Living the Promise: Chapter Five

"Even though the questioning of values and traditions was thesource of a great eal of tension between the generations at the time,we've come to see the '60's as the beginning of our modern society'ssocial conscience. Young men and women, only a bit older thanyourselves, realized they had a responsibility to one another, topeople of other cultures, races and backgrounds, to women, to theearth itself. They searched for ways to understand how they couldwork to bring about change and tolerance."

Jeffery raised his hand and Diana acknowledged him. "I rememberreading that some people began communities that lived together asfamilies and provided for one another."

Diana nodded at her student's comment. "That's right, Jeffrey.Many of those communities were no different than our own here today.People worked together, lived simply, provided for one another. Theysought out their places in the world and tried to find ways of livingtogether in peace with one another, respecting their beliefs, and thevery land they lived on itself.

"But, things weren't happening only in isolated areas. Even themajority of young people who still remained living in cities andtowns as their parents had, attempted to influence society with theirideals of freedom and justice. They spoke our in universities; theyprotested against a war they weren't certain was moral; they marchedside by side through segregated neighborhoods working for equalityfor all people.

"Even their music became a means of touching the country'sconscience. The poetry of their lyrics spoke about all they believedand hoped and dreamed could happen, all they saw as unjust, all theystruggled to understand."

Vincent's quiet contemplation of the contemporary sociology classbeing held in their chamber was equally absorbed between the wonderand pride he held for its teacher and her spellbinding,thought-provoking imagery, and the students who were so intently andtotally attuned to their subject matter. There had never been anydoubt in him about the powerful good Diana's extraordinary mind couldbring about and nurture within her students in past months.

Samantha joined the discussion. "I've heard some of those songs.Mary had recordings of a few of them that were popular back then,that she used to listen to sometimes before her player got broken.The music was so easy to listen to, but the words -- you just wantedto stop and really hear the words, listen to them and what they hadto say."

Diana smiled. "There were a lot of singers and songs like thatback then. The music was really the poetry of the time. It spoke tothe people of dreams and ideals and pain and frustrations.

'The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls

and tenement halls,

And whispered in the sounds of silence.

'How many times can a man turn his head

and pretend he just doesn't see?

The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind;

The answer is blowin' in the wind.

'All we are saying is give peace a chance.

All we are saying is give peace a chance."

Strong and unselfconscious, Diana's lilting voice drew herstudents totally into the message she wished to share with them.Vincent was transfixed.

"It would be wonderful if we could listen to some others of thosesongs." Her husband's quiet observation was met with a chorus ofagreement from the students. Diana's realization that she hadunexpectedly gained an additional, sensitive scholar warmed herheart.

Vincent was, without question, considered a gifted educatorhimself in the tunnel community, equally skilled in gettingfive-year-olds to relish Shakespeare as he was in making ancienthistory alive and relevant to adolescents geared always to thinkingin terms of the here and now of life. But his own study of andempathy and understanding for a world he could never be a completepart of was an enlightenment in itself to the youngsters in theroom.

"I'd love to get my hands on some of those albums," Dianaresponded. "Unfortunately, I doubt they'd be too easy to find anylonger. Maybe my sister kept some of our records. We used to spendhours together listening to them, trying to understand what they weresaying to us.

"At any rate, if I have the time, though, I will write out some ofthe lyrics from memory and we can discuss them at another class."

There was an anticipating chorus of excitement at the idea.Vincent smiled readily at how receptive the students were to hiswife's imaginative approach to learning. Diana didn't miss his quietapproval, and, as always, took it to heart.

"It's getting late. We'd better end," she concluded. "Don't forgetto read chapter eight for our next discussion on the Civil RightsMovement. Who gets the textbooks first tonight?"

Jeffrey and Lana raised their hands and carefully retrieved thetwo precious volumes that seven middle school students would sharethat evening for their studies. They and Samantha, Zack, Kipper, andthe other scholars then filed through the chamber doorway withgreetings and comments, to their eagerly anticipated free time beforesupper.

Vincent collected Diana's notes and resources into a pile onto thecorner of the table in their chamber. Offering his wife a hand upfrom the straightback chair she was sitting upon, he guided her tothe much worn but comfortable reading chair. Diana sat down upon itgratefully. A moment later, a small cushioned stool was slipped underher feet, and her shoes were slipped off.

"Oh, does that feel good! Vincent, thank you," came the sighedcomment. Her husband replaced the various chairs and benchescongregated around the table that the students had quit, then easedhis powerful form beside Diana on the chair arm. He wrapped acomforting embrace around the slender shoulders as she sank againsthis body in easy shelter.

"I would venture to guess you yourself were one of thosesearching, questioning spirits." The comment was both teasing andwashed with genuine admiration, as Vincent attempted to place himselfwithin his wife's indefinable, contradictory essence. Diana gracedhim with a smile that only reinforced her enigmaticattractiveness.

"Heavens, yes! I was ready to pack myself off to a commune inCalifornia with just the clothes on my back and a dream to guide me.Unfortunately, I only happened to be a seventh grader at a strictparochial school at the time. I had to settle for some localconsciousness-raising. I actually helped organize my classmates intoprotesting the second-class citizenship of women in our little cornerof the world."

A rather timid, guilty smile brought a blush of color along withit across Diana's face at her memories, even now. "I spent half a dayin detention once, for pointing out, rather vehemently, the unequalpower structure of our own school. The majority of our teachers wereunderpaid women, and religious, who didn't even get any compensationfor their work beyond knowing they were quietly doing God's work inthe world. A male coach was hired who was only teaching two healthclasses a day besides his coaching duties, and he, of course, gotpaid more.

"Here, the women were forced to deal with the day to day trials ofeducating the next generation, forming their skills and their morals,guiding them into leadership positions, and just because a man coulddribble a basketball well, the school board said his effort was worthmore! All the positions of power on that school board, too, were heldby men, many of them not even with any educational background."

Vincent was not at all surprised at the soft outrage he couldstill read in his wife's memory. Even as a youngster, it would appearthat her commitment to justice and right had held to her spirit withpowerful influence. "Were you able to accomplish any change?" heasked.

"I like to hope that we at least made people think aboutpriorities on that one. The teachers, for the most part, welcomed ourconcern, praised us for our efforts, but the long arm of authoritybrought us back to the reality of how the world actually worked. AndI got to listen to Sister Mary Damian's lecture on humility and pridefor an hour in detention."

"You were a rebel then, weren't you? I never would have imaginedyou so." Vincent's warmly teasing observation was tinged withdeserved admiration for the righteous firebrand he loved. Shereturned a challenging smile to him.

"See . . . you had no idea you were marrying an anarchist."

Leaning down, Vincent kissed his wife gently on the forehead. "Idon't know that 'anarchist' is the right word for you, my love, but Idid have some idea that life with you would be far from placid andordinary."

