Follow the Stars Home (32 page)

“I know,” he whispered, kissing her face, slipping something into her hand. It felt cold and hard.

“What-” she began, looking down. It was a key.

Alan didn't wait for her to ask more. Taking her hand, he guided the key into the lock. He turned it, and it opened. Dianne stared up at him. She didn't get it. His face was glistening, and the expression in his eyes was fierce.

“Alan,” she whispered. “What are you doing?”

“Welcome home,” he said, holding his hands out.

She gazed into his eyes, which were full of tears. He put his hands on her shoulders, pushed her gently out the door, then picked her up. Dianne's arms went around his neck, her face pressed against his. She regarded him with a questioning gaze. Tears were running down Dianne's cheeks, and they couldn't stop.

He carried her across the threshold. She was gulping, sobbing, trying to understand what was happening. Her life was falling apart at the hospital, her baby was losing her terrible fight, and Alan was carrying her into the house she'd loved her entire life.

They walked across the empty room, his footsteps echoing, toward the marble fireplace and the little chair. Now that they were closer, Dianne could see that painted across the chair back, across the narrow bar of warm pink wood, was a name:

JULIA

The letters were green stems, and flowers grew off them. The flowers were white, like apple and pear blossoms, and blue, like morning glories. Apples lay at the letters' base as if from wonderful gardens that could produce flowers and fruit at the same time.

“The people have a little girl named Julia,” Dianne whispered, stunned.

“They do,” Alan said, both arms around Dianne as he lowered her and they stood looking down at the chair.

“Where are they?” she asked.

“They're right here,” Alan said.

“Us?” Dianne asked, the word so small and quiet, she could hardly believe she'd said it.

“Us, sweetheart,” Alan said.

She looked up into his warm green-gold eyes. His glasses had steamed up, coming in from the cold, and he took them off and tried to stick them in his pocket. His hand seemed to be shaking, so Dianne reached for his glasses and held them in her hand.

“This house …?” Dianne asked, her hands shaking too.

“I bought it for you. For us.”

“The chair!” Dianne said, beginning to understand.

“I had it made for Julia,” he said.

Dianne wept.

“I want to adopt her,” Alan said. “As soon as possible. I want her to be my daughter, Dianne.”

“Oh, Alan.”

“I want her to be my daughter, and you to be my wife, and I want us to live right here, in this house you've always loved.”

“I have,” Dianne said. “I've loved it forever.”

“I want us to have time together,” Alan said. “All of us, as a family. I want us to be here this Christmas, and I want to see Julia sit in her chair by the fire.”

“She'll be warm,” Dianne said, closing her eyes as she thought of how cold Julia's hands could get. Her daughter had poor circulation, and her fingers and toes were never warm enough. That was why she'd loved the black sand beach, the way that dark sand soaked up the sun. Alan had gotten her a chair by the fire, so Julia could have warmth all year round.

“So, Dianne,” Alan said. He took her hand, and she opened her eyes. He looked hesitant, and she reached up to hold him, to let him know he had made her so happy, in some incredible, eternal way, beyond the fears that had gripped her for twelve years, to let him know all those things, but because she couldn't speak, she just held him in her arms.

“Dianne,” he said, and now his voice was strong. “Dianne, will you marry me?”

She smiled. Her hand went straight to her mouth, amazed that this was happening. She stared at him, her grin widening. Her eyes twinkled with joyful tears.

“Yes,” she said when she could take her hand down and clasp her fingers with his. “Yes, Alan!”

“I love you,” Alan said.

“I love you,” Dianne said.

The little chair was between them, and it seemed to Dianne to serve as a stand-in for the child herself. If Julia were there, she would be overjoyed. Dr. McIntosh, her uncle Alan, the man who had loved her since the day she was born.

“Julia should be here,” Dianne said, staring at the chair. Thinking of how loving, how thoughtful, a man would have to be to have such a thing made.

“She will be,” Alan said.

“It's time to go back,” Dianne said. She could have stayed there in the house forever, but she had to be with Julia. She'd be stirring now, not quite waking up, but sensing that her mother wasn't there. They had to go.

“I know,” he said. “Just—”

“I want to tell her,” Dianne said, “that you're going to be her father.”

Alan nodded. He seemed about to speak. He opened his mouth, stopped himself again. Dianne stared at him, afraid he was going to say something about Tim. She didn't know why, it was just a flash of intuition, but she hoped he wouldn't. She prayed Alan wouldn't say one word about Tim, bring his brother into this blessed and amazing house.

