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  "So we'll start over, a new home, more children," Laura laughed. "And tear each other apart with guilt," she added vehemently. "If we'd found each other sooner, and there were no children; if you were heartless, and I was a fool, it might work.

  Kevin scowled. "I won't lose you again. And Sandra won't stand in our way. She has a heart of gold. And the kindest spirit you or I have ever known."

  "That's right," Sandra's voice made them turn. David and she were standing in the open doorway to the kitchen. "I would never stand in your way." Her voice was steady, despite the tears held bravely back, when in fact she wanted to hate Laura, to be furious with Kevin, and with herself for believing that having shared so much with her over these past years, he had fallen in love with her. Truly then, she had merely been a substitute while he languished for his first love.

  "For our children's sake," she went on, her voice continuing to betray no emotion, "I'll accept the monetary support." She swallowed hard, the next words tearing at her heart. "I'll move your clothes into the guest room," she told Kevin, "until you decide where to live. Laura, you're welcome to ... share the guest room with Kevin." Her voice trailed into silence.

  "Where can I stay?" David asked dryly. He had no problem showing his feelings. His brow was creased with a scowl. Why was Sandra giving in so easily? Why wasn't she fighting for her man? Kevin was the father of her children. And it had never been a secret how much she'd always cared for him. Well, for himself, he wasn't giving up Laura this easily. And he had no intention of leaving without a fight. "It's not this easily settled," he said, emotion overriding reason, reneging his own earlier words that no animosity need exist between them. He turned to Laura. She had moved away from Kevin.

  "David ..." Laura began

  And before she could offer words of solace he guessed were forthcoming, he adjured, "Laura, speak your mind. There are two hearts here ready to break."

  It was Sandra who answered firmly, anger finally threading through her voice. "No, David, it's over. My almost heaven is gone. Don't mistake my willingness to give Kevin up for cowardice or foolishness. Kevin has always loved Laura. How could I ever be happy again knowing that he would be miserable without her now that she is here, alive, and still in love with him. I love him too much to ask him, or expect him to make any other decision. David, if you truly love Laura, let her be with the man she has always loved."

  She wondered if the others were aware of the tiny muscles in David's temples throbbing visibly as he tried to control the rage building up within him. "David," she pleaded. "No animosity, your own words." The children would be home any moment from school. "Let's put our problems on hold, at least until after supper. Or better, until tomorrow morning," Sandra suggested. "There's truth in that old adage, 'sleep on it.' In the morning our heads will be clearer, some of the shock worn off ... Please David, for my sake, for my children's sake. There's a bed in the hayloft," she went on. "The children use it in the summer, sort of a playhouse. I'll give you extra blankets, they'll keep you warm."

  Sandra's plea was a gentle hand soothing and calming the frustration and anger he was feeling. He could feel his emotions quieting under a slim thread of hope that tomorrow might bring a better solution. He nodded.

  "Thank you," Sandra whispered softly. "Now help me finish supper. When the kids get home, more than not it's a three-ring circus. Besides, I can use a shoulder." She did not look at Kevin.

  Little Jenny chose this moment to enter the dining room. "Mommy?"

  Biting down on resurging anguish, Sandra took her daughter's small hand. "Let's go in the kitchen. I made some cookie dough this morning. You can help me shape the cookies."

  Jenny beamed and allowed her mother to lead her into the kitchen. David followed quietly.

  * * *

  Father Theo's office in the rectory of the recently rebuilt Our Lady of the Roses Church overlooked a vast sandy beachfront. Peering between caramel linen curtains Father Theo found it hard to believe his memories, despite the years that had passed, that once hills had thrust upward and dipped low into valleys, and trees and earth stood anchored, where now ocean waves swelled and rocked with white foam and flotsam, and slid to shore and then back.

  The intercom buzzed and Father Theo turned, catching the corner of his glasses on the curtains. He worked the threads loose, and raised his gaze to heaven, more in annoyance with himself – he had only been wearing glasses for a few months and that was only due to his aging eyesight frustrating him and reminding him to use the glasses. The intercom buzzed again and he sat down at his desk, a large mahogany conversation piece, and tapped the com's answering button.

  Mrs. Cheney, the rectory receptionist, announced a visitor, a Miss Sandra Kile. The name sounded very familiar. Father Theo removed his glasses. He found it hard to think through the magnifying lenses.