For a long moment, Diana let herself sink into the welcome comfortof having Vincent near her, know that his love for her sheltered asmuch respect as tenderness. God, she'd been blessed! and she remindedherself of it every minute of every day. She never needed to beanyone other than herself for Vincent, and she treasured the freedomand empowering wonder of that reality.

She surely could use some of that empowerment lately. For all herspirited demeanor of the moment, she was finding herself more andmore often physically tested, something she was not used to enduring,becoming exhausted from the simplest of tasks. She'd had to look toVincent's patiently attentive caring to accomplish the least littlethings, at times, like getting her shoes on and off. But, even thoughit was more than a bit humbling to have to be feeling so . . .vulnerable . . . in what was only a simple, natural process of life,she found herself truly holding to the depth of honest emotional needshe was able to share with her beloved husband because of it..

The unique circumstances of her pregnant condition were worryingVincent, she knew, but with their ability to support one another fromthe depths of their love, they'd managed to come to grips with thefact that what was physically happening to her was possibly justmeant to be, given the unknown scope of their experience with it all.In that uncertainty Diana simply turned to what had always sustainedher in her life's most difficult moments: a healthy trust inprovidential care.

Conceding that there was going to be little else that she could doto meet the unknown with, she'd simply decided to rely on Father'ssolicitous medical attention, Vincent's tender devotion, and a quiet,heartfelt, prayer: beginning her day with it and ending it too --that her baby would be born safe, healthy, and well. Vincent hadalways been able to follow that same pathway to reassurance withher.

But he was troubled, still, and Diana hoped that her unique stateof health was the only thing that had managed to cause theanxiousness of his heart the past few days. She'd become aware, inthe acutely sensitive bonding that existed between both their hearts,that there might be something more that was threatening his peace,something she was certain he'd been trying to keep from touchingher.

"You didn't sleep very well last night," was all she said to himnow, almost knowing what the something more could be, withspirit-shadowing fact. She knew what day it was, today.

Vincent gathered her more closely into his arms. He didn't wish tofrighten her or burden her with his turmoil from the dreams. Yet, healso did not wish to cause her pain, the pain of uncertainty in theday. With a gentle sweep of his hand over her cheek, Vincentreassured her, as he, himself, had been this morning.

"Don't fear today, Diana. They are in my heart, yes, the memories;but there is so much more there today as well, so much that ispromising and not painful."

Diana held to the arm sheltering her and breathed her silentprayer of thanks. How long had it been since his soul was crushedanew with every memory of this day? The pain, the guilt, the loss:They had been so encompassing and powerful, capable of dragging hisassaulted heart past any breath of promise embraced with an ease ofterror that had shaken her own beliefs and hopes. But, somehow,somehow, they had clung to one another and survived . . . to live inthe warmth of love shared. Their love shared.

The tender peace, always within ready reach between them, finallyradiated with sure brightness again in both their hearts at thatmoment. Holding to it, feeling it reach out and sheltering them, wasall that was needed to renew their spirits. Even on this day.

"I should ask Maureen next month when I see her if she kept any ofour old records."

Vincent accepted her change in the direction of their conversationas evidence of her quieted spirit. He kissed the top of her amberhead softly, filling his own soul with the balance they had onceagain been able to offer one another.

"Would she have, after all this time?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if she did. She kept everything when wewere growing up, letters, flowers. She always was a hopelessromantic."

"And you, obviously, were not." The quietly challengingobservation was a mute point between them. Vincent knew that hisbride treasured every breath of their shared experiences, held toevery word, every touch, every hope, with uncontested awe. She madehim feel capable of gifting her with the slightest truth of his care.In the wonder that had become his existence, bathed in her love, heeven believed it himself.

The gentle softness of Diana's lovely features caused herattentive husband to draw her heart tenderly closer within him aswell. She never spoke much about her former live Above, these days,and Vincent truly believed she was happy in his world, their world,in their new life together.

Yet, the past seemed always so closely within reach, on this day,even if it was no longer able to cause desolation. Diana'swillingness to offer him her own memories spoke of her convictionwith the present. Still, the ties of the past, the hopes and dreamsand shared experiences of those that had been a part of their liveswere, nevertheless, able to cling to their hearts with insistentstrength, he knew. What they were able to come away with from thosememories now, could at last speak to them of cherishedremembrance.

"You miss your sister." The comment was softly spoken fact, notinquiry. Vincent knew one of the ties that his beloved bride stillcherished from her past was her childhood bond to her sibling. Andshe had been forced to turn her back on that treasured link, forhim.

Diana turned to hold her husband's compassionate gaze, and wascertain of what he meant. "I understand why things have to be the waythey are, Vincent, at least for now. Maureen does, too. It's allright. We saw each other at Laura's last month. We write. I haven'tlost her."

Running a hand over the treasured amber hair that was neatlybraided, Vincent marveled anew at the scope of love between them, andof how familiar it was to them, as though it had always been awellspring of their souls, instead of the hard-won actuality that itwas. Still, that rightness had come at a cost -- for herespecially.

"But, it isn't the same as sharing your home with her, offeringher a meal you've prepared especially for her, spending time togetherto renew your bonds within the circumstances of your new life."

Diana rested her head on Vincent's arm, stroking her slenderfingers over the soft warmth of his fur-backed hand. Her father'swedding band rested easily on his ring finger. Dad was down here withher, she knew, in Father; and Mom, in Mary's gentle support. Asister? Olivia, Rebecca, Jamie, surely. Samantha? An almost grownAlex, her little niece. She understood, though, what Vincent wasattempting to guide her through with his words.

Having, from childhood, resigned himself to the reality of livinghis life alone, truly alone, even amidst his loving circle of family,she knew that Vincent treasured every one of his relationships withthose around him as gifts and blessings. He would want her never tobe bereft of such nurturing experiences, of losing her ties to them.Still, whatever she had been constrained to surrender, she'd regainedin other wonders of the soul even more gifting.

"I've been used to doing without her close. Maureen moved toBoston just after she and Andrew got married, because of his workthere. We managed to hold on to our relationship, Vincent. That won'tchange because I'm here."

The soul-reading blue eyes deepened with understanding: Anothergentle-hearted woman, another act of generosity in love.

"For a man shall leave his mother and a woman leave her home,

And they shall travel on to where the two shall be as one."

Lifting her head up in surprise at the quietly offered poetry,Diana smiled in gentle wonder at her love. "There was a song popularin the '60's based on that Bible passage."

"'The Wedding Song' by Paul Stookey. Yes, I've heard it."

For a long moment, his bewildered wife held his belovedlymemorized countenance with puzzled amazement. Vincent raised her handto his mouth and kissed the palm with infinite, exquisite tenderness."I've loved beautiful music, listened to it speak to me also, most ofmy life, Diana. Not all of it has been Chopin and Beethoven."

