Читать книгу Follow the Stars Home - Luanne Rice - Страница 9

Amy began stopping by occasionally after school. By the second week she was coming every other afternoon. Julia liked Amy and seemed soothed by her. So often Julia seemed to be fighting demons in her head. She would wring her hands over and over. When Amy was there, she didn’t struggle as much. She seemed more placid and serene, and she smiled.

By two-thirty each day, Dianne had started glancing out the screen door of her studio, listening for Amy’s footsteps. Amy would run so fast across the marshy land, she sounded like a young filly in the homestretch, bursting through the screen door with a wild grin. She was a little hellion, awkward and messy. Dianne had taken to making lemonade, and she would set out the pitcher on a tray bearing glasses, oatmeal cookies, and square linen napkins.

Their second Tuesday together, they had their snack at the small table beside Julia’s chair. Sunlight streamed through the windows, and the marsh smelled warm and salty. They ate a cookie in silence, then, as was becoming their custom, talked for a few minutes before Dianne returned to work.

“I love these glasses,” Amy said, admiring one. Old juice glasses, they were enameled with tiny baskets overflowing with wildflowers. Each petal was a distinct, nearly microscopic brushstroke of scarlet, cobalt, cadmium yellow, or sap green.

“They were my grandmother’s,” Dianne said.

“All your things are … so careful.”

“How?” Dianne asked, tickled by the word.

“Everything is just so. You make things seem like they matter. Beautiful glasses, real cloth napkins, the way you tie your hair with a piece of marsh grass …”

“That’s just because I couldn’t find an elastic,” Dianne said.

“Hmm,” Amy said, glowing as she took a small bite of cookie. Dianne didn’t think of herself as careful: Sentimental was more like it. She liked things to remind her of other people. She had loved her grandmother, and she had loved Tim’s. Dorothea McIntosh had lived in a meadow, and she had tied her hair with long grass and flower stems. She had married a sea captain who brought jewels and rosewood back from a trip to India, and Dianne had her diamond and sapphire earrings tucked safely away.

Dianne held the cup close to Julia’s chin, guided the straw to her lips. The first day, Amy had tried to feed Julia a bite of cookie, and Dianne had had to explain that Julia could choke. She loved the way Amy accepted Julia’s reality without question, without trying to change it, make it better, conform to hers. Amy leaned forward with a napkin to dab away the lemonade that spilled down Julia’s chin.

“Thank you,” Dianne said.

“Rats, don’t thank me,” Amy said, blushing.

“Your mother doesn’t mind you coming over here?”

Amy shook her head.

“Does she work?” Dianne asked, trying to get a feel for what made Amy want to spend the afternoons away from home. Maybe her mother didn’t get home till five or six; probably Amy didn’t like staying in an empty house.

“No,” Amy said, looking down. “She’s home.”

They didn’t say anything for a while after that. There was a rhythm developing to their time together. They didn’t have to do anything to rush it along; it was growing at its own pace. Dianne tried not to ask herself why this meant so much to her, that a twelve-year-old girl from the neighborhood would want to hang around with her and Julia.

Amy was helping her see something. This was how life would be if Julia were normal: a mother and daughter going through their days together. Dianne was a mother with so much to give. Alan had put them together; Dianne was grateful, but sometimes she felt she was already beholden to him for too many things. And he was always there, even when she least expected him.

Last Wednesday she had driven over to the library to drop off her mother’s lunch. From behind the glass partition in the librarians’ office, Dianne spotted Alan jogging up the library’s wide front steps.

“It’s Wednesday,” Lucinda said, following her gaze. “He visits on his day off.”

“I forgot,” Dianne said, holding Julia.

“Just a minute,” Lucinda said. “Be right back.”

Her mother took the towel she had folded on her desk and walked out to the front desk to meet Alan. Rocking Julia, Dianne watched them greet each other. Alan’s T-shirt was soaked, and wet hair hung in his eyes. She half rose, thinking she’d walk out and say hi. This was her chance to thank him for sending Amy over.

Lucinda gestured, beckoning him around the desk. She directed Alan behind a corkboard partition. From behind the glass Dianne watched him glance around to make sure no one was looking. Then he pulled his wet shirt over his head. His body was strong and glistening with sweat. He dried himself off with the towel, and she watched him rubbing the mat of curly dark hair on his chest.