  "Yes," he whispered, "Sandy." He stood up as the door opened and Sandra entered along with Jenny.

  Father Theo pushed back his ornately carved chair, and hurried toward Sandra. "Sandy, my dear child." He wanted to enfold her in an embrace, but held back. It had been so many years. She might not welcome a fatherly hug. "Hello, Father." Her greeting was soft-spoken. He sensed the underlying sadness.

  Sandra shook warmly the hand he extended.

  "And who is this?" He smiled at the child.

  "This is my daughter, Jenny."

  Jenny inspected him from toe to head, all the while clinging to her mother's side.

  "She's the shy one in the family," Sandra explained.

  "How many?"

  "Four others, two boys and two girls. They're in school, back home with their father."

  "Your husband?" She had given the receptionist her maiden name, perhaps so he would remember her.

  "No." She replied. "Not anymore." The words were spoken behind weary eyes threatening to fill with tears. Sandra swallowed hard.

  "Sit down, child." Father Theo was not certain what she meant. Had there been a husband in the first place?

  Sandra sank into the first of the two wide upholstered chairs reserved for visitors. Jenny climbed on her lap, and sat facing Father Theo, continuing to contemplate him from the safety of her mother's arms.

  "You've much to tell me," Father Theo said. "Your heart's heavy. I can feel the weight."

  Sandra nodded. "Just as I felt yours, so many years ago, during the wedding rehearsal – Kevin and Laura's wedding rehearsal."

  "Yes, I remember. My mother had just passed away. I've never forgotten your kind words. You were ever the sensitive one." He paused, waiting for her to speak, and noted her hesitancy. "Whatever is troubling you, child, tell me how I can help?"

  "It's not a troubling problem. It's already been solved." Again the hesitancy.

  "But not solved to your satisfaction. You're in pain, Sandy."

  "Oh Father," Sandra moaned as the tears she fought to control, flooded unto her cheeks.

  An hour later the story had been told. Father Theo had left his seat behind the desk to enfold a broken-hearted, weeping Sandra in a fatherly embrace, with Jenny between them, her small arms clasped about her mother's neck, trying to comfort her, although not completely understanding why Mommy was crying in the first place. Where was the boo-boo?

  * * *

  That evening, headed home on the rail, Sandra and Jenny sat in the non-smoking car, observing a mutual silence. Father Theo had witnessed and signed the application, which along with the other required documents, would absolve Kevin's second marriage and authenticate and reaffirm his first marriage to Laura. These were new and special times, with unusual and radical allowances made by Rome, allowances considered necessary because of the many situations similar to Sandra's surfacing daily due to the mass destruction caused by the solar storms. Once the signed document in Sandra's bag was routed through the proper channels, her marriage to Kevin would be dissolved, any charges of bigamy eradicated, and Laura and Kevin could begin their life together. It had been agreed between the four of them, th
at Sandra would keep the children, and the main house. Kevin would build another house on the opposite side of the farm, and continue to work the farm and support Sandra and the children. Unusual and radical, yet in their case, ridiculously plausible. Hadn't they always been friends, almost family, Sandra mused, an anguished chuckle escaping her lips, as the train pulled into the station, a few miles from her home on the farm. Almost Heaven, when Kevin had proposed to her. And on their wedding night when he had made passionate love to her, and she had envisioned herself at the Gates of Heaven. And on the birth of their first son, whom they had named Joseph after Kevin's father, when the Gates of Heaven had finally opened for her.

  The family van, brown and tan, and on the small side, waited in the parking lot, where Sandra had parked it two days ago. Sandra carried Jenny to the van. Once inside, both of them buckled in safely, Jenny behind her in the toddler car seat, Sandra keyed the engine. She paused a moment. She felt spent and numb, her tear ducts drained, along with her emotions. She leaned her forehead wearily against the steering wheel. Her daughter's plaintive "Mommy?" brought her head up. She turned and smiled at Jenny reassuringly. With a deep inner sigh, she stepped on the gas, accelerating the car into motion. She could almost hear the clank of the Gates of Heaven closing behind her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Road Not Taken

