“I love you, too, sweetheart.”

“Mom’s a lucky lady,” she said. “Don’t ever forget that.”

“Okay,” Jane said as we stood in the drive. “I guess that’s it.”

Anna was waiting in the car.

“You’ll call, right? I mean, if anything comes up.”

“I promise,” I said. “And say hey to Leslie for me.”

As I opened the car door for her, I could already feel the heat of the day bearing down on me. The air was thick and heavy, making the homes up the street look hazy. Another scorcher, I thought.

“Have a good time today,” I said, missing her already.

Jane nodded and took a step toward the open door. Watching her, I knew she could still turn the head of any man. How had I become middle-aged while the ravages of time ignored her? I didn’t know and didn’t care, and before I could stop them, the words were already out.

“You’re beautiful,” I murmured.

Jane turned back with a look of faint surprise. By her expression, I knew she was trying to figure out whether she’d heard me correctly. I suppose I could have waited for her to respond, but instead I did what was once as natural to me as breathing. Moving close before she could turn away, I kissed her gently, her lips soft against my own.

This wasn’t like any of the other kisses we’d shared recently, quick and perfunctory, like acquaintances greeting each other. I didn’t pull back and neither did she, and the kiss took on a life of its own. And when we finally drew apart and I saw her expression, I knew with certainty that I’d done exactly the right thing.

Chapter Eleven

I was still reliving the kiss in the driveway when I got in the car to start my day. After swinging by the grocery store, I drove to Creekside. Instead of heading straight to the pond, however, I entered the building and walked to Noah’s room.

As always, the smell of antiseptic filled the air. Multicolored tiles and wide corridors reminded me of the hospital, and as I passed the entertainment room, I noticed that only a few of the tables and chairs were occupied. Two men were playing checkers in the corner, another few were watching a television that had been mounted on the wall. A nurse sat behind the main desk, her head bent, impervious to my presence.

The sounds of television followed me as I made my way down the hall, and it was a relief to enter Noah’s room. Unlike so many of the guests here, whose rooms seemed largely devoid of anything personal, Noah had made his room into something he could call his own. A painting by Allie—a flowering pond and garden scene reminiscent of Monet—hung on the wall above his rocking chair. On the shelves stood dozens of pictures of the children and of Allie; others had been tacked to the wall. His cardigan sweater was draped over the edge of the bed, and in the corner sat the battered rolltop desk that had once occupied the far wall of the family room in their home. The desk had originally been Noah’s father’s, and its age was reflected in the notches and grooves and ink stains from the fountain pens that Noah had always favored.

I knew that Noah sat here frequently in the evenings, for in the drawers were the possessions he treasured above all else: the hand-scripted notebook in which he’d memorialized his love affair with Allie, his leather-bound diaries whose pages were turning yellow with age, the hundreds of letters he’d written to Allie over the years, and the last letter she ever wrote to him. There were other items, too—dried flowers and newspaper clippings about Allie’s shows, special gifts from the children, the edition of Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman that had been his companion throughout World War II.

Perhaps I was exhibiting my instincts as an estate lawyer, but I wondered what would become of the items when Noah was finally gone. How would it be possible to distribute these things among the children? The easiest solution would be to give everything to the children equally, but that posed its own problems. Who, for instance, would keep the notebook in their home? Whose drawer would house the letters or his diaries? It was one thing to divide the major assets, but how was it possible to divide the heart?

The drawers were unlocked. Although Noah would be back in his room in a day or two, I searched them for the items he would want with him at the hospital, tucking them under my arm.

Compared to the air-conditioned building, the air outside was stifling, and I started to perspire immediately. The courtyard was empty, as always. Walking along the gravel path, I looked for the root that had caused Noah’s fall. It took a moment for me to find it, at the base of a towering magnolia tree; it protruded across the path like a small snake stretching in the sun.

The brackish pond reflected the sky like a mirror, and for a moment I watched the clouds drifting slowly across the water. There was a faint odor of brine as I took my seat. The swan appeared from the shallows at the far end of the pond and drifted toward me.

I opened the loaf of Wonder Bread and tore the first piece into small bits, the way Noah always did. Tossing the first piece into the water, I wondered whether he’d been telling the truth in the hospital. Had the swan stayed with him throughout his ordeal? I had no doubt he saw the swan when he regained consciousness—the nurse who found him could vouch for that—but had the swan watched over him the whole time? Impossible to know for sure, but in my heart I believed it.

I wasn’t willing, however, to make the leap that Noah had. The swan, I told myself, had stayed because Noah fed and cared for it; it was more like a pet than a creature of the wild. It had nothing to do with Allie or her spirit. I simply couldn’t bring myself to believe that such things could happen.

The swan ignored the piece of bread I’d thrown to it; instead it simply watched me. Strange. When I tossed another piece, the swan glanced at it before swinging its head back in my direction.

“Eat,” I said, “I’ve got things to do.”

Beneath the surface, I could see the swan’s feet moving slowly, just enough to keep it in place.

“C’mon,” I urged under my breath, “you ate for me before.”

I threw a third piece into the water, less than a few inches from where the swan floated. I heard the gentle tap as it hit the water. Again, the swan made no move toward it.

“Aren’t you hungry?” I asked.

Behind me, I heard the sprinklers come on, spurting air and water in a steady rhythm. I glanced over my shoulder toward Noah’s room, but the window only reflected the sun’s glare. Wondering what else to do, I threw a fourth piece of bread without luck.