Crystaline green eyes lit with spirit-lifting wonder. "Oh, Maureenis going to love getting to know you when the time comes!"

"I'm certain the experience will be mutually enlightening. I willlook forward to learning a few more things about you from her." Thepromise of mischief was alight in deep azure eyes, too. Diana couldhardly believe that those eyes were ever devoid of hope and life.

"Well then, I'll have to keep in her good graces during our nextvisit, or she'll be apt to do the sisterly thing and divulge all ofmy deepest, darkest secrets to you."

"With your temperament, my sweet Diana, there are bound to beplenty of them, too."

In a huff, the red-haired teacher was ready to protest her injuredtemperament by what should have been a sweepingly graceful exit, butswollen feet, a sore back, and 25 extra pounds seriously impaired herefforts. Diana was able only to struggle up from her chair. She wasimmediately enfolded by the gentle strength of loving arms thatgathered her up off the stone floor and set her onto the bedinstead.

"You need to rest, Diana. You've been working all day."

"I need to get to the kitchen and finish decorating Jacob'scake."

"You'll be overtired. You already are."

Diana set a loving kiss onto her husband's protesting lips as sheattempted to get back onto her feet. "For a man who is capable ofbeing supremely serene and balanced, Vincent, you have suddenlybecome a chronic worrier."

"Where my wife and child are concerned, I cannot worry enoughabout them." Carefully Vincent set his head down onto the ripenedcontours of his wife's figure, sheltering her with a powerful arm,holding the blessed rhythm of a tiny heartbeat preciously within hissoul. Diana found her hand trembling as she set it onto the goldenred silk that fanned itself over her body.

The unburdened flood of aching, wonderfilled love rushing throughher came, without question, from that bowed figure gathering her tohis heart. I've lost nothing but pain, my sweetest love, and gainedan eternity of heaven, she silently reassured him.

"I'll come back here to rest a bit after I'm done in the kitchen.I promise."

The golden-locked head was raised and a look of gratefultenderness held her in its warm embrace. "Jacob is excited abouttonight. Thank you for helping give him some joy for this day."

"Thank you for believing there could be joy."

A gentle kiss to a porcelain cheek was the only acknowledgementnecessary.

Yet, Vincent knew what a gift it could be, for his little son, forDiana, and for himself: the belief that there was something torejoice in on this day, as well as something, someone, to mourn.Jacob's sweet soul had been, for the past three years, the very lightthat had kept Vincent from being totally, irredeemibly smothered bythe darkness of grief and loss. Like his new mother, he had kept hisfather's tested and wounded soul from succumbing to an existenceunblessed by hope. But more than that. There was so much more thanthat, so much more to Jacob than simply that merciful act of rescueand protection.

Jacob was a gentle, strong, startlingly bright and sensitivelittle soul in his own right, a wondrous three year old boy who lovedbooks and sailing ships and music and climbing rocks. He played tagwith the other children and rested quietly beside his parents incontemplation of the world's graciousness and complexities. He madepeople smile by simply being in the room with them.

That was reason enough to celebrate for the child, with the child,because of the child, even on this day.

Vincent knew that recognizing the little boy's place in all theirlives tonight would allow him to recognize the hope and possibilityof the future, for all of them. Catherine had died in his arms onthis night. The better part of his own soul had died with her. ButJacob had lived.

And Diana had guided them both to the treasure of her ownlove.

"Are you certain you wish to walk with us tonight? It is a longway." The words were gently concerned, but unnecessary, he knew.Diana let her fingers become enfolded by a hand no longer deadly,only different, and breathtakingly beautiful in its tender care.

"We wanted to be there as a family. It's important that we can doso, Vincent. We agreed."

"Yes, we agreed." Her husband's words were tinged with regard, forher courage and generosity. Diana knew his only worry was for hersafety and that of their unborn child's.

"If I get tired, you can carry me part way. I promise. Noargument."

The blue eyes were shining with love, as they always were whenthey held hers. "I will take Jacob down to the river to pick hisroses. That will give you a little extra time to finish his treat."With a kiss both gifting and seeking, Vincent turned to collect hislittle boy from his afternoon play session with Luke and Katy.

Diana closed her eyes and settled a moment more comfortably ontothe worn old chair. The rest of the words came to her, so easily,with such understanding. She whispered them softly to herself,feeling them echo within her own heart's experience:

"'As it was in the beginning, is now until the end.

Woman draws her life from man, and gives it back again.

And there is love. There is love."

Touching a tender embrace to the child she now nurtured withinher, a responding caress to her own spirit came to her from a mythicembodiment of eternally devoted care.

Diana gathered the love to herself, knowing her husband was ableto do the same.

Scampering from rock to rock in the streambed with asure-footedness that was remarkable to behold, Jacob stopped hisexploration long enough to settle his attention onto the thick mossgrowing on one side of several large stones at the water's edge. Thetiny greenery felt like a fine carpet beneath small, inquisitivefingers. Yet, ever sensitive to his surroundings, the little boy wascareful not to disturb the growth, taking his welcome experience ofit without threat or disruption.

A moment later he was busily dropping pebbles into the sailingpool, delighting in the enlarging circles the rippling water reachedout across its mirror surface.

Vincent sat on the grass beneath the shelter of the ficus tree andmarveled, as always, at the wonder of the Underworld's lush garden ofgreenery. The riverbed was flourishing with ferns and carpetingground covers in addition to the grass that thickly cushioned theexpanse of the small park. The potted, flowering plants were in ariot of color, shape, and texture: cyclamens, begonias, even ahanging fuschia pouring out of a basket set atop a pile of rocks, sothat its rich color flowed over the stones in a cascade of softeninglife.

So much color and beauty, not eclipsing the wonder of the stonecavern, forcing it to starkness, but simply brightening it with thepossibility of marvel to be shared. They'd let themselves be drawninto that magic, Vincent recalled with a grateful heart. One Fridaynight, when Jacob had been happily settled into an overnight visitwith Luke, Olivia, and Kanin.

Vincent and Diana had found themselves irresistibly drawn downhere to the riverbed to walk its length in the park area in quiet,tender, contemplation, of it, and of each other. The spilling of themeandering waters, the falls' reassuring, muffled roar, and their ownheartbeats were the only sounds about them in the pale evening lightof the great cavern.

It had only taken them a moment before they'd found themselveswrapped in each other's arms, lying on the grass -- a gift neverdestined to be his before -- feeling the cushioning grass beneaththem, the smell of it, actually seeing the misting of the fallscollecting on the blades. Holding Diana close in his arms, marvelingat the gentle, fresh blush on her cheeks from the circulating airabout them.

Lying in each other's embrace, Vincent could swear he'd almostseen the colors of the setting sun in the lowering light of thecavern.

