Sarah walked carefully down the sidewalk. The growth of the oaks had cracked and buckled the cement since the last time she had walked this way. Every few feet she slowed a bit to look up at the houses as she passed by. It amazed her how little some of them had changed. Others, she noticed, were completely new. Someone had torn down the old Smith place and replaced it with a huge two-story pink brick duplex. Not an improvement, she thought. Even the ones that looked the same were different: new paint, larger trees, different names painted in cute little stenciled letters on the sides of the mailboxes.

Sarah didn't stop to look around too much. She hadn't decided to walk this morning just to sightsee in the old neighborhood; she was on a mission. As she turned the corner and started up Johnston Street, the sidewalk evened out. There were no oaks on Johnston Street. She sped up her pace a little, wondering if it would still be there, after all of these years?

The stairs to the library's front door were a lot steeper than she remembered. She never used to notice, she guessed, remembering bouncing up them two or three at a time. But then, he would always be there, she thought, pulling herself up by the handrail, and she had had reason to hurry. They would sit and talk a while and then, arm in arm, glide down the steps and he would walk her to the corner of her block. Sometimes, only once or twice, all the way to her front porch.

Sarah pulled back the heavy door and stopped. The familiar scent of old paper and lemony-waxed hardwoods greeted her like a friend. She stepped through the door and back in time. Nothing about the old library had really changed, except the addition of a row of computers where the card catalog had once stood. She paused for a moment at the foot of the stairs leading up to the stacks. She thought about the hundreds of times over that brief six months that she had practically flown up to the little table in the back corner where he would sit, reading sonnets or poems. He would always look up and smile. It was his smile that she had first noticed. She had walked past him looking for a book; she couldn't remember the title. He had smiled at her and she had just stared. His eyes, when he smiled, were hypnotic. She had immediately fallen under their spell.

Over the following few days, Sarah had found any excuse to go to the library, each time slowly walking past his table. He would always look up and smile. On the fourth day, he had finally said hello; and within five minutes, it had happened. He had reached over to shake her hand and his hand lingered. She knew in that moment she felt his touch that she loved him.

As she started up the staircase, Sarah thought about the way that his hand had felt. It wasn't the warmth or texture that had stuck with her, though. It had felt as though something was transferred to her, or, she liked to think, been connected to her, by his touch. She had only tried to explain it to one person since, her friend Margie, a couple of years after she had moved from town. Margie hadn't understood then, and she doubted if she could make anyone understand now.

She got to the top of the stairs and instinctively followed the pathway down the aisle to where their table had been. She scanned the books on her left. When she found the shelf she stopped, glancing down the titles, head bent to the side. For a moment, she thought that it was gone, figured that it had been replaced with a newer edition, like so many of the other titles had apparently been. Then she saw it: brown leather spine now wrapped in a protective plastic cover. Sarah smiled as she slowly reached up to pull the book from its nestled place on the shelf and his hand rested gently on hers.

She had not seen him walk up next to her. She must have been lost in thought. Like a ghost from the past, suddenly he was there. Still, it did not startle her like she felt it should have. It just seemed so natural, so right. Of course he was there; this is where they belonged.

"Sarah." His voice was older, more mature, wizened. Sarah stared into those eyes and felt as though she had never stopped, like the previous forty-odd years had been nothing but a dream.

"You've come home." He smiled. His face, though older and weathered, was as handsome as she remembered, his eyes as hypnotic. She felt the warmth of his smile flow all through her, against the sudden chill of the library.

"Yes," she whispered, "home." Sarah shook her head to clear her eyes. "Yes, I have come for a visit. What? what are you doing here?"

"Same as you, I guess." He pulled his hand back from the copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets on which both of their hands rested. She smiled softly as she pulled the book from its shelf.

Without saying a word, they both walked to the table in the corner behind the stacks and sat down. There was no one else around, which is what they had always liked about this particular table in the first place.

"Just like old times!" Sarah said, trying to break the ice.

"Yes," he said, taking the book from her hands and opening it carefully to the inside front cover. He held it in his hands gingerly, as if it were a sacred text. Holding it out to her, she could see written inside the cover on the faded yellow beneath the plastic sleeve, her own handwriting.

"I come here every once in a while to read it." He said, turning it so he could see.

