Living the Promise: Chapter Three

Joe settled down onto the comfortable, overstuffed couch, took asip from his wine glass, then set it on the coffee table beside thepile of mail he'd retrieved from his box. The haunting melodies of"Madame Butterfly", a musical indulgence he shared with hisgentle-spirited mother, played softly from his stereo. It did littleto settle his heart.

Andrea, his secretary, had all but thrown him out of the officetoday, precisely at 5:30, and for once he listened to herreassurances that the criminal justice system of Manhattan wouldsurvive his early absence. He rarely left his desk before ten thesedays, but it was just as well: He hadn't been accomplishing muchtoday, hardly remembering, now, the reams of paperwork he'd beenattempting to pour over in usual fashion.

The problem had been his desk calendar, staring back at himbenignly from the organized chaos that was his work area. His gazekept settling onto that damn calendar in front of him, on theaccented words printed conspicuously across the bottom of the day'spage -- "September 2l - The First Day of Autumn."

Closing his eyes defensively, Joe sank back into the couch,attempting to gather his thoughts into some less-plaguing order.

Autumn . . . He'd always loved Autumn. As a kid, he adored helpinghis grandfather and uncles make wine in the basement of the house inSouth Ozone Park. It was the yearly tribute to a beloved heritagenone of his mother's relations would easily relinquish, and he'd beenso glad for that. Even his father, of Scottish heritage on both sidesof his ancestry, had been swept up into the mysterious andwonderfilled ritual.

Sean Maxwell had, over the years, gained a pretty decent set ofskills at the time-honored activities, skills which had at lastgranted him a covetted blessing -- becoming a trusted confidant ofhis immigrant father-in-law. It was a rare position, indeed, and onethat had come about despite an ongoing battle of wills between thetwo men that could be traced back to one simple, outraging fact: Seanhad had the audacity to marry Joseph Campobasso's youngest daughter,without the benefit of even being remotely Italian.

Joe smiled at his recollections of the respectful/recriminatingrelationship between his dad and his grandfather he'd been witness toin his tender years. He'd always been amazed that his mother wascapable of standing in delightful tolerance of the hellfire-provokingpairing of her father and her husband for most of their married life.Luckily, the house in South Ozone Park had been declared neutralterritory every Autumn, and the memory of that wondrously chaotictime had long ago become etched within the younger Joseph'smemory.

Even now, Joe could almost see Grandpa's house in Autumn.

The women cooked, constantly, profusely, with cheerful abandon,determined to fill out the "scrawny" frames of every single soulunder the age of 17 -- and quite a few older ones, too. Once theywere satisfied with the day's wine-making endeavors, all greatlyprecise and mysterious, the men, too, had other activities to passthe evenings. They played riotous card games with names like "Scopa"and "Scala Quaranta", or concentrated their highly personalizedtechniques with the bocce balls in the side yard of the house forhours at a time..

The kids, also, dozens of cousins, and children of cousins, andgodchildren, and neighbor's kids, had had their favorite autumn-timeenjoyments. They all scrambled about the huge back yard, wrestling,or teasing one another with the certain bravado of childhood. Treatswere sneaked from the lush garden -- tomatoes and peppers, mostly, orthe two venerable apple trees were climbed, which readily yieldedshiny, refreshing fruits. When the sun-painted leaves started fallingearly, or wine-making was started late, there were even drifts ofcrackling fun to pile up and jump into.

Autumn was beautiful then.

Joe had never lost his feelings for the time, even as he grew intoadulthood. Even when his dad died long before his grandfather did.Even when life threw him every curve and obstacle it could muster ashe struggled to carve out a worthwhile existence for himself on hisown. Autumn was a time of fullness, of ripened abundance. Oflife.

Not death.

The phone ringing suddenly into the warmth of his welcomedthoughts nearly stopped Joe's heart.

That's how it had begun, three years ago -- or actually, how ithad ended -- the phone ringing at 6:15 in the morning, Greg Hughes onthe other end, every nightmare that had ever haunted him over theprevious six months all pouring over him in one shattering instant .. . They'd found Cathy . . . She was dead.

Joe was almost terrified to pick up the phone as it sounded sodemandingly now for his attention. He forced himself to get up andanswer it, unwilling to let the pain and regret fill his heart. Buthis hands still shook when he picked up the receiver, despite hiscourage.

Of course, the voice on the other end was not Greg Hughes now. Itwas soft, gentle, and familiar. But it could offer little comforthe'd be willing to accept these days.

"Hi, Joe. It's Rita. I thought I'd give you a call and see how . .. everything . . . is . . . "

"Rita . . . hi . . . Everything is . . . fine . . . " Joe took amoment to collect himself, then, realizing he'd caught an anxiousuncertainty that forced a pause in his co-worker's comments. Notingthat his voice probably had been as shaky as his hands, he pulledhimself fully and decidedly back into the present. He didn't want toworry Rita.

