Nicole Gunther-Perrin rolled over to turn off the alarm clock and found herself nose to nose with two Roman gods. She nodded a familiar good-morning to Liber and his consort Libera, whose votive plaque had stood on the nightstand since her honeymoon in Vienna. Maybe they nodded back. Maybe she was still half asleep.

As she dragged herself up to wake the children and get them ready for daycare, her mouth twisted. Liber and Libera were still with her. Frank Perrin, however…

“Bastard, “ she said. Liber and Libera didn’t look surprised. They’d heard it every morning since her ex-husband took half the assets, left the kids, and headed off for bluer horizons. She doubted he thought about her except when the child support came due (and not often enough then), or when she called him with a problem. She couldn’t help thinking of him a dozen times a day – and every time she looked at Justin. Her son – their son, if you wanted to get technical – looked just like him. Same rough dark hair, down to the uncombable cowlick; same dark eyes you could drown in; same shy little smile that made you feel you’d coaxed it out of hiding.

Justin smiled it as she gently shook him awake. “Mommy!” he said. He was only two and a half. He hadn’t learned to wound her yet.

“Come on, Tiger,” she said in her best rise-and-shine, mommy-in-the-morning voice. “We’ve got another day ahead of us.” She reached inside his Pull-Ups. “You’re dry! What a good boy! Go on and go potty while I getyour sister up.”

He climbed onto the rail and jumped out of bed. He landed with a splat, of course, but it didn’t hurt him. It made him laugh. He toddled off sturdily toward the bathroom. Watching him go, Nicole shook her head. Kimberley never jumped out of bed. Testosterone poisoning, Nicole thought, and almost smiled.