks lining the pond Dena had created. A turtle raised its head, then ducked as Goldie approached. The retriever nudged Alex’s hand, then dropped a wet ball into it.

“Yuck!” Alex restrained himself from wiping his palm on his gabardine trousers. Holding the ball with only his fingertips, he tossed it for the dog.

Goldie chased it to the front of the house. Alex followed. On the way, he checked the foliage for twins.

Nothing.

He broke into a sweat despite the cool evening air. Where could they be? He checked the trees. Though Jack enjoyed climbing, they were clear. Then he spotted the twins’ tree house, a makeshift shack that a previous homeowner must have built years before the Randolphs moved in. He could see someone had improved it—Dena?—because fresh slats secured it to the big old valley oak in which it was anchored. The rope ladder that dropped from it to the lawn looked new.

Alex eyed the ladder, then his wing tips. He frowned. He didn’t want to climb up to the tree house. Although Dena had fortified it, he didn’t know if the flimsy structure could bear an adult’s weight.

“Jack? Miri!”

Silence.

But the little scamps could be hiding. He’d bet money that, on some days, their favorite sport was eluding Uncle Alex.

With a resigned sigh, Alex set his right foot into one of the lower rungs of the ladder, then skipped two as he climbed. After a few steps, he could peek into the twins’ lair.

Empty.

He turned to descend as a voice came from the screened porch. “Alex?”

His foot slipped.

“Alex, what on earth—”

His other foot tangled in the ropes, and he fell to the soft, cold grass at the bottom of the tree. Embarrassed but unhurt, he took a moment to mourn his charcoal-gray suit. He feared it had taken too much abuse to survive. No doubt it was a goner.

He raised his head. Light from inside the house streamed through the stained glass inserts in the front door, illuminating the March evening.

Dena, freshly bathed and clad in a pink chenille bathrobe, stood on the porch. He could see her wet hair in a twist at the crown of her head, with a damp curl sticking to her cheek.

The twins, in a similar clean condition, stared at him. Dena carried Miri, who wore a red robe. Jack, clad in green sweats, had climbed onto a table, presumably to get a better view of Uncle Alex making a fool of himself.

He didn’t want to admit that he’d been searching high and low for the twins. They’d obviously gone inside for their baths while he’d been lost in an erotic fantasy about their mother.

Goldie ambled over to Alex, stuck her nose into his face and chuffed in a friendly way. He caught the odor of kibble. She licked him.