"You told me today that you loved me," he began, "but I cannot say it in return, for fear of what would happen if I heard it. I cannot say it but you know it is true; I love you, too. In my heart. In my soul. I long to whisper it to you, to scream it to the mountains, to say it as an oath. I love you, I love you, I love you. Please know that this is true, and know, if you never hear me say it, it is only because this must remain our dream, and to speak it makes it too real."

"How is your wife doing?" Sarah asked, after a moment. It was the only way she knew of to bring herself back down to earth. It was so long ago that she had loved him and yet it was right there, just under the surface, all this time. It had never gone away.

"She's been gone for five years." He responded, sadly, "Wreck over on fifty-seven, no one survived."

"That's horrible, I'm sorry."

"That's okay, she went quickly; there wasn't any pain."

She sat there and looked at him, sitting across the little table. But for the age on his face, it was like it had been the last time that they had met there. He looked sad then, too. She had just told him that she was moving with her husband, Jim, to Concord.

"Stay with me." He had said, simply.

"I can't," she had answered, with tears beginning to flow, "I have to think of Elizabeth." Elizabeth had been two, then.

She had left him sitting at the table where they had first met. He had known from their first meeting that she was married. She had told him of her sadness, how Jim had all but ignored her during her pregnancy and had only recently began to acknowledge that something must be done if the marriage was to be saved. She had told him about what a great father Jim was becoming and how much Elizabeth loved him and how much she loved Elizabeth.

He had known from the beginning that it would not work, that she would always choose the happiness of her daughter over him. He had tried not to fall in love, he had said, tried not to want her. However, he couldn't ignore what he felt, and though he knew that it would most likely cause nothing but heartache in the end, he had to follow his heart. He did love her, he had said, and he always would, forever.

"And how are Jim and Elizabeth?" He asked, interrupting her memories.

"Elizabeth is fine, she's still up in New England. She has two of her own now, six and three."

"That's wonderful!"

"Jim passed away eight years ago. The doctor's still don't know exactly what it was. I think he caught something on one of his trips, but nobody knows for sure."

"I'm sorry."

"He was always off somewhere."

"I've never understood how he could have possibly left you alone for so long."

"I wasn't alone, I had Elizabeth."

"I wasn't worried about you. I was wondering how he could stand not being near you for so long."

"He worked hard to provide for us, it was his job, his career."

"No job is worth that; nothing is."

He was doing it again. Looking at her the way he had all of those years ago. Only now, it made her a little nervous, and a little frightened. Not of him, of herself. When he looked at her that way, she still melted inside. After all of this time.

"There was nothing he could do about it," she began, again, "the company needed him all over. For a while there, I hardly even saw him on week-ends." Her voice trailed off into a whisper. "Elizabeth really missed him."

"Come home with me."

"What?"

"To my house, right now. There is something I have to show you."

"But" she began.

"No buts," he smiled, "I've waited around too long for this."

He reached out and took her hand. His touch sent shivers up her arm and to places that had not felt anything in a long time. She stood up slowly, afraid she might lose her balance and go tumbling into him. He offered his arm and she took it, gladly.

It was a short walk to his house. His daughter, Marie, lived with him now, he told her. She hadn't known he had a daughter. He told her all about Marie, how she taught at the elementary school, and was engaged to a nice young fireman named Eric.

"She's at the market right now," he informed her, "but she will be so excited to meet you when she gets back."

The house was cozy, with warm quilts draping the back of the well-worn sofa, and sturdy hard-backed rockers in a nice, conversation friendly circle. There was no TV that she could see.

"Back here." He led her to the back of the house. It was a library of sorts, with shelves of books, most of which looked as though they had been new when they were kids. He paused momentarily before motioning for her to sit down.

"There's something I need to show you, something that you need to know."

"What is it?"

"I loved you so much then."

She smiled as the tears began forming in his eyes.

"I loved you, too." She started to stand, but he waved her back to her seat.

"There's something that you should read." He wiped unsteadily at his reddening eyes. "Something that I've been waiting for so long to show you, to let you know."

Sarah sat, stunned more at the feelings welling up in her than at his emotional display. She knew that if she tried to stand again, she would pass out, and that if he touched her again, she would be his. After all this time, after so many years, he was still doing it to her, bringing out thoughts and emotions that just shouldn't be there. She felt herself growing faint.

"Could I have something to drink?" she asked.

'Yes, of course." He suddenly stood up straight and brushed the front of his sweater. "Would you like some tea?"