They'd spent the night thus, under imagined stars, not consumed byheated need, only sheltered in the sweet awareness of each other'spresence, blessed by the vibrant beauty of the living nature aroundthem. He'd awakened, not to the familiar, subdued light of the nightcandle glowing softly in their chamber, but to the sensation ofsoftly reflected sunlight reaching down to them from the mysteriousheights of their surroundings.

He'd awakened to see that light glowing in Diana's hair, radiatingfrom the emerald eyes she opened to him that were brimming withtenderness. They'd spent a night resting peacefully in each other'sembrace, to begin the day sharing heaven's light.

Diana's vision had made such a miracle possible -- a garden amidstthe stone walls -- the most beautiful gifts of her world of sunshineand cloud-scattered sky transported far beneath the city's streets,to thrive on the mystical warmth of reflected light. And love.

Vincent came to his feet. He'd always know, too, what a blessingsitting in the grass, watching his little boy dropping stones in thewater, could be.

Had it been an eternity ago? He'd raged against heaven once, inthis very spot, to Diana, despaired of ever being able to share thenight sky with his child in safety, knowing he'd never be able topick out shapes in the clouds to the little boy's delight.

It had grieved him to pain because that world, Catherine's world,would always be a foreign, dangerous place for him, one he couldnever share freely with her child. And he'd felt the anguish ofknowing that his own world would forever be only composed ofdarkness, stone, and pain. There was nothing of beauty or softness hecould see to give to his child, share with his little boy freely.

But, here was a new creation, born of both the glory of the worldAbove, and the shelter of that Below, in truth, the best of bothworlds. A small pocket of Eden he and Jacob could roam freely. Itwould be his second child's inheritance as well.

A blessing to heaven was raised for the foresighted angel that hadhelped such a world of promise evolve within his reach.

"Jacob, we had better pick our flowers and return home. Supperwill be waiting."

Lively, heartstopping blue eyes held his father's from across thegrassy expanse. "Coming, Father." In a moment, a tiny whilrwindscrambled to the carpeting grass in a sweep of laughter and motion,to take an unearthly hand in his with welcome. "Mama said to checkthat the begonias have enough water."

"We'll see to them, also, my little one." Vincent smiled at howconscientious his child had become of his newly appointed task ofapprentice gardener. With Diana's state of health making the steeppath to the river's edge off limits as of late, her time in thegarden had been reduced only to those instances when Vincent had beenable to carry her carfully down, times which had become rathersporadic as stone-working duties within the deep tunnels and chambershad kept him frequently occuppied for extended periods of time.

To assure the survival of the garden, Jamie had taken over most ofthe cultivating activities, under Diana's instruction, and Jacob wasa serious-minded conveyor of those instructions when he accompaniedJamie to the riverbed on her rounds. He was always able to remind herwhich plants needed more water, what shrubs could stand to betrimmed, and which seed pods were to be left undisturbed for futurecultivation.

One plant, however, that seemed to thrive in the makeshift bowerwith a will of its own, continued to be the rosebush growing in thecenter of the garden. Catherine's rosebush.

Every other plant, every blade of grass, every flower and shrub inthe park was considered a common inheritance for the entirecommunity. The rosebush, though, remained forever, Catherine's. Andit was subject only to Diana's careful tending, by unspoken mutualagreement of the whole Underworld community.

Vincent was in quiet awe at the sight of that bush now.

From its great terracotta container, that was cracked only on oneedge, the plant, which had supposedly been only a shrub-sized hybrid,now rose fully to stand nearly up to his shoulder. Almost Catherine'sheight. He'd found himself thinking that more than once.

She'd always needed to stand on tiptoes to slip her arms aroundhis neck. Diana was taller, her lanky, slender legs bringing hereasily up to his cheek. Catherine had needed the courage to extendthe reach of her love round about him, tentatively, always almostexpecting him to draw himself beyond her offered tenderness. Dianacould set her gifting care readily to him, touch him with thephysical wonder of her love without a strain.

As for the rosebush, it now spread half as wide as it was high, ina verdant mound of glossy green leaves and scores of red and whiteblooms at various stages of budding. The plant defied all logicalcharacteristics of rose growing -- it was thriving without brightsun, blossoming profusely year round, taking only short intervals ofrest. It never went dormant.

The soft, sweet fragrance was indescribable, too, a light mixtureof floral and spice that could not be reduced to its elements. Itpermeated the surrounding air with a gentle richness.

Jacob drank in the perfume with a child's abandon. He'd taken hisfirst steps reaching out past his father to that rosebush, two longyears before. Diana had brought it Below to relinquish it with aguilty heart to Vincent's charge. Having resurrected it fromCatherine's terrace, she nevertheless found herself assailed bycolliding emotions in keeping it from him for so long.

Vincent, himself, had accept it with pain . . . and wonder . . .and an unexpected, fearless tenderness for the generous heart thathad restored it, and the sweetness of its memories, back to him.

"Mama has taken such good care of this rose, hasn't she, Father?"His own thoughts echoed to him from his child's soft words filledVincent's heart with warmth.

"Yes, she has, Jacob. She wanted you to have it."

"Because my mother Catherine planted it?"

A gentle ache tugged within him at the easy words of his littleboy's observation. "Catherine planted this rosebush, yes, Jacob, andMama wished for you to be able to share in its beauty so it wouldremind you of her, of who she was."

"Mama must love Catherine as much as you, Father."

For a long moment, the azure eyes lighting a mystic face of legendheld on to tears, uncertain if they could, or should be shed, andwhether they should be evidence of joy or sorrow.

They'd both blessed his tested spirit with love beyond telling,different facets of it, surely, as night and day, as rock and sky,but love, nevertheless. He'd cherished them both, still loved themboth as well, from equally compelling sources within differentrecesses of his soul.

Could the two women have ever come to cherish each other inanother reality?

"I believe she does. Because she loves us both so much, Jacob."The tears did fall then, quietly, ones of tender wonder and acceptedmercy. In another reality, they could have been friends, Diana andCatherine, but then he would have been left bereft of the gift of oneof their souls touching his own.

"Which of the flowers do you wish to pick?" at last, Vincent wasable to ask his son quietly. The little boy considered a moment, thenpointed out one bloom after another which his father then cut; threered ones and three white ones. Jacob would bring them to his motherAbove as he had done so every year on his birthday.

The task completed to his satisfaction, something else took holdof the little boy's heart, something as imperative as choosing theright flower gift for his angel mother in heaven. "Could we pick someflowers for Mama, too, tonight?" came the softly pleadingrequest.

Vincent held the sweet bundle of heaven's graciousness in his gazefor a long moment. The little boy had no problem carrying two lovingsouls within his own heart as the embodiment of "mother;" one woman,never known, never seen, but brave enough to have given him life withher last breath; the other whose own courage was to be found in thesmall, day-to-day tendernesses that created his present, nurturedexistence warmed with her love. The mythic figure that was his fatherran a proud hand softly across his tousled golden curls.

"I am certain she would love some flowers. Which would youthink?"