Dianne was frozen in place. She couldn’t move or look away. She felt like a spy, the library voyeur. The blood was pumping to her brain, leaving her mouth open and dry. Alan’s skin was ridiculously smooth, glossy and taut across his muscles. The two young librarians had walked in to have their lunch. They giggled, and Dianne realized they were checking Alan out too. She mumbled a few words.

The pediatrician’s body. She stared at it: his flat stomach, the narrow line of dark hair trailing into his waistband. His thighs looked massive, the rest of his legs long and lean. When he had finished drying himself, he pulled his wet shirt back on. As his head popped through the opening, his eyes met Dianne’s.

She blinked and looked down. The door opened and Lucinda walked in. The younger librarians were teasing her about keeping Alan to herself. Lucinda bantered back. Julia waved her arms, trying to call her grandmother. When Dianne glanced up, remembering that she still hadn’t thanked Alan for sending Amy to them, he had disappeared.

Having finished the little Victorian yesterday, Dianne was beginning a Greek Revival for the seventh birthday of a little girl in Old Lyme. This required building a portico and positioning ionic columns. While Julia dozed, Amy sat on a high stool watching Dianne work. Stella, still unsure about the newcomer, perched in a wicker basket on a shelf, spying from on high.

“Why doesn’t Stella like me?” Amy asked. “Cats usually do.”

“Stella is a squirrel,” Dianne said.

“No, really. Why doesn’t she like me?”

“She does. She’s just very shy,” Dianne said, measuring the distance between columns. “Her mother was killed by foxes the day she was born, and she was raised by a mother squirrel in the stone wall out back.”

“Poor little thing!” Amy said, staring at the cat, gray-striped with a brown undercoat. “She looks a little like a squirrel.…How do you know?”

“I found her mother’s body. I’d see the tiny kitten going in and out of the wall. After a couple of weeks, when she got too big, the mother squirrel stopped nursing her and kicked her out. She probably thought her babies were in danger –”

“Cats hunt squirrels,” Amy said. “They were her prey.”

“Eventually, but she was still too young. I had to feed her warm milk with a doll bottle. She was tiny, the size of a teacup. I’d hold her in one hand.”

“She must have been so cute,” Amy said in a small voice.

“And wild. At night she’d tear through the house. Once a bat got in, and she chased it till dawn. When people dropped by, she’d hide so completely, I sometimes couldn’t find her all day.”

“Hide where?”

“In my sweater drawer, under my quilt – she’d flatten herself out so much, you couldn’t even see a bump in the bed. Up the chimney, on the smoke shelf.”

“And now she’s up there, hiding in the basket,” Amy said, tilting her head back to see. Stella was there watching them, her eyes an unusual shade of turquoise.

“See, it’s not you,” Dianne said.

“I thought she’d know me by now,” Amy said. “I’ve been coming almost a month.”

“She doesn’t even meow – she chatters like a squirrel. In the morning she peeps. Sometimes I call her Peeper. She’s just a very unusual cat.” Dianne hated the idea of anyone thinking they were rejected, left out, unloved. Including Amy. She came over every day now, sat with Julia, talked to Dianne for hours on end. Gazing up at Stella, Amy seemed thin and unkempt, a lost ragamuffin.

“You raised a wild cat with a bottle …” Amy said, turning to Dianne. Her eyes were full of pain. “People don’t usually do that.”

“You would,” Dianne said.

“How do you know?” Amy asked.

“I can tell how much you care by the way you are with Julia.”

Clearing her throat, Dianne began to make Stella’s sound, the chirping of a squirrel. “Eh-eh. Eh-eh.”

The cat perked up her ears. Julia awoke, her eyes rolling up to Stella’s hiding place. Dianne kept on making the noise. Amy sat very still, and Julia’s hands began to drift, conducting her imaginary orchestra. Tentatively, Stella slid out of her basket. With great stealth, she came down from the shelf.

This was a game Dianne often played with her cat. Stella could play; Julia could not. Amy watched openmouthed.