She would start to worry, too, about him, he knew. The youngattorney who'd taken on Cathy as her respected mentor had alsoseemingly taken on responsibility for his welfare during the past sixmonths. The thought was both welcome, and painful to him. Tonight itwas agony.

"Shouldn't I be asking that of you?" he was able to quip back insomething of his usual quick wit. "You're the one babysitting chickenpox."

A soft laugh from the other end of the telephone line eased Joe'sconcern a fraction. God, it sounded like . . . life . . . warm,caring. Hopeful. He suddenly wasn't certain he could endure it. ButRita continued with her usual gentle good humor. "We seem to havesurvived the worst of it, though I'll never eat oatmeal again. Youhave no idea what a tub full of oatmeal and three kids with chickenpox soaking in it can do to a person's tastebuds -- scars them forlife."

Joe wanted to laugh at her statement, cherish her brightappreciation for the sweetly absurd, the picture she described forhim suddenly as vivid in his mind as his own childhood recollectionshad been. Yet his heart couldn't seem to remember how. He merelyreplied, "Yeah, I guess so."

"We finally got the kids comfortable and off to bed. I just sentmy brother and sister-in-law off to the movies for a breather . . .and I thought I'd give you a call." Rita's spirit took a dive audiblein her tone of voice, that brought along with it her hope of evergetting her cherished co-worker to survive the day's memories withonly tolerable pain.

The DA heard the undercurrent of quiet worry in his colleague'stones. He'd shut the door in her face again, he knew, rejected hercaring friendship so that he could drown in the pain. At least thatwas familiar, and safe. Rita's tender concern was not. He didn't wantit to be.

"Sounds like you've got things under control," he remarkedoffhand. Then, catching his

soul for a bare instant before it covered itself again withremorse, Joe responded with all the genuine feeling he could rescue,"I'm glad, Rita. And things are how they usually are around here --enough to get a person committed to Bellevue."

Rita Escobar heard the tentative need in Joe's voice he'd alwaysmanaged to keep from her at work, despite his attempt at casualnormalcy. She'd been right to call him. Thank goodness Andrea hadbeen able to bully him home at a decent hour as she had asked theyoung woman to. The last thing he needed tonight was to page throughthe file folder he kept locked in the bottom drawer of his desk,alone in his office. Knowing he was at least home gave her some smallinkling of hope to latch onto.

Still, the young attorney knew he'd never let himself show thetrue depth of his pain, his heartache, to anyone now. Diana hadtried, time and again, to help him let go of the guilt. But not eventhe fiery-spirited police officer had been able to dare him to livepast it all. And he certainly was never going to reach out to her,she accepted, yet again, so sadly. Not yet. Not tonight.

Attempting to keep her own assaulted heart from sounding tooobviously besieged as well, Rita reverted to her own quietly profoundpatience. Once more she admonished herself: Just keep thingsuncomplicated. That's how they'd survived the past six months,touching only on the surface of their souls. Even though her heartwas aching to take his pain as her own.

"I should be able to get back by the end of the week."

"Hey, kid," came the defensive nonchalance, "don't worry. We'reholding down the fort here without you all right."

Rita's own voice took a bit more courage. She had to at least lethim know she cared.

"I really appreciate your letting me do this for my brother andhis family, Joe. I mean,

chicken pox isn't exactly your standard medical emergency to betaking time off for."

Much as she adored being with her brother's family, she'd hatedthe thought of leaving him

to endure this particular day's memories alone.

A wistful softness filled his words to her then, something thatcaught her off guard. It

sounded almost . . . tender. "Rita, it's okay. You needed to bethere for them. That's what's important. Who'd have known all threeof your brother's kids would have come down sick like that a weekafter they'd all moved to a new city?"

For a long moment, the young attorney in Baltimore tried todecipher what she felt coming hesitantly through to her with Joe'sremarks: an obviously heartfelt defense of family, responsibility,and what truly counted in life -- relationships between people --

being there, saying, "don't worry, you can count on me", making acommitment to put the other person first.

It was all pretty safe, benignly basic sentiment, that the worldseemed to have chewed up and spit out these days. It was the simple,giving logic that had always been Joe's

strongest point of heart, that part of him, so totally honest andridiculously ready to believe the best within everyone, that hadinstantly stolen Rita's own heart away from her. Could

that softly caring spirit ever find its way back to it's properplace within him again?

If they'd have been in the same room together, though, instead ofhundreds of miles apart, Rita would have been hard-pressed to hidethe tears beginning to shimmer in her eyes. He'd always been so quickto offer help to others, genuinely concerned and committed to openingup his heart and his considerable energies to see justice, alljustice, in any sort of circumstance, prevail. But, where was hisjustice?

