Her tone was a mixture of playfulness and incredulity. Though my wife was once an early riser, she hadn’t been since Leslie moved out.

“This was a good idea,” she said. “It’s beautiful tonight.”

“Yes, it is,” I said, looking at her. We walked in silence for a few moments before I saw Jane glance toward a house near the corner.

“Did you hear about Glenda’s stroke?”

Glenda and her husband were our neighbors, and though we didn’t move in the same social circles, we were friendly nonetheless. In New Bern, everyone seemed to know everything about everyone.

“Yes. It’s sad.”

“She’s not much older than I am.”

“I know,” I said. “I hear she’s doing better, though.”

We fell back into silence for a while, until Jane suddenly asked, “Do you ever think about your mother?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. My mother had died in an automobile accident during our second year of marriage. Though I wasn’t as close to my parents as Jane was to hers, her death came as a terrible shock. To this day, I can’t recall making the six-hour drive to Washington to be with my father.

“Sometimes.”

“When you do, what do you remember?”

“Do you remember the last time we went to visit them?” I said. “When we first walked in the door, and Mom came out of the kitchen? She was wearing a blouse with purple flowers on it, and she looked so happy to see us. She opened her arms to give us both a hug. That’s how I always remember her. It’s an image that’s never changed, kind of like a picture. She always looks the same.”

Jane nodded. “I always remember my mom in her studio, with paint on her fingers. She was painting a portrait of our family, something she’d never done, and I remember how excited she was because she was going to give it to Dad for his birthday.” She paused. “I don’t really remember the way she looked after she started getting sick. Mom had always been so expressive. I mean, she used to wave her hands when she talked, and her face was always so animated when she told a story . . . but after the Alzheimer’s set in, she changed.” She glanced over at me. “It just wasn’t the same.”

“I know,” I said.

“I worry about that sometimes,” she said in a low voice. “Getting Alzheimer’s, I mean.”

Though I too had thought about this, I said nothing.

“I can’t imagine what it would be like,” Jane went on. “To not recognize Anna or Joseph or Leslie? To have to ask their names when they came to visit like Mom used to do with me? It breaks my heart to even think about it.”

I watched her silently, in the dim glow of the houselights.

“I wonder if Mom knew how bad it was going to get,” she mused. “I mean, she said she did, but I wonder if she really knew deep down that she wouldn’t recognize her children. Or even Daddy.”

“I think she knew,” I said. “That’s why they moved to Creekside.”

I thought I saw her close her eyes momentarily. When she spoke again, her voice was full of frustration. “I hate it that Daddy didn’t want to come live with us after Mom died. We have plenty of room.”

I said nothing. Though I could have explained Noah’s reasons for staying at Creekside, she didn’t want to hear them. She knew them as well as I did, but unlike me, she didn’t accept them, and I knew that trying to defend Noah would only trigger an argument.

“I hate that swan,” she added.

There is a story behind the swan, but again, I said nothing.

We circled one block, then another. Some of our neighbors had already turned out their lights, and still Jane and I moved on, neither rushing nor lagging. In time I saw our house, and knowing our walk was coming to an end, I paused and looked up at the stars.

“What is it?” she asked, following my gaze.

“Are you happy, Jane?”

Her gaze focused on me. “What brought that up?”

“I was just curious.”

As I waited for her response, I wondered if she guessed the reason behind my question. It wasn’t so much that I wondered whether she was happy in general as happy with me in particular.

She stared at me for a long moment, as if trying to read my mind.

“Well, there is one thing . . .”

“Yes?”

“It’s kind of important.”

I waited as Jane drew a long breath.

“I’ll be really happy if you can find a caterer,” she confessed.

At her words, I had to laugh.

Though I offered to make a pot of decaf, Jane shook her head wearily. The two long days had caught up to her, and after yawning a second time, she told me that she was going up to bed.

I suppose I could have followed her up, but I didn’t. Instead, I watched her head up the steps, reliving our evening.

Later, when I did at last crawl into bed, I slipped under the covers and turned to face my wife. Her breathing was steady and deep, and I could see her eyelids fluttering, letting me know that she was dreaming. Of what, I wasn’t sure, but her face was peaceful, like that of a child. I stared at her, wanting and not wanting to wake her, loving her more than life itself. Despite the darkness, I could see a lock of hair lying across her cheek, and I stretched my fingers toward it. Her skin was as soft as powder, timeless in its beauty. Tucking the strand of hair behind her ear, I blinked back the tears that had mysteriously sprung to my eyes.

Chapter Eight

Jane stared at me openmouthed the following evening, purse dangling on her arm.

“You did it?”

“So it would seem,” I said nonchalantly, doing my best to make it seem as though finding a caterer had been a simple feat. Meanwhile, I’d been pacing excitedly, waiting for her to come home.

“Who’d you get?”

“The Chelsea,” I said. Located in downtown New Bern across the street from my office, the restaurant is housed in the building where Caleb Bradham once had his offices when he formulated a drink now known as Pepsi-Cola. Remodeled into a restaurant ten years ago, it was one of Jane’s favorite dinner spots. The menu was extensive, and the chef specialized in exotic original sauces and marinades to accompany typically southern meals. On Friday and Saturday evenings, it was impossible to be seated without a reservation, and guests made a game out of trying to guess what ingredients had been used to create such distinctive flavors.