Skipping about the various pots of blooms for several moments,Jacob attempted to decide which he wished to include for his secondvery important selection. Vincent contemplated the little boy'sactions with gratitude, knowing how attuned the child had become tohis new mother's gentle spirit. He would want to offer her somethingvery special, it was so easy to understand in his quietly intentconsideration.

Diana had often brought bunches of the flowers back to theirchamber to share with the community, to keep atop their own table,too. She did love their color and brightness in the mutued hues oftheir candlelit world, but she was also ever conscious of theblossoms' fragile existences Below. Thus, they were considered a raretreat when gathered away from the garden.

Jacob returned to Vincent's side with a deep, thoughtful lookcreasing his sweet little face. The child's attention settled fullyonto the miraculous rosebush before them once again, then was drawnfrom the flowers to his father's unique features.

Vincent suddenly realized something he'd never actually takenclose note of before, that came to him with Jacob's help -- In thetwo years that the rosebush had been a part of the garden, not asingle blossom had ever been picked by anyone for any reason, otherthan for Jacob to carry to Catherine's grave. Oh, the marvel of theplant was always the center of attention in the little park foranyone who ventured down to the riverbed for an interlude of peacefulcontemplation or simple enjoyment. Its fragrance was sampled withfrequent delight by all that passed near it.

No one in the community, however, had ever deemed it seemly topick a flower from the bush for any reason other than for Jacob'sspecial tribute. Not even Diana.

Especially not Diana.

Forever the caretaker . . . never hers by right . . . Vincentunderstood what Jacob had touched to as well, with a pang ofheart.

"Father, look over here."

Vincent's unsettled thoughts were eased by the sound of his littleboy's voice, tinged with unexpected amazement. He'd walked around theback of the bush, that part facing away from the river and towardsthe stone walls of the cliffs, opposite his father. Following theboy's urging, Vincent came to that side, and reached an unsteady handout to the thriving plant, to what the child had noticed.

"They're new shoots, Jacob, new branches rising directly from theroots of the plant."

Vincent set his hand gently amongst a half dozen new young canesfilling up and out from the base of the bush. There were alreadyseveral small flower buds clustered atop the strongest ones. And, asingle, full-blown rose standing erect amongst the leaves and thornsof the new growth.

"Oh, may we bring that rose for Mama? She's never picked onebefore. Do you think Mother Catherine would mind?"

Shaking his head slowly, Vincent found it difficut to find hsvoice. After a moment, he carefully reached into the plant and gentlycut the stem of the new bloom. "I don't believe Catherine would mind,Jacob. I think she would want this one to go to Mama."

Diana lay on the bed a moment before she attempted to get to herfeet. Much as she hated to admit it, Vincent had been right. She'dovertired herself today, and she dearly wanted to be able to sharefully in the evening's plans. The nap had refreshed her.

Vincent's constant, tender care of her brought a gentle warmthover her spirit, even if her independent nature sometimes rebelled.Somehow, he always was able to both protect her, and give her herspace, reading her need with generous patience. God, Bennett, whatdid you do right in your life to finally deserve him, deserve allthis? she asked herself with a bemused wonder. Then, in her silentexhortation, she corrected herself. Diana Bennett was a part of herlife riddled only with pain, frustration, and denial. Diana Wells waswho she'd been able to become, though she had little opportunity touse the name she cherished.

She'd never believed she could become that part of herself thathad remained long unfulfilled, unblessed.

But, life in the rocky chambers and tunnels had proven to be herown resurrection of heart. Loving Vincent had given her back hersoul. And this evening, they would all reclaim their hope in thisparticular day.

Jacob's cake was decorated. Not her best effort, she admitted. Shewas more than a little out of practice, and William had little timeto indulge in such extraneous details when he had a growing communityto help feed every day. Kitchen duty meant real KP duty: peelingpotatoes, helping with canning and preserving food, kneading moundsof bread dough.

Even so, Diana found that her turns at the community chores in thekitchen, providing simple, hearty meals to appreciative stomachs, hadhappily revived her fondness for cooking. And she'd long ago charmedher way into the great cook's good graces enough that he would allowher the occasional indulgence of baking a special treat on herown.

So, tonight, there would be a simple yellow sheet cake, with theadded treat of chocolate frosting on the menu, enough for each of thecommunity to savor a morsel in Jacob's honor. The little boy would beable to read his name in the icing atop it and know that the daywould be made special because of his part in all their lives.

Diana again whispered a prayer of thanks for Vincent's part in allthis. It was not right that his son should forever find his existenceclouded by loss and pain. It was the proper time, now, to embracepromise and yes, even joy, for this day. Jacob was a blessing to themall. She'd been so grateful that Vincent could share in that truth atlast.

Not exactly certain of how long she had slept, Diana tossed backthe quilt and raised herself up on her elbow. She didn't rememberpulling the blanket over her when she'd quit the kitchen. Smiling toherself, she knew where it must have come from then -- Vincent andJacob must have returned from the river.

Sure enough, casting a glance off to the foot of the bed and over,Diana caught sight of the bouquet of red and white roses in a waterglass, sitting on the table in their chamber, awaiting their walkAbove later that night. As usual, the flowers were beautiful, gracedwith abundant petals of deepest red or purest white. Catherine'sroses.

She was glad that they'd survived, more than she'd everimagined.

Carefully pushing herself up to a sitting position, Diana stoppeda moment in her movements when she felt the baby within her. Thistime it was a definite kick. Another little tunnel sprite she'd growgrey attempting to safely keep within the confines of their chambersoon enough. She caressed the child with love. Jacob would welcome aspirited sibling, God help them!

"I can't wait either, my little angel," she called gently to thesoul beneath her softy stroking hand. She would revel in being runragged by her two children, she knew. Vincent's spirit would nevertouch ground.

Swinging her legs down off the side of the bed, Diana finallycaught sight of something that had remained out of her line of visionuntil now, on the mirrored dressing table: In a nostalgic milk glassvase, nestled in a bed of fern leaves, awaited another flower.

It was a rose, one, single, fullblown, long-stemmed rose. Where ithad appeared from, Diana could hardly venture a guess, although shewould have assumed from the river garden, as the ferns would attest.But, this was a bloom she'd never seen before, an exquisitelybeautiful flower that held her completely transfixed by itsunbelieveably unique details.

The blossom was a bursting wealth of transluscent white petalsthat swept gracefully from a tightly-held center. Across each openedpetal, as though an artist had taken a fine brush and impulsivelyswirled the white with color, was a sinuous curve of deepest red. Thepetals almost appeard to sway and . . . dance . . . in theirunfurling, with the sweep of color stroked across them, seemingly byGod's own hand.

