"Perfect. That's fine. We're up on Edenside at the corner of Monterey Terrace. The number's 1236. It's a two-story Spanish. You'll see a dark blue station wagon parked in the drive."

Edenside Road was part of a small housing development cunningly tucked into the foothills; five winding streets, each of which ended in a wide cul-de-sac. The builder had followed the terrain, taking the path of least resistance, the five streets built into the contours of the hill like rivulets of asphalt flowing from the highest point. My progress was halting, an exasperating ten miles an hour, as I slowed for a speed bump every fifteen yards or so. The neighborhood was ideal for children, whose presence was announced by the number of strollers, playhouses, swing sets, bicycles, tricycles, Big Wheels, and skateboards littering the yards. It looked like a Toys "R" Us had exploded close by. The house at the corner of Edenside and Monterey Terrace was indeed a two-story Spanish hacienda with a courtyard in front. Even in the gathering dark, I couldn't miss the three-car garage that jutted forward aggressively like a pugnacious jaw. As I watched, the low-voltage landscape lights came on, illuminating the front of the house. The exterior stucco was tinted a gaudy pink and the roof tiles, while clay, were a series of interlocking orange 5's, clearly mass produced. The original clay tiles still gracing many older structures in town are now a dark faded red, mottled with lichen and shaped like a C where the worker once laid the soft clay across his thigh in forming it.

As promised, there was a dark blue station wagon parked in the drive. I pulled in at the curb, got out, locked my car, and approached the house along a crushed granite walk. The surrounding landscape was drought-proofed; all gravel and concrete, scattered with assorted cacti and oversized succulents. I let myself in through a small iron gate and crossed the tile-paved courtyard. A mock Spanish fountain splashed water by way of a circulating pump.

I rang the bell. I could hear shrieks, barking dogs, and the clattering of small feet as a pack of short folk battled for the honor of playing butler to me. As the door opened, a girl of perhaps five turned to sock the four-year-old boy-child behind her. Within seconds, fists were nailing, the children red-faced and tearful as they struggled for possession of the knob between shoves and kicks with brown hard-soled shoes. Meanwhile, two hyperactive Jack Russell terriers leaped up and down as though spring-loaded. The toddler bringing up the rear got knocked on his diaper and set up a howl. Another girl, her back turned, was walking down the hallway toward the rear of the house, bellowing, "Mom!! Mooommy! Heather's socking Josh and the dogs just knocked Quentin on his bee-hind."

"Amanda, what did I tell you about whining? Josh can take care of himself. Now please mind your own business and quit tattling or you will drive me insane."

Sway-backed, Blanche lumbered into sight, the sphere of her belly so large it looked a rogue moon, held in orbit by unseen gravitational forces. Her maternity outfit was a pale gray washable silk, palazzo pants, a long tunic, with tricky buttons and flaps. I was guessing that when the babe came, she'd be able to plop a boob out and feed the little tyke on demand. She had long blond hair, the strands fine and glossy, reaching almost to her waist. Her porcelain complexion was tinted a pale peach. Blue eyes, high forehead, finely arched brows. She looked like a storyland princess from a book of Grimm's fairy tales-except, great with child.

She swooped down and gathered up the howling baby, whom she settled on her hip. She grabbed Heather by the arm, hauling her away from her brother and then giving her a push along the corridor. "You kids go out in the backyard. Amanda's going to make you some peanut butter crackers. You can have a snack out there. Just don't eat too many. We're having supper in a bit. Now scoot. I mean it. Everybody go on outside."

"Mo-om, it's dark."

"Well, turn the porch light on."

"But we want to watch cartoons!"

"Too bad. You do what I say. And no running," Blanche warned. Heather and Josh were already pounding down the hall, but they slowed to a power walk, knocking and bumping each other. The dogs followed, barking, while Amanda veered off into the kitchen to make peanut butter crackers without an audible complaint. Amanda, who couldn't have been much more than seven years old, was already being cast in the role of secondary mom.

While Blanche was issuing orders, she'd managed to jiggle the crying baby and his howls had subsided. She turned and labored toward the family room with me tagging along behind her as well as I could.

There were toys everywhere. In order to avoid crushing plastic underfoot, I had to shuffle, making a path through the Legos strewn on the floor in front of me. A wooden gate had been secured across the stairs to the second floor and what I assumed was the basement door had a hook-and-eye closure to prevent kidlets from tumbling headlong into the yawning abyss. Ever the optimist, I said, "Your mother mentioned a nanny."