Dreams for Stones (32 page)

I closed my eyes and repeated to myself,
“It’s okay to be happy. It’s okay to be happy.”

I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and
smiled at Aunt Kiara, Uncle Bill, and Brad, and the light caught a
tear on Aunt Kiara’s cheek and turned it into a rainbow.

There. Done. Alan set the pages aside, only
then noticing the tears running down his face. He stared at the
place where Meg’s picture had hung, the tears drenching his cheeks,
dripping off his chin. Something tight and hard was loosening
inside him, as if Meg’s death had corroded him, rusting him shut,
and now he was being pried open.

It’s okay to be happy.

Could it possibly be that simple?

Alan awakened the morning after reading
Bobby and Brad
feeling empty and peaceful, as if the tears had been a heavy burden
he’d carried far too long and had at last laid down.

Soon he would have to act, and that action
would decide the course of his future, but for the moment he felt
suspended. Content simply to be.

But that didn't last long. Soon he began to
feel a niggle of restlessness that he quieted by once again pulling
the box containing his writing out of the closet. He gathered the
pages of his novel together and stacked them on the table.

It took him three nights to get through it
all. When he finished, he read the note Meg had written at the
end.

Alan,

The story is wonderful, and I’m not just saying that because I’m
crazy about you. Although, don’t doubt it for a moment, my love, I
am. You’ve made the 1890’s come alive again in all their raucous,
maudlin, violent, tender glory. And to think, this is only the
beginning. Oh, the places you will go!

Meg

If he had read the note shortly after she
wrote it, the wording of that last sentence would never have struck
him as unusual—a quote from the Dr. Seuss book.

But now...he’d never expected to go any of
those places without Meg.

With that thought, the peaceful interlude
shattered.

Delia, Angela, Charles, Kathy, and now Meg.
All whittling away at him. Cutting, slicing, occasionally producing
a sharp stab of awareness.

Delia: It’s okay, Alan.

Angela: Kathy is unfinished business.

Charles: For God’s sake, how could you let
her go?

Meg: Oh, the places you will go.

But what pushed at him most was Kathy.
I’m sorry we lost touch
.

Kathy. All these months, not seeing her but
knowing Charles was. A bone-deep ache. A pain so unrelenting, he’d
finally done what he had been most afraid to do. Confronted his
guilt over Meg’s death. Let Meg go.

Sending him her story had taken courage on
Kathy’s part. If he wanted to complete his healing he needed to
respond with equal courage. He needed to see her.

He concentrated, trying to remember what
she’d said about living near the Botanical Gardens. In one of the
big houses, with an elderly couple named. . . something to do with
comedy, wasn’t it? Abbott? No. Costello, that was it.

He found a listing in the phone book for a
Louis Costello on the eight hundred block of Race Street.

It had to be the right one.

Excerpt from the diaries of Emily Kowalski

1990

This year I turn ninety. Although I certainly don’t feel that old,
I don’t have the energy I used to have. When Rose Cameron called to
ask if I would meet with one of her students this semester, I
almost turned her down. These last six months I’ve been tired, and
just lately I’ve had to work harder to breathe. Of course, that’s
to be expected at my age.

But after thinking about it, I told her yes.
I do so enjoy being around young people, even when they make no
secret of the fact they suspect I’m old enough to be personally
acquainted with King Tut.

The student came yesterday. Her name is Kathleen Jamison. She stood
on my doorstep, her hair like a bright copper penny, with the maple
tree all gold and red behind her, and I thought, oh my, how lovely
she is.

She reminds me of someone, but I can’t think
who. I don’t believe I’ve ever known anyone with hair that
color.

I’m supposed to share with Kathleen my view
of an important historical event that occurred in my lifetime so
she can write about it for Rose’s class.

If Jess were asked to pick the most amazing
thing that happened in his lifetime, he would probably say it was
men landing on the moon. But for me, it was the discovery of
antibiotics, although it came too late to help our Bobby.

Kathleen was surprised at my choice.

