Follow the Stars Home (32 page)

The band was playing Gershwin, and as they stopped kissing, Alan didn't release her from his arms. Their feet began to move, and Dianne found they were dancing after all. She was gazing through his glasses into his eyes, wondering how this could be happening.

“Dancing in the library,” she said.

“Don't tell the librarian,” he said.

“She'd be happy,” Dianne said.

“I know,” Alan said.

“You do?”

“She knew,” Alan said. “A long time before you did.”

“Knew what?” Dianne asked.

“That you chose the wrong brother,” Alan said, his mouth against Dianne's ear.

Dianne nodded, believing that her mother had known all along.

“It's getting hot in here,” Alan said after another minute. “Feel like taking a walk?”

“Oh, yes. I could use some fresh air,” Dianne said, wiping her brow as they walked out of the stacks of fiction.

Alan waited while Dianne checked on Lucinda and Amy. Standing on the library steps, he said hello to friends, neighbors, parents of patients. He tried to look normal, as if he weren't in the middle of his dreams coming true. Maybe she wouldn't come out. Probably she'd realize she'd made the biggest mistake of her life, kissing him in the library.

But she came walking through the crowd.

“They're fine,” she said. “They're so excited, they want to go home and pack right now. My mother's teaching Amy the box step.”

“I'm sure every guy in there wants to dance with your mother,” Alan said. “She's the belle of the ball.”

“I don't think my mother's danced with any man since my father died,” Dianne said.

Heading down the wide stone steps, they walked along the harbor. The night had an end-of-summer feel, with a sharp breeze blowing off the water. Streetlights shone brightly, and some of the trees had scarlet vines twisting up their trunks. Alan wanted to take Dianne's hand, but he held himself back.

“That was wonderful,” she said. “Back there.”

“The party? The music? I know, all for Lucinda,” Alan said.

“You and me,” she said quietly.

“Yeah?” he asked, his blood pumping. “You think so?”

“I was swept away,” Dianne said. “By my mother's sentimental speech. By leaving for Canada tomorrow. That's what you think, right? That that's the only reason it happened?”

“Is it?” Alan asked.

“Let's walk,” she said.

Now he did take her hand.

Dianne didn't pull away. Instead, she linked fingers with him. With her other hand she took off her shoes and carried them so she could walk barefoot. They were strolling through the town, along the street where the whaling captains had built their houses.

“Which one?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Which house inspired your father?” he asked. It seemed odd that after all these years, he didn't know.

“To build your playhouse? The one that got you started?”

“Oh,” Dianne said. “We're not there yet. It's around the corner.”

The harbor glittered through the trees and houses. Boat lights played on the black water. The lighthouse beam shot across the sky, east to west, back again. Cars passed on the street. Dianne didn't seem concerned about being seen walking around Hawthorne holding his hand. He didn't understand the change, but he also didn't care.

“Bettina Gorey couldn't make it?” she asked quietly.

“Make it where?” he asked, confused.

“To the dance tonight.”

“I didn't ask her,” he said.

“I wondered,” Dianne said. “Martha mentioned her the other day …that day I was in your office. Something about meeting her at the theater. Is she your girlfriend?”

“No,” Alan said as they rounded the corner, as the houses got bigger and the yards wider. The town lights weren't as bright here, and the streets were darker. “I don't have a girlfriend. It's always been you,” he said, his heart slamming. She had told the truth in the library, and now it was his turn.

Dianne didn't reply. They were passing a meadow, the easternmost edge of one of the waterfront properties. The grass grew tall here, and it was filled with the wildflowers of late summer: asters, goldenrod, Indian paintbrush. Alan saw them glinting in the single streetlight. A wrought-iron fence surrounded the field, which gave way to a manicured lawn. The stately white house was dark.

“There,” Dianne said, pointing. “That's the one.”

“Your playhouse,” Alan said.

Dianne gripped the iron fence posts with both hands, looking inside. The house was white, square, with a mansard roof and ionic columns. It had dark green shutters and window boxes filled with geraniums. The paint looked new, glossy in the light. The house looked well kept but dark and deserted. Alan's house, just two streets away, was the opposite: very lived in but in need of paint and repairs.

“I used to dream of this place,” Dianne said.

“You did?”

“When I was a little girl …I thought that anyone who lived in a house like this would have the most wonderful life.”

“And your father built you a playhouse that looked just like it.”

“He did,” Dianne said. “It was the closest he could get to giving me my dream. I understand that, wanting to wrap up happiness and give it to your child….”

“Do you still believe,” Alan asked, looking down at her, “that the people who live here have a wonderful life?” He wanted so much for her to say that she did.

Dianne didn't reply for a minute. Still holding on to the fence, she stared at the dark house as if trying to see through the walls, past the closed curtains, into the quiet rooms.

“I'm not sure,” she said in a voice so low, it was almost a whisper.

Alan wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, hold her close, make her believe.