  The dawn wind blew softly through the open windows in the den, rustling the white cotton tatted curtains. Kevin stirred, his subconscious clock waking him at precisely 5 a.m., a few seconds before the rooster perched on the roof of the barn and answered the rising sun's call. He reached for the cool body that with that call would snuggle close to him for warmth and a few extra winks before rising to start the day's chores, the mishaps, the tears, the laughter, so much, all blended and served per life's unpredictable menu. He felt no movement, except for the steady breathing, and the sweet smell of lilacs. He reached out and touched velvety smooth, hot skin. "Sandy?" and then he remembered. The woman who lay beside him was not Sandra. It was Laura. Laura slept beside him. It was not a dream. Not this time. Sandra was in the master bedroom, alone. Kevin felt a pang of compassion.

  He rose quietly, daring a quick look at Laura, so beautiful, her skin reminding him of pale pink chiffon; her hair the color of sun-kissed blonde oak, smooth and silky, fanning the pillow. She reminded him of a goddess, perfect. He had always loved her. Sandra's hair was dark and wavy. When she slept, her face held a childlike quality, even to a slight pout of her lower lip. He would draw her into his arms, her need to love and be loved, an undeniable aura shouting to him silently.

  In the upper floor of the barn, David lay listening to the rooster's crow. He had slept fitfully, not because his tall lean body under the cozy blankets did not fit properly in the juvenile bed and his feet stuck out like fins, but because all his hopes of gaining Laura's love no longer stood a chance. Below him, on the main floor of the barn, the animals locked in their stalls stirred. The cow mooed a responding note to the rooster, and a plea to the farm owner who all addressed as "Kevin," to come and relieve her of the milk swelling and weighing her udder. The two pigs in the stall beside hers clamored noisily to their feet, their grunts and snorts waking their piglets. The piglets squealed hungrily. David cursed and bolted from the juvenile bed and not for the first time that week bumped his head on the low sloping ceiling above him. "Oh Laura," he groaned, nursing the bruise on his head, and fighting tears of frustration threatening to unman him. His mother had taught him that there was no shame in a man crying when in pain. And David's pain, though not physical, hurt as fiercely. He had loved Laura since his childhood. These past years working with her at his side had been the happiest of his life as he nurtured the hope that she would grow to love him. They had grown so close, constantly traveling from town to town, bringing medicine and medical aid to the many isolated communities since the destruction. Often they shared living quarters. He always respected her privacy, never made a move on her; he dared not, afraid she would mistrust him and refuse to accompany him. Yet in these past months, before coming across Kevin's name in the list of needy families, he had begun to note signs that she was at last falling in love with him. Nothing had been said, no kisses shared, yet the look in her eyes, blue and misty, when she greeted him in the mornings, was warmer, tenderer. Then one evening, after particularly long hours of ministering to a community that had gone without a doctor for nearly five years, Laura had fallen asleep on the ride home. Like a sleepy child she had lolled against his shoulder as he drove. David had put his arm around her, as he continued to drive. After an hour or so, she had opened her eyes lazily. He'd half expected that she would straighten and draw away. Instead, she had remained nestled against him, a sad, tired look in her eyes. Resignation, perhaps, but he didn't care. Let her permit him to love her freely and he would earn her love, if it took him the rest of his life.

  Up to the moment that Sandra first opened the front door, David had prayed that it was someone else. Then his hopes crashed down about him.

  In another stall, the children's pony joined the cacophonous morning clamor of hungry barn animals awakening. From the window next to the bed, shutters open, came the clacking of chickens in the hen house. David climbed out of bed, careful to remember the low sloping ceiling. He slid into his uniform, dark grey standard issue for traveling medics, retrieved his black bag – he could have left it in the jeep along with his field jacket, but medicine was still not as readily available and dearly guarded. He left the barn and started for the main house. Kevin, in his farmer's overalls, and carrying a milk pail, was headed toward the barn.

  The two men, one a nurturer of the earth, the other, a nurturer of the human body, locked gazes as they drew near, each struggling with a private dilemma, their love for the same woman, Laura. David simply nodded good morning, intent on continuing toward the main house for breakfast, but Kevin surprised him by placing a hand on his arm. "I need to talk to – with you," he said. No anger, no resentment, only a desperate plea. David preferred and needed silence. He wanted to put it all behind him, all the years of pining, of hoping, of holding back, waiting for a miracle. But the desperation audible in Kevin's voice, made him halt and search the other man's face. "What's wrong," he asked worriedly.

