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1

The man she loved was in one of the rooms of this enormous pale brick building, but she didn’t know which one. She would have to stop at a nurses’ station and ask. Please, can you tell me where Seth Ballantine is? But even when she found him, he wouldn’t be the same Seth Ballantine who had kissed her good-bye a little less than a year ago. She knew that, but it didn’t matter. She had to see him.

Jane pushed open the front doors of the Asheville Veterans Administration Medical Center complex and stepped into the air-conditioned coolness of the hospital lobby. A rectangular wood railing ran around the center of the room, which was open to an atrium one floor below. Jane stepped to the railing and looked down at the sofas and chairs and the potted plastic plants arranged to give an air of hominess to this decades-old hospital that had catered to the wounded of far too many wars.

The atrium was bright with sunlight that filtered in through the glass-paneled ceiling high overhead. The sunshine seemed determined to infuse a certain cheeriness into the mass of humanity below, the men and women sitting on the sofas and chairs and moving along the periphery of the room, inching forward with canes or walkers or rolling slowly in wheelchairs, some dragging canisters of oxygen behind them. Jane wondered briefly what they had seen, what battles they’d been through that brought them here. She wondered too if any of them heard what she heard now, or whether music had somehow become lost to them. Because somewhere down there in the atrium was a piano, and someone was playing a piece by Debussy.

From where she stood, she couldn’t see the piano, but she was grateful to whoever had decided at that very moment to play “Clair de Lune.”The music gave her an excuse to pause and listen, and maybe if she listened long enough she could get her heart to stop racing wildly, and she could enter Seth’s room looking calm and unafraid.

But she was interrupted when a voice nudged its way through the music and asked, “Can I help you find anything, dear?” Jane turned to find a matronly woman, white haired and plump, smiling amiably at her with unpainted lips. She wore a volunteer badge, and her dimpled hands clutched the shiny stainless steel handle of a coffee cart.

“No, thank you,” Jane said, trying to smile. “I’m fine.”

“Cup of coffee? We’ve got decaf. And more than a dozen flavors of tea, if you’d prefer tea.”

Jane’s eyes scoured the cart, then turned back to the woman. “You don’t have any Seagram’s Seven, do you?”

The woman’s eyebrows arched and her forehead filled with deep furrows. “Why, no! I’m afraid I don’t.”

Jane shook her head and forced out a laugh. “I was just kidding,” she said. “I don’t drink.” At least not anymore. Though heaven knew, she could use something right about now to settle her nerves. “I’m fine, really. But thank you for asking.”

“Well, let me know if I can do anything for you.” Another smile, though somewhat dubious this time.

“I will. Thank you.”

With a small nod the woman gave her cart a shove and moved along. Jane turned back to the music, shutting her eyes to take it in.

How often she had heard this very tune when she was growing up, her grandmother’s album spinning circles on the ancient phonograph in the room always referred to as the parlor. Most certainly it was not to be called the living room. They resided, after all, in the Rayburn House, one of the oldest houses—and the largest—in Troy, North Carolina. It was built in 1822 by her great-great-great-grandfather, Jedediah Rayburn, a forward-thinking entrepreneur who had made his fortune in textiles.

With her eyes closed she was a child again, curled up on the cushion in the window seat, listening to Debussy and staring through the beveled glass at her grandmother’s garden in the side yard. Gram was out there now, on her knees, broad-brimmed sun hat hiding her face as she weeded the rows of freshly sprung tulips and budding delphinium. Laney Jackson was in the kitchen; Jane could hear the occasional banging of a pot or pan as Laney prepared dinner. Her father and mother were . . . somewhere . . . but that didn’t matter, so long as Gram and Laney were near. With them she was safe and very nearly happy. With them she could move out from under the cloud that hovered permanently over her parents’ lives. She didn’t know why her mother and father lived in shadow, but she didn’t want to linger there with them any longer than she had to. Young as she was, she preferred the company of Gram, who taught her to love music and poetry and art, and Laney, who personified quiet satisfaction as she went about her tasks in the kitchen.

