Caroline sipped her wine, the air warm as breath on her skin. She didn't see Al arrive but he was suddenly there, sliding a hand around her waist and kissing her cheek, his presence, his scent, sweeping through her. Five years ago they had married at a garden party much like this one, strawberries floating in champagne and the air full of fireflies, the scent of roses. Five years, and the novelty had not worn off. Caroline's room on the third floor of Doro's house had become a place as mysterious and sensual as this garden. She loved waking to the warm, heavy length of Al sleeping beside her, his hand coming to rest, lightly, on the flat of her belly, the scent of him-fresh soap and Old Spice-slowly infusing the room, the sheets, the towels. He was there, so vividly present she felt him in every nerve. There, and then as quickly gone.

"Happy anniversary," he said now, pressing his hands lightly on her waist.

Caroline smiled, filled with pleasure. The evening had deepened and people were moving and laughing in the lingering warmth and fragrance, dew gathering on the darkening gra.s.s, the white froth of flowers everywhere. She took Al's hand, solid and sure, and almost laughed because he'd just arrived and didn't yet know the news. Doro was leaving on a year-long cruise around the world with her lover, a man named Trace. Al knew that already; plans had been evolving for months. But he didn't know that Doro, in what she called a joyful liberation from the past, had given Caroline the deed to this old house.

Doro was arriving even now, coming down the stairs from the alley in a silky dress. Trace was just behind her, carrying a bag of ice. He was a year younger than she, sixty-five, with short gray hair, a long narrow face, full lips. He was naturally pale, conscious of his weight, and fussy about his food, a lover of opera and sports cars. Trace had been an Olympic swimmer once, had almost won a bronze medal, and he thought nothing, still, of diving into the Monongahela and swimming to the opposite sh.o.r.e. One afternoon he'd risen out of the water and staggered up the riverbank, pale and dripping, into the middle of the annual picnic for the department of physics. That was the story of their meeting. Trace was kind and good to Doro, who clearly adored him, and if he seemed aloof to Caroline, a bit distant and reserved, it really wasn't any of her business.

A gust swept a pile of napkins off the table and Caroline stooped to catch them.

"You're bringing the wind," Al said, as Doro drew near.

"It's so exciting," she said, lifting her hands. She had come to resemble Leo more and more, her features sharper, her hair, short now, pure white.

"Al's like those old mariners," Trace said, putting the ice on the table. Caroline used a small stone to weigh down the napkins. "He's attuned to atmospheric changes. Oh, Doro, stay just as you are," he exclaimed. "G.o.d, but you're beautiful. Honestly. You look like a G.o.ddess of the wind."

"If you're the wind G.o.ddess," Al said, catching the paper plates as they lifted, "you'd better cool your jets so we can have this party."

"Isn't it glorious?" Doro asked. "It's such a beautiful party, a wonderful farewell."

Phoebe ran up, holding the tiny kitten, a ball of pale orange, in her arms. Caroline reached out and smoothed her hair, smiling.

"Can we keep him?" she asked.

"No," Caroline replied as she always did. "Aunt Doro's allergic."

"Mom," Phoebe complained, but she was distracted at once by the wind, the beautiful table. She tugged on Doro's silky sleeve. "Aunt Doro. It's my cake."

"Mine too," Doro said, putting one arm around Phoebe's shoulders. "I'm going on a trip, don't forget, so it's my cake too. And your mother's and Al's because they've been married five years."

"I'm coming on the trip," Phoebe said.

"Oh, no, sweetie," Doro said. "Not this time. This is a grown-up trip, honey. For me and Trace."

Phoebe's expression was touched with a disappointment as acute as her earlier joy. Mercurial, quicksilver-whatever she felt in each moment was the world.

"Hey, sweetie," Al said, squatting down. "What do you think? You think that kitty cat might like some cream?"

She fought a smile and then gave in, nodding, distracted for the moment from her loss.

"Great," Al said, taking her hand, winking at Caroline.

"Don't take that cat inside," Caroline warned.

She filled a tray with gla.s.ses and moved among her guests, still marveling. She was Caroline Simpson, mother of Phoebe, wife of Al, organizer of protests-a different person altogether from the timid woman who had stood in a silent snow-swept office thirteen years ago with an infant in her arms. She turned to look at the house, the pale brick strangely vivid against the graying sky. It's my house, It's my house, she thought, echoing Phoebe's earlier chant. She smiled at her next thought, strangely apropos: she thought, echoing Phoebe's earlier chant. She smiled at her next thought, strangely apropos: I'm confirmed. I'm confirmed.

Sandra was laughing with Doro by the honeysuckle bush, and Mrs. Soulard was walking up the alley with a vase full of lilies. Trace, wind pushing his gray hair into his face, cupped a match in his hand, trying to light the candles. The flames flickered, sputtered, but finally held, illuminating the white linen tablecloth, the small transparent votive cups, the vase of white flowers, the whipped-cream cake. Cars rushed past, muted by the laughing voices, the fluttering leaves. For a moment Caroline stood still, thinking of Al, his hands reaching for her in the darkness of the night to come. This is happiness, This is happiness, she told herself. she told herself. This is what happiness means. This is what happiness means.