Then the gentlest of fragrances slipped into Diana's senses aswell, as she came to her feet before the vintage vanity. Definitelyrose, the scent, old rose; simple, yet profoundly resonant, like theblossoms that blanketed the bush in Mr. Clementi's front yard inQueens when she was a little girl. But beyond the somehow, familiar,essence, the fragrance was still tinged with a deep, musky, earthykind of smell, something that evoked a deep woods after a springrain, from the realm of fairies and earth mists.

At that, in awed understanding, Diana knew, without question, werethe rose had come from -- Catherine's bush -- and yet, in some way,it couldn't have. The bloom appeared to be neither fruit of the redroses nor the white that were carefully collected on the table in theglass, but a heartstopping melding of both.

She touched her hand carefully to the flower, with love.

There's a language to flowers, she'd urged Joe to comprehend, whenshe'd first witnessed Catherine's resurrected rosebush blooming inher own loft. The plant had taken hold of her imagination withstartling, sympathetic force, as she attempted to understand what herheart was telling her she was being given privileged, but painedsight to -- a love unlike any other.

Red roses and white.

Love's passion and purity.

Growing side by side, eternally drawing their existence from thesame life source. But never to be experienced as one.

It had broken her heart to realize what that conclusion had toldher about the man she'd come so unexpectedly to love. She'd knownthen that there was as much evidence of anguish as their was offulfillment, within nature's prophetic embodiment there beforeher.

Yet, now, there was a new possibility embraced, also springingfrom that same source of mystically joined promise. It had arisenonly within the boundaries of a fragile, rocky, underground world,and it mirrored evidence of the truth of a new love that was blessingthat world's most cherished inhabitant, a love that had struggledwith such desolation to exist, but one that had at last been giventhe wondrous right to be.

Diana reached a hand trembling with emotion to a small piece ofwriting paper folded unevenly in half, that rested against the baseof the vase. In careful, rainbow crayon letters, was the very essenceof that love, sweeping into her heart with uncontested welcome. Thenote read simply, "For Mama."

Closing her eyes and clasping the little dedication to her chest,Diana let the reality of love's mercy shelter her tenderly.

The prayers were automatic. Heartfelt, yes, but ingrained as well-- the proper thing to do when one finds oneself at a cemetery,courtesy of the nuns at St. Joseph's Grade School. There was a pangof conscience in that realization, too. His connection to the . . .spiritual . . . dimension of life, to the idea that there was aHigher Power out there somewhere that gave a damn about mankind, hadlong ago become a perfunctory habit he'd clung to only out of respectfor his mother. The reality of how perversely that creation couldsink from heaven had knocked any bit of his own shakey hold on beliefright out of his heart.

He was reinforced in his futility by what he was within sight ofat the moment: rows of granite monuments that should never have heldany place within the memory he carried inside himself of Cathy. Justas the forest of stone should have long been kept away from hisexperience of a loving father. Joe'd had enough reason to be cynicalabout God.

Unfortunately, the world found bone-chilling ways to acquaint theyoung with death, and a Providential Presence never seemed aroundlong enough to help pick up the pieces left behind. He'd had his ownexperience, too young, with that truth. His father had been murderedfor his watch and his service revolver, when Joe had been onlyfourteen years old. His father's executioners had been the same age.In quiet rage he'd told Cathy that once. She'd ached for his pain,but kept him from using it to blind his decency and sense of justice.She'd known loss, too, in her life.

And she'd become loss. For him as well.

He couldn't recognize anything of Cathy in the cold, dark stonebefore him. She'd never been cold -- always warm, radiantly warm,with a mischevious smile that could light up a room. She'd never beendark, either, never. There'd always been an open brightness, awelcoming sparkle about her that made you feel like shining, too. Andeven when she was faced with evidence of the depravity of humankind,she'd never let that hopeful light become completely obliteratedwithin her.

That had been Cathy.

Not cold granite in the dark.

Because of him.

"I needed to see you tonight, here, Cathy. I can't exactly explainwhy, here. I mean, I could talk to you anywhere, right? At home,behind closed doors at the office. You've heard me there, I'm sure.It doesn't have to be here. You're not just here, in the ground."

The words he had no fear of anyone else overhearing caught in histhroat, as Joe stood for a long moment, before he found the courageto reach his hand out to the carved letters of her name, touched themgently.

"Maybe that's what Diana was trying to tell me in her lettertonight. That I needed to carry my memories of you beyond this place,to let them grow in my heart beyond this place. Because you're notjust here. You are in my heart. You should be in my heart."

Reaching a hand through his thick dark hair in a familiar gestureof frustration, Joe silently listened to the urgings that echoedthrough his mind from a letter that had seemed as providential as itwas challenging.

"I thought that's where I've been carrying you, Cathy, holding onto you all this time: In my heart. With the special kind of love thatyou were willing to offer me. The love of a trusted friend. But Dianahad the courage to point it out to me tonight . . . I wasn't holdingon to you there. I've been carrying you in my conscience instead,like a ghost."

Suddenly, the unimagineable happened within Joe's heart. Itsmiled. And the true, honest feelings followed, what he remembered,what he actually knew of her followed to take hold of him atlast.

"You'd make a pretty lousy ghost, Radcliffe. There's nothing aboutyou that could haunt anyone. Nothing to frighten or threaten. There'sonly that warmth I loved so much about you. Hell, there's the love,too. I never had the guts to come out and tell you. At least Elliothad the good sense to try."

Throwing his head back, Joe caught sight of the stars twinkling onin the autumn night, and let the tears slip from his gentle browneyes.

For the past three years, he'd fought them, the tears. Forced themback. Ordered them back. Swallowed them hard, wiped them away theinstant they dared to attempt to fall. Because he knew what wouldfollow if he'd let them have their way: He'd drown in them.

Tonight he let them just fall, without fear. They only slippedsoftly down his cheeks, one after another, silently. Not tearing athis soul. Only washing it clean.

"I'm sorry, Cathy. God, you've got to know I would have never doneanything to put you at risk! I had no way of knowing the scope of itall. We didn't know how far Gabriel could reach, before it was toolate . . . Right to you. Right in our own office. I'd have given mylife for you, kid. You know that."

And suddenly, he knew that, too. He hadn't sacrificed her to thevery monster that would shed her blood. He'd only been trying to dohis job. She'd only been trying to do hers. They'd only beenattempting to stem the corruption and downright evil that seemed soinsidious to that damn case.

He would never have let her die. He hadn't been able to rest untilshe'd been found.

A soft breeze unexpectedly picked up and swept passed him,carrying the same hopeful fullness he'd sensed back at his own flat.The soft current that touched him seemed almost an acknowledgement, areassuring hand across his back. He trembled with the warm care thatit radiated within his heart.

"So, now, I guess we need to go on from here, don't we, you and I?I don't mind telling you that I'm scared as hell to do it. I don'tthink I know how. Diana said that life would warm me to the soulagain somehow. I can't really seem to find where that will bepossible for me now, where I can find something to hold on to thatwon't crumble in my hands, something, someone worth caring about. Idon't even know if I'll be able to recognize what I needanymore!"