As she listened to the final strains of “Clair de Lune,”though, it was the voice of her mother that came back to her most clearly, breaking into the moment like the unwelcome twitch behind the eyes at the onset of a migraine. “Honestly, Janie, you’re such a dreamer. Come back to earth and make yourself useful.” How many times had she heard her mother say that?

But she wasn’t dreaming. Not now, nor even when she was a child gazing out the window at the yard. She was looking and listening, latching on to whatever passing beauty she might find, however briefly. A snatch of a symphony, the scent of lilac, the pale shimmer of the summer sun as it lay down at dusk on the green grass—all these were what gave her the courage simply to live.

And, at the moment, courage was what she needed more than anything.

Seth had told her not to come, but here she was. How could he expect her not to come, to just give up as though he’d died in that strange desert called Iraq? He hadn’t died. He was still alive. And she still loved him. Nothing changed that.

And so she had defied him, although he didn’t know it yet. Seth didn’t know she was here, listening to some unseen piano player and working up the nerve to ask him not to give up. Not on himself and not on her.

Jane opened her eyes and moved along the railing until the piano came into view. There it was, tucked up under the entryway where she’d been standing. A grand piano, it was shiny and sleek and somehow out of place in the midst of all the walking wounded, the vets both young and old, many of whom looked weary and dazed and shell-shocked, long months and even years after their final days in battle.

A tall young man was seated at the piano, his nimble fingers frolicking over the keys. Jane didn’t recognize what he was playing now—something much livelier than “Clair de Lune.” Something her grandmother wouldn’t have liked. “Too common,” Gram would have said. “Something only the tone-deaf would appreciate.” But the musician played it with such vigor and joy, Jane couldn’t help but smile. His face was turned away from her, but she could see the back of his blond head, the width of his broad shoulders beneath his suit jacket. Though he was dressed like a businessman, he was no doubt a veteran, like most everyone else here. He had probably served over in Iraq, or maybe Afghanistan, though he had obviously returned home whole and sound. Unlike Seth.

Seth Ballantine, her fiancé. Who lay in one of the rooms of this vast institution, unaware that she was on her way to see him.

Dear God, give me strength, she thought. She was not one to pray, but there it was, a plea from the center of her soul to the God she hoped was listening.

She started down the long corridor, not at all sure she was headed in the right direction. She was about to pass a young man leaning up against the wall, sipping something hot from a Styrofoam cup, when she turned back and said, “Excuse me?”

“Yes?” He wore the maroon uniform of a hospital orderly, a name tag clipped to the breast pocket. He must know something about this place.

“Can you tell me where the spinal cord unit is?”

He raised a hand and pointed. “Straight ahead to the elevators, then up to the fifth floor.”

“Thank you.”

She moved through the hall to a trio of elevators, where she pushed the first available Up button. In another moment one pair of stainless steel doors slid open with a whoosh and a ding. She stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the fifth floor. I can still turn around and leave. He’ll never know I was here.

The doors closed and the lift ascended. The bell dinged again as the 5 light on the panel went off and the elevator jerked to a stop. The doors sighed open and Jane stepped out. She found herself on an L-shaped floor, with a nurses’ station located where the two wings met. A young nurse, about Jane’s own age, sat at the desk making notes on a chart.

“Excuse me,” Jane said hesitantly.

The nurse looked up and smiled. “Yes?”

“I’m looking for Seth Ballantine.”

“Oh yes.” She pointed toward one of the wings. “He’s in five-sixteen. Last room at the end of the hall on the right.”

“Thank you.”

She stepped lightly, not wanting to make a sound, as though she wasn’t there. As she walked she looked to the left and to the right, glancing briefly into each room as she passed. They were all singles, one narrow bed in each narrow room. One bedside table. One vinyl chair. One television suspended from the ceiling. And one broken body draped into a wheelchair or tucked between white linens on the bed.

She heard bits and snatches of daytime television; jagged edges of murmured conversations; people coughing; machines beeping, wheezing, clanging. And oddly, as though misplaced, a burst of laughter, two people sharing something amusing; she couldn’t imagine what, in a place like this.