Afternoon sun bathed the room, and Dianne tilted her watch crystal to catch the light. Directing it against the white wall, she sent the bright disk of reflected light careening along the baseboard. Stella began to chase it, making the “eh-eh” noises as she stalked her prey.

“She thinks it’s alive,” Amy exclaimed. “She wants to catch it!”

“You try it,” Dianne said. “With your father’s Timex.”

“Okay,” Amy said, and Julia sighed.

Dianne watched Amy get the hang of it, sending the tiny moon along the floor, Stella chattering in hot pursuit.

“Watch, Julia,” Amy laughed. “You have one crazy cat!”

Julia strained to focus. Her hands moved rapidly. Her eyes seemed to follow the action, and when Amy sent the tiny moon onto Julia’s tray and Stella jumped into Julia’s lap, Amy squealed with surprise and delight.

“Stella means ‘star,’” Dianne said. “I named her because when I first brought her home, I found her sitting in the window one night, staring at the sky. She always looks toward the same constellation.”

“Which one?” Amy asked.

“Orion.”

“I love the story of Stella,” Amy said.

Dianne nodded. As she watched Julia and Amy pet the cat, she tried not to let Amy’s comment make her feel too sad. She thought of loving the strange, the unlovable. She knew the value of play, of imagination and symbolism. It was every mother’s dream to see her child grow and develop, and to help the child along that path. Dianne had been able to do that more for a cat than for her own daughter.

Leaving the girls alone, she went silently over to her workbench, back to the columns. She loved the ionic capitals; their scrollwork reminded her of moon shells. The girls’ voices drifted over. They were soft and harmonious; at their feet, the cat chirped and peeped.

Listening, Dianne thought: This wasn’t the life she would have chosen. Dianne loved to talk, tell stories, exchange tales about the mysteries of life. Her child, her darling, her beacon of light, was incapable of reflection. Gazing into her eyes, she saw blankness, as if Julia’s eyes saw only inward, deep into her own soul – or nothing at all. Dianne pretended that Julia spoke in words and gestures, and sometimes she was more able than others to admit her own maternal lies.

Somewhere along the line Dianne had turned into an eccentric who talked to cats. Then, since she couldn’t communicate with her daughter, she captivated another woman’s child. To escape the hurt of her life, she imagined that her daughter was aware. That Julia was more, somehow, than a broken human body.

Much more, Julia. Much more, my love.

Dianne glanced over: The girls were talking. Amy was imitating the cat, and Julia was expressing her pleasure with the elaborate hulalike motion of her arms. Dianne bent over her work, positioning columns.

“Does your mother want you home?” she called to Amy.

“Nope,” Amy called back.

Amy rarely spoke of her family, but Alan had given Dianne to understand that all was not well in the Brooks household. Dianne had respect for all mothers, no matter how troubled or imperfect, and she took a long breath to make herself mindful of that fact.

“What do you think we should do for my mother when she retires?” Dianne asked, changing the subject, knowing that she had touched a raw nerve. Amy was clearly not ready to open up to Dianne about the goings-on at home.

“A surprise party,” Amy said.

“She says she’ll kill us if we do that.”

“My friend Amber’s mom took her parents on a cruise for their golden anniversary.”

“A cruise …” Dianne said, mulling it over.

“Dianne,” Amy said. “Julia’s wet.”

“Okay, be right there,” Dianne said.

The game was over, and Stella crept back to her basket. Dianne went to the bathroom and returned with a clean diaper. During Amy’s first visits, Dianne had taken Julia behind the rice-paper screen to change her. They were beyond that now. Julia was eleven. If she went to camp, to gym class, to sleep over at a friend’s house, other girls would see her naked. Amy was Julia’s friend, her good friend.

“Here’s powder,” Amy said, handing Dianne the bottle.

“Thank you,” Dianne said, sprinkling it on.

“I love baby powder,” Amy said to Julia. “It’s better than perfume. I wear it to school.”

“Laaa,” Julia said.

“I always think she means flower,” Dianne said, “when she says la.”

“She does,” Amy said solemnly. As if she knew more about Julia’s language, could hear more, translate better, than even Dianne herself. Dianne was silent, wishing Julia would say something else. But she didn’t.

“La, Julia,” Amy said. “Marigold, lily, daisy, and rose.”