Talking to Kathleen about the past, I realize who she reminds me
of. Bill’s Kiara. Anyone seeing pictures of them both would not
think so, yet I feel it strongly. Perhaps it is some deeper quality
of the spirit they share.

Kathleen and I have been talking about life and love. She is so
young. All she knows of love is the excitement that comes in the
beginning when she meets someone new who may be special.

But I hope she will someday discover the
love that grows from the wholehearted acceptance of another and the
sharing of sorrow and pain along with joy.

I want to tell her that when you love that
way, you never feel old. I look in my mirror and am amazed at the
face looking back. When did that happen? But I look at Jess, and I
see only my Jess, the man I’ve loved since the moment we met.

I think that is why we say love is blind. It
isn’t really. It simply sees the eternal part of us that does
indeed never grow old.

I’m afraid the time for sharing with Kathleen is ending, and there
is still so much I want to tell her. I especially want her to know
that her capacity for joy will always exceed her capacity for
sorrow.

Sitting on the Costellos’ porch waiting for Kathy, Alan shivered,
and not just because the evening was cool. He saw the curtains
twitch and knew Mrs. Costello was keeping an eye on him.

She hadn’t been happy about his decision to
wait on the porch, but even if it had been twenty below, this was
one time he’d choose a cold porch over having to make small talk
with someone he didn’t know.

Kathy finally arrived, walking quickly, her
head down, watching her step on the uneven slates of the sidewalk.
He took a deep breath, bracing himself. She didn’t realize he was
there until she was halfway up the porch steps.

When she saw him, she came to a stop, her
eyes going wide with shock, those clear mountain-stream eyes.

“Alan? Oh my goodness. It’s. . . good to see
you.” Her voice was hoarse, surprised.

Before he could respond, Mrs. Costello
opened the front door and stuck her head out. “Oh, Kathy, I’m glad
you’re home. This young man refused to come inside to wait for you.
He must be half frozen. Make him come in. I’ve got fresh coffee and
some old dead cherry pie.”

With that, Mrs. Costello transferred the
responsibility for the next step from him to Kathy. Feeling both
relief and trepidation, he held Kathy’s gaze, waiting for her
response.

She nodded slightly. “You’d better come in.
I never argue with Mrs. C about food. Her old dead pies are more
delicious than everybody else’s fresh out of the oven.” Kathy had a
solemn look, but a trace of humor softened her tone, and a hint of
a smile hovered on her lips.

Mrs. C took charge of him, hanging up his
coat and briskly herding him back to the kitchen while Kathy went
upstairs to put away her things.

When Kathy walked into the kitchen five
minutes later, he waited to see her reaction to the fact Mrs. C had
changed her mind about the pie and was insisting he stay for dinner
instead. Kathy’s lips twitched, as if she were suppressing a smile.
He considered that a good sign.

Although he doubted he’d be able to eat, the
warm smells of the food and the comfortable chatter between the
Costellos, as a heaped platter of fried chicken and bowls of mashed
potatoes, gravy, and peas were passed around, soothed him. He
filled his plate and ate with more appetite than he’d had in a long
time.

“How was your day, dear?” Mrs. Costello
asked Kathy.

“Really good. Jade finished another
illustration for
Bobby and Brad
.”

“Calico is publishing it?” Alan asked.

Kathy nodded.

He met her gaze. “It should be published.
Thank you for sharing it with me.”
It helped me heal.
He
couldn’t tell her that, not yet, but maybe someday soon.

Delight transformed her face, her skin
lucent with it, her eyes sparkling brooks.

After a moment, she looked away, but the
memory of that look stayed with him, warming him even more than the
food.

When they finished eating, Kathy shooed Mrs.
Costello out of the kitchen and turned to him. “I hope you don’t
mind doing dishes.”

“Seems only fair.” They needed to talk and
doing it while they washed dishes—he could handle that.

“I better dry since I know where everything
goes. Mrs. C hates it when things are put away in the wrong
place.”

He filled the sink with hot water and added
soap as Kathy cleaned off the dishes and set them on the counter
next to him. As they worked, he thought about what he needed to
say.

