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and a one, and was about to touch the one again when she looked down at her own shoe. Mud ringed the heel.
    No, not mud.
    Fido had broken the peace treaty. Julia’s smelly trail was marked from the living room.
    "Oh, poop," she groaned, putting the phone in its cradle. She'd almost made a fool of herself. The cops could have been in here, responding to her breaking-and-entering report.
    She could hear them now.
    First cop: "You want to run a test on that, Lieutenant?"
    Second cop: "Sure. Got the measurements already."
    First cop: "Wait a second. This ain't mud."
    Second cop: "Shoo. Smells like dog crap. What's that on your shoe, ma'am?"
    Julia cleaned up the mess and put on a Natalie Merchant CD. Nothing bad could happen while Natalie Merchant was singing of motherhood and gratitude. She checked her e-mail, spam jokes from co-workers and a few posts from her St. Louis Cardinals newsgroup. The Cardinals were about twenty games out, as usual. But with the season winding down, the hot prospects were up from the minors, getting some playing time.
    She deleted the messages because one of the newsgroupies was giving away the events of the day's game. Julia had taped it and wanted to watch it free of spoilers. She sat on the sofa and flipped the remote so that the videotape rewound. She punched the answering machine and stared at the blank TV screen.
    The only message on her answering machine was the one from George Webster, telling her that Walter Triplett would be out to check her locks. She reset the machine, wondering if Rick would call.
    That wasn't a date , she reminded herself. That was definitely “hanging out .” But I hope he knows that.
    She didn't want to spend all her office time fending off advances, but being noticed was always flattering. Rick was different from Mitchell. Not quite so pushy, respectful of her opinions, interested in more than just making money—
    Whoa, girl. Back up a little. If you start down the road to where you compare other men to the one you're marrying, the potholes are going to bounce you out of a happy future. That’s as bad as comparing shrinks.
    And her future would be happy. She'd move into Mitchell's three-story house in Colliersville, join a tennis club, maybe volunteer for a library board. Social evenings with Mitchell's lawyer circle, the men talking shop, the few female lawyers trying to shoehorn into the conversation, the wives comparing vacation packages. She would wear pearls and heels and scan the fashion magazines to find out which perfume maker was conducting the most extravagant ad campaign. She would eventually give in and wear makeup, hiding all the damage done by time and gravity.
    Mitchell would let her continue in therapy as long as she didn't take it too seriously. His circle would view it as just one more of the fringe benefits of affluence, a way to pass idle time, the same way one passed time by taking crafts classes. Mitchell would have an affair in his forties, maybe even more than one, when the first gray crept into his hair and he thought he'd missed out on something in his youth. Julia would accept the dalliances, get a facelift and Botox injections, maybe have some plastic surgery to lift her breasts so that Mitchell could still proudly display her.
    They would inherit two of the seasonal homes owned by Mitchell's parents, the others going to his sister. He would choose Santa Monica, and would humor Julia by taking Martha's Vineyard as well. Julia would sit on the beach in the fall, sipping margaritas and rum punch. She didn't drink much now, but she would take up the habit in earnest, because everybody drank in Mitchell's circle. She might even become an alcoholic, a solidly fashionable occupation for the wives of overachieving men. The new disorder might even overwhelm her current one.
    And would that be so bad? The fear slowly eroding into a great gray fog, the memories growing dimmer and more distant. The past lost in the wash of years instead of being