Then quiet. A man stepped out of the room where the laughter had been. He was a tall man and commanding somehow, his shoulders back, his chin lifted slightly. His skin was the color of fertile ground, like the richest soil in her grandmother’s garden. He wore civilian clothing, pale slacks and a blue button-up shirt. He must be visiting someone, as he couldn’t be a patient here, not on this wing where people no longer walked. And walk he did, though hesitantly, as though his knees objected. When he and Jane came parallel to each other, he acknowledged her politely with a smile and a nod. She welcomed the gesture and returned the smile, wishing she could freeze the moment and memorize his gaze. Serene and warm, the eyes of this stranger were the kindest she had ever seen, and she drew a certain strength from them.

He nodded once more and moved on.

In another moment, Jane stood at the threshold of 516. She took one steadying breath and entered the room.

 

2

Seth was awake and gazing out the window, unaware that anyone was there. In that brief interval Jane drank in his profile and felt the familiar rush of love. She’d known him almost all her life, and she’d known there was something special about him even when they were still children sitting in the same grade-school class. Their being together seemed inevitable, though it took him years to come to the same conclusion. But she was patient, and over time her waiting was rewarded. He’d asked her to marry him seven months before his National Guard unit was deployed to Iraq.

She quietly stepped closer. “Seth?”

His head rolled on the pillow, turning toward her. When his eyes met hers, his face registered confusion, surprise, delight, and finally anger, restrained but unmistakable.

She moved to his bed and touched the rails. “Hello, Seth.”

He turned away. “I told you not to come.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I couldn’t stay away.”

He didn’t respond.

Now that she was beside him, she could see how thin he looked. His once-full cheeks were sunken, and his jaw more pronounced. His too-large T-shirt accentuated his shrunken frame. Jane’s eyes traveled down his chest, over the splayed arms, the motionless fingers cradled on handrests, the lifeless legs extended under the sheet. Arms, hands, legs, feet—useless appendages now and for the past six months, ever since the sniper’s bullet hit him in the neck.

“You didn’t answer my letters,” she said.

“Yes, I did. I told you not to come. After that, there was nothing else to say.”

“Seth—”

“I mean it, Jane. I don’t want you here.”

She willed herself not to cry. “I don’t believe you,” she said.

He glanced at her, frowning. “What is it that you want?”

She touched the engagement ring she’d worn for more than a year now. “I want what I’ve always wanted. I want to be your wife.”

He laughed. It wasn’t at all like the happy laughter she’d heard coming from the other room a few minutes ago. “Right. Don’t you get it? Look at me. I’m paralyzed. I’m a quad. What about that don’t you understand?”

“I know all that. Of course I—”

“Listen, the ring is yours. Sell it and do something with the money. Take a trip. Go on a cruise. Forget about me, Jane. I’m not here for you anymore.”

She had to lift her head so that the tears didn’t roll down her face. If she could just take a moment to look out the window, just a moment to take a few deep breaths, she could get through this. She sniffed, cleared her throat. Finally she said, “I’ve been doing a lot of reading—you know, about people with spinal cord injuries. People still get married and some even have kids. I mean, lots of people go on and live good productive lives. Some even gain some movement—”

“Save it, Jane. Just stop.” He shut his eyes and shook his head. “Just stop.”

“I know you’re angry right now. That’s normal.”

“You can spare me the psycho-babble. Nothing’s normal. Nothing will ever be normal again. I’d rather have died than ended up like this.”

“Don’t say that, Seth.”

“Why not? Why not say the truth?”

She gave up then trying to hold back the tears. They wouldn’t be stopped. They coursed slowly down her cheeks, two salty lines.

She heard Seth sigh heavily, and when he spoke again his voice was quiet. “I’m sorry, Jane. God knows, I’m sorry for everything. I always knew I might not come back alive, but I never dreamed I’d come back like this. This isn’t what I want for you. I want you to have a real marriage, to be happy—”

“But I would be happy. We would be happy. I know it.”

“No, Jane. Forget it. For your own sake, find someone else to marry and forget about me. I mean it. That’s what I want.”