“You could hope they do,” he said quietly. “Even if you're not sure.”

“Hope their life is wonderful?” she asked.

“Yes,” Alan said.

“Do
you
believe it is?” Dianne asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Alan closed his hand around hers and held it. “I do,” he said. “And you do too. You wouldn't be packing up your family for the trip of a lifetime if you didn't.”

“The trip of a lifetime in a Winnebago,” Dianne laughed. “Is that even possible?”

“I'd say so,” Alan said, looking into her eyes. “Listen. You have to pass through Nova Scotia on your way to PEI. I'm going to give you Malachy Condon's phone number. Just in case—”

“Malachy,” Dianne said. He had been Alan's mentor and Tim's father figure; he had been at her wedding. “He's Tim's friend.”

“He's mine too,” Alan said, writing on the back of a card. “He's a good man, and he knows his way around up there. I'll feel better knowing you have his number.”

“We'll be fine …” Dianne said.

“Are you coming back?”

“We have to. Amy has to start school in September.”

“I knew there was a reason I sent her to you,” Alan said.

“Alan …” Dianne said.

“You don't have to say anything.”

A wall had broken between them, but he didn't want her to move too fast. She didn't have to feel vulnerable, lay herself on the line. He put his arms around her, held her in silence for a long time.

“I want to,” she said.

“I'll be here,” he said.

Her eyes were shining, and she was smiling up at him. He felt her step closer to him, and as he put his
hands on her back, he felt her slim body through her dress.

“Something's different tonight,” she said.

Everything
, he thought.

“I said it out loud,” she whispered. “It took me a long time, but I did. I've wished …”

“What have you wished?”

“For this,” she whispered. They were holding each other in the warm summer night. Alan felt the breeze in his hair, and he heard it in the trees. Overhead, the stars were as bright as they were going to get this close to town. The sky was wrapped in haze, a sheet of sheer silk, and the stars were orange globes.

“Dianne …” he whispered into her hair.

“For this,” she said, standing barefoot on the toes of his shoes, reaching up to kiss his chin, the side of his face. He brought his mouth to hers and rocked her back and forth in the sultry night.

They kissed for a long time, and then Alan felt Dianne's arms slide from around his neck so that she was holding his face in her hands. Her cheeks shone in the starlight, and he knew they were wet with tears.

“For a chance,” she said, smiling as she cried. “That's what I wished for. For a chance to be with you. To let go of the past.”

“The past brought us together,” he said, his throat tight.

“And it's been tearing us apart,” she said.

“So you wished …”

“To be brought together,” she said, swallowing. “If that's possible.”

He held her again. Was it possible? If Alan had his way, it was. His pulse was throbbing and words raced through his mind, ways to convince her it
would work, as long as they both wanted it. To be together …What more could he want? He'd take her as she was, as she'd always been, without changing a thing.

“I've dreamed of being with you,” he said. “For a long, long time.”

“All this on the night before I leave for Canada,” she said.

His heart sank. She was leaving tomorrow. He held her tighter, as if it could stop her from going away.

“I wish you weren't going,” he said.

“In a way, so do I,” she said.

“How do wishes work?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” she asked, laughing, kissing the underside of his chin as they stood leaning against the wrought-iron fence. She thought he was kidding, but he wasn't. He was a doctor, a scientist, and he wanted to nail this down. He wanted to pin down a guarantee that they were going to be together.

“How?” he asked.

“You look up,” she said. Taking his hand, she raised it overhead. “You point.”

“Yeah?” he asked, scanning the heavens.

“And then you wish.”

Alan nodded. He closed his eyes and wished. When he opened his eyes, she was still there.

“So far, so good,” he said, kissing the knuckles of her right hand, her left hand, and then kissing her mouth.

They left before dawn the next day. Dianne drove. Everyone was so excited at first, but after about thirty miles, Amy and Lucinda fell asleep. Stella found a shelf in the galley, and Orion curled up on one of the bunks. Dianne kept reliving the night before, thinking of Alan. They had kissed and held hands and kissed again until her knees gave out, and Dianne knew it was good that she was going away for a little while. She needed time to sort this out. Wishes and reality needed time to merge.

“Just you and me, Julia,” Dianne said.

“Gaaa,” Julia said, twisting her hands.

“You can be my navigator, okay? Amy and Granny don't know what they're missing.”

“Gleee,” Julia said, and it sounded to Dianne as if she understood.

The motor home was enormous, capacious, and luxurious. Everyone had her own bunk, there was plenty of storage room, and there was a little dinette table that folded down for meals. Dianne had
stocked the cabinets with soup, bread, peanut butter and jelly, raisins, and fruit bars.

When Dianne was young, her father had gotten Bill Putnam down at the lumberyard to let her practice on some of the big trucks. She had driven a forklift, dump truck, and once, an eighteen-wheeler. Driving the motor home, with its power steering and power brakes, its automatic transmission, was easier, the hardest part being getting used to the rearview mirrors.