Joe fought a moment within himself with the rest of the words heneeded to say. But tonight could mean the end of the guilt-riddledpain. The fondly nourishing memories could support, at last, and nottear down. He might find his way, yet.

"You recognized the love. You let it fill you, and it raditatedthrough you. You even let it touch me, maybe not in the way I wouldhave chosen, but in the way I needed from you. Everything wasanchored into place somehow, Cath, with what you were able to do, togive. I'm sorry that I had to cost you that. I'm sorry I had to keepyou from your hopes, your future. You deserved your dreams."

Slowly, the young DA turned from his place to take serveral stepsaway from the stone monument before him. He wasn't certain if he'dbeen able to voice his heart completely. Catherine would have beenable to understand what was left unsaid, though, he knew.

Without warning, the sound of Rita's gentle voice on the phonecame back to him: "Don't lose heart." She'd been speaking about theWomen's Center controversy. Wasn't she? Joe suddenly recognized thegentleness in her voice, the encouragement in her words. He turnedback to the stone almost expectantly, as if he'd see Catherinestanding there with that "I told you so" look she always gave himwhen he finally came to his senses about something they'd beenworking on.

Diana was capable of the same, impassioned admonishments to him:"You're better than this, Joe. Go with your instincts." Reading herletter this evening had indeed given him the direction he needed, thedirection he'd fought in desperation. When he'd taken on

the red-headed detective as his investigator, he'd hoped he wasdoing all he possibly could to get Cathy justice, to find her killerand make him pay. He'd never imagined he'd also be doing all hepossibly could to get himself justice, in the challenging guise of atrusted friend who'd reach out instinctively to him when she knewhe'd need her the most.

It was strange, almost eerie, he thought. He'd had his hopes, hisspirit, bolstered by two extraordinary women in the past. Cathy he'dloved silently, and lost in an agony of evil and corruption that hadseared his very soul. Diana he'd never had the chance to love, but herespected her deeply, thankfully losing her only to her ownmysteriously unfolding hopes and dreams. Was there yet room in histested existence to finally get it right this time? Was it the timeto move on, to begin again?

Almost sheepishly, the handsome, too-long careworn features brokeinto a gentle brightness he wasn't all that certain was in its properplace at the moment. But he was nearly convinced Catherine would notmind.

"You know, Escobar has turned into a hell of a crusader herself.If I really knew what was good for me, I'd quit shutting her out ofmy life. Right?"

Joe never got his answer because he was startled to hear a child'svoice being carried on the breeze to him from a distance.

Or perhaps it was his response from Catherine, after all.

Because the sound continued coming closer, and, unbelievably,quite proficiently, it was reciting poetry, in a sweet, confidentvoice:

"No one can tell me, nobody knows -

Where the wind comes from, where the wind goes.

It's flying from somewhere as fast as it can.

I couldn't keep up with it, not if I ran."

The three figures moving slowly about the tree line on a stillwarm autumn night could have simply been three souls out for awelcome experience of nature in its fullness. The night sky wasbright with stars. A friendly breeze stirred leaves that had begunpiling up beneath their feet in what the day's light would have shownto be a wonder of autumn color -- golds, reds, browns, evenpurples.

But that light would need to be forever shunned, in reality. Theleaves were piling up against headstones in a cemetery, and notnatural outcrops of rock on some sheltered plain. The purpose of theexcursion tonight, too, was not a joyous embrace of the naturalworld's beauty and fullness, but an acknowledgement of loss.

"Father, may I go on ahead now?" A small voice asked, ever eagerto gather life's possibilities to itself. Even in this place, on thisday.

"Yes, Jacob, but stay where we may still see you. Remember, thisis not our world."

The little boy gazed up carefully into a beloved face he couldtrasure as no other, understanding the love for him carried incompelling blue eyes. "I'll be careful, Father." With a generoussmile to the gentle, brave-hearted lady besude him, his mother, Jacobwalked on ahead.

"Do you wish to rest?" The gentle words were soft and concerned.Diana smiled easily at them.

"We're almost there, Vincent. I'm all right."

A powerful arm drew her closer to his towering strength anyway.She leaned against it gratefully, knowing full well her husband wasreaching his support out to her for more than simply her physicalshortcomings of the moment. He was supporting her heart. The journeywas still difficult to make, for her as much as for him, but theywould sustain each other and find their way.

Just as they'd found their way to celebrating for Jacob thisevening in the community, another gifting miracle in all theirlives.

As he watched his young son walk purposefully ahead of them at abrisk child's pace, Vincent was filled with the peace and . . .rightness . . . of their decision to offer the child back hisbirthright.

It had been only a simple little gathering at the regular eveningmeal. Instead of everyone heading off to chores and family time, thecommunity had lingered at table in the refectory area, and severalsmall boxes covered with colored paper had been set beside the child.He wasn't certain what it all meant.

Then Diana had come in from the kitchen proper, and with William'shelp, had placed an iced cake crowned with candles before him, thathad lit up the little boy's eyes as nothing ever had before. When heunderstood that the celebration was for him, because of his birthday,Jacob had simply looked to his father for confirmation.

"Happy Birthday, Jacob," Vincent had offered his child, with a hugand kiss that encompassed the entire community.

Simple present followed -- some books to keep as his own from thechildren's collection, handed down from the older boys and girls; ahooded sweatshirt, warm, and nearly new; a flotilla of small, plasticbathtub boats that could easily turn into pirate ships on the sailingpool; and, most wondrous of all, a large bucket of interlockingbuilding blocks, brand new, brightly colored in myriad shapes andsizes, perfect for building castles and skyscrapers.

"Oh thank you!" came the heartfelt aknowledgement a half dozentimes over, as, for once, the articulate little boy was left at aloss for words beyond those simple, grateful ones. The laughter thatfollowed was punctuated by shared sweets and plans for building,sailing, and reading adventures in coming days with playmates andfriends.

As Vincent now noticed how tall the child had grown in pastmonths, how the warm sweatshirt fit perfectly and was not simplyenveloping the little boy in a loose layer of fabric, he felt a warmpride spill over him. His son's generosity and tender care for allthose around him, so very evident tonight, were a blessing in and ofthemselves to the community, and to his parents, especially. Threeyears with the sweet child in their midst: It had truly been a mercyto be celebrated this night, without turmoil.

And at that particular instant, Jacob was practicing aloud thepoem he had wished to recite for his "angel mother", a special giftto her on this, his special day. The sweet sounds of the litÅÇ É Ñ Ö Ü á à âä ã å ç é èþÿÿÿþÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿtleboy's voice were a healing balm. Vincent felt a tender wonder lighthis heart. And then, a moment later, a sudden ache, gentle, and sad.Diana laid her head on his shoulder as they walked, and he realizedthe feelings slipping into his heart had sprung from hers first.

