"Hi, honey!" Laura stepped out of the kitchen to give her younger son a hug and kiss of greeting. "Oooh, you are wet!" she commented with a chuckle. "Kick off your shoes, if they’re muddy," she offered sage advice, glancing at his sodden feet.

"They aren’t – just wet," he replied, and squelched towards the family room, where he hoped to find a fire in the fireplace. Laura, eyeing the wet footprints across the parquet flooring of the hallway, shook her head in resignation and returned to the kitchen, seeking a towel to mop up the water.

"Hi." Frank glanced up, turning his attention from the television to his brother. "You look like a drowned rat." He pushed a button on the remote control and muted the sound.

"I know," Joe responded with a wry grin. "It’s raining cats and dogs out there." He stepped nearer to the fireplace and held out his hands, grateful for the extra warmth. "You’re home earlier than I expected; weren’t you flying a run this afternoon?"

"Shorter than I’d thought; I caught a nice tailwind on the way home." Frank explained. "Jack’s going to have the dickens of a time tomorrow morning, unless it clears."

"I hope it clears!" Joe muttered. "Vanessa and I have to start working on our research project for history, and I don’t want to slog around in the rain."

"Did you decide what to do it on?" his brother inquired.

"Yeah, we’re going to do the old lighthouse on Stone Point."

Frank’s dark eyebrows raised slightly. "Stone Point? That’s one of the oldest ones around here, isn’t it? I seem to remember some story or other about it – somebody disappeared there, about a hundred years ago or so." He shook his head. "I can’t remember any details."

"Maybe we can work something into the report about the disappearance, if we can find anyone who knows about it," Joe commented with interest. "Local color, and all that. At least it would make for something interesting!"

Frank and Joe Hardy were the sons of illustrious private investigator Fenton Hardy, and his wife Laura, and they had lived in the seaside town of Bayport since early childhood. Now both in college, the two often solved crimes and mysteries, both working with their father, and on their own, and fully intended to become part of Hardy Investigations when they graduated.

Frank’s reply was cut short by the ringing of the telephone. He stretched an arm to where the cordless phone rested on the couch, and answered the summons.

"Hardy residence."

"Frank?" A familiar voice reached the elder Hardy’s ears.

"PHIL!" Delight spread across Frank’s features. "Hey, it’s great to hear from you! How’s it going?" Across the room, Joe smiled too, glad that the call was from such a good friend. Although Phil Cohen was Frank’s best friend, he and Joe were close too. Since Phil had moved to New York City to attend college, both Hardys missed him.

Frank relayed the request, and Joe went into the kitchen to pick up the phone there. But Phil didn’t sound as carefree as his words indicated. The three talked a few minutes, then Phil carefully cleared his throat and broached the real reason for his call.

"That’s a funny question!" Joe snorted. "Of course we remember Matt!" In his mind, he pictured Matt Eckersley as he had seen him last: slim and lithe and quite a bit shorter than he, Frank or Phil; longish, dark-blonde hair, hazel-green eyes, and an irresistible grin to go with an equally irresistible personality.

"Well – let me tell you, you might remember him, but I don’t think you’d recognize him right now," Phil muttered glumly.

"What’s wrong?" Frank asked, with concern.

Phil sighed wearily. "You remember he has a girlfriend, Macey – right? She attended Juilliard with Allison, only she’s a singer."

Frank made a noise of assent. Joe was silent; he didn’t recall Macey. He’d been unconscious in the hospital during that period of time. He didn’t remember meeting Matt then, either; his acquaintance with the other man dated – for Joe – from his graduation ceremony.

"She was going to start singing in Les Miserables," Frank noted, "on Broadway."

"Right," Phil affirmed. "Well, they decided to do a cast swap with the people who do the London productions, and Macey was picked to go. Matt was excited for her, and delighted for her, naturally – but he misses her like crazy."

"Understandable," Frank observed. How would he feel, he wondered, if Megan did something like that? I think I’d curl up and die….