Rita quickly attempted to steer their conversation to more neutralground, or risk giving herself away. She'd called to try to help him,on this night, after all. Her own pain could wait.

"Any guardian angels turn up to rescue the Center while I've beengone?"

Joe wished he could have given his co-worker some good news atleast, knowing how

saddened she'd be, right now, about his state of soul. Yet, therewasn't even that. It made

his blood boil, in familiar outrage:

Something as important to sane living conditions in the city asthe Women's Crisis Center, had become a political football in theelection year posturing of high-powered candidates. They hadabsolutely no idea what they were willing to pick apart in an obscenegesture of budget balancing.

At its inception, every politician in the city had leapt onto thebandwagon of the referral and support Center for battered women andchildren, touting its invaluable place as a safety net for those mostin need. Rita had signed on as its sorely undercompensated legalcoordinator. She and her dedicated staff of visionary social workersand law students had

worked dozens of near-miracles in the past year, helping terrifiedwoman get their lives back together again with some hope anddignity.

Now, their public funding was drying up as quickly as theircaseload was exploding, all to showcase some high-profile attempts tohalt the wash of red ink the city was routinely foundering in.

It seemed simply another well-intentioned effort that would die aquick and merciful death, but the DA was not willing to let theforces that be play their games with what was right, necessary, andsimply just. Joe'd been determined to fight it out, somehow, allhis

own spiritual anguish and loss fueling his ingrained sense ofdecency with fiery conviction.

With Rita's support, they had literally turned their cause over toProvidence itself, praying that some private entity might help floatthe Center's budget temporarily until more stable financing could befound. Three months of pleading, mailings, and presentations, hadyielded only a few stop-gap supporters, despite their earnestefforts. And the rent on the storefront office was two weeksoverdue.

Joe hated to hit Rita with more bad news, especially over thephone. He knew what organizing the Center had meant to her, how muchshe took to heart each individual case.

The mindless bureacracy they'd been fighting an uphill battleagainst would take her brightly hopeful spirit as surely as it wouldrob the women they'd tried to support of their dignity andrights.

His own spirit determined not to surrender without a fight, heknew, now, that he needed to reassure his caring colleague of hissupport. It was the only thing he could reach out to her with someconfidence.

"Don't worry. When you get back, we'll go over the Departmentbudget with a

fine-toothed comb and see if we can come up with something totide us over again for a while."

Rita's voice returned to him with its usual cheery brightness,even though he knew she was resigned to the weary struggle. "You canhold my salary again. Not that it will amount to much."

"Right. And when you can't pay your own rent, we can move you andthe Center into a homeless shelter permanently." It was damnedunfair.

Joe ran a nervous hand through his thick brown hair. Everythingwas so damned unfair in life.

"Things will work out, Joe. We just have to have faith that we'rein the right with this. That has to count for something. Don't loseheart."

The reassuring words unexpectedly brought the barest trace of asmile to the District Attorney's weary face. She would be tryingalways to shore up his beleagured spirit.

The words came out then, in spite of himself. "Rita, you arereally special." She would always be able to hope, wouldn't she?

For a moment, the soft-spoken attorney in Baltimore almost felther heart drop out of her body at the threatened tenderness in thosewords. She couldn't be hearing it right.

In defensive humor, hoping to get her heart to start beatingproperly again, Rita replied,

"That's what you say to all your underpaid, overworked, crusadingstaff, counselor."

"Yeah, well, with you, it's true. Somehow, we'll get the angels onour side with this one." If she could believe, perhaps he could, too,at least about the Center. As for the rest of his life . . . that wassomething else again, wasn't it?

The voice in Baltimore was suddenly soft, uncertain of revealingtoo much of itself, but instinctively convinced that she needed tooffer something of her true state of heart in return to her testedcolleague at this point between them. She prayed he'd not shut herout as always.

"Joe, I'm glad you let me work on this with you. Thanks fortrusting me. Thanks for believing." She wanted to say so much more,about things other than the Center, other than their cordial, butguarded, professional relationship. At least Diana had been able tooccasionally jolt him into hope. But the police officer's intensespirit was not her own. Rita's quiet heart wasn't easily up to suchbattles.

It was difficult to keep hoping she could make much difference.She could have used an angel herself as well, she mused. Maybe therewas one about, willing to help them both.

"I'm the lucky one there, Escobar, believe me."

The tears began to fall in Baltimore at the sound of that, whetherfrom pain or promise, Rita was unsure. When the phone lines weresilent, there was an unexpected, tiny glimmer of hope working its waypast the miles and out of the dark, attempting to reach its needfuldestination. Could it survive its difficult journey? And finally findthe fertile soil of a struggling heart where it could thrive?