He didn't. Holding Dianne's hands, looking into her eyes, he smiled. “Julia knows,” he said. “She knows I was going to ask you—”

“Julia …knows?”

Alan nodded. “I told her that I bought the house, that I want to marry you. I asked her, back in the hospital, when I knew we'd be walking over …I asked her for your hand, Dianne.”

“What did she-” Dianne asked, looking up at him, “what'd she say?”

“Well, she said yes,” Alan said.

Dianne nodded, her eyes bright.

“I told her I want to be her father too,” he said. “But you know, she's heard that before.”

“She has?”

“Many times,” Alan said. “Many, many times. Every time you went out of the room since the day she was born. I've told Julia that I want to be her father.”

“You are,” Dianne said, pressing her head against Alan's chest. “You already are.”

He wanted to show her something before they left to go back to Julia. He led her straight through the downstairs, through a solarium where Julia could sit and watch the boats in the harbor, into the fanciest kitchen Dianne had ever seen, down a short hall, into a bedroom.

“It's a suite,” Alan said. “With rooms for us and Julia.”

“Next to each other …” she said, seeing how they connected.

“On the first floor,” Alan said, holding her. “So you don't have to carry her up and down stairs.”

“Oh, Alan,” Dianne said. Her back had been hurting worse than she'd told anyone. That spasm had been so bad this morning …she remembered with guilt the thought she'd had about Julia, and knew her own pain had contributed.

“I'll be with you from now on, Dianne,” Alan said. “To take care of both of you, you and Julia. I'll make you so happy.”

“I already am,” Dianne said, looking up into the eyes of the most wonderful man in the world. “You have no idea what you've given me.”

“Nothing compared to what you give me,” Alan said, kissing her, leading her across the room to the
spot where she could imagine putting their bed. He spread his jacket on the hard floor, and they lay down on it. They held each other, eyes wide open, for a long time. Dianne felt their hearts beating together through their clothes. Reaching up, she slid her hand into his shirt, through the space between his buttons.

She thought of the first time they had made love. “Let my love guide you,” Alan had told her. He had made it so easy for her. She pressed her hand against his chest, and she found she wanted to do more than that. Very slowly she began undoing his buttons.

“You don't have to-” he said.

“Let my love guide you,” she said softly.

Alan closed his eyes. His face was locked in strong emotion, and she watched him pulling himself together. Very gently she caressed his body. She trailed her hand down his muscular chest, his firm stomach. Lowering her head, she kissed his lips.

Dianne had never taken the lead like this. Usually Alan made love to her: She would lie back, feeling the intense sensations, taking all the pleasure he had to give her. That had been all she'd been capable of. Learning to love didn't happen all at once. It took time, and Alan was patient and generous.

Even now he reached up, trying to ease her onto her back. He wanted to take care of
her
, to give her the loving she wanted. But Dianne wanted to do this for
him.

“There,” she said softly, kissing his ear. “Just let me …”

“Your back,” he said.

“My back's fine,” she said.

Very slowly she undressed him. She unbuttoned every button, stopping to kiss each inch of skin. She unzipped his trousers. He squirmed under her light touch, but she pressed his chest, urging him to lie still.

Dianne undressed herself. Winter light streamed in the wide windows, and there was nowhere to hide. She wouldn't have hidden if she could. She wanted to give herself to Alan, every bit. Dianne had been shy her entire life. She had spent more than a decade forgetting she even had a body. But now, as she took off her shirt, her bra, as she saw the expression in Alan's eyes, she knew that he loved
all
of her, and she wanted to give it to him.

“You're beautiful,” he whispered.

Too thin
, she started to say.
Too bony, too angular, not soft enough.
But she held her tongue. Instead of speaking, she used her mouth to cover his. She kissed him long and slow, their lips parted. She thought of all her insecurities, of how they had no place here and now. Alan had called her beautiful, and the love in his eyes helped her to believe it.

This is our house
, she thought, making love to him.
Our home.

This is our first time making love in our new home.

Alan's arms encircled her as she knelt above him. The light streamed in through the heavy leaded glass, making rainbows on the floor. This man had done so much for her. He had changed her whole life. Dianne saw the world in such a different way because of him, because of how he had touched her.

