He checked his watch again. It had been less than five minutes since he’d talked to Mrs Wilson.

Undoubtedly there was a simple explanation. Even in this day of ubiquitous communication, there were places that didn’t have phones, or access to them. Frannie might be at one of them, stuck, trying to reach him.

He got the answering machine when he tried at his home. Where could she be? If she were not picking up the children, something was wrong.

Perhaps she’d been in an accident? Hardy’s fertile brain played with the possibilities of what might have happened, might be happening, to his wife. He didn’t like any of them.

A few minutes later he was in his car, negotiating the downtown traffic. He tried to remember something about Frannie’s day, her plans. For the life of him, he couldn’t retrieve anything, if in fact she’d told him.

Truth was, lately she probably wouldn’t have mentioned anything about her daily schedule and even if she had, it might not have registered with him. More and more, the two of them were leading separate lives. Both of them knew it and admitted that it was a problem, but it was the toll of day-to-dayness, and neither of them seemed able to break the cycle. Hardy knew about as much of his wife’s routines as he did of his children’s school day, which was precious little.

Though it was cold comfort, he told himself that it was just the way things had evolved. The family dynamic had changed, gotten more traditional. He was overwhelmed with the simple mechanics of making a living. Frannie volunteered for everything, never said no, and was always there to support the other moms, her circle of friends. All of it – Frannie’s very existence, it seemed – revolved around their children. As he supposed it should – that was the job she’d wanted. He made the money and helped with discipline. That was the deal.