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frolic in the waves. Lying back in my beach chair, I read trampy pulp fiction. Periodically, I reapply sunscreen on the kids and turn a page. Nobody gets burned.
    Later we roast hot dogs over the campfire and, again, nobody gets burned. The stars come out and I show the kids how to locate Cassiopeia, the Summer Triangle and the Northern Cross. At bedtime, we call home to say goodnight to Donald but he’s out.
    “Hey you guys,” I say to the kids as they reach for the potato chips and the bag of marshmallows, “you might as well finish those up because we have to go home tomorrow.”
    Both Jack and Olympia burst into tears, and declare that camping is awesome, not lame at all, never was.
     
    I drive home slowly, holding up traffic so as to time our arrival at exactly three days and not a minute less. Donald, with a glance at his watch, says, “I missed you.” He looks tanned and rested.
    I try not to display too much glee about winning the birthday party bet only because Olympia is in the room. It remains to be seen how Donald will try to scam his way out of delivering birthday party joys to a dozen six-year-olds.
     
    Obviously Donald went all out yesterday to welcome his camp-worn wife home. There were no dishes in the sink or wet towels on the bathroom floor. He even put fresh linens on the bed. As I eat my breakfast, a wave of tenderness overwhelms me. What a good, dear man he is. While I acted as bear bait, Donald acted like a sensitive new-age guy keeping the hearth tidy and the home fires lit—although, looking around, I can see he didn’t make it as far as dusting and vacuuming. The dustballs are piling up in the corners. I better find work soon so I can rehire the cleaning service.
    After I get the kids off to school, I haul the vacuum upstairs to start in the master bedroom. The eviction of the bunnies from under the bed proceeds smoothly until a business card jams the vacuum nozzle. Dislodging the card, I toss it into the wastebasket.
    Hold up a minute. I snatch it up again and scan the handwriting on the back:
    Thanks for lunch! Let’s do it again soon ~ L xo
    Xo? Scrawled underneath the note is a phone number. The number is different than the one printed on the front of the card, under the name Lindsay Bambraugh, CFP, and the usual Doubles logo and company contact information.
    Oh my God. My heart begins to pound. Hard.
    Who is Lindsay Bambraugh?
    And what is she doing xo’ing under my bed?
     
    My legs feel hollow. I sit on the edge of the bed and turn the card over and over in my hands. Who is Lindsay Bambraugh? Suddenly I remember her, from last year’s Doubles company picnic: Miss Leggy Bambraugh, of the grad gift nose job and huge Barbie boobs, waving around her designer purse studded with pink Swarovski crystals.
    What’s going on here? I need help. I send out an SOS text to Bibienne: I think Donald’s screwing around on me.
    Her text comes right back: Meet me for lunch at the Greek place.
    I stumble into the restaurant and thrust the card into her hands. “Look what I found.”
    Bibienne says, “Calm down and let’s see what we have here.”
    She studies the handwriting. “Circles over the ‘i’s. And look here—lying loops.”
    My blood boils over. How dare he consort with a woman who makes lying loops?
    “What are lying loops?”
    “Dishonesty. There’s a stinger in the ‘a’ here too. Very dangerous.”
    “Do you think I should I confront him?”
    “Na-ah. He’ll never admit to anything, not unless you get some hard evidence. Who is Lindsay Bambraugh?”
    “She’s an advisor at Doubles, same as Donald. Definitely a lying loops type.”
    Bibienne nods her head slowly and says, “This means war.”
    I tuck the card into my pocket. I need time to think.

CHAPTER 3
Surveillance
    Surveillance: The systematic observation of aerospace, surface, or subsurface areas, places, persons, or things, by visual, aural, electronic, photographic, or other means.—Department of Defense