Joe came back to his seat in his living room, feeling both anxiousas well as surprisingly relieved. He threw his head back against thecouch, letting the colliding feelings have their way with his spiritfor a long moment. Then he spoke his thoughts aloud, as had becomehis habit of late. "She learned a lot from you, Cathy. And boy am Iglad for that!"

. . . Cathy . . . Still so wrenchingly close to his spirit,especially tonight. That reality echoed forcefully through Rita'sconcerned call to him.

. . . Catherine . . . She would have been the perfect defender oftheir cause where the Women's Center was concerned, he knew. Shewould have jumped at the chance to be able to do good in such abasic, compelling way.

That's what it had always boiled down to for her -- the good --supporting it, protecting it, working for it when everyone else wouldhave turned their backs. She'd kept believing that they could make adifference in the world, even when he barely believed it himself. Sherecognized the good, what was worth fighting for.

And it got her killed.

Joe felt the tears well up in his eyes at the thought, at thefamiliar ache shrouding his heart where it had been only a moment agoalmost lifted beyond its burden.

The truth, as he always saw it, stared him squarely in the faceyet again:

I got her killed.

Defensively, Joe tore into the pile of useless paper on his coffeetable, trying desperately to keep the demons at bay, yet, there wasnothing he could hold fast to, nothing he could even remotely connectto that would keep him from being buried in the dark pain again. Itcould become so acute at times, that pain, when he least expected it,even after three years -- and especially on this night.

A word offered in reassuring consolation, a touch that held withinitself the grace of forgiveness, a shared insight that could somehowfinally set to rest the gnawing fear of having offered up theinnocent directly to Satan himself. A shoulder to cry on.Instinctively, Joe knew they were what he needed, particularlytonight, the only solace that he could dream of touching to with somecertainty of redeeming power. But there was no one he could reach . .. no one he would let himself reach.

Rita had attempted to break through that heartbreaking barrier, heknew, during the past several months. She would have been there forhim, done all she could have for him. He

sensed it in all she had not said on the phone, just as he wascapable of sensing it when they were working together, in all theynever shared, never talked about. Still, even though she'd alwaysallowed him his guilt-riddled grief in aching silence, her eyes hadspoken to him too often in these past days -- they'd been full ofkindness and gentle understanding.

He'd have had to have been blind not to see it.

But, moving past it all, finding a way past it all, terrified thehell out of him. It meant holding Catherine, and that part of hislife, as only a memory. It meant acknowledging the fact that hisheart was still able to beat out its rhythm where hers had beensilenced. It meant going on living, in pain, surely, but still livingand breathing and . . . feeling.

Rita didn't deserve his pain.

She didn't need to have to fight her way through it to what wasleft of his heart.

Yet, Joe knew, if he'd give her the barest breath of a chance, theyoung attorney would have been there for him.

Just as Diana would have been there for him, too.

Taking another sip of wine, Joe let his gaze rest on the haphazardpile of mail before him. It was so strange, he found himself suddenlythinking: So much of his state of heart had been opened to thescrutiny of three very different women at three very different pointsin his life:

Catherine had been the unacknowledged guardian of his futurehopes, the possibilities of what could be, even for him, thehard-scrabble kid from Brooklyn. That was, until she'd been murdered,and he'd been plunged into bottomless, guilt-riddled pain.

Rita had become the quiet keeper of that pain, the softlyreassuring influence that might yet convince him he could survivewhat had become the anguishing reality of his life.

Diana had been the awesome embodiment of total, honest, searinglydevoted friendship, the one soul that had shared his blackest terrorsand agonies, attempting to force him, again and again, to believethat his very soul was still worth redeeming.

He'd lost one before he'd ever had the courage to truly offer herwhat could be in his heart.

He was rejecting another out of simple, profound, weary grief.

He'd had to say goodbye to the third even if he knew he'd need hertruthful, challenging, compellingly heartening logic if he were everto believe himself worthy of life.

"God, Diana, I sure could use about three or four hours of yourtime tonight, to sort this all out." He was nearly startled that he'dspoken his thought, his need, aloud, too. That uncertain amazementwas turned immediately to astonished gratitude when he recognized anunflourished script written across the front of a heavy vellumenvelope that

was half-buried in the pile of credit card offers, professionalmagazine subscriptions, and ridiculously irrelevant advertisinglittering his coffee table.

Joe dug it out of the clutter of paper as a lesser man would havedug for a buried treasure. The relief that filled his heart told himhe might still manage to survive the night.

"Dear Joe,

By the time this reaches you, I'm certain you will be immersed inthe confusion and pain of the day as I am: September 21. I thoughtyou could probably use a friend right about now, someone who knowswhat you must be struggling with, because I'm doing the samestruggling myself at this moment."