Keeping his gaze focused on the sink and its
contents, he finally managed to begin. “Your note. You didn’t need
to apologize, but I do. I’m sorry for the way I treated you. I was
hoping that. . . maybe we can be friends again.” That wasn’t what
he really wanted, but it was all he was capable of asking for at
the moment.

Cradling plates with one arm, Kathy reached
out and touched him. “I’d like that.”

He looked down at her hand, resting lightly
on his arm, feeling a mixture of fear and hope, knowing with
perfect clarity he was not turning back this time. He couldn’t bear
to lose her again.

He rubbed a hand over his forehead,
forgetting it was soapy. Kathy reached out with her towel to wipe
the soapsuds away.

“This is harder than it looks.”

“Washing dishes? Or talking?”

He shook his head and gave her a rueful
smile. “Talking.”

He turned back to the sink, determined to
say it all. Bowls and silverware followed the plates into the
drainer as he struggled to find the words. “I didn’t mean to hurt
you.” He stretched his shoulders, trying to ease the tension, upset
he was making such a hash of it. “But I did. And I’m sorry.” He
handed Kathy the last batch of silverware and let the water out of
the sink.

“I treated you badly as well.”

“No. No, you didn’t.” His voice firmed, and
he managed to meet her gaze. He raised a hand to stop her from
saying more. “Please, I need to know you forgive me.”

“Of course, I do.”

He nodded, relieved. “I’m not doing very
well, am I?”

“You’re doing just fine. Although there is
the small matter of the pots and pans.”

He gazed over at the stove ,then at Kathy,
who smiled at him.

He refilled the sink while Kathy carried
over the saucepans and skillet. After he finished washing them, he
said, “Can I take you to dinner tomorrow?”

“I’d like that.”

“I’ll pick you up...seven? The Indian
restaurant? Or do you prefer something else?” He wished they could
simply laugh together at the memory he was trying to invoke, but it
was still too soon.

“Indian’s fine.” Her tone was solemn, but
her mouth curved in a smile.

“Can we. . . ” He stopped and took a deep
breath. So many emotions jumbled together. Elation. Exhaustion.
Fear. But stronger than fear were love and a growing desire. He
wanted to do it right this time. Tell her about Meg. Begin to build
something new with her.

“What?” She spoke gently.

“Can we take it slow?”

“As long as you promise not to disappear
again.”

“I won’t.”

“Then, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Kathy spoke
with the firmness of a promise.

“What a nice young man,” Mrs. C said, when Kathy came back into the
living room after showing Alan out. “And such lovely flowers he
sent you.”

“Flowers?”

“You didn’t notice, dear? I put them in your
room.”

Kathy rushed upstairs, her heart beating
with gladness, relief flooding through her. Maybe Alan had trouble
saying the words, but here was proof he wanted to say them.

The flowers, a mix of roses and orchids in a
small vase was sitting by the bed. She fumbled open the card.

It was never my intention to seduce you. My
intention was to make love to you. C

She drew in a deep, shaky breath, letting it
sink in—that the flowers weren’t from Alan and what Charles was
saying in his note. She didn’t want to hurt him, but it wasn’t
Charles she wanted making love to her.

Alan. She’d almost given up hope. Nearly a
week since she sent the note and the story. With the passing of
each day, it had felt less and less likely he would respond. So
when she’d looked up tonight and seen him, such immense relief had
washed through her. He’d come. Thank God.

Then everything turned bizarre. Mrs. C
inviting him for dinner. Sitting across from Alan with all the
words they needed to say to each other silenced by the presence of
the Costellos. Until something odd happened. Peace gradually easing
the tightness in her shoulders, forehead, and arms.

Alan seemed to feel it as well. He looked
tranquil. His eyes for the moment free of shadows, and there was an
ease to the way he moved, sat, spoke, that was different than
before. Like a lake smoothed to mirror stillness after being
ruffled by a breeze.

It was one of the hardest things she’d ever
done, walking him to the door and staying behind as he drove away.
She’d wanted to run after him and insist he take her with him. But
he hadn’t yet been able to tell her about Meg, and she needed to
give him the chance to pick the time and place for that.