The summer that the kids were at camp and Ralph was away at a symposium, I finally had the house to myself for a change, and my plan was to do as little as possible.

I put on my most impossible string bikini, slathered myself in cocoa butter, and headed for the backyard with a trashy novel. A few birds chirped lazily in the heat. The only other thing to break the silence was the snip of hedging shears as our neighbor, Mr. Raskin, worked his side of the bushel.

Now it was a bit wicked of me, but Mr. Raskin has always been a rather horny old trout, so I struck a bit of a provocative pose there on the chaise to tease him. I was surprised when a head appeared over the greenery, and it was not Mr. Raskin. It was his 18-year-old son Zachary, home from college.

“Oh hello, dear,” I said, somewhat... Read More