"Well, she went in August," Phil continued, "and Matt was okay for the first month or so – the tour was supposed to only be for three months. And then he got word that they’ve decided to extend it – to six months!"

"Ouch!" Joe commented. "That’s rough!"

"You got that right!" Phil said with another sigh. "Matt put up a good front when she called and told him, and all that – but ever since then, he’s been down in the dumps. He was counting on her being home by Thanksgiving. So all he does is go to work, come home, and sit and stare at the TV every evening. I haven’t heard him laugh in a week, and he hardly talks. Can you imagine Matt not talking? It’s like living with a zombie." Another heartfelt sigh came across the connection. "He’s driving me NUTS!"

"That’s awful, Phil; we’re really sorry," Frank said. He couldn’t imagine cocky, insouciant Matt in the sort of condition Phil was describing.

"That must be hard on you," Joe murmured sympathetically.

"In more ways than one," Phil replied. "Since Matt’s home all the time, Alli and I never get any time alone," he complained.

Joe suddenly began to cough, the sound crackling harshly through the phones. "S-sorry, swallowed wrong," he gasped, and continued to choke. "K-keep talking to Frank…" The sharp noises dulled; Joe had evidently covered the receiver with his hand, although Frank could hear him still coughing, in the kitchen.

"Is there anything we could do to help?" Frank inquired, not seeing how he or Joe could be of any assistance with Matt’s and Phil’s problems, except to offer sympathy – but still, he’d ask.

"Well – that’s why I called." Phil admitted diffidently. "I was wondering – hoping – that there might be something you guys were working on, that you might be able to get Matt involved in. You remember how wild he was to help, when you were looking for Alli’s violin – and later, when we were looking for you, Frank."

"I remember, but—"

"Detective work might yank him out of his depression a little," Phil continued, sounding slightly desperate. "And really, he might be able to help. He’s got plenty of time free, from work. He could come to Bayport…."

Joe had evidently returned, from the sounds. He coughed softly a couple more times, then cleared his throat. "Okay, is this something I knew once and forgot?" he asked, delicately. "What does Matt do? For a living, I mean. Where does he work? And how could he help us, even if we were working on a case, which we’re not?"

There was a soft intake of breath from Phil. "Maybe you didn’t know," he conceded. "It might never have come up. Matt’s a photographer – he works as an independent contractor, free-lance. He just finished a big magazine article shoot."

"A photographer? Really?" Joe considered that for a moment. "You mean – like – models?" he asked, with an interested lift in his voice.

Phil chuckled. "Sometimes. More often, it’s rooms being remodeled or redecorated, or gardens, or sporting equipment, or…tables of food. Or weddings, or anniversary parties, or bar mitzvahs. Anything and everything."

"A photographer…" Frank said, consideringly. "Joe, it’s not a case, per se, but what about that project you and Vanessa have to do? The research on the Stone Point lighthouse? You were going to take pictures, weren’t you?"

"Yeah, but Vanessa and I are perfectly capable of taking our own photos—" Joe paused. "Well, I guess Matt might be able to give us a hand," he allowed.

"Do you mean it?" Phil sounded jubilant. "That would be great!"

"Let us talk it over, and we’ll call you back this evening," Frank told their friend. "When’s Matt likely to be home?"

"Any time now…and all night," Phil muttered, and ended the call.

Frank turned off the phone and replaced it in its holder on the table. He heard Joe coming from the kitchen, laughing – laughing so hard that when he reached the family room, he sank into a heap on the floor and roared, tears of mirth flooding his blue eyes.

"What is so funny?" Frank demanded. He began to smile too, infected by Joe’s contagious hilarity.

"It…was…Phil…." Joe gasped. "The part about – about Allison. He – couldn’t just – come out and say "’Matt’s…ruining my…my…s-se—‘" Overcome, he sprawled full length on the carpeting and buried his face in his arms, howling.