As her breath quickened, Jane turned the diamond round and round on her finger. “I don’t want to find someone else to marry. I still love you, Seth.”

He swallowed. She watched his Adam’s apple travel up and down the length of his throat. There was a scar there now, near the hollow of his neck, from the ventilator that had breathed for him while he was still in the hospital in Landstuhl, Germany. He’d been weaned off of it, which meant he had improved. Who knew what other improvements he might make? She was a patient person; she was willing to wait and see.

Very slowly, as though talking to a child, Seth said, “I’m going to close my eyes and rest now. When I open my eyes again, I want you to be gone. Go back to Troy, Jane. Go back and make a life with someone else. I don’t want you coming back here.”

She gazed at his face, the face she knew so well and had loved so long. She wanted to reach out her hand and touch his cheek, his brow, but she didn’t dare. His eyes were closed; she had been dismissed.

“Seth,” she said, “just do one thing for me. Tell me you don’t love me anymore. Tell me that, and then I’ll go away.”

His eyelids trembled and his jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said.

She saw the tear that slid down the side of his face. She turned to go without brushing it away.

 

3

Pritchard Park was a small triangular oasis situated near the center of downtown Asheville. The park, like the city itself, was no respecter of persons. All were drawn to it at one time or another—the locals, the tourists, the wealthy, the homeless, young Goths, aging hippies, radical intellectuals, raging alcoholics, lovers, the lonely, families, drifters, and dreamers. They all came and sat in the shade of its few scattered trees, settling themselves on the benches or the natural boulders, or on the concrete tiers that dropped down toward the bricked center square that, on Friday nights when the weather was warm, served as a dance floor for those inspired to motion by the synchronized drumming.

Jane sat on the sun-warmed concrete facing the tier where several dozen people sat beating out a rhythm on bongo drums and conga heads. Others tapped out the tempo using wooden claves, while still others added an unobtrusive backup with shakers and cowbells. On and on it went, the rhythm played over and over, with seemingly no beginning and apparently no end. The dance floor was crowded with men, women, and children in a vast array of dress and undress, swaying, jumping, gyrating, and spinning, as though even the fairest of them had roots that ran deep into an ancient tribal culture. One man with dreadlocks down to his waist managed a series of improbable somersaults and back flips, then grabbed a partner and joined her in a dizzying array of staccato-like dance steps. Jane watched in amazement, only vaguely aware that her right foot tapped along with the rhythm. The drumming had a hypnotic pull that lulled the listener in and took her to places unknown, just as the tug of the ocean might carry a swimmer out to sea.

“They say it helps connect them with the universal mind, or some such thing.”

Jane turned toward the voice. “Diana! How long have you been here?”

“Just got here. Sorry I’m late.” Diana spoke loudly over the drumming and squinted momentarily against the sun as she sat down on the tier beside Jane. “I got caught in a very long and very tedious staff meeting about grants for the biology department next year.” She gazed skyward in a gesture of disgust, her brown eyes looking weary behind the rectangular lenses of her dark-framed glasses. Her auburn hair was cropped short in a no-nonsense style, as though outward appearance was a frivolous time waster if one was a tenured professor.

“That’s all right,” Jane assured her. Glancing at her watch, she added, “Is it seven thirty already? Wow, I lost track of the time. I’m afraid I got kind of swept up in the drumming.”

Diana nodded. “That’s the point, I think. You’re supposed to let it carry you off into the cosmic consciousness.” She paused and smiled. “It boggles my scientific mind, but it’s fun to watch. They all seem to be enjoying themselves.”

Jane looked out over the crowd, then back at her friend. “Where’s Carl?”

“Grading term papers.”

“On a Friday night?”

“You know Carl. Work, work, work. He won’t be able to leave for Europe next week unless he has all his ducks lined up in a row, feathers all fluffed and shiny. But he sends his apologies for skipping out on dinner tonight.”

“That’s all right,” Jane said again. “If I were going to spend the summer in Europe, I’d want to have all my ducks in a row too.”

