Four days after Theresa left Wilmington, Garrett had another dream, only this time it was about Catherine. In the dream they were in a grassy field bordered by a cliff overlooking the ocean. They were walking together, holding hands and talking, when Garrett said something that made her laugh. All at once she broke away from him. Looking over her shoulder and laughing, she called for Garrett to chase her. He did, laughing as well, feeling much as he had the day they were married.

Watching her run, he couldn't help but notice how beautiful she was. Her flowing hair reflected the light of the high yellow sun, her legs were lean and moving rhythmically, effortlessly. Her smile, despite the fact she was running, looked easy and relaxed, as if she were standing still.

"Chase me, Garrett. Can you catch me?" she called.

The sound of laughter after she said it floated in the air around him, sounding musical.

He was slowly gaining on her when he noticed that she was heading toward the cliff. In her excitement and joy, she didn't seem to realize where she was going.

But that's ridiculous, he thought. She has to know.

Garrett called for her to stop, but instead she began to run faster.

She was approaching the edge of the cliff.

With a feeling of certain dread, he saw that he was still too far behind her to catch her.

He ran as fast as he could, screaming for her to turn around. She didn't appear to hear him. He felt the adrenaline rush through his body, fed by a paralyzing fear. "Stop, Catherine!" he shouted, his lungs exhausted. "The cliff-you're not watching where you're going!" The more he shouted, the softer his voice became, until it turned into a whisper.

Catherine kept on running, unaware. The cliff was only a few feet away.

He was closing ground.

But he was still too far behind.

"Stop!" he screamed again, though this time he knew she couldn't hear it. His voice had diminished to nothing. The panic he felt then was greater than anything he'd ever known. With everything he had, he willed his legs to move faster, but they began to tire, turning heavier with every step he took.

I'm not going to make it, he thought, panicking.

Then, just as suddenly as she had broken away, she stopped. Turning to face him, she seemed oblivious of any danger.

She stood only inches from the edge.

"Don't move," he shouted, but again it came out in a whisper. He stopped a few feet from her and held out his hand, breathing heavily.

"Come toward me," he pleaded. "You're right on the edge."

She smiled and glanced behind her. Noticing how close she was to falling, she turned toward him.

"Did you think you were going to lose me?"

"Yes," he said quietly, "and I promise not to ever let it happen again."

*  *  *

Garrett woke and sat up in bed, staying awake for several hours afterward. When he finally fell back to sleep, it was fitful at best, and it was almost ten o'clock the next morning before he was able to get up. Still exhausted and feeling depressed, he found it impossible to think about anything but the dream. Not knowing what to do, he called his father, who met him for breakfast in their usual place.

"I don't know why I feel this way," he told his father after a few minutes of small talk. "I just don't understand it."

His father didn't answer. Instead he watched his son over his coffee cup, remaining silent as his son went on.

"It's not like she did anything to upset me," he continued. "We just spent a long weekend together, and I really care for her. I met her son, too, and he's great. It's just that . . . I don't know I don't know if I'm going to be able to keep this up."

Garrett paused. The only sound came from the tables around them.

"Keep what up?" Jeb Blake finally asked.

Garrett stirred his coffee absently. "I don't know whether I can see her again."

His father cocked an eyebrow but didn't reply. Garrett went on.

"Maybe it's just not meant to be. I mean, she doesn't even live here. She's a thousand miles away, she's got her own life, she's got her own interests. And here I am, living down here and leading an entirely separate life. Maybe she'd do better with someone else, someone she could see on a regular basis."

He thought about what he'd said, knowing that he didn't quite believe himself. Still, he didn't want to tell his father about the dream.

"I mean, how can we build a relationship if we don't see each other very often?"

Again his father said nothing. Garrett carried on, as if talking to himself.

"If she lived here and I could see her every day, I think I'd feel differently. But with her being gone . . ."

He trailed off, trying to make sense of his thoughts. After a while he spoke again.