She touched him now. Guiding him inside her, she felt that by-then-familiar rush of emotion. She wanted this to last forever. She wished she had had these sensations for all the years they had known each other: the tenderness of his gaze, the light brush of his fingers against her cheek, the surge of love within her very being.

“Alan …” she whispered.

“I love you, Dianne,” he said.

Their eyes met and held. She crouched down, covering
his body with her own. Somehow they rolled, so they were lying side by side, still joined together, still moving in a rhythm that reminded her of waves and tides. The harbor was just out their window, the sea just beyond, and she closed her eyes and felt the surge of power. They came in each other's arms, holding each other as the intensity subsided. But lying there, the emotion remained.

Power of love
, she thought, grasping Alan for all she was worth. This was the force that built castles, made the sea rise and fall, raised children, called the stars. She had made a life of love for Julia, and now she had Alan too. They had each other.

“Hold me,” she said even though he gave no indication of letting go.

“There,” he said.

“That's it,” she whispered.

“We're together,” he said.

“This was my playhouse,” she said, cupping his face gently between her two hands.

“I know that,” he said. “That's why we're here.”

“You've made it my home,” she said.

Alan nodded, kissing her.

“We're home,” she said, because she could hardly believe it.

Thanksgiving was two days away. Dianne and Lucinda stood in the kitchen, each taking care of a different part of the dinner. Dianne always made cranberry sauce, and Lucinda always made the pies. They always polished the silver and washed the crystal goblets. The stuffing had been prepared, so the kitchen smelled like onions and sage. Lucinda had established the rituals long ago.

“I'm so happy, Mom,” Dianne said, standing at the sink. She sounded perplexed and amazed, as she had ever since telling Lucinda the news about Alan's proposal several nights earlier.

Lucinda nodded, her hands covered with pie dough. She wasn't surprised at all. Just full of joy for her daughter, bittersweet that it had taken so many years for her to find this happiness.

“I've never done this before,” Dianne said. “Lived this way. I don't know what to do.”

“Which part don't you know?” Lucinda asked.

“All of it,” Dianne said. “I've lived here almost my whole life.”

“There was a time you didn't,” Lucinda said.

Dianne nodded. She stirred the cranberry sauce, lifted the wooden spoon to her mouth. “When Tim and I lived in the oyster shack,” she said. “That seemed so simple. We took some old furniture from your basement, and Alan gave us-” She stopped.

“That was a long time ago,” Lucinda said.

“I still …” Dianne began. She frowned as if she had something inside, a feeling that had been bothering her all along, and she knew she had to tell someone. “I wish I'd never been married to his brother. I wish Alan and I could just start from scratch. I don't want to have a history.”

“I know, honey,” Lucinda said. She'd been rolling out the pie crust, but she stopped. She wished she could say something wise and expansive about leaving the past in the past, but she was wishing the same thing.

She thought back to the beginning, when she and Emmett had gone off on their own. They had driven away from the church after their wedding, cans clanking on the back of his truck. They'd moved into the house he built, furnished it themselves, never had to cope with ex-husbands or rival brothers. Their life had been simple. Marriage was hard enough without clutter from two pasts.

“He bought me a house,” Dianne said.

“The prettiest house in Hawthorne,” Lucinda said.

“It's so big,” Dianne said. “When I told him about it, I never expected him to buy it. Never, but he did!”

“I remember how we'd take rides through town, and you'd always want to stop and look at that house,” Lucinda said. “You'd ask your father to slow down, and he'd pull right over.”

“My playhouse …” Dianne said.

Lucinda nodded. She remembered Emmett surprising her that Christmas with the little house he'd made to scale. He had studied the details, getting everything right. She knew how happy he would be to know what Alan had done for their daughter.

“I've built playhouses for the people who are going to be my neighbors down there,” Dianne said.

“They'll be lucky to have you as their neighbor,” Lucinda said, glancing across the kitchen. She heard the insecurity in Dianne's voice. Lucinda and Emmett were modest people: a librarian and a carpenter. Dianne had spent years supporting herself and Julia by building playhouses for people who lived in mansions. She had rough hands and splinters in her fingers. Delivering her work, she had had to drive up long driveways to houses with pillars, houses that had names.

“Everyone takes their kids to Alan,” Dianne said. “They'd expect him to live there.”

“With you and Julia.”

Dianne nodded, glowing with love and joy.

