"Keep your nose out of it, Nanny Drew." My father slurps the last drops of his wonton soup. "You never know. Maybe this Caitlin had another job lined up."

"I didn't really get that sense ..."

"You like the kid?"

"Minus the locking-me-out part-yeah, okay."

"So, then, you're not marrying these people. You're just working there-what?-fifteen hours a week?" The waiter places a plate of fortune cookies between us and takes the check.

"Twelve." I reach for a cookie.

"Right. So don't get your knickers in a twist."

"But what do I do about Grayer?"

"They're always a little slow to warm up at first," he says, speaking from eighteen years of experience as an English teacher. He grabs a cookie and takes my hand. "Come on, let's walk and talk. Sophie won't be able to keep her legs crossed much longer." We weave out of the restaurant and head over to West End Avenue.

I put my arm through his as he slips his hands into his blazer pockets.

"Glinda-the-Good-Witch him," he says, chewing his cookie thoughtfully.

"Care to elaborate?"

He shoots me a look. "I was finishing my cookie. Are you paying attention?"

"Yes."

"Because this is good stuff."  I stand, waiting, with my arms crossed. "In essence, you are Glinda. You are light and clarity and fun. He is an inanimate object, a toaster who happens to have a tongue hanging out. If he goes too far again-I'm talking the door-locking routine, physical violence, or anything that puts him in danger-BABOOM! Wicked Witch of the West! Two point four seconds-you swoop down in front of his face and hiss that he must never do that again-ever. It is not okay. And then, before he can bat an eyelash, back to Glinda. You let him know he can have feelings, but that there are boundaries. And that you'll let him know when he has pushed too far. Trust me, he'll be relieved. Now, wait here while I get the Sophster."

He disappears into our lobby and I look up between the buildings to the orange sky above. Within minutes Sophie bursts through the front door, pulling the leash in his hand taut as she waggles over, smiling up at me as she always does. I crouch down, wrapping my arms around her neck, and burrow my head in her brown and white fur.

"I'll walk her, Dad." I give him a hug and take the leash. "It'll be good to be around someone under three feet who doesn't talk back."

"And who only sticks out her tongue for biological necessity!" he calls after me.

I stand on the sidewalk outside Grayer's school on the following Monday. I'm ten minutes early, as per Mrs. X's strict instructions, so I flip through my Filofax and chart out the deadlines for my next two papers. A taxi comes to a screeching halt on the corner and I look up at the pandemonium of honking cars around it. Across the median a blond woman stands frozen under the shade of an awning. The cars move again and she's gone.

I crane my head, trying to locate the woman, to be sure if it was Caitlin. But the other side of Park Avenue is now empty, save for a maintenance man polishing a brass hydrant.

"Not you!" Grayer draaaaags himself all the way across the courtyard, as if he were marching toward certain death.

"Hey, Grayer. How was school?"

"Yucky."

"Yucky? What was yucky about it?"  I unpin the homework, pass off the juice.

"Nothing."

"Nothing was yucky?" Buckle in stroller, unwrap pears.

"I don't want to talk to you."

I kneel in front of the stroller and look him squarely in the eyes. "Look, Grayer, I know you don't like me very much."

"I HATE YOU!" I am light. I am clarity. I am wearing a big, pink dress.

"And that's okay, you haven't known me very long. But I like you a lot." He starts to kick his leg out at me. "I know you miss Caitlin." He freezes at the sound of her name and I catch his foot firmly in my hand. "It's okay to miss Caitlin. Missing her shows that you love her. But being mean to me hurts my feelings and I know Caitlin would never want you to hurt anyone's feelings. So, as long as we're together, let's have fun." His eyes are like saucers.

As we head out of the courtyard the rain that's been threatening all morning finally breaks and I have to push Grayer back up to 721 Park Avenue as if I'm in the Stroller Olympics.

"Weeeeeeee!" he cries and I make race-car noises and steer sharply around puddles all the way home. By the time we get into the lobby we're both soaked and I pray Mrs. X isn't home to see how I've exposed her child to pneumonia.

"I sure am wet. Are you wet, Grayer?"

"I sure am. I sure am wet." He's smiling, but his teeth are starting to chatter.

"We're gonna get you right upstairs and into a hot bath. Ever had lunch in the bath,

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