She was watching Jacob outdistancing them as well, catching in herheart how the breeze played with the golden curls on his head,caressing them as lovingly as she. Vincent had touched the words inher heart the instant they formed there: "You're growing up tooquickly, my little angel."

A mother's words.

Diana had the right to carry them in her heart. Even in thisplace, tonight.

The sudden need in Joe was an unnatural one of flight andconcealment, something that was far distant from his normal range ofemotions. The sound of a child's voice, coming from the dark on thewind, through a cemetery, should at least have caused the DA to slipinto his policing mindset: All was not as it should be -- where wasthe child? -- why was he here? -- was he alone?

That should have been Joe's reaction to the gentle sounds ofchildhood poetry carried to him on the breeze. Still, what he foundhimself doing instead, at that instant, was attempting to hold hisheart from bursting through his chest . . . not from an adolescentfear of burial grounds and nocturnal evils, but because Joe knewexactly whose voice reached him on the currents of air.

When he'd concealed himself behind a large ash tree about 20 feetway from Catherine's grave, Joe at last settled his heart into somesort of rhythmic order enough to peer out around his shelter.

The granite marker he'd just quit was still clearly in sight.Approaching it slowly now was a small boy, dressed in patched jeansand a dark colored sweatshirt. He was carrying a bouquet, of allthings, in hs right hand, a bunch of flowers, roses, clearly visiblein the pale moonlight of the night.

Jacob. Catherine's child.

Joe knew it for certain. It had been over six months since he'dseen the little boy in Diana's company at her loft one evening. Joecouldn't clearly make out the child's face well enough in thedistance, but he'd recognize the halo of golden curls anywhere.

Cathy's baby. Diana's son.

If he'd ever held a breath of a doubt that the child was one andthe same, it had all been finally put to rest . . . like the littleboy's mother.

Taking a moment to ease the pounding of his heart at theconfirmation, Joe took careful note of the child's presentappearance. Jacob looked older than he remembered, at leastsize-wise, as children were despairinging wont to do without warning.The DA had somehow always kept the little boy as a toddler in hismind, but now he could see that the lanky legs took strong, confidentsteps. He almost questioned his assumption as to the child'sidentity, but the golden curls made the boy instantly recognizable,despite the passage of time. Those curls . . . and the heart-stoppingblue eyes . . . that had locked onto his soul whenever Joe had comeinto contact with the child.

Though he was too far away to easily see the little boy's face,catch sight of those compelling eyes, the DA knew it was Jacob assurely as if Cathy had held out her hand to him and walked him acrossthe distance to her side before his very eyes.

There was no way in heaven or hell now that the tested observerwas going to quit his place. Yet, a growing part of his troubledheart told him that what might come to pass before him within thenext few minutes would not be meant for peering, insensitiveeyes.

Could it, though, have been meant, in truth, for him?

Coming to stand still before the dark stone at last, Jacob lookedover his shoulder from the direction he had come and nodded his headvisibly. Joe wasn't able to see who followed the child through theforest of markers, although he could guess, more than a littleuneasily. So he willingly let that mystery play itself out in thebackground of his awareness as he focused instead on the little boyhimself.

Jacob stood before his mother's grave for a long, quiet moment,gazing intently at the name on the stone. Gently, he set his smallfingers to the carved letters, then liften them to his lips in atender, acknowledging kiss. Reaching his left hand up to hisforehead, he stopped an instant, as if not exactly certain of what hewished to do. After some decision, the little boy shifted the flowersfrom his right hand to his left, then proceeded to slowly, solemnly,cross himself with his right hand, with the careful detail of a angelthat had just learned the devotion.

Joe swallowed hard, feeling totally, spiritually, overwhelmed, atthe child's heartfelt attempt. He suddenly remembered his own Momtrying to teach his younger sister how to begin saying her prayerswhen she was about two and a half or three. Anna, a lefty, alwaysforgot to cross herself with her right hand, as was properlyrequired. His mother kept patiently directing her until she finallygot it right, was able to feel the encompassing shelter of acherished devotion readily within reach of her small heart forwhenever she needed it

Directing a child's spiritual growth: Surely a mother'ssignificant concern. Even here, before him, tonight? But whichmother?

A strong urging within him told Joe he had absolutley no rightwhatever to be intruding on such a moment. Yet, Jacob's voice,sweetly natural and hardly ill at ease amongst his surroundings,seemed to hold the older man transfixed, totally unable, andunwilling, to remove himself from his vantage point.

"I've brought you some flowers from your rose bush, Mother," camethe gentle little voice, startlingly clear on the breeze. Carefully,Jacob bent down to the stone vase that had been placed before theheadstone and settled the roses into it. Red roses and white.

Their color was unmistakeable.

The last time Joe had seen such blossoms had been at Diana's loft,too, as she struggled to explain to him how a plant with unusualblossoming qualities could possibly be the reflection of anindescribable, unspeakably transcendent relationship that had drawnthem both within its mysterious depths.

"Thank you for letting me give that one special rose to Mamatoday. It was so pretty," the child's words continued with the softease of familiar conversation. Joe had to remind himself that therewas only a granite marker within sight of the little boy. Then heknew, for certain, that he was being given a providential gift thisevening with the child's continued explanation. "She started to cry.I was afraid Mama was sad, but she just said that she was crying fromlove, that she loved me very much. I told her I loved her, too andshe hugged me tight."

Again, the little boy turned to look over his shoulder, and thistime Joe could just make out movement along the tree line in theshadows, coming in his, and the child's, direction. Nothing distinct,actually, but only a . . . sensation . . . of motion in the dark. Joepulled back around the tree and closed his eyes tight, desperatelytrying to decide what to do. If he left now, he judged he couldprobably get to the main drive through and his car undetected bywhomever was approaching. Yet, he couldn't will himself to leave.Jacob's words held him. As did the evidence that the child would soonno longer be alone.

"Father and Mama are coming. It takes Mama a bit longer to walknow because the baby will be born soon, Grandfather says. Mama let mefeel it moving around inside her. It kicked under my hand." The senseof wonder was unmistakable in the soft voice. Joe felt his heartsnap. "I asked her if it hurt, and she said, 'a little', but that itwas one of the most beautiful things a mother could ever feelhappening to her. Did I kick you, too, mother? I hope I didn't hurtyou if I did."

He simply could not help it then -- the tears began to fall again.Joe felt a poignant, yearning shudder from the depths of his soul atthe simply questioning words reaching him without conflict. Oh God,Cathy! he called out silently, you've got to be aching to pick thatlittle boy up just now!

When Joe finally managed to gather his courage enough to look backaround the tree again, he almost let an audible gasp escape him, forJacob was no longer alone.

He'd been gently, lovingly, gathered up into the sheltering armsof a powerful, forbiddingly dark, shadow.