"I just don't see how we can make it work. I've thought about it a lot, and I don't see how it could be possible. I don't want to move to Boston, and I'm sure she doesn't want to move here, so where would that leave us?"

Garrett stopped and waited for his father to say something-anything-in response to what he'd said up to that point. But for a while, he didn't make a sound. Finally he sighed and looked away.

"It sounds to me like you're making excuses," Jeb said quietly. "You're trying to convince yourself, and you're using me to listen to yourself talk."

"No, Dad, I'm not. I'm just trying to figure out this whole thing."

"Who do you think you're talking to, Garrett?" Jeb Blake shook his head. "Sometimes, I swear you think I just fell off the turnip truck and bumbled through life without learning anything along the way. But I know exactly what you're going through. You've gotten so caught up in being alone that you're afraid of what might happen if you actually find someone else that can take you away from it."

"I'm not afraid," Garrett protested.

His father cut him off sharply. "You can't even admit it to yourself, can you?"

The disappointment in his tone was unmistakable. "You know, Garrett, when your mom died, I made excuses, too. Over the years, I told myself all sorts of things. And you wanna know where it got me?"

He stared at his son. "I'm old and tired, and most of all, I'm alone. If I could go back in time, I'd change a lot about myself, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let you do the same things I did."

Jeb paused before going on, his tone softening. "I was wrong, Garrett. I was wrong not to try to find someone else. I was wrong to feel guilty about your mom. I was wrong to keep living my life the way I did, always suffering inside and wondering what she would have thought. Because you know what? I think your mom would have wanted me to find someone else. Your mom would have wanted me to be happy. And you know why?"

Garrett didn't answer.

"Because she loved me. And if you think that you're showing your love to Catherine by suffering the way you've been doing, then somewhere along the way, I must have messed up in raising you."

"You didn't mess up. . . ."

"I must have. Because when I look at you, I see myself, and to be honest, I'd rather see someone different. I'd like to see someone who learned that it's okay to go on, that it's okay to find someone that can make you happy. But right now, it's like I'm looking in the mirror and seeing myself twenty years ago."

*  *  *

Garrett spent the rest of the afternoon alone, walking on the beach, thinking about what his father had said. Looking back, he knew he'd been dishonest from the start of the conversation and wasn't surprised that his father had figured it out. Why, then, had he wanted to talk to him? Had he wanted his father to confront him as he had?

As the afternoon wore on, his depression gave way to confusion, then to a sort of numbness. By the time he called Theresa later in the evening, the feelings of betrayal he'd felt as a result of the dream had subsided enough to speak with her. They were still there, though not as strong, and when she answered the phone, he felt them diminish even further. The sound of her voice reminded him of the way he felt when they were together.

"I'm glad you called," she said cheerfully, "I thought a lot about you today."

"I thought about you, too," he said. "I wish you were here right now."

"Are you okay? You sound a little down."

"I'm fine. . . . Just lonely that's all. How was your day?"

"Typical. Too much to do at work, too much to do at home. But it's better now that I've heard from you."

Garrett smiled. "Is Kevin around?"

"He's in his room reading a book about scuba diving. He tells me he wants to be a dive instructor when he grows up."

"Where could he have gotten that idea?"

"I haven't the slightest," she said, amusement in her tone. "How about you? What did you do today?"

"Not much, actually. I didn't go into the shop-I sort of took the day off and wandered the beaches."

"Dreaming about me, I hope?"

The irony of her comment was not lost on him. He didn't answer directly.

"I just really missed you today."

"I've only been gone a few days," she said gently.

"I know. And speaking of that, when will we get to see each other again?"

Theresa sat at the dining room table and glanced at her Day-Timer.

"Umm . . . how about in three weeks? I was thinking that maybe you could come up here this time. Kevin has a week-long soccer camp, and we'd be able to spend some time alone."

"Would you like to come down here instead?"

"It would be better if you came up here, if that's okay. I'm running low on vacation days, and I think we'd be able to work around my schedule. And besides, I think it's about time you got out of North Carolina, just so you can see what the rest of the country has to offer."