The party lasted until eleven. Doro and Trace lingered after the last guests had left, carrying trays of cups and leftover cake, vases of flowers, putting tables and chairs away in the garage. Phoebe was asleep by then; Al had carried her inside after she dissolved into tears, tired and overstimulated, overcome with Doro's leaving, weeping with great heaving sobs that left her breathless.

"Don't do anymore," Caroline said, stopping Doro at the top of the steps, brushing past the dense, supple leaves of the lilacs. She had planted this hedge three years ago, and now the bushes, just twigs for so long, had taken root and shot up. Next year, they would be heavy with flowers. "I'll clean up tomorrow, Doro. You have an early flight. You must be eager to be off."

"I am," Doro said, her voice so soft Caroline had to strain to hear her. She nodded to the house where Al and Trace were working in the bright kitchen, sc.r.a.ping plates. "But Caroline, it's so bittersweet. Earlier, I walked through all the rooms, one last time. I've spent my whole life here. It's strange to leave it. Yet, all the same, I'm excited to be going."

"You can always come back," Caroline said, fighting a sudden swell of emotion.

"I hope I won't want to," Doro said. "Not for more than a visit, anyway." She took Caroline's elbow. "Come on," she said. "Let's go sit on the porch."

They walked along the side of the house, under arching wisteria, and sat in the swing, a river of cars moving by on the parkway. The high leaves of the sycamores, big as plates, fluttered against the streetlights.

"You won't miss the traffic," Caroline said.

"No, that's true. It used to be so quiet. They used to close the whole street off in the winter. We rode our sleds straight down the middle of the road, right here."

Caroline pushed the swing, remembering that long-ago night when moonlight flooded the lawns and fell through the bathroom windows, Phoebe coughing in her arms and herons rising from the fields of Doro's childhood.

The screen door swung open and Trace stepped out.

"Well?" he asked. "Are you about ready, Doro?"

"Just about," she said.

"I'll go get the car, then, and bring it around front."

He went back inside. Caroline counted cars, up to twenty. A dozen years ago she had come to this door, Phoebe an infant in her arms. She had stood right here, waiting to see what would happen.

"What time is your flight?" she asked.

"Early. At eight. Oh, Caroline," Doro said, leaning back and stretching her arms wide. "After all these years, I feel so free. Who knows where I might fly?"

"I'll miss you," Caroline said. "Phoebe will too."

Doro nodded. "I know. But we'll see each other. I'll send postcards from everywhere."

Headlights poured down the hill, and then the rental car was slowing and Trace's long arm was lifting in a wave.

"It's the call of the road!" he shouted.

"Be well," Caroline said. She hugged Doro, feeling her soft cheek. "You saved my life all those years ago, you know."

"Honey, you saved mine too." Doro pulled away. Her dark eyes were wet. "It's your house now. Enjoy it."

And then Doro was down the steps, her white sweater catching in the wind. She was in the car and waving goodbye; she was gone.

Caroline watched the car merge onto the crosstown and disappear into the river of rushing lights. The storm was still circling in the hills, flashing the sky white, dull thunder echoing far away. Al came out with drinks, pushing the door open with his foot. They sat down in the swing.

"So," Al said. "Nice party."

"It was," Caroline said. "It was fun. I'm exhausted."

"Have enough energy to open this?" Al asked.

Caroline took the package and undid the clumsy wrapping. A wooden heart fell out, carved from cherry, smooth as a water-worn stone in her palm. She closed her hand around it, remembering the way the medallion had glinted in the cold light of Al's cab and how, months later, Phoebe's tiny hand had caught it.

"It's beautiful," she said, pressing the smooth heart against her cheek. "So warm. It fits right here exactly, in the palm of my hand."

"I carved it myself," Al said, pleasure in his voice. "Nights, on the road. Thought it might be kind of hokey, but this waitress I know in Cleveland said you'd like it. I hope you do."

"I do," Caroline said, linking her arm in his. "I got something for you too." She handed him a small cardboard box. "I didn't have time to wrap it."

He opened the box and took out a new bra.s.s key.

"What's this, the key to your heart?"

She laughed. "No. It's a key to this house."

"Why? Did you change the locks?"

"No." Caroline pushed at the swing. "Doro gave it to me, Al. Isn't that amazing? I have the deed inside. She said she wanted a completely fresh start."

One heartbeat. Two, three, and the creak of the swing, back and forth.

"That's pretty extreme," Al said. "What if she wants to come back?"

"I asked her that same thing. She said Leo had left a lot of money. Patents, savings, I don't know what-all. And Doro was thrifty her whole life, so she doesn't need the money. If they come back, she and Trace will get a condo or something."

"Generous," Al said.

"Yes."

Al was silent. Caroline listened to the porch swing creaking, the wind, the cars.

"We could sell it," he mused. "Take off ourselves. Go anywhere."

"It's not worth much," Caroline said slowly. The idea of selling this house had never crossed her mind. "Anyway, where would we go?"

"Oh, I don't know, Caroline. You know me. I've spent life wandering. I'm just speculating here. Taking in the news."