The two friends fell quiet for a moment, but it was a comfortable lapse in conversation for them both. Diana Penland was as close to an older sister as Jane Morrow would ever have. They’d known each other since Jane was a child and Diana a young teen, going back almost twenty years now. Diana’s parents, both avid antique collectors, had begun staying at the Rayburn Bed & Breakfast in Troy not long after Nell Rayburn Morrow, Jane’s grandmother, had made the first rooms available to the public in the 1980s. They would come down from Asheville for the weekend, or sometimes for as long as a week in the summer, which gave the girls plenty of time to get to know each other. While her parents perused the shops around Troy, Diana preferred to stay at the Rayburn House with young Jane, rummaging through the attic for treasures or playing board games in the parlor.

Diana patted Jane’s hand and leaned a little closer. “Was it a bad day?”

“Awful.”

“I’m sorry, Jane. What did Seth say when he saw you?”

“He told me to leave and not come back. He said a few other things, but that was the gist of it.”

Diana nodded. “So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going back, of course.”

Jane waited for her friend to respond, but Diana didn’t say anything. With one final climactic thud the drumming stopped. The silence was jarring. A moment passed before the crowd applauded, as though they had to shake themselves free from the rhythm’s hypnotic grip. Jane wondered who the lead drummer was and how he or she had signaled everyone to stop. There had to be some method to this music, but she couldn’t imagine what it was. A few more minutes went by before a single drum began to sound, digging around for a tempo and finally finding it. The other musicians soon followed suit, and the drum circle was back in full swing.

“Listen, Jane,” Diana said at length, “are you very sure you want to marry Seth? I mean, you’re twenty-five years old. You have a lot of life ahead of you. No one would blame you, you know, if you backed out of the commitment. Maybe if you were married it would be different, but you aren’t married yet.”

Jane turned toward her friend, eyebrows raised. “I have no intention of backing out of my commitment. I’m engaged to Seth, and I intend to marry him.”

“But, sweetie, that means spending your life taking care of someone who can’t do anything for himself. Is that really what you want?”

“What would you have done if it had happened to Carl? Wouldn’t you have married him anyway?”

“Well, honestly, I’m not certain I would have. Carl is an artist, a sculptor, a college professor. So much of our life together revolves around academia. We may be in different fields, but our teaching, our work . . . it’s central to our lives. If Carl couldn’t use his hands to create art and to teach his students, well . . .”

“But he would still be Carl.”

“I’m not so sure.”

Jane shook her head. “I can’t agree with you there, Diana. Seth is still Seth. He’s still the man I fell in love with. Nothing changes that.”

“But he haschanged, sweetie. Surely you can see that. Maybe not on the inside, but . . . his body isn’t his body anymore.”

“No? Then whose body is it?”

Diana sniffed out a chuckle. “Come on. You know what I mean.”

“Listen, Diana, you’re supposed to be on my side in this, remember?”

“I amon your side. I want what’s best for you. That’s all. I want to make sure you know what your life would be like being married to a quadriplegic. I mean, the day-to-day routine of caring for someone—”

“I’ve done little else for the past six months other than read about spinal cord injuries. I’m pretty sure I know what’s involved.”

“Only in theory.”

“Maybe. But I’m ready to practice.” Jane looked at her friend for a long moment. “Thanks for letting me stay in your house for the summer.”

Diana smiled and shook her head, seemingly unaware that Jane was changing the subject. “You don’t have to thank me, you know. You’re doing me a huge favor. Not only will I know someone is watching the house, but taking care of Roscoe and Juniper too, which is far more important. What would I have done with them otherwise—put them in a kennel for the summer? I’d have sooner stayed home from Europe than put my babies in a kennel.”

“I’ll take good care of them.”

“I know you will. So I should be thanking you for allowing me to go off to Europe and play for three months without worrying.”

“Play? I thought you were going to work.”

Diana laughed. “It’s Carl’s fellowship. He’ll be the one doing the research. I’m just along for the ride. I intend to have fun and do as much sightseeing as I can, even if I have to do it alone.”