Lucinda stared at her granddaughter. Julia hardly opened her eyes at all these days. She rocked and slept, trying to work her way tighter into the fetal position, as if she wanted to be a snail. Dianne was so patient. She constantly tried to undo Julia's position, the way the physical therapist had shown her so long ago, so Julia's muscles wouldn't cramp.

“Alan wants to adopt her,” Dianne said, following her mother's gaze.

“I know.”

“The thing I love the most,” Dianne said, “is how much he wants us to be a family.”

“He's wanted it for twelve years,” Lucinda said.

“Mom,” Dianne said, hugging herself as if she were cold.

“What, honey?”

“Do I deserve this?”

“Dianne!”

“For so long,” Dianne said, her voice so quiet Lucinda had to lean close to hear, “I'd wonder what I did to bring it on. I'd think it had to be something in me, that I had done, to cause Julia to be born the way she was.”

“It wasn't your fault,” Lucinda said.

“But I'm her mother,” Dianne said. “It must have been something. The food I ate, the food I didn't eat. Mean things I did when I was little …”

“You were never mean.”

“Sins,” Dianne said. “It's funny. I never think about that for other people-look at crippled or blind people, wonder what sins their mothers committed before they were born. But I thought about it for myself.”

“You don't anymore?” Lucinda asked, relieved.

“I try not to,” Dianne said. “But it's hard. When I see Julia hurting, or having a seizure. When I think about how I'm taking Amy to
The Nutcracker
instead of Julia, because Julia can't go …When I think about those things, I have doubts. I think there must be some reason I'm being punished.”

“But now,” Lucinda said, “you're being rewarded.”

“With Alan,” Dianne said. As she said his name, her expression changed. Lucinda watched the anxiety go away. She felt the tension leave the room. Dianne was suddenly radiant.

“With love,” Lucinda said. Because it was more complicated than Dianne being rewarded with Alan. He was being rewarded with her too. They were kindred spirits, and they had found each other. Against many odds, they were together.

“Can we keep it?” Dianne asked.

Lucinda held her hand. When Dianne was young, she had been full of questions. She had trusted her parents completely, and Lucinda remembered how Dianne would ask her something impossible, like how high was the sky, gazing into Lucinda's eyes with the exact same expression she had right now.

“Sweetheart, Dianne,” Lucinda said, “begin telling yourself you deserve love, deserve being happy. Every bit as much as anyone else. And me too. Amy. Julia. We should take every bit of joy that comes our way. Whether it's in a Winnebago or a big white house on the harbor. Or right here.”

Dianne hugged herself, looking around the modest house that had been her home her whole life.

“Anywhere at all,” Lucinda said.

“My kindred spirit,” Dianne said.

“Amy would appreciate that,” Lucinda said.

“I'm glad it's Thanksgiving,” Dianne said.

Lucinda drew her close. “Be grateful every day,” she said. “That's my secret to you. It's what I did with your father, and it's why we were so happy. Because you never know when it might end.”

Tomorrow was the day her story had to be submitted. Amy had put her story in the safest place possible: behind her father's picture on the wall of her bedroom. There he was, Russell Brooks, the handsome, trustworthy car dealer, smiling out at her. And behind the picture, just as if it were a wall safe, was Amy's story. She got it down now. She felt nervous, afraid the story wasn't good enough, and she wanted to get another opinion.

“Mom,” Amy said, going to her mother's door.

“Shhh, honey,” her mother said, lying in bed. “I didn't get any sleep last night. I'm tired.”

“Will you read this?” Amy asked.

“Not right now,” her mother moaned from under the covers.

“Please, Mom. It's
important”
Amy said, starting to feel angry. It wasn't fair: In the story, Catherine's mother had gotten over her depression, but in real life Amy's mother seemed to be slipping back. Amy felt so worried and panicked, but, at the same time, very mad.

“Later,” her mother said, and Amy was pretty sure she heard her starting to cry.

Amy stared with her fists clenched. Lucinda and Dianne were so proud of her, why couldn't her mother be? Her mother's antidepressants were in a bottle on the bathroom shelf. Yesterday Amy had counted them to make sure she was taking them. She stormed into the bathroom and counted them again today: the same number.

“Mom,” she said, shaking her mother's shoulder.

“What is it, Amy?”

“Why aren't you taking your medication? Don't you want to get better?”

“I do, Amy.”

