"I told you, I was doing a stock revue."

"Alone. In the middle of a work week."

"I found some inventory figures that didn't jibe with recent invoices, and I wanted to check it out- in peace and quiet."

"In the middle of a work week."

"Yes, goddamnit! In the middle of a work week." Allen slammed his paper down and tightened the belt on his dressing gown.

Jean Gregorio turned back to the stove, stirring her pan of scrambled eggs. When he met her at the tennis club, Ramon had asked her why the store was closed; he'd been by to pick up some new balls and was surprised, wondering if perhaps someone was ill. She turned the stove off and scraped the eggs onto a plate, staying by the counter to eat.

"Am I not getting any breakfast?"

Jean pushed off the counter and went into the dining room. "You can make your own- in peace and quiet."

"Thanks Jean. Jesus Christ." He watched her go, worried about how far she might take the incident. "By the way," he called after her, "we have an invitation to the Richardson's next Wednesday." Changing the subject like that was risky, but he wanted to bury it as soon as possible. "Did you hear me?"

"I heard you, Allen."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Jesus, Jean," he got up and stood in the dining room doorway, "are we going or not?"

"Are you sure you won't be busy reviewing your stock?" Bitterness underlined the sarcasm in her answer. Allen stomped back into the kitchen with a disgusted grunt.

*****

Carmela sat at the breakfast table in dutiful silence as her husband sorted through the mail. The morning ritual never varied. She would rise early, prepare breakfast, collect the morning paper and the mail and have everything ready on the table for his arrival. Antonio's morning greeting was succinct, accompanied by a token peck on the cheek, a quick scan of his plate and then on to the business of the mail.

"Anything of special interest this morning, dear?" She inquired softly.

He sniffed, selecting a mauve envelope and handing it to her without looking. Carmela accepted it graciously, and slit it open, removing the invitation. When she saw him set the rest of the mail aside and turn to his food, she spoke up brightly.

"This is an invitation to an open house from Ellen and Jeffrey Richardson, next Wednesday."

Antonio grunted.

"I think I would like to attend, Antonio, Ellen mentioned that she had her kitchen remodeled, and I think she would like to show it off."

"Do I need to give up my time to applaud my neighbour's renovations?" He shoveled a forkful of fried potato into his mouth.

Carmela wished that just once, her husband would discard his arrogance and behave a little friendlier to people. Even in his business, where kindness and compassion might be expected, he retained a cold, superior attitude.

"It is something that I would like to do, Antonio. I ask you for very little."

The chewing slowed, and his dark eyes came up to meet hers, holding them in a long considered appraisal. "Very well." The eyes dropped, and he continued eating.

"Thank you, dear." Carmela stood and took the invitation with her to the telephone in the hall. She would accept immediately, in case her husband had a change of heart.

*****

Melaine didn't look up at the sound of the sliding glass door, but behind the dark sunglasses, her eyes swiveled to watch the approach of her husband carrying his coffee and paper on a tiny tray. Settling himself at the patio table, under the broad wooden umbrella, he took a sip of coffee, snapped open the paper and tossed off a casual greeting.

"Sleep well, darling?"

"Mmmhmmm."

"Another spectacular day on The Pathway, eh?" He folded the paper in half and picked up his cup.

"I called your office from the club yesterday."

"Council meeting, remember?" His face stayed firmly behind the paper.

"I called after lunch."

"Mmm, we ran late. A lot of silly bickering about Daryl's store decorations."

"Actually, I called at two-thirty."

The paper snapped again, followed by silence.

"Milo?"

"How is it you were still at the club at two-thirty?" He asked, deflecting her question with one of his own.

"Jean and I stayed on for lunch after we showered and dressed. Where did you eat?"

"Uhmm, I just grabbed a bite downtown when the meeting finished." He risked a peek around the edge of the newspaper, catching only the reflection of the sun off her glasses.

"Alone?"

Milo lowered the paper and stared at her. "Yes, alone. What's this about Melaine?"

"Nothing." She scrunched back on the lounge, indicating an end to the discussion.

He kept his eyes glued to her face, sensitive to anything that might indicate a suspicion. After seventeen years of marriage, Milo was still wary of his wife's intuition. Too often, it had proven uncannily accurate. She was a remarkably beautiful woman, he confessed to himself, conducting a secret inventory, and extremely intelligent. The problem, as he felt existed, was the numbing routine of their lives. Milo craved excitement, action. It wasn't the sex; god knew he had no complaints there, it was different sex, illicit and dangerous, hence his obsessive preoccupation with Amanda.

He finished his coffee and the paper and went inside, returning a few moments later with a handful of envelopes and advertising flyers.

"There's an ad here for Lily's," he spoke aloud, intending to regain her attention, "all women's sportswear is at half price."

Nothing.

"There's a letter from your sister in New York. Hmm, what's this? Oh ho! It seems we've been invited to an open house at Jeffrey's." He waved the mauve invitation in her direction. "Mel? Did you hear?"

"I'll call her and tell her we're coming." She didn't move or offer anything else.

"Yes, splendid. I think we should go. Should be fun." His words died on the morning air, and he frowned, gazing off at the tall cedar hedge surrounding the private patio.

******