As she spoke, he found himself staring at Catherine's picture on the nightstand. It took him a few seconds to respond. "Sure . . . I guess I could do that."

"You don't sound too sure about it."

"I am."

"Is there something else, then?"

"No."

She paused uncertainly. "Are you really okay, Garrett?"

*  *  *

It took him a few days and several phone calls to Theresa to feel somewhat normal again. More than once he found himself calling her late in the evening, just to hear her voice.

"Hey," he'd say, "it's me again."

"Hi, Garrett, what's up?" she'd ask sleepily.

"Not much. I just wanted to say good night before you crawled into bed."

"I'm already in bed."

"What time is it?"

She glanced toward the clock. "Almost midnight."

"Why are you awake? You should be sleeping," he'd tease, and then he'd let her hang up the phone so she could get her rest.

Sometimes, if he couldn't sleep, he'd think about his week with Theresa, remembering how good her skin felt to his touch, overwhelmed by his desire to hold her again.

Then, walking into the bedroom, he'd see Catherine's picture by his bed. And at that moment the dream would rush forward with crystal clarity.

He knew he was still unsettled by the dream. In the past he would have written a letter to Catherine to help him get it into perspective. Then, taking Happenstance out on the same route he and Catherine had sailed for the first time after Happenstance had been restored, he'd seal it and toss it into the ocean.

Strangely, he wasn't able to do it this time. When he sat down to write, the words simply wouldn't come. Finally growing frustrated, he willed himself to remember, instead.

"Now there's a surprise," Garrett said as he pointed at Catherine's plate. On it, she was piling spinach salad from the buffet in front of them.

Catherine shrugged dismissively. "What's wrong with wanting a salad?"

"Nothing's wrong with it," he said quickly.

"It's just that this is the third time you've eaten it this week."

"I know. I've just been craving it. I don't know why."

"If you keep eating it like you do, you're going to turn into a rabbit."

She laughed and poured on the salad dressing. "If that were the case," she said, looking at his plate, "if you keep eating that seafood, you'll turn into a shark."

"I am a shark," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"You may be a shark, but if you keep teasing me, you'll never get the chance to prove it with me."

He smiled. "Why don't I prove it this weekend?"

"When? You'll be working this weekend."

"Not this weekend. Believe it or not, I've cleared my schedule so that we can spend some time together. We haven't spent a whole weekend alone since I don't know when."

"What did you have in mind?"

"I don't know. Maybe sailing, maybe something else. Whatever you want to do."

She laughed. "Well, I did have big plans-my trip to Paris for a little shopping, a quick safari or two . . . but I guess I can rearrange things."

"Then it's a date."

*  *  *

As the days passed, the image of the dream began to fade. Each time Garrett talked to Theresa, he found himself feeling a little more renewed. He also spoke to Kevin a couple of times, and his enthusiasm for Garrett's presence in their lives helped him regain his footing as well. Even though the heat and humidity of August seemed to make time pass more slowly than usual, he kept himself as busy as he could, doing his best not to think about the complexities of his new situation.

Two weeks later-a few days before he was leaving for Boston-Garrett was cooking in the kitchen when the phone rang.

"Hiya, stranger," she said. "Got a few minutes?"

"I always have a few minutes to talk when it comes to you."

"I was just calling to find out what time your flight is coming in. You weren't sure the last time we talked."

"Hold on," he said, rummaging through the kitchen drawer for his itinerary. "Here it is-I'll be getting into Boston a few minutes after one."

"That works out perfectly. I've got to drop Kevin off a few hours earlier, and it'll give me time to get the apartment in shape."

"Cleaning up for me?"

"You get the full treatment. I'm even going to dust."

"I feel honored."

"You should. Only you and my parents get that kind of attention."

"Should I pack a pair of white gloves to make sure you've done a good job?"

"If you do, you won't live to see the evening."

He laughed and changed the subject. "I'm looking forward to seeing you again," he said earnestly. "These last three weeks were a lot harder than the first two."