“Maybe you’ll end up meeting some other expatriates and you can spend the summer traveling with them.”

“Maybe so,” Diana said, “though I don’t imagine Carl would be too happy about that.” She shrugged and looked toward the drumming circle. Jane followed suit, and for several minutes they simply listened and tapped along. Finally Diana said, “What if you do decide to stop seeing Seth? You really won’t have any reason to stay in Asheville. Will you want to go back to Troy? Because if you do, I don’t know what I’ll do with Roscoe and Juniper.”

“Don’t worry.” Jane shook her head. “I’ll be staying in Asheville this summer, no matter what. There’s nothing for me to do in Troy when school’s out, except lesson plans, which I can do just as well here as there. I’ll be teaching third grade next year instead of second. Did I tell you?”

“No, I don’t think you did.” Diana took in a deep breath and let it out. “Listen, honey, if marrying Seth is what you want, I’ll support you completely.”

Jane smiled and gave her friend a small nod. “Thanks, Diana. Yes, it’s what I want. And I still want you to be my maid of honor. Are you in?”

“Of course I’m in.”

“Anyway, it’s possible Seth will regain some movement, you know. He may even walk again someday. I mean, really, Diana, there’s all sorts of research going on. Who knows what kind of advances will be made in spinal injury treatment. Someday I imagine there will even be a cure for paralysis. Maybe in our lifetime.”

“I suppose it’s always worthwhile to hope.”

“Of course it is. You know me—always the incurable optimist. Accentuate the positive and all that.”

Diana laughed. “Well, Miss Accentuate the Positive, are you hungry?”

“Famished.”

“There’s a lovely Thai restaurant right up the street at the Grove Arcade.”

“Sounds good.”

“There’s even a very fat smiling Buddha at the entrance to welcome you.”

“As long as he’s happy, it works for me.”

The two women pulled themselves away from the drumming circle and started up Haywood Street. There the summer throngs were strolling, passing in and out of shops and bakeries and the old Woolworth’s that was now part art gallery, part 1950s-era lunch counter. At the corner of Haywood and Battery Park Avenue, Jane and Diana turned left and started up the slightly inclined street where the restaurants began. From there to Page Street and the Grove Arcade, crowded tables spilled out of cafés and onto the buckled sidewalks. The air was heavy with the scent of food and the colliding voices of a hundred conversations. At length, the pounding of the drums receded, replaced by the ringing of bells. The music came from somewhere overhead, somewhere above the street noise and the busyness of the city, and as they approached the Grove Arcade, Jane became aware that she heard not only the bells, but the words to the hymn being played by the carillon. They bubbled up from memory, coming to her conscious mind in Laney’s strong, clear voice.

O the deep, deep love of Jesus,

Vast, unmeasured, boundless, free!

Jane laid a hand on Diana’s arm. “Where are the church bells playing?” she asked.

Diana paused to listen. “Oh, that’s the old Catholic church at the end of Haywood Street, the Basilica of St. Lawrence. Pretty, isn’t it?”

How He watches o’er His loved ones,

Died to call them all His own. . . .

Jane nodded. “Beautiful.”

As she gazed down the length of the sidewalk, busy with pedestrians, diners, waiters, and a lone cop patrolling the street, she was surprised that no one else appeared to notice the bells. It seemed everyone should have stopped whatever they were doing to listen for just a moment, though no one did. No one seemed aware at all of the song rolling out of the belfry, though the bells went on stubbornly ringing, their notes drifting down like absolution over the dusk-shrouded city.

The Bistro. Vending machines lined the back wall. A dozen tables with corresponding chairs were bolted to the floor. The wall between the corridor and the canteen was full of windows so that one couldn’t pass The Bistrowithout being enticed to stop and have a snack.

Jane stopped, but not because she was hungry. She stopped because she saw Truman Rockaway, alone at one of the tables, drinking from a pint carton of chocolate milk.

He raised a hand toward her, beckoning her in. She entered the canteen and sat down across from him. They were the only two people in the room.

“Got milk?” he asked, lifting the cardboard carton.

He smiled. She smiled in return. “I haven’t drunk chocolate milk since I was a kid.”