Julia blinked her eyes, rolling her head.

Dianne listened, watching Julia play with her friend, glad she had told Amy the story of Stella. Maybe someday she’d tell Amy the other story, the story of Julia.

The story started with the McIntosh brothers.

Dianne had dreamed of love her whole life. Her parents were wonderful people, devoted to each other and to her. She had always wanted that for herself, to find that kind of true love. Dianne’s mother had been an orphan, and she claimed Emmett had saved her. Dianne was shy, and she lived at home long after other kids her age had left. It was as if she knew that the real world was harsh, that she had to be ready before she stepped out into it.

Taking after her father, she went into carpentry. He had built her a playhouse when she was a little girl, and Dianne made one for the third birthday of a daughter of a childhood friend. She had modeled it after that white house on the harbor, the place where she fantasized someday living with a family of her own, and every mother who saw it wanted one for her own child.

Alan was then a new pediatrician in town and he commissioned Dianne’s father to build shelves in his office. Alan was young, just getting his practice off the ground, and Emmett had liked him a lot. He had suggested he buy one of Dianne’s playhouses for his waiting room. Dianne had gone to the medical arts building to get a feel for the space, and Alan had come out to meet her.

“Your father did such a good job,” he said. “I wanted to see what you could do.”

“I learned everything from him,” Dianne said, feeling shy and a little intimidated. “From the best.”

“I’ll be the only doctor in town with a Robbins playhouse. All the kids’ll want to come to me. I’ll have the edge,” he joked in a way that let her know he was partly serious, a little insecure. He was tall and thin, not much older than Dianne. He had light brown hair that kept falling into his eyes.

“Are you from around here?” she asked.

“Cape Cod.”

“And you decided to be a doctor in Hawthorne?”

He nodded. “I did my residency in New Haven, and I took over this practice when Dr. Morrison decided to retire.”

“Do you miss Cape Cod?”

“It’s not that far away,” he said, “but, yes, I do.”

“Do you have family there?” Dianne asked, knowing how much she’d miss her parents if she ever moved.

He shook his head. “Not anymore. My brother’s a lobsterman, working off Block Island this year. Half the time he ties up right here in Hawthorne.”

“That’s good,” Dianne said, nodding.

“I like the hospital here,” Alan said. “The town’s growing, and the area’s beautiful. But fitting in …”

“My dad says Hawthorners take forever to accept newcomers,” Dianne said. Even though she was just a carpenter and he was a doctor, something about Alan made her feel she could say these things to him. “Even my business started off slow, and I was born here.”

“People will find me,” Alan said.

“I’m sure they will,” Dianne said, sizing him up. If she had a child, she could imagine wanting this man to take care of her. He seemed gentle, and when he’d said ‘people will find me,’ he’d sounded quietly confident, as if he knew he was a good doctor and he knew parents would bring their kids to him.

“Don’t worry,” she said, nodding her head. “I’ll make you a beautiful playhouse.” She didn’t know why, but the promise was incredibly important to her. Back at home, she riffled through architecture books and all sorts of magazines in search of quirky details. Little kids loved things like sea horse door knockers, shutters that really closed, a mailbox to hold letters.

One night a few weeks later her mother called her to the phone and told her it was Alan McIntosh. Thinking he wanted to discuss her progress, she picked up the extension. But instead, he wanted to ask her out to dinner. Dianne was silent, holding the receiver. Working for a doctor was one thing, going out with him was another. What would they have to talk about? What would he think when he found out she’d dropped out of Connecticut College?

“Yes,” she heard herself say. “Yes, okay.”

Saturday night he said. He thought she might like to try the Rosecroft Inn.

Dianne loved the place and the evening. They sat in the grill room. Drinking champagne, she had felt the bubbles on her upper lip. It was such a romantic night. There was a pink rose on the table, a fire in the fireplace, candles flickering around the darkened room.

Alan was handsome and attentive. He seemed interested in her background, the fact that she had spent her whole life in Hawthorne. He hadn’t acted surprised when she told him about not liking college, about knowing she wanted to work with her father. He talked about his brother Neil, the reason he had become a doctor. He told her about his brother Tim, the wild man who fished the eastern seaboard, coming home only when he had to.