The DA swallowed hard, both desperate to hear and accept the wordsreaching out to him from the paper in his hand, and at the same timeclose to fearful about acknowledging just how truthful they were.God! Diana was as near to being psychic as anyone he'd ever known,Joe conceded in shaken astonishment. But was it supernatural abilityor simply a sensitive, caring heart always ready to offer support andencouragement when it was most needed? Joe decided the enigmaticformer police officer was probably a good deal of both, and it was adamned lucky thing for him, too.

And now, feeling his intensely spirited colleague so close to himonce again, through her words to him, Joe realized just how terriblyhe'd missed her, the unexpectedly steadying influence in his life shehad become over the months and years they'd shared.

She'd stayed in touch, as she had promised, during the six monthssince he'd last seen her, that day she'd walked into his office andannounced without preamble that she was quitting the force. Even so,it wasn't the same as being able to talk to her one-on-one, though hetreasured her attempts to set his mind at ease about the changes inher own life's directions. How could he begrudge her her courage? Heonly wished he could find his own again.

Diana had been able to back him into a corner and forced him toface the truth -- the

real truth -- again and again, with her insightful power ofchallenging compassion. She'd been more than simply a caring friendwhen he'd needed one so acutely -- she'd been the very voice of saneconscience in his lately, long-tested existence.

Only she knew how deeply his wounds really reached, and only shehad had the guts to dare him to live past their pain.

"Has it really been three years? You came to my loft like a lostsoul asking for help. You had nowhere else to go. I still can't seemto understand why you were able to convince me to take on Catherine'scase, but, for some reason, I did. There was a call from the heart inyour voice. It touched me so."

Over the course of the past six months, Diana's letters to him hadat least reassured him that one soul he'd cared about in the worldwas living a life of redeemed promise, though that existence was nowshrouded in mystery and secrecy. Still, her notes to him had alwaysbeen filled with genuinely happy descriptions of her new life, or asmuch of it as she could allow herself to reveal, as much as she feltcould serve to urge him on to his own new hopes.

Joe still stood in awe of the evidence of her fierceprotectiveness towards what he knew she now truly loved more thananything else in her life. She'd never offered him any more specificsabout where she was, or actually with whom she was, though her newsto him in her periodic notes sounded as benignly normal as that anyother new bride and mother might be willing to share with a close andvalued friend.

There had been love-touched depictions, in her past correspondenceto him, of Jacob's latest milestones: The child had been in a playproduction of sorts; he was developing into a masterful littlebuilder, constructing all manner of wonderful objects with blocks;he'd taken to reciting portions of his favorite bedtime stories byheart and was now eager to learn to actually read.

The brightly shared news had been of Samantha, too. Apparently,the spirited, gifted young lady was captivating hearts among herformer foes -- the teen-aged boys of her community, and in typicalfashion, was totally unaware of the truly lovely, endearing youngwoman she was becoming.

Diana had shared her own experiences with her new vocation, also,teaching humanities classes to a varied number of age groups, withexciting, rewarding results. She'd written that she'd never felt soinvigoratingly challenged as she felt now because of her new role asteacher and counselor.

But the letters that arrived with frequency to Joe's home hadrarely offered him much of his former co-worker's own state of heartand soul, though he could tell through her written words that she washappy and at peace. He had guessed that her lack of substance abouther own personal experiences rested solely on one directing factor:So much of her new and welcomed fulfillment in life was intertwinedwith a soul she would protect at all costs from scrutinizing,misunderstanding eyes, his own included.

Yet, the tone of this letter he held tonight was different fromthe start, and Joe thanked heaven for that blessing. It had more thefeel of their past conversations, of the moments they'd spenttogether as trusted friends in her bright loft or his cluttered flat,attempting to decipher the indecipherable pain the world was capableof inflicting on unsuspecting hearts. It was almost as though Dianawas in the room with him at the moment, ready to reach out to him andhelp him find his direction again.

He could never manage to find it easily on this night.

"Joe, I know what you are carrying inside you on this day -- pain,loss, guilt. And even though I never met Catherine, because I came toknow her through you, through my work, through the man she loved, Icame to carry pain and loss and guilt as well for her, though

for different reasons."

For a long moment, the DA read and re-read the one part of herlast sentence that struck him forcefully, without warning -- "throughthe man she loved." Diana hadn't named him, hadn't written,"Vincent", but she had referred to him as she'd never had before.

Joe took in a slow, thoughtful breath. When she'd confessed to himthat she was leaving the force, the city, actually to marry, Dianahad only described her love as

"Jacob's father." Never had she really, tacitly, acknowledged thefact they were one and the same as she was doing so now. Why?