  "I can't go through with it. I can't leave Sandra. I can't hurt her this way." He was fighting tears. David could see them gleaming in his eyes, could feel the trembling in the hand staying him. "But I love Laura," Kevin went on."

  Was it a statement of fact, or a question? David wasn't sure. Kevin's voice lacked assurance. "You're in love with Sandra," David blurted, unable to hide a note of triumph. Kevin opened his mouth to deny David's assumption, then found himself stammering, "I ... something's wrong. I love Laura, I've always loved her. I've dreamed of being with her. All these years —"

  "And all these years you've stayed with Sandra."

  "She needed me, and I desperately needed someone." Kevin added truthfully, "At least in the beginning." But as the years passed, her loyalty, her kindness, the way she loved me to the exclusion of herself, never asking me to return her feelings, just giving. She never asked to replace Laura in my heart. I never knew such love could exist, let alone survive in the shadow of another love." Where before he had stammered, the words now seemed to flow, like a waterfall cascading. "We've been through so much, hard times and good times. Our children. Our first was a miscarriage. And Sandra cried in my arms. She wanted so to give me sons and daughters, to fill my life. Never a word about herself, or her disappointment. Not many women would feel that way." He continued in a frenzy, the milk pail in his hand forgotten, rocking with the intensity of his emotions. "And when our first born was placed in her arms, she held him out to me with such pride, I had to kiss her. I couldn't find the words to thank her." He chuckled, and now it seemed that he was speaking more to himself than to David. "Oh, of course, we've had arguments, differences of opinion. Sandra has a mind of her own, and she's never been afraid to express he
r feelings. But it's always there, that underlying concern, that fairness, that need to need, to be needed. It's the only way she can be truly happy." Kevin at last became aware once more of David watching him. "David, I can't leave her. I don't know how to live without her. She's flesh of my flesh – I belong to her."

  "But you love Laura."

  "Yes, I love her. I always have, and I always will."

  Then with a note of affirmation, Kevin added, "But I'm in love with Sandra."

  "What about Laura's feelings?" David asked, realizing Kevin had unknowingly made his decision.

  "She's perfect. She always knows what to do, what to say. I always considered her better than me. In all honesty, do you think she'd be very happy as a poor farmer's wife with a brood of children?"

  David glanced at the main house. The sun rising slowly on the horizon beyond it, reflected green and orange hues on the glass panes and the calico curtains of the kitchen windows. "No," he had to admit. Laura was too perfect for that image. In these past years working alongside him, it was that beauty and perfection that elevated broken spirits, while he mended broken bodies. She was a wonderful nurse. Her smile alone brightened and uplifted. "Let me be there when you tell her of your decision," David said. "I don't want her to be alone. I want to be there for her to turn to, as I've been from the beginning."

  "I may not have to tell her," Kevin said. "I think she knows." He hesitated, knowing his next words might not be received well by a rival. Then with determination, "You see, last night as we made love, I called her "Sandra."

  * * *

  The yammering of hungry farm animals did not wake Laura. She had always been a sound sleeper with an internal clock that gently roused her without fail at 7 a.m.. The sun fully lit the sky when she stirred and opened her eyes. She lay quietly, gathering her thoughts, remembering this past week. She and Kevin had occupied the den, but despite what the others might believe, it was not until last night that they had actually shared the sofa bed. Until last night Kevin had slept on the recliner. During the past week they had shared quiet moments, held each other, and talked themselves hoarse with stories of the past fifteen years. But by mutual unspoken understanding, they had shared nothing else. It had been enough to be in each other's presence, after the long years of believing they would never see each other in this life again. Perhaps the shock of reunion, the present situation, Sandra, the children, the years of separation and the ability of those years to obscure the past, had kept them from immediate intimacy. Then last night with the moonlight streaming through the blinds, bathing the room in an almost mystical light, she and Kevin had silently moved into each other's arms, and with unspoken consent, made love. For a short while it felt as though they were back in the honeymoon cabin on the cruiser, and the past fifteen years had never been. Kevin, spent from physical and mental release, lay back, his arm pillowing her shoulders, his breathing heavy. "Oh Sandra," he murmured lovingly.