“Sometimes a child picks up the camera. When the parent isn’t looking. They snap a picture or two. Then they put the camera back.”

“No, it’s not that. This picture had nothing to do with us.”

“I see. Well, I’m sorry for the inconvenience. Did you get all the photos you took?”

“I think so.”

“None were missing?”

“I really didn’t check that closely, but I think we got them all.”

He opened a drawer. “Here. This is a coupon. Your next roll will be developed for free. Three by fives. If you want the four by sixes, there is a small surcharge.”

Grace ignored his outstretched hand. “The sign on the door says you develop all the pictures on site.”

“That’s right.” He petted the large machine behind him. “Old Betsy here does the job for us.”

“So my roll would have been developed here?”

“Of course.”

Grace handed him the Photomat envelope. “Could you tell me who developed this roll?”

“I’m sure it was just an honest error.”

“I’m not saying it wasn’t. I just want to know who developed my roll.”

He took a look at the envelope. “May I ask why you want to know?”

“Was it Josh?”

“Yes, but-”

“Why did he leave?”

“Pardon me?”

“I picked up the photos a little before three o’clock. You close at six. It’s nearly five now.”

“So?”

“It seems strange that a shift would end between three and six for a store that closes at six.”

Assistant Manager Bruce straightened up a bit. “Josh had a family emergency.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“Look, Miss…”-he checked the envelope-“Lawson, I’m sorry for the error and inconvenience. I’m sure a photograph from another set fell into your packet. I can’t recall it happening before, but none of us are perfect. Oh, wait.”

“What?”

“May I see the photograph in question please?”

Grace was afraid he’d want to keep it. “I didn’t bring it,” she lied.

“What was it a picture of?”

“A group of people.”

He nodded. “I see. And were these people naked?”

“What? No. Why would you ask that?”

“You seem upset. I assumed that the photograph was in some way offensive.”

“No, nothing like that. I just need to speak to Josh. Could you tell me his last name or give me a home phone number?”

“Out of the question. But he’ll be in tomorrow first thing. You can talk to him then.”

Grace chose not to protest. She thanked the man and left. Might be better anyway, she thought. By driving here she had merely reacted. Check that. She had probably overreacted.

Jack would be home in a few hours. She would ask him about it then.

Grace had homebound carpool duties for the swim practice. Four girls, ages eight and nine, all delightfully energetic, piled two into the backseat and two into the “way, way” back of the minivan. There was a swirl of giggles, of “Hello, Ms. Lawson,” wet hair, the gentle perfume of both YMCA chlorine and bubble gum, the sound of backpacks being shucked off, of seat belts fastening. No child sat in the front-new safety rules-but despite the chauffeur feel, or maybe because of it, Grace liked doing carpool. It was time spent seeing her child interact with her friends. Children spoke freely during carpool; the driving adult might as well have been in another time zone. A parent could learn much. You could find out who was cool, who was not, who was in, who was out, what teacher was totally rad, what teacher was most assuredly not. You could, if you listened closely enough, decipher where on the pecking order your child was currently perched.

It was also entertaining as all get-out.

Jack was working late again, so when they got home, Grace quickly made Max and Emma dinner-veggie chicken nuggets (purportedly healthier and, once dipped in ketchup, the kids can never tell the difference), Tater Tots, and Jolly Green Giant frozen corn. Grace peeled two oranges for dessert. Emma did her homework-too big a load for an eight-year-old, Grace thought. When she had a free second, Grace headed down the hallway and flipped on the computer.

Grace might not be into digital photography, but she understood the necessity and even advantages of computer graphics and the World Wide Web. There was a site that featured her work, how to buy it, how to commission a portrait. At first, this had hit her as too much like shilling, but as Farley, her agent, reminded her, Michelangelo painted for money and on commission. So did Da Vinci and Raphael and pretty much every great artist the world has ever known. Who was she to be above it?

Grace scanned in her three favorite apple-picking photos for safekeeping and then, more on a whim than anything else, she decided to scan in the strange photograph too. That done, she started bathing the children. Emma went first. She was just getting out of the tub when Grace heard his keys jangle in the back door.

“Hey,” Jack called up in a whisper. “Any hot love monkeys up there waiting for their stud muffin?”

“Children,” she said. “Children are still awake.”

“Oh.”

“Care to join us?”

Jack bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The house shook from the onslaught. He was a big man, six-two, two-ten. She loved the substance of him sleeping beside her, the rise and fall of his chest, the manly smell of him, the soft hairs on his body, the way his arm snaked around her during the night, the feeling of not only intimacy but safety. He made her feel small and protected, and maybe it was un-PC, but she liked that.

Emma said, “Hi, Daddy.”

“Hey, Kitten, how was school?”

“Good.”

“Still have a crush on that Tony boy?”

“Eeuw!”

Satisfied with the reaction, Jack kissed Grace on the cheek. Max came out of his room, stark naked.

“Ready for your bath, mah man?” Jack asked.

“Ready,” Max said.

They high-fived. Jack scooped Max up in a sea of giggles. Grace helped Emma get in her pajamas. Laughter spilled from the bath. Jack was singing a rhyming song with Max where some girl named Jenny Jenkins couldn’t decide what color to wear. Jack would start off with the color and Max filled in the rhyme line. Right now they were singing that Jenny Jenkins couldn’t wear “yellow” because she’d look like a “fellow.” Then they both cracked up anew. They did pretty much the same rhymes every night. And they laughed their asses off over them every night.

Jack toweled Max off, got him into his pajamas, and put him to bed. He read two chapters of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Max listened to every word, totally riveted. Emma was old enough to read by herself. She lay in her bed, devouring the latest tale of the Baudelaire orphans from Lemony Snicket. Grace sat with her and sketched for half an hour. This was her favorite time of the day-working in silence in the same room as her eldest child.

When Jack finished, Max begged for just one more page. Jack stayed firm. It was getting late, he said. Max grudgingly acquiesced. They talked for another moment or two about Charlie’s impending visit to Willy Wonka’s factory. Grace listened in.

Roald Dahl, both her men agreed, totally rocked.

Jack turned down the lights-they had a dimmer switch because Max didn’t like complete darkness-and then he entered into Emma’s room. He bent down to give Emma a kiss good night. Emma, a total Daddy’s Girl, reached up, grabbed his neck, and wouldn’t let him go. Jack melted at Emma’s nightly technique for both showing affection and stalling going to sleep.

“Anything new for the journal?” Jack asked.

Emma nodded. Her backpack was next to her bed. She dug through it and produced her school journal. She turned the pages and handed it to her father.

“We’re doing poetry,” Emma said. “I started one today.”

“Cool. Want to read it?”