“But you're not taking your pills!” Amy's voice rose. “I counted, so don't try to tell me you did! Our life is beautiful, we're together, Thanksgiving is here! Why aren't you taking your pills?” She shook her mother hard but with just a fraction of the terrible frustration she felt.

“They make me too sleepy,” her mother said, starting to cry. “They make my mouth dry and give me a headache.”

“You're not trying!” Amy screamed. “You're not trying at all!”

Her mother just lay there, weeping. Amy stared at her. Why couldn't she be like Dianne? She didn't care
that Amy was going to enter a writing contest and, win or lose, go to New York City. Why couldn't her mother take her to
The Nutcracker
instead? Her mother didn't even seem to care that Amy was going to go with someone else. She was too busy lying under the blankets, not taking her medicine.

“We don't even have a turkey,” Amy said, her voice shaking. “It's Thanksgiving almost, and we have no poultry at
all.
No turnips, no cranberry sauce. I wrote a story, and you won't even read it.”

“I read it,” her mother whispered. “When you were at school.”

“You did?” Amy asked, getting a funny feeling in her head.

“It made me feel so lousy, that I can't get better as fast as Catherine's mother. She's like me, but so much better. She takes care of her kids, the you-kid and the Julia-kid, better than I ever could. I'm sorry, Amy.”

“Mom …” Amy began, not knowing what to say.

“Just leave me alone right now,” her mother said. “Please? Just let me sleep a little.”

Amy backed out of the room, closing the door behind her. She dropped the story on the kitchen table. There was a big glob of peanut butter there, but she didn't even care. Her story had hurt her mother's feelings.

Walking down the street, she found herself heading for the Robbinses' house. Seeing Julia would make her feel better. But when she got closer, she realized she didn't want to see Dianne. Lucinda, maybe, but not Dianne with her pink cheeks and golden hair. Thinking of how her mother must have felt when she'd read Amy's description of the mother, Amy cringed.

Orion saw her coming. He was playing in the yard. Together, he and Amy went down to the marsh.
The old dinghy was filled with ice-filmed water. Amy bailed it out. The puppy was growing bigger. He jumped into the boat, wanting to go for a ride. Amy's heart was heavy, but she didn't want to disappoint her friend. Maybe today she'd bring him home with her.

They rowed out the marsh to the beach. The sky was deep gray, a line of bright gold along the horizon. The marsh looked brown and dead. Amy kept seeing her mother lying in bed, crying because of Amy's story. Maybe that's why she wasn't taking her medication. Amy would throw her story out so her mother would never have to read it again.

Orion bounded over the sand dune. A wintry wind blew off the ocean, shooting Amy's brown hair straight back from her face. Grains of sand blew into her mouth, and she spit them out, climbing the small hill. The dog pranced in excited circles, sniffing everything. He led her toward the lighthouse, and as Amy followed, she almost couldn't bear to look.

The sand castle was gone.

That strong fortress she had built in September, in the lee of the lighthouse, far from the tides and the autumn storms, had washed away. It seemed impossible, but the tide had come up this high: Amy saw bits of seaweed and driftwood, a smashed lobster pot, fish bones, to prove it.

While Orion snorted with joy, smelling the sand and seaweed, Amy fell to her knees. This was the spot. Was it her imagination, or was this a mound of sand? Was it all that remained from the castle she had built? She had had hope in her heart that day. Building that sand castle, Amy had been thinking of Julia.

So much was gone. Amy's mother was back in bed, and Julia …Amy covered her eyes. Julia could
hardly even talk anymore. Amy's sand castle had failed everyone. Amy began to dig, to push the sand into a thick wall, to build the foundation to start again. But her hands were blocks of ice, and she felt herself shivering in the cold wind. What good would it do anyway?

Orion barked. Amy shivered with a sob. The wind was blowing so hard, no one could hear her, not even the dolphins swimming in the sea. Amy cried and cried. The castle had crumbled, and she didn't have the heart to build it over.

Tess Brooks had gotten out of bed just in time to see her daughter running down the street.

“Amy!” Tess had called out the front door. “Amy!”

But it was too late; Amy had disappeared around the corner. Sighing, Tess closed the door. A gust of wind had come in, bringing a terrible chill. Tess walked over to the thermostat, stared at it. It was set on sixty-two. Tess couldn't afford to push it up too high; the money from Russ's fund was running out.