The comfort of the darkness, the steady swing, gave way to a deeper unease. Who was this man next to her, Caroline wondered, this man who arrived every weekend and slipped so familiarly into her bed, who tipped his head at a particular angle every morning to slap Old Spice on his neck and chin? What did she really know about his dreams, his secret heart? Next to nothing, it suddenly seemed, or he of hers.

"So you'd rather not have a house?" she pressed.

"It's not that. This was good of Doro."

"But it ties you down."

"I like coming home to you, Caroline. I like coming down that last stretch of highway and knowing you and Phoebe are here, in the kitchen cooking, or planting flowers, or whatever. But sure, it's appealing, what they're doing. Packing up. Taking off. Wandering the world. It would be nice, I think. That freedom."

"I don't have those urges anymore," Caroline said, looking out into the dark garden, the scattering of city lights and the dark red letters of the Foodland sign, mosaic pieces amid the dense summer foliage. "I'm happy right where I am. You'll get bored with me."

"Naw. That just makes us compatible, honey," Al said.

They sat in silence for a time, listening to the wind, the rush of cars.

"Phoebe doesn't like change," Caroline said. "She doesn't handle it well."

"Well, there's that too," Al said.

He waited a moment, and then he turned to her.

"You know, Caroline. Phoebe's starting to grow up. She's starting not to be a little girl anymore."

"She's barely thirteen," Caroline said, thinking of Phoebe with the kitten, how easily she slipped back into the carefree joys of childhood.

"That's right. She's thirteen, Caroline. She's-well, you know-starting to develop. I feel uncomfortable picking her up like I did tonight."

"So don't," Caroline said sharply, but she was remembering Phoebe in the pool earlier in the week, swimming away and then returning, grabbing hold of her underwater, the soft rising buds of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed against her arm.

"You don't have to get mad, Caroline. It's just that we've never once talked about it, have we? What's going to become of her. What it'll be like for us when we retire, like Doro and Trace." He paused, and she had the sense that he was choosing his words carefully. "I'd like to think we might consider traveling. It makes me a little claustrophobic, that's all, to imagine staying in this house forever. And what about Phoebe? Will she live with us forever?"

"I don't know," Caroline said, weariness around her, dense as night. She had fought so many fights already to make a life for Phoebe in this indifferent world. For the time being she had all the problems solved, and for the last year or so she'd been able to relax. But where Phoebe would work and how she might live when she grew up-all this remained unknown. "Oh Al, I can't think about all this tonight. Please."

The porch swing glided back and forth.

"We'll need to think about it sometime."

"She's just a little girl. What are you suggesting?"

"Caroline. I'm not suggesting anything. You know I love Phoebe. But you or I, we could die tomorrow. We're not always going to be around to take care of her, that's all. And there may come a time when she doesn't want us to. I'm just asking if you've thought about this. What you're saving all that money for. I'm just raising the topic for discussion. I mean, think about it. Wouldn't it be nice if you could come on the road with me now and again? Just for a weekend?"

"Yes," she said softly. "That would be nice."

But she wasn't sure. Caroline tried to imagine Al's life, a different room every night, a different city, and the road unfurling in the same gray ribbon. His first thought had been a restless one: sell the house, hit the road, roam the world.

Al nodded, drained his gla.s.s, and started to stand up.

"Don't go just yet," she said, putting her hand lightly on his arm. "I have to talk to you about something."

"Sounds serious," he said, settling back into the swing. He gave a nervous laugh. "You're not leaving me, are you? Now that you've come into this inheritance and all?"

"Of course not; it's nothing like that." She sighed. "I got a letter this week," she said. "It was a strange letter, and I need to talk about it."

"A letter from who?"

"From Phoebe's father."

Al nodded and folded his arms, but he didn't speak. He knew about the letters, of course. They'd been arriving for years, bearing cash in varying amounts and a note with a single scrawled sentence. Please let me know where you are living. Please let me know where you are living. She had not done this, but in the early years she'd told David Henry everything else. Heartfelt confessional letters, as if he were a friend close to her heart, a confidant. As time pa.s.sed she'd become more efficient, sending photos and a line or two, at best. Her life had become so full and rich and complicated; there was no way to get it all down on paper, so she had simply stopped trying. What a shock it had been, then, to find a fat letter from David Henry, three full pages, written in his tight script, a pa.s.sionate letter that started with Paul, his talent and his dreams, his rage and his anger. She had not done this, but in the early years she'd told David Henry everything else. Heartfelt confessional letters, as if he were a friend close to her heart, a confidant. As time pa.s.sed she'd become more efficient, sending photos and a line or two, at best. Her life had become so full and rich and complicated; there was no way to get it all down on paper, so she had simply stopped trying. What a shock it had been, then, to find a fat letter from David Henry, three full pages, written in his tight script, a pa.s.sionate letter that started with Paul, his talent and his dreams, his rage and his anger.

I know it was a mistake. What I did, handing you my daughter, I know it was a terrible thing, and I know I can't undo it. But I would like to meet her, Caroline, I would like to make amends, somehow. I'd like to know something more about Phoebe, and about your lives.