HUFF AND PUFF, huff and puff.

But Penley isn’t waiting for me at the door when I arrive for work. I guess that’s my reward for sprinting the last few blocks up Fifth Avenue so I wouldn’t be late.

I’ve barely taken two steps into the apartment’s foyer, however, before I hear her lovely voice call out from the kitchen. “Kristin, is that you? Tell me it’s you.”

“Good morning, Penley,” I answer.

Though, like yesterday, it’s been anything but a good morning. In fact, with the repeat of the bad dream, having to see that creepy detective again, and, in between, shattering one very expensive camera lens, the morning so far has been downright awful. One of my worst ever.

I walk through the red velvet-lined dining room with its crystal-dripping chandelier and push through the swinging door of the white-on-white-on-stainless kitchen to see Penley sitting over a cup of coffee.

Huh?

Sitting next to her is Michael.

Great… just great.

This is hardly the first time the three of us have been in the same room together, but it’s the last thing I need right now. Of course, Michael’s probably getting a big kick out of it.

Or maybe not.

Actually, he doesn’t look too chipper as he glances up from his Wall Street Journal. With bleary eyes, rumpled ash-blond hair, and his body wrapped sloppily in a robe, hungover would be more like it.

“Be careful we don’t talk too loud, Kristin,” says Penley in a sarcastic whisper. “Someone here was out a little late with the boys last night.”

“You’re lucky it was the Swedes and not the Russians,” says Michael, barely above a mumble. “Otherwise, I’d still be in bed.”

“Oh, yes, how lucky for all of us,” says Penley, rolling her eyes. She actually gives me a smile, as if the two of us are sharing some kind of female-bonding moment.

Pu-lease.

Michael’s evening with the Swedes must have gone on long after he said good-night to me. Long,long after, I should think, as he’s rarely late for the office.

The only other time I saw him like this was when Penley last took the kids out to her parents in Connecticut for the night and Michael stayed in the city, claiming he had to work. The two of us snuck off to Brooklyn, grabbed a back table at a restaurant, Bonita, and drank three pitchers of sangria. We woke up the next morning – in a suite Baer Stevens keeps on Central Park South – with headaches the size of Mexico.

Penley glares at Michael. “Well, aren’t you at least going to say hello to Kristin?”

“Hello to Kristin,” he parrots, his eyes not budging from the newspaper.

Penley whacks his arm, and I do everything not to smile. In his efforts to keep her in the dark about our relationship, Michael has mastered the art of complete indifference toward me when the three of us are together. So much so that it’s comical.

Not to mention pretty smart.

Seconds later, Penley assures us that the ruse is still working. After informing me that Dakota and Sean are in their rooms, getting dressed for school, she turns to Michael as if she’s just thought of something.

“Hey, what about Kristin?” she says. She turns back to me, not waiting for Michael to respond. “I mean, I’ve never heard you talk about having a boyfriend. I assume that means you’re available. You are, right? Available?”

Available for what?

She explains, “I was telling Michael about this guy I know at my gym who was upset about his girlfriend leaving him. I think what he needs to do is start dating again as soon as possible. Would you like to meet him, Kristin? He’s cute.”

“You mean, like a blind date?” I ask.

“Call it whatever you want.”

I glance at Michael, who raises an eyebrow. His “Ignore Kristin” facade looks to be crumbling at the prospect of my going out with another guy who is “cute.” Nonetheless, there’s not much he can do or say at that moment, and we both know it.

“Gee, Penley, I don’t know,” I hedge.

She shrugs. “What’s there to know? Unless, of course, you’re gay – which is nothing to be ashamed of, mind you. You’re not a lesbian, are you, Kristin? You can tell me.”

I shake my head, utterly speechless.

“Oh, goody, it’s settled, then!” says Penley, over the moon. “His name is Stephen. I’ll tell him all about you and we’ll set something up. He is a hunk, Kristin.”

Gee, I can’t wait.

PENLEY SURE KNOWS how to clear a room.

She saunters away to organize a guest list for her latest charity benefit. This one, gag me, is for the Elementary Etiquette Society and involves Dakota and Sean, poor kids. “Then it’s off to the gym.”

Michael leaves to take a shower and get changed – finally -for work.

And I go to grab the kids for breakfast.

“Good morning, princess,” I say, peeking my head into Dakota’s pink-and-lace room to see her sitting on the edge of her canopy bed, reading The Trumpet of the Swan.

She looks up and gives me one of her heart-melting smiles. “Good morning, Miss Kristin.”

“All dressed?” I ask.

Dakota glances down, frowning at her Preston Academy uniform. It’s an adorable green-and-blue plaid skirt with a simple white top, but for a young girl who has to wear it every day, it might as well be a burlap bag.

“Yes,” she groans, “I’m dressed.”

“Meet me in the kitchen, okay? I’m going to check on Sean.”

She holds up the book. “I’ll be there in one more page.”

I continue down the hall, marveling at how much Dakota loves to read. So will Sean, I bet, as soon as he learns how, which we’re working on. Besides being loved, is there anything better for a child? I doubt it.

Arriving at Sean’s doorway, I see him sitting on the floor, immersed in a sea of Legos. Last month, all he built was rocket ships. This month, it’s nothing but cars, albeit with “super-duper special powers.”

“What does that one do?” I ask.

Sean turns to me, his small face beaming. “Hi, Miss Kristin!” He presents his latest contraption in the palm of his little hand. “This one shoots lasers and missiles and can bust through anything. It can also go under water.”

“That’s very cool, Sean.” You’re very cool, m’boy.

“Oh, and it also makes ice cream!”

Naturally.

I look him over, head to toe, making sure he’s properly, or ratherprep -erly, dressed. My eyes stop abruptly on his bare feet. This will not do at the Academy.

“Where are your socks, Sean?”

“I don’t know. No idea. I want to wear my Jimmy Neutrons, but I can’t find them.”

“Maria might have left them in the laundry room. I’ll go check, sweetheart.”

I head for the very back of the apartment, past a huge storage closet, and flip on the light for the laundry room. Sure enough, I see Sean’s Jimmy Neutron socks – named for the Nickelodeon cartoon character with the huge head and the pompadour – sitting on top of the dryer.

As I reach for them, I hear a mischievous whisper over my shoulder.

“Want to join the Maytag club?”