"That would be lovely." She could barely speak, her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls.

He turned to go back toward the front of the house. As he got to the doorway, he looked back at her. "You are more beautiful than ever," he whispered. When Sarah looked up, he was gone.

Sarah heard the water come on in the kitchen. On the small, lace-covered table by her chair, there was a leather-bound book. Its cover was worn with the stains of much use. A journal, by the looks of it, she thought. It seemed out of place; all of the other books in the room were lined neatly on the shelves, carefully edged and in order by height. The table cover was bunched up under the corner of the book, as if it had set on the table in haste.

She waited a moment before succumbing to the temptation and peeking at the first pages. It was a journal, in his handwriting. The first entry was dated 1966; she had been gone for nearly a decade by then. She scanned a few lines before picking it up, oblivious to the fact that he could walk in at any moment.

Sarah,

I know that you'll never read this, but I have to have an outlet for what I feel or I will go crazy. It's been almost ten years since that day in the library when you left. I have tried to put it out of my mind; I have tried not to love you. It's been two years now since the wedding. Things are going wonderfully, I love her dearly, more than I ever thought I would ever love anyone again. But, I still love you, too. Is it possible to love two people so much?

Sarah looked up at the doorway, there were still noises from the kitchen, so she flipped a few pages and read on:

May 24, 1966
I dreamed of you again last night, you came to me, I held you in my arms under the Live Oak over in Hansen's Field. The stars were shining brightly, though I only saw their reflections in your eyes; I could not look away from you! I held you warmly and softly and we made love?

December 25, 1968
Every bell and chime I hear sounds like your voice! I look in Marie's eyes when she's playing and I find myself wondering what if? what if it had been you; you were her mother? I try not to think like this, but the holidays are a difficult time?

July 1, 1976
Should not twenty years be enough distance to soothe separated souls? Should I not be over you by now? Why is your presence forever etched in my brain? I have heard, through the grapevine, that you are doing fine. I wish that you lived closer so I could see you again. I do think that things would be different if I could see you happy, that I could get past this and let it go?

August, 1981
I'm sorry that I haven't written in so long, it seems like only yesterday that I started this and the day before that that I could look into your eyes? I sometimes see you in my own reflection in the mirror, how you looked then reflecting in my eyes. I wonder how things are with you? Marie has her first real boyfriend now! She has grown so fast, I wish you could see her?I don't know what I have done to deserve so much out of life, a wonderful wife, a beautiful, loving daughter. And the blessing of you. I know that it is strange, but I think that I love you more each day, not a day goes by that I don't think of you. I read a book a few months ago about different dimensions, and how there are different versions of yourself doing different things, or something like that. I'm not sure if I buy it, but I can certainly imagine, and it gives me great comfort, that you and I are together happily somewhere?

After a few pages, Sarah's tears made it hard for her to read his sometimes-shaky handwriting. She never heard the front door open, or the sound of bags being tossed on the counter in the kitchen. And she never heard the sound of feet approaching down the hall.

"Who are you?" It was a young woman, in her early thirties.

Sarah jumped with surprise. She rose as quickly as she could to her feet while wiping the tears from her eyes.

"You must be Marie," she began as she tried to hide the journal behind her back, like it was a comic book and her teacher had just caught her in class, "Your father told me all about you?"

"How did you get in here?" Marie interrupted, looking Sarah up and down. Her gaze froze on the book in Sarah's hands. "Sarah?"

"Yes!" Sarah smiled and offered her hand, which Marie took while staring deeply into her eyes. Marie started to speak a few times, her lips quivered, seemed to struggle.

"Daddy loved you," she said finally; a tear tried hard to roll from the corner of her eye. "The whole time; he loved you." She motioned to the book, half hidden behind Sarah's back. "But I suppose you know that, now."

"Yes." Sarah looked at the floor; guilty for all of the love she may have stolen from Marie and her mother. "I'm sure that he loved her as well," her voice was soft, "and it's obvious that he loved you very much."

"He did." Marie was crying now, "He did the best that he could. He loved us, he did," she smiled, her voice trailed off slightly, "but all of that time, it was you that he was in love with. I found the book after the accident. I can't even imagine."

"Where is he?" Sarah looked toward the door, "is he still in the kitchen?"

"The kitchen?" Marie looked into her eyes and reached out for the journal, her hand softly resting on Sarah's, "he hasn't been in the kitchen in five years, Sarah."