Even at this moment in time, removed from her former life formonths, sharing her heart with a friend she trusted implicitly, shewould still not expose that love to danger, to possible threat orharm. She'd always done so in the past, risked everything to keepthat love safe, at every point of her investigation into Catherine'sdeath and beyond, to Joe's everlasting, confounding, confusion overthe past three years.

He'd confronted her about it, time and again, and she'd merelydeflected his exasperated probings. Their most heated conflict hadcome about when she'd actually attempted to convince him that Vincentdidn't even exist, that the shadowy figure was only a conjured,defensive figment of Catherine's imagination. Joe had threatened herwith insubordination at her apparent turnaround on the facts of thecase. She'd held fast to her protective convictions without blinkingan eye, even when her entire world was in danger of crumbling downaround her.

It had left Joe in frustrated anger, and yet, he had to look atthe fierce intentions of his colleague with awe. What sort ofrelationship, what kind of soul, could inspire such fearless loyalty,such protective shelter?

"The man she loved" -- the man Catherine had loved.

The man Diana had also given her heart and soul to.

Still, with such a history of intensely safeguarding caution, whywas Diana ready to step back from her self-imposed silence with himnow? Suddenly, Joe understood why his thoughts had taken him into thedirection they just had, what Diana was attempting to explain to him,the feelings and trials they had both shared with such uneasyrecognition.

"I know you keep denying it to me, but I've carried enough guiltof my own to recognize it in you, where Catherine is concerned. Iknow your guilt is of concrete substance there within your heart. Myguilt was no less encompassing, even if it was actually coming to meas an after effect of Catherine's death. You've been grieving notonly for her loss, but because you believe you were responsible forthat loss: Catherine died because of you. I've been grieving becauseI began to live only when she died.

"We've both been carrying around one hell of a load of anguishthat should never have really been ours to begin with.

"I can say that now, Joe, with conviction, because I've finallybeen able to let go of that guilt. Doing so has saved my soul.Believe me. It is what you must do as well, my dearest friend, tosurvive, because even though I may not be able to see you day to dayand read it in your eyes, I know it is still so much a part of yourexistence that your heart would probably crumble at the thought ofliving beyond it."

Joe set the letter down onto the couch beside him, the tremblingof the pages in his hand as he did so evidence of the turmoil Dianahad been able to reach in his heart. Why did she have to be sodamnably capable of taking hold of the seemingly unreachable? But,there it was, right in front of him -- the sum total of his pastthree years of agony. And she was just about daring him again to movepast it, to take a step beyond its painful, yet familiar boundaries.Because she'd been able to.

Walking around his couch to the tall window behind it, Joe lookedout over the city coming alight with the night. But, there was toomuch darkness still clinging to his spirit, more than what a simplehope could push back.

He'd tried so many times to keep Cathy safe, to protect her in herwork, in spite of herself. And yet, he'd been the one to give her theone source of terror that could cost her her life: He'd handed herthe one piece of evidence that Gabriel would have overturned Hadesitself searching for, the one piece of evidence that got herkilled.

The stark circumstances came crashing down within Joe's consciencewith a vengeance at the moment. Patrick Hanley, one of Gabriel'sattorneys, had been murdered before his own eyes because of thatcursed notebook, which he had been willing to reveal to theauthorities, a book that contained encrypted evidence of crime sovast in scope and insidious in nature that he'd likened it to hellitself.

Joe had himself been blown to within inches of his life because ofit.

But, when he'd regained consciousness, by some miracle, in thehospital intensive care unit, when he'd opened his eyes to the sightof Cathy's gentle face looking down at him with such blessed care,the first thing he'd managed to get her to understand was the factthat she needed to find that notebook among his personal effects inthe hospital, that it was important. He'd even told her it was thereason why Hanley had been killed. She'd followed his urging withouthesitation, without a thought of the possible nightmarishconsequences that could lead the trail of blood right straight toher.

He couldn't have been more responsible for her death than if he'dput a gun to her head and pulled the trigger himself.

But he hadn't.

Diana's gentle, insistent words swept around his heart, and Joeunderstood what she was attempting to get him to believe: He'd lovedCathy -- as a treasured friend, obviously; as the one woman he couldpossibly trust his heart to, maybe not so apparently, because he'dnever even admitted that wondrous likelihood to himself -- but he hadloved her, and he would never have placed her willingly in danger.Hell, he would never have compromised her safety even if he barelyknew her, even if she'd have been the most anonymous soul he'd everstumbled across on either side of the law. He'd have never willinglyplaced her in danger.

Catherine had only been doing her job, and he had been attemptingto do his. They'd both only been trying desperately to fight for thegood. Only this time, the good did not win out, did not overcome.This time, the good had been slaughtered, and he'd been powerless todo anything about it.