“We ought to remedy that. My treat.”

“Well . . .”

“I insist. After all, chocolate is a natural antidepressant, you know.”

She looked at him, chewed her lower lip. “Is it that apparent?”

“It doesn’t have to be apparent. It can be deduced. You’re in a hospital visiting your fiancé who is upstairs in the spinal cord unit unable to move from the neck down.” He rose and rummaged around in the pocket of his slacks while he walked to one of the machines. He dropped a series of coins into the slot and pushed a button. A carton of milk nose-dived off the shelf behind the glass and landed with a thud in the lip of the machine. Truman retrieved it and set it on the table in front of Jane. “Drink up, young lady,” he said.

“Thank you, Truman.”

He settled himself back down at the table as she bent back the spout. She took a long drink and nodded. “Tastes good.”

“I drink it every day.”

“You go straight for the hard stuff to drown your sorrows?”

He laughed. “I guess I do.”

They were quiet for a time, lost in their own thoughts, downing their chocolate milk. Finally Jane asked, “Where are you from, Truman?”

“Here and there,” he said. “But originally? I’m from Travelers Rest, South Carolina.”

“Oh yeah? I used to know someone from there. She was one of our cooks.”

“What was her name?”

“Laney Jackson.”

Truman thought a moment, shook his head. “It doesn’t sound familiar. But anyway, I haven’t been in Travelers Rest for a long time. So Laney, she cooked for your family?”

“Well, kind of. My dad and my grandmother ran a bed-and-breakfast in Troy. They still do. We have our own apartment at the back of the house, with a private kitchen and everything. Anyway, when I was a child, Laney was one of the cooks who took care of the guests. She left Troy years ago, though, and I’ve lost touch with her.”

“Uh-huh.” Truman finished his milk, crushed the carton with one hand, and tossed it toward the open trash can. It went in.

“Two points,” Jane said.

“I should have played basketball,” Truman quipped.

“Yeah, if you’d gone pro, you’d be rich.”

“You’re right. Instead, I became a doctor, and I can tell you, not all doctors are rich.”

“No, I suppose not.”

Truman folded his hands on the table and seemed to study them. “Have you seen Seth today?”

Jane nodded. “I just left his room.”

“And how was he?”

“Depressed.”

“That’s normal. Everyone in his situation goes through that. It’s part of the healing process.”

“I know.” Jane drew in a deep breath. “I’m trying to be patient. But he’s so different. I’ve never seen him like this before. It’s like he came back from Iraq a totally different person, not just in body but . . . I don’t know, in soul too, I guess.”

Truman tapped the table with the soft balls of his hands. “Tell me about him, Jane.”

“Tell you about Seth?”

“Yes. What was he like before?”

As Jane thought about his question, a smile spread slowly across her face. “He was just about the greatest guy in the world. Oh, I know, probably every woman says that about her fiancé, but I really mean it. He was a great guy. Everyone liked him.”

“You met him in Troy?”

“Yes. We grew up together. I’ve been in love with him since second grade. It took him a little longer—well, about fifteen years longer—but he finally noticed me.”

Truman smiled. “I’m glad he did.”

“Me too.” Jane nodded her head absently for a moment. “It was Christmastime, and Gram and Dad were hosting our annual open house. Dad always grumbles about it, but Gram does it every year anyway. Practically the whole town comes through, just to mingle and drink eggnog and listen to Christmas carols on Gram’s old phonograph. I think it’s kind of a nostalgic trip back in time for most people, since the house is so old and full of antiques. Anyway, in . . . let’s see, it must have been 2002, Seth came to the open house with his parents. For whatever reason, he’d never been in the Rayburn House before. That’s the name of our B&B. Fortunately for me, he was taken with the woodwork.” She laughed lightly. “Seth’s a carpenter. He says he’s addicted to wood the way a hillbilly’s addicted to moonshine.”

Truman laughed out loud, a deep throaty laugh. It made Jane smile.

