years. Alan had heard kids in his office claim she had read every book on the shelves, and he could almost believe it was true. Her blue eyes were clear with intelligence and compassion. Curiosity kept women like Mrs. Robbins young.
“But how
is
she?” Mrs. Robbins asked evenly.
“You know,” Alan said. “She's holding her own.”
Mrs. Robbins bit her lip. She shuffled through a pile of
National Geographics
as if to make sure the issues were in order. But Alan knew she was just pulling herself together.
“Well, Alan,” Mrs. Robbins said. “We count on you.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“I'm worried for Dianne,” she said.
“Why?” he asked, alert.
“She wears herself out,” Mrs. Robbins said, starting to whisper. The words came out fast, and her brow was creased with worry. Alan leaned forwardto hear her. “Julia's light as a feather. She's no weight at all. But the effort … even when she's just sleeping, resting in the corner of Dianne's workshop. It takes every bit of energy Dianne has just to let her be. Not knowing the future.”
“That's the challenge …” Alan said, pulling something out of his generic repertoire. Doctors were supposed to be wise. Inside, he was a mess, hearing about Dianne's pain.
Thinking of Neil, Alan understood what Mrs. Robbins meant. Seeing a person you love suffer is the hardest thing there is. Taking action-bandaging the wound, setting a fracture, cleansing a burn-was always easier than sitting back, accepting there was nothing you could do.
“Dianne's brave,” Alan said.
“Most of the time.”
“She could ask me for more help than she does.”
“Oh, Alan,” Mrs. Robbins said. “Don't you know how hard it is for her to be around you-as kind as you are-you will always be a reminder of Tim.”
“Yeah,” Alan said, hurt to know the truth from Lucinda.
“Heard from him lately?”
Alan shook his head. Two months earlier, Tim had called from Camden, needing to borrow a thousand dollars. Before that Alan would get collect calls or postcards from ports from Lubec to Halifax. Tim had become a seafaring drifter. Sometimes he visited Malachy. He had no home, no address. That was the price he'd paid for what he'd done: leaving his wife and child.
“The poor wretch,” Lucinda said. “It's almost impossible to loathe him when he's so tormented. But not quite.”
“I know what you mean,” Alan said, feelingLucinda's gaze. He wondered whether she had figured it out. She was too loyal to Dianne, too discreet to ask, but he believed she knew.
Alan was in love with Dianne.
The feeling had never gone away. Even when she'd chosen Tim, with Alan tricking himself into thinking Dianne was stopping Tim's decline, saving his life, he loved her anyway. He'd do anything to help her, then or now.
He told himself he was a doctor, his compassion was natural. Dianne's eyes showed everything. Her hair was the color of Cape Cod marshes in autumn, golden in the October sun. She smelled like paint, lumber, and the sea. Frustration often creased her brow, but when she looked at Julia, the lines would disappear into such deep love that Alan sometimes felt pressure in his throat.
Psychiatrists-and Malachy Condon-would say he loved his sister-in-law because she was totally inaccessible.
Fear of commitment? No problem-pick someone your brother has left, a woman who hates your family with a passion.
Alan was screwed up in the area of relationships-he knew it well. He dated good women. They were all better than he deserved. He had a lousy habit of forgetting to call after the third or fourth time. He had never been married, and as much as he loved children, he had none of his own. And it would probably stay that way.
“Dianne's hoping for a good summer,” Mrs. Rob-bins said.
“I know,” Alan said.
“I'll be home to help her out more.”
“Do you think Dianne would consider a babysitter?” he asked. “I'm thinking of someone, kind of like a mother's helper.”
“She
“But how
is
she?” Mrs. Robbins asked evenly.
“You know,” Alan said. “She's holding her own.”
Mrs. Robbins bit her lip. She shuffled through a pile of
National Geographics
as if to make sure the issues were in order. But Alan knew she was just pulling herself together.
“Well, Alan,” Mrs. Robbins said. “We count on you.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“I'm worried for Dianne,” she said.
“Why?” he asked, alert.
“She wears herself out,” Mrs. Robbins said, starting to whisper. The words came out fast, and her brow was creased with worry. Alan leaned forwardto hear her. “Julia's light as a feather. She's no weight at all. But the effort … even when she's just sleeping, resting in the corner of Dianne's workshop. It takes every bit of energy Dianne has just to let her be. Not knowing the future.”
“That's the challenge …” Alan said, pulling something out of his generic repertoire. Doctors were supposed to be wise. Inside, he was a mess, hearing about Dianne's pain.
Thinking of Neil, Alan understood what Mrs. Robbins meant. Seeing a person you love suffer is the hardest thing there is. Taking action-bandaging the wound, setting a fracture, cleansing a burn-was always easier than sitting back, accepting there was nothing you could do.
“Dianne's brave,” Alan said.
“Most of the time.”
“She could ask me for more help than she does.”
“Oh, Alan,” Mrs. Robbins said. “Don't you know how hard it is for her to be around you-as kind as you are-you will always be a reminder of Tim.”
“Yeah,” Alan said, hurt to know the truth from Lucinda.
“Heard from him lately?”
Alan shook his head. Two months earlier, Tim had called from Camden, needing to borrow a thousand dollars. Before that Alan would get collect calls or postcards from ports from Lubec to Halifax. Tim had become a seafaring drifter. Sometimes he visited Malachy. He had no home, no address. That was the price he'd paid for what he'd done: leaving his wife and child.
“The poor wretch,” Lucinda said. “It's almost impossible to loathe him when he's so tormented. But not quite.”
“I know what you mean,” Alan said, feelingLucinda's gaze. He wondered whether she had figured it out. She was too loyal to Dianne, too discreet to ask, but he believed she knew.
Alan was in love with Dianne.
The feeling had never gone away. Even when she'd chosen Tim, with Alan tricking himself into thinking Dianne was stopping Tim's decline, saving his life, he loved her anyway. He'd do anything to help her, then or now.
He told himself he was a doctor, his compassion was natural. Dianne's eyes showed everything. Her hair was the color of Cape Cod marshes in autumn, golden in the October sun. She smelled like paint, lumber, and the sea. Frustration often creased her brow, but when she looked at Julia, the lines would disappear into such deep love that Alan sometimes felt pressure in his throat.
Psychiatrists-and Malachy Condon-would say he loved his sister-in-law because she was totally inaccessible.
Fear of commitment? No problem-pick someone your brother has left, a woman who hates your family with a passion.
Alan was screwed up in the area of relationships-he knew it well. He dated good women. They were all better than he deserved. He had a lousy habit of forgetting to call after the third or fourth time. He had never been married, and as much as he loved children, he had none of his own. And it would probably stay that way.
“Dianne's hoping for a good summer,” Mrs. Rob-bins said.
“I know,” Alan said.
“I'll be home to help her out more.”
“Do you think Dianne would consider a babysitter?” he asked. “I'm thinking of someone, kind of like a mother's helper.”
“She
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