That should be his only source of guilt.

Looking over the darkening city streets, Joe felt his thoughtsbeing pulled in a direction he never believed himself capable of evenconsidering, to a kinship he'd never believed he could aknowledge,that he guessed could be the very source of Diana's socompellingly

accurate understanding of the truth of his pain: He'd beenpowerless to protect Cathy, his love and care had been powerless.Vincent had been helpless to protect Cathy, too.

What sort of demons had that shadowy figure been tormented bybecause of his own

failure, terrors that Joe was certain Diana's love had surely hadto face in the past three years?

Running his hand anxiously down over his evening-stubbled face,Joe leaned heavily against the window frame, at the power of thatpainful thought, and the attempt, always so inconsequential, that hewas capable of making to get past those lingering phantoms in his ownmind. Diana's letter was trying to tell him that he wasn't alone inthis all, that he didn't have to remain so, that he needed to let goof his pain. She was attempting to guide him to the reality she knewfrom aching experience: That he didn't deserve the guilt, any morethan she herself did. Any more than Vincent did.

None of them had abandoned Cathy, nor their commitment towardsmaking certain that her sacrifice had not been made in vain.

Diana was describing to him her own accummulation of pain thatcommitment had warranted, confessing it to him now without turmoil,because she'd been able to finally get past it and go on living.

Even if Catherine had had to die.

Taking in a deep, ragged breath, Joe tried to settle his awarenesson the view outside his window, but his heart kept returning him toall that Diana had left unsaid to him, to the ever-present essence ofthe unspoken soul in all of this that was suddenly made so veryvisible to Joe now . . . Vincent.

Cathy's protector.

That is how Diana had described him that evening in her loft. Joecould only visualize him as some incomprehensiblee, terrifying forceof darkness, kept to the right only within the fragile boundaries ofa woman's love. He would have done anything to protect Cathy, haddone anything to protect her, including murdering those who'druthlessly threatened her life. Catherine had been safeguarded by anavenging angel so fierce in his devotion to her that he would kill tokeep her safe.

Still, she had died, under the most unspeakable of circumstances,brutally kidnapped, held hostage for months, robbed of her baby, andmurdered. And Vincent had apparently been unable to do a thing tohelp her, his efforts to find her only bringing him to her side ather death, so he could carry her precious body away from the mouth ofhell so it could set out for eternity from the familiar surroundingsof her own home. "He brought her home because he loved her." Dianahad known even then, at the outset of her investigations.

What sort of immense burden of guilt could he have been carryingwithin him because of that hellish reality? He hadn't been able toprotect her. Vincent had only been able to set Catherine to rest onher own bed -- cold and dead.

Then the most plaguing uncertainty that Joe carried in hisbesieged spirit forced him to ask the question he already believed heknew the reply to . . . Had they ever shared that bed together beforethat black, murderous night? Had Vincent ever held her in his armswhen she was warm and alive and aching to be loved, never oncethinking of the terror that lay ahead of them?

There'd been no terror between them, Joe knew, as surely as heknew his own feelings for Catherine Chandler now. There'd been onlylove, and because of that love, Cathy had borne Vincent a child.Jacob.

What had losing her, losing Catherine, the mother of his child,done to Vincent's own soul? Could he have been in any less pain thanJoe himself had been?

And what about Diana? She'd written that her guilt had comeafterwards. She was raising that child now, another woman's child,and Joe knew it was with as much love as any biological mother couldever hope to be able to hold in her heart, probably even more,because that love, that child had come to her through the mostsoul-shuddering of circumstances.

Diana was raising Cathy's child as her own, she'd given her heartto Cathy's love as her own, she'd given up her own world to be withVincent in his. My God! Joe realized with astonished certainty. Whatsort of guilt had Diana been forced to hold within her heart?

The DA recalled the haunted pain he'd read in Diana's eyeswhenever she'd forget herself in his presence when Jacob was with her-- There was a mother's tender delight in her face as she cared forthe little boy, surely. The baby adored her. Yet, there was alwaysthat uncertain pain, also. He understood where it originated now . .. Diana had been telling herself she should not have been the oneholding that child . . . loving his father.

. . . The guilt of the survivor . . . Diana had only begun to livewhen Catherine had died.

Joe came back to the letter, picked it up and brought it to thewindow with him to continue reading. That was what Diana had felt heneeded to understand, needed to hear, above everything else she mightadmonish him about from experience: It was still possible to beginagain.

"I cried so many silent tears the past three years, Joe; I enduredmore pain than I believed myself capable of even imagining, let alonesurviving. I kept all hope and possibility buried so deeply within myspirit that I nearly let them smother in the dark."