“Anyway,” she went on, “I gave him the grand tour of the house, attic to basement. He pointed out things I’d never even noticed before or maybe had stopped seeing a long time ago. You know, the shape of the balusters on the staircase, the hand-crafted trim between the walls and the ceiling, the little rosettes carved into the woodwork above one of the fireplaces. I guess you could say he ended up giving me a tour of my own home. Well, afterward we sat by the fire in the parlor for a long time, talking about everything from spiral nails to cordless saws to what we planned to do with our lives. As they say, the rest is history.”

Truman nodded; his eyes shone. “It sounds like a nice story.”

“It was. It was like a fairy tale. But then two Christmases later, Seth was in Iraq and”—she shrugged—“now we’re here.”

“I see.” Truman nodded and gazed back down at his hands. “You’ve entered a chapter you didn’t expect.”

Jane slowly shook her head. “I didn’t expect this at all. We would have been married this summer if he hadn’t been wounded.”

“And now?”

“Now?” Jane sighed. “I just don’t know.”

“What does Seth say?”

“Mostly, he says he wants me to go away.” She tried to laugh, but her laughter fell flat. For a moment she wondered why she was spilling her thoughts to a stranger. Yet, oddly, she felt perfectly comfortable in the company of Truman Rockaway. Maybe he was just one of those people who’d never known a stranger in his life. She looked at him, locking onto his gaze. “What should I do, Truman?”

“Give him time,” came the reply. “He’ll come around.”

“You mean, you’re not going to tell me to just forget about him?”

“No. Why should I tell you that?”

“Everyone else is, it seems. Even his own mother. After she spent a month with him at Walter Reed, she came back and said to me, ‘If you no longer feel you can marry Seth, I understand.’”

Truman frowned and leaned toward her over the table. “Do you still want to marry him, Jane?”

“Of course.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I love him.”

“Then that’s good enough for me.” He leaned back and seemed to relax. “And it should be good enough for everyone else.”

“But it isn’t. Not even for Seth.”

“Well, now, like I said, Seth will come around. He’s suffered a huge loss, you know. There’s a whole lot of grieving ahead of him, and that’s something he can’t get around. He has to go through it. But once he’s through it, he’ll begin to see things more clearly.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yes, I do. I’ve seen it happen plenty of times. You wouldn’t believe what some people survive, only to go on and lead productive lives. Happy lives too, for the most part.”

“But some people don’t. I mean, some people never adjust.”

“A few, maybe. But they’re in the minority. The will to live can’t be underestimated, Jane.”

“That’s what I’m counting on, I guess. Seth was always so—I don’t know—full of life, happy, upbeat. It made me happy to be with him. We laughed a lot together.”

“It’ll be like that again.”

Jane felt suddenly nervous. “Right now, Truman, he doesn’t even want to live, much less laugh. I mean, he really doesn’t want to live.”

“Like I said, that’s normal. Give him time.”

“But—” Jane stopped and took a deep breath. “Truman, he said if I loved him, I would help him die.”

Truman’s eyes, placid only a moment ago, now flashed anger. He leaned over the table again and laid both large hands on Jane’s slim shoulders. “Now you listen to me, Jane. Are you listening?”

Jane nodded. She was rendered mute by his sudden surge of emotion.

“We never let anyone die. Never. Do you hear me?”

Another nod.

He squeezed her shoulders lightly. “Tell me you won’t help him die. Promise me that.”

She drew in her breath and let it out slowly. “Of course I won’t.”

“But do you promise?”

“Yes, I promise. I could never . . .”

She couldn’t finish. For a moment they sat staring into each other’s eyes, unable to look away. Finally he loosened his grip. His hands fell to his sides.

“I’ve got to go. Got to finish my rounds.” He stood, stared off toward the hall.

“All right.”

He took a few steps toward the door, then turned back. “Jane, I—”

“Yes?”

He started to say something, stopped, then said, “I’ll see you later.”

“All right.”

She watched him walk away, her eyes moving with him as he shuffled past the row of windows and out of sight. She looked down at the half-empty pint of chocolate milk on the table. When she lifted it to her lips, her stomach turned. She threw it away and headed home.

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