Curious about how two brothers could be so different, Dianne wanted to hear more. She and Alan were talking so much, the waiter had to stop by four times before they were ready to order. When the time came, she realized she had barely even looked at the menu. She ordered sweetbreads, something she had never tried before.

Alan asked her to tell him her happiest memory. She asked him about his favorite dream. He wanted to know about all her pets, and after she told him, he wanted to know how they got their names. She asked him if he believed in heaven.

She had never had a date like this before. Most of the guys she dated were locals like her. Many of them had gone to grade school together, had known each other their whole lives. But just two hours of talking to Alan gave Dianne the idea she’d been missing something. She had never imagined getting so much pleasure from telling a man about the Scottish terrier she’d gotten for her fourth birthday.

He had shoulders like a football player’s, broad and solid, yet he moved with a sexy kind of grace. He ordered oysters and fed Dianne one, tilting the shell against her lips. His brown hair was a little shaggy, in need of a haircut. Listening to him talk about medicine, she could hear the passion. He wasn’t in it for the money or prestige: He had a true calling to help people.

That night when he drove her home he held her hand across the seat. When he stopped the car, he kissed her. The blood rushed into her face and her knees went weak when he tangled his long fingers in her hair, kissed her hard and steady as she leaned into his chest. He felt strong and sturdy as any workman, even though his hands didn’t have calluses. He was a doctor, what did she expect?

A week went by while she worked on his playhouse. She hoped he would like it enough to take her out again. But he was busy with his practice, and she was busy creating the playhouse. He called once, and she was out; she returned his call, and he was at the hospital.

Then came delivery day.

The playhouse was ready. She had it in her studio, and she and her father had planned to carry it over in his truck. But then Alan said his brother Tim was back in town. Since his boat was tied up at the lobster dock, Tim would swing by to pick up the finished house.

She had been wrapping the playhouse in batting to protect it on the drive when Tim McIntosh walked into her studio. He was as tall as Alan but blonder. He spent his life in the sun, and it showed in the lines on his face. He wore a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing muscular forearms, and his front tooth was slightly chipped. His eyes looked as intelligent as Alan’s, but haunted, as if he were pondering the end of the world.

“Hey” was all he said as he walked over to grab the roll of batting from Dianne’s hand. “Let me do that.”

“No, I –” she began.

But he didn’t listen. He just took the roll of thick padding and began to wrap the house as if he’d been doing that sort of work his whole life. Without speaking, or even really smiling, he stared at her across the small house’s gabled roof. Dianne felt a long shiver down her spine and along the backs of her legs. She wondered how he had chipped his tooth, gotten that scar over his right eyebrow.

“What’re you thinking?” Tim asked.

“Me?” she replied, embarrassed to have gotten caught staring. “Nothing.”

“That’s not true,” he said.

“Then tell me what I’m thinking about.”

“You want a boat ride,” he said.

“No,” she said. “If I’m thinking anything, it’s that you did a nice job. Wrapping that playhouse.”

“You always do your work in that outfit?”

Hoping that she and Alan might have dinner after the delivery, Dianne had put on a dress. It was blue and white striped, with a white collar that suddenly seemed too big. Standing in front of Tim, she felt so awkward, felt sweat rolling down her back. She couldn’t stop staring at Tim’s wide grin. She looked like a schoolgirl in her striped dress, she thought, and she wondered what he would think if he knew she still lived with her parents.

“Strong woman,” he said. “To build this house all by yourself. Tell the truth – did your father help you? Because you honestly don’t look like the hammer-swinging type.”

“I am,” she said.

“I’m a laborer myself. That’s why I don’t expect someone as pretty as you …” He smiled again, showing his broken tooth.

“I love my work,” she said.

“Me too,” he said. “A woman after my own heart.”

With his light hair and ruddy skin, the fine white lines radiating around deep blue eyes, there was no missing the fact that he was a fisherman. He was ruggedly gorgeous, and he had a way of glowering that made Dianne think he was harboring a bad secret. He was full of life, and she could imagine him standing on deck, navigating by the stars. When he took her hand and shook it, she felt the thrill all through her body.