And then, unbelievably, Diana broke her own self-imposed silenceof heart, thought it important enough for Joe's healing to let hercrack open the formidible defenses she had built around the verysource of her own hope, blessing that source by name:

"I never believed I could dare touch the ravaged, aching, fearfullove that was trying to find its way back to the light of day fromVincent's soul. I thought I couldn't possibly have a part in helpinghim see his way through desolation, that I couldn't, in a hundredlifetimes, deserve a breath of the love he'd held for Catherine.

"But, somewhere along the journey, Joe, with heaven's mercy,somehow, I came to understand that I could only resurrect his spiritby holding it with the love that was in mine. I let myself believe.We let ourselves believe. And heaven smiled on our pain, Joe, lettingus move on."

"Us" . . . the intertwining, encompassing shelter of that plural:Us -- Vincent and herself -- The avenging angel ground to dust byloss and grief and guilt had apparently been capable of lettinganother source of light into his heart. Vincent himself had begunagain, too. How could that be possible? How could he let his heartkeep beating?

"My baby just moved, kicked, actually, a minute ago as I wrotethat last line to you --

our baby, Vincent's and mine."

Joe felt his own heart take an unexpected staggering pitch as heread and re-read those words. He let his fingers slip over the linewritten on the paper, believing he would have

felt white-hot anger in such a revelation to him. A baby . . . Hadthe supposed love of a

lifetime been set aside so easily then? Could Catherine possiblylook down from heaven itself and not ache with desolate pain fromsuch a reality -- that the man she'd loved so totally had foundsolace enough to love another woman, to conceive a child withher?

The feelings in Joe's own heart should have been burning withanger . . . but they were not. The portrait conjured up in his mindshould have been one of shameless, wanton betrayal . . . but it wasnot.

He could feel, see, in truth, only a love made beautiful becauseit had been tested in fire and survived.

Cathy would have seen that too, he knew.

"It is so remarkable. That thriving life I'm carrying within menow is all the evidence we need to know that we cannot allowourselves to turn our backs to love when we are most in need of itshealing, nurturing power. Joe, I've found more happiness than I everhad a right to dream of for my life. It has come to me by way of painI never imagined myself able to endure.

"I know you are in pain, still, have been in pain, for so long.But, Joe, you have to believe it now, you have to let me convince youof it now. You are guilty of one thing and one thing alone: You arestill making the angels cry.

"You are still making Cathy cry, because you are still holdingfast to the unthinkable, which was never even the truth. You didn'tmurder her. Gabriel did. All you did was love her, silently,protectively, never taking but always ready to give. And I didn'tslip into Vincent's soul like a thief, stealing Cathy's place fromhis heart to shamelessly make it my own without conscience orremorse. All I did was love him, when he was desperately in need ofbeing loved, when I knew he'd lose himself to oblivion if I didn'thold onto him with the last ounce of strength my heart was capable ofoffering him.

"Cathy will always be in Vincent's heart. I know that and acceptthat. Loving her made him so much of the man that I love now. Hehasn't forgotten that love. He's only been able to meld it to hisspirit gratefully, and open his arms to the rightness of our ownlove."

Joe stood looking at the city before him in quiet, incredulouswonder. How had Diana possibly been able to even guess his reactionsto her words, her secrets revealed? How?

She knew him well enough to love him, treasure him as a trustedfriend, and set herself up for his undeserved rancor, just so shecould help him find his hope again.

"It's been three years, Joe. You are a decent, honest, thoroughlygood person. Don't cling to a sentence you never deserved. Try tolearn to breathe free again, my friend. It's a terrifying thing, Iknow from experience. But Cathy would want you to hold on to herlove, not her ghost. She'd want a place in your heart, not in yourconscience.

"I wish I could be there now with you and just be able to read aflicker of hope in your eyes. It's there inside you, Joe. I know it,I've always felt it, and you have, too. Look around you, let thelight of life warm you to your soul for once, and don't question why.Take hold of love when it reaches out to you again, because, make nomistake, it will, probably from somewhere you'd never even think tolook. And you will have the strength to welcome that love with a freeheart.

"Keep us in your thoughts and prayers. You will always haveours.

Love, Diana"

Joe set the papers onto the stereo beside him and for a longmoment he fixed his gaze on the street light below that had come onin the deepening dark. One light pushing back the dark.

"God, Diana, if I didn't know better, I'd think you'd slipped intomy soul when I least expected and most needed you to. You have a truegift, my friend. You deserve your happiness."

He reached down and pulled open the window in front of him. A rushof warm, unexpectedly sweet air blew into his flat. It almost feltlike the backyard in South Ozone Park -- Grandpa's garden in autumn-- full of ripening life.

Life . . . not death.

Pulling on a light jacket, Joe reached for his car keys and headedout into the night.