"I know. I could hear it in your voice. You were really down for a few days, and . . . well, I was beginning to get worried about you."

He wondered whether she suspected the reason for his melancholy. Clearing his mind, he went on. "I was, but I'm over it now. I've already packed my bags."

"I hope you didn't take up any space with unnecessary items."

"Like what?"

"Like . . . I don't know . . . pajamas."

He laughed. "I don't own any pajamas."

"That's good. Because even if you did, you wouldn't need them."

*  *  *

Three days later, Garrett Blake arrived in Boston.

After picking him up from the airport, Theresa showed him around the city. They had lunch at Faneuil Hall, watched the skullers gliding on the Charles River, and took a quick tour of the Harvard campus. As usual, they held hands most of the day, reveling in each other's company.

More than once, Garrett found himself wondering why the last three weeks had been so difficult for him. He knew that part of his anxiety stemmed from the dream, but spending time with Theresa made the dream's troubling feelings seem distant and insubstantial. Every time Theresa laughed or squeezed his hand, she reaffirmed the feelings he'd had when she was last in Wilmington, banishing the dark thoughts that plagued him in her absence.

When the day began to cool and the sun dipped below the trees, Theresa and Garrett stopped for some Mexican food to bring back to her apartment. Sitting on her living room floor in the glow of candlelight, Garrett looked around the room.

"You have a nice place," he said, forking up some beans with a tortilla chip. "For some reason, I thought it would be smaller than it is. It's bigger than my house."

"Only by a little, but thanks. It works for us. It's real convenient to everything."

"Like restaurants?"

"Exactly. I wasn't kidding when I told you I didn't like to cook. I'm not exactly Martha Stewart."

"Who?"

"Never mind," she said.

Outside her apartment, the sound of traffic was clearly audible. A car screeched on the street below, a horn blared, and all at once the air was filled with noise as other cars joined in the chorus.

"Is it always this quiet?" he asked.

She nodded toward the windows. "Friday and Saturday nights are the worst-usually it's not so bad. But you get used to it if you live here long enough."

The sounds of city living continued. A siren blared in the distance, growing steadily louder as it approached.

"Would you like to put on some music?" Garrett asked.

"Sure. What kind do you like?"

"I like both kinds," he said, pausing dramatically. "Country and western."

She laughed. "I don't have anything like that here."

He shook his head, enjoying his own joke. "I was kidding, anyway. It's an old line. Not too funny, but I've been waiting for my chance to say it for years."

"You must have watched a lot of Hee-Haw as a kid."

Now it was his turn to laugh.

"Back to my original question-what kind of music do you like?" she persisted.

"Anything you have is fine."

"How about some jazz?"

"Sounds good."

Theresa got up and chose something she thought he might like and slipped it into the CD player. In a few moments the music started, just as the traffic congestion outside seemed to clear.

"So what do you think of Boston so far?" she asked, reclaiming her seat.

"I like it. For a big city, it's not too bad. It doesn't seem as impersonal as I thought it would be, and it's cleaner, too. I guess I pictured it differently. You know-crowds, asphalt, tall buildings, not a tree in sight, and muggers on every corner. But it's not like that at all."

She smiled. "It is nice, isn't it? I mean, it's not beachfront, but it has its own appeal. Especially if you consider what the city has to offer. You could go to the symphony, or to museums, or just stroll around in the Commons. There's something for everyone here-they even have a sailing club."

"I can see why you like it here," he said, wondering why it sounded as if she were selling the place.

"I do. And Kevin likes it, too."

He changed the subject: "You said he's at soccer camp?"

She nodded. "Yeah. He's trying out for an all-star team for twelve and under. I don't know if he'll make it, but he thinks he has a pretty good shot. Last year, he made the final cut as an eleven-year-old."

"It sounds like he's good."

"He is," she said with a nod. She pushed their now empty plates to the side and moved closer. "But enough about Kevin," she said softly. "We don't always