“Tim McIntosh,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Dianne Robbins,” she said, staring at his strong and callused hand. It took a long time for him to let go.

“How about that boat ride?” he asked.

“Your brother’s waiting for us.”

“He can come with us,” Tim said.

“Stop.” She laughed. “We have to take the playhouse over to his office.”

“An island,” Tim said. “That’s where I’ll take you on our boat ride. Somewhere in the Bahamas. We’ll go bone fishing and sleep on the beach. You like the sound of palm trees rustling in the wind?”

“I’ve never heard them.”

“You will,” Tim McIntosh had said, his blue eyes blazing.

“No, I –” Dianne began, unable to take her eyes off Tim. He held her hand lightly, as if he had known her for years, as if he planned to walk her straight off into the sunset. She pulled away, convinced him that Alan was waiting, that they should deliver the playhouse to his waiting room as they had promised.

“Whatever you want,” he said, wrapping his arm around her waist. “You don’t love him, do you?”

“We’ve gone out only once,” Dianne said, her voice cracking.

“Good,” Tim said.

“Why do you say that?” she asked, feeling his hand on the small of her back. Their faces were close, and she knew it was all over. He was a cowboy with a boat, a broken tooth, and a dark secret. Her heart was pounding, and she felt liquid inside. Just looking at him made her smile, made her nervous, made her feel like laughing out loud.

“Because we’re going for a boat ride, and if things work out, I’m going to ask you to marry me,” he said. “What would you say to that?”

“I’d say you’re crazy,” Dianne said as he touched the side of her face with his rough fingertips. But she knew that her time with Alan was over forever.

The truly crazy thing was, Tim McIntosh proposed to her for real less than a month later. He asked her to marry him on the deck of his boat, with all the new spring constellations overhead.

“I need you,” he told her.

“We hardly know each other,” she said.

“It doesn’t feel that way to me,” he said, clutching her. “It feels as if I’ve known you my whole life. Marry me, Dianne,” he said.

“Marry you …”

“You’ll never be bored.”

“Tim!” she laughed, thinking that was a funny thing to say.

“I’m not like Alan,” he continued. “With him you’d have it easy. Stable as hell.” He made it sound dull. “You’d never have to ask him twice to mow the lawn. Perfect all the time. With me …” He bent her over backward. “You wouldn’t have a lawn.”

“No?” she asked, staring into his eyes.

“Just this,” he said, sweeping his arm out to take in the sea, the silver-topped waves spreading to the horizon. “That’s all I can give you.”

“Only the sea.” She laughed again.

“Marry me,” he said again.

Dianne had a sudden strange feeling that Tim was in competition with his brother and she was the prize. The thing was, she was shy and humble, and she didn’t trust her instinct. Alan was a successful doctor, Tim was a handsome fisherman: They could have any woman they wanted. Why would they fight over her?

Shy girls are sometimes insecure. They don’t know how they shine. One date with Alan, and Tim seemed to take it more seriously than she did. If Alan liked her so much, why hadn’t he asked her out again? That night at the Rosecroft Inn, she had had such a wonderful time. Alan seemed solid and true, as if he knew exactly where he was going.

Tim was something else entirely. He trembled when he held her. He said “I need you” at least as often as “I love you.” He told her he kept time by the tides, and she found that incredibly romantic. The first time he was late, he blamed it on an east-setting current. Then he wrapped her in his arms and told her when he’d been out of sight of land, he’d been afraid he might drown without ever seeing her again.

He told Dianne she was all he had.

He called her ship-to-shore twice a day. Anchoring on the Landsdowne Shoal, he shot off white flares spelling “Dianne” in Morse code. He saved the best lobsters he caught and cooked them for her dinner. They drank wine every night.

They made love. Holding her so tenderly, his arms quivered, and Tim whispered her name over and over. They’d lie in the bunk of his boat, wrapped in wool blankets and feeling the rhythm of the sea. At those times his eyes would look serious and afraid. He’d gaze at her face as if trying to memorize every feature.

“Don’t ever leave me,” he’d whisper.

“Never,” she’d whisper back.

“I can’t lose you,” he said. “This has to be forever.”

“How can you think it wouldn’t be?” she asked, feeling scared. She was taking the same risk: To give herself this totally to another human being, she had to believe that he was going to stay always, be true to his word, love her until the end of time.

“Things change,” he said. “For some people.”

“Not for us,” she promised.

“My parents,” he said. That night he told her his version of what had happened to his family. They had been so close: His parents had been childhood sweethearts. They’d gotten married at twenty, had three little boys. Life had been a dream. They had fished, and crabbed, and swum. Their mother had made them picnics. And then Neil had gotten sick.

The family fell apart. His mother lost her mind: The sheer agony of seeing her son die drove her to drink. Unable to help her, his father stayed at sea. Alan turned to books, Tim went fishing. And Neil died anyway. Alan had told Dianne before, but that didn’t make the story any easier to hear.

“I’m so sorry,” Dianne whispered.

“No one’s ever going to leave me again,” Tim said. “Ever.”

“You can’t control fate,” she said. “As much as you want to.”

Pulling back, Tim’s eyes were dark and troubled. He peered into her face, wiping tears from his cheeks.

“I have to,” he said. “’Cause I’m not going through that again.”

“Losing someone you love must be awful,” Dianne said. “But look at Alan – he used your brother’s death for something positive. Deciding he wanted to be a doctor.”

Tim moaned.

“Tim!”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and she could feel him shaking. “It’s just that there’s nothing positive about Neil dying. And I don’t like you talking about Alan like he’s so wonderful, the great and powerful doctor. He had his chance with you and …” He trailed off, his face bright red.

“I love you,” Dianne said, brushing his hair out of his eyes, scared at the expression on his face. “Not Alan.”

“No woman’s ever come between us before,” he said.

“I don’t want to come between you.”

“Then take my side,” he said.

“I will. I do,” she said, confused.

“I’ve never loved a girl before,” Tim said.

“Never?” Dianne asked, shaken to her core. She had her bad boy all right: He was too handsome, too wild, too charming not to have had girlfriends. He was telling her a blatant lie, and she knew it.

“I’ve been with girls, but I’ve never loved anyone,” he said, kissing her forehead, smoothing her hair. “Never until you.”

“People have to love each other through the worst,” Dianne said, her voice trembling. She had lived a blessed life: There was so much love in her family, and thankfully no one had ever been sick. But for some reason, she thought of Alan asking her about her happiest memory, her family pets, telling her about his life, and she swallowed hard.

“You think we can?” Tim asked, holding her face in his hands.

“Oh, I know we can,” she said.

“We’re sticking together,” Tim said. “Starting now.”

And Dianne believed him. He needed her. Life had hurt him badly, left him damaged, and Dianne was ready to nurture him in their marriage. For the first time in her life, she could believe that her own motto, “Home Sweet Home,” applied to her. Happiness was possible. Love was true. She and Tim would have many sweet babies, and she would build playhouses for all of them. Life would be so beautiful.

They would love each other through the worst.

She would always support Tim’s point of view, and she would try to ease his rivalry with Alan, so the McIntosh brothers could stay close.

She and Tim would never be apart.

They had promised.

Alan hadn’t felt like ripping Tim apart since that day on the Widener Library steps. But the day Tim told him he was going to marry Dianne, the old feelings came tearing back. Tim was going on about how they wanted Alan to be in the wedding, would he be Tim’s best man? Cold fury filled Alan’s chest.

“What d’you say?” Tim asked. “You plan on keeping me in suspense?”

“You asked her to marry you and she said yes?”

“No,” Tim said, his eyes sharp and bright. “We’re walking down the aisle for a joke. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Alan said, his blood racing.

“Bullshit. I know you.” Tim exhaled as if he had the north wind inside him. He began to pace around Alan’s office.

“It’s pretty quick, isn’t it?” Alan asked. “I mean, you hardly know her.”

“I know her fine. Listen, this isn’t because you used to go out with her, is it? Because I’ve been under the impression there was nothing much between you. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought you had only one date.”

“Yeah,” Alan said. “One date.”

“So what’s the problem?”

The problem was, Alan hadn’t been fast enough. The world could change in the course of one date, and when he’d been out with Dianne, he had known he had met someone amazing. He had felt a deep connection looking into her eyes and kissing her in the car, and he could have sworn she had felt it too. But then he had worked some late nights at the hospital, called Dianne at the wrong time, and lost his chance to see whether the connection was real or just a dream.

“So what’s the problem?” Tim asked again.

“You’re going to marry her and settle down?”

“Yep.”

“Really settle down?” Alan asked, making himself a disapproving jerk so Tim wouldn’t detect the fact he was being eaten alive by jealousy.

“As much as I can,” Tim said. “She knows about the boat, the lobster license, the fact I work offshore. I don’t think it bothers her.”

“She hasn’t watched you come and go,” Alan said. “For the last ten years.”

“Hey, you had your chance. You could have been an oceanographer. You’re the one who nailed yourself to a medical practice.”

“I know.”

“Dianne has no problem with my work,” Tim said. He grinned, showing his broken front tooth. Trying to pull pots in a high sea six winters before, he’d gotten smacked in the face with the winch handle. It pissed Alan off that Tim wouldn’t go to the dentist and get it capped. It was almost as if he had decided to live a role, play a part.

“She likes the maverick lobsterman,” Alan said. “That it?”

“Yeah, she likes it.”

“The renegade home from the sea.”

“Hey …” Tim said, picking up on the sarcastic tone.

“Hope she likes it as much when you’re not home from the sea,” Alan said. “When you decide to head into Newport instead of back to Hawthorne.”

“Those days are over,” Tim said. He grinned again, and there was something of a brother-to-brother wink in his eye. Alan felt the jealousy surge again, and he wanted to knock his brother flat on his back. Tim was right: Alan had dated Dianne only once. But whether he liked it or not, Alan still felt the connection. Alan knew his brother, and he didn’t want him hurting her. Taking a step forward, he stood toe to toe with Tim.

“They’d better be,” Alan said.

Tim stared him down, his eyes lit up and ready to fight. Neither brother had forgotten their last fight up in Cambridge, and Alan could almost feel the heat pouring off Tim’s skin. They were each waiting for the other to throw the first punch.

“She’s different than we are,” Alan said. “She comes from a family where they look out for each other. You hear what I’m saying?”

“You warning me?” Tim asked, jabbing Alan’s chest with his index finger. “About my own wife-to-be?”

“I’m warning you to be good to her,” Alan said.

“Don’t worry.”

“Her parents stick around,” Alan said. “For each other and for her. Not like Mom and Dad. Not like what happened after Neil died.”

“I was there for Neil,” Tim said, head up, chin out.

Alan stared, harsh challenge in his eyes, unable to contradict something his brother held as gospel truth. But thinking back all those years, Alan remembered Tim sitting outside Neil’s window.

It was summer, and the sky was blue and birds were singing, and Tim had sat in the grass throwing his baseball into his mitt over and over again. Alan had snuck past his parents to be with Neil. They could hear the thunk-thunk of Tim’s baseball going into the mitt. That dark bedroom had smelled of sickness and death, and Neil’s eyes had been wide as an owl’s, staring at Alan with the sheer terror of not knowing what was going to happen to him.

“Don’t hurt Dianne,” Alan said now, with a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Go to hell,” Tim said. Stepping back, he turned and started to walk away. “You my best man or not?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Alan said, because Tim was his only living brother. For his sake, and for Dianne’s, he’d finish this right then. Dianne would never know about this fight or about the misery he was feeling inside. “I am.”

“I don’t know why,” Tim said, “but I’m glad.”

Weary and fed up with the fight, Alan had stood by his desk, watching him go. His brother was tall, his posture straight and proud. Why shouldn’t it be? He had won the girl. Alan had the diplomas and degrees, Tim had his boat and Dianne. When he got to the doorway of Alan’s office, he turned around.

Tim’s blue eyes were fierce. Alan’s stomach tensed, knowing that his brother was claiming victory in their latest battle of life. But staring across the office, he saw something else too. Deep in those eyes Alan saw fear. He saw the glimmer of a man who was already lost.

For a moment Alan tried to think of something to say, something to call Tim back and keep him from walking away, make up for the latest breach between them. After all, the brothers were each other’s only living relative. But once Tim McIntosh had decided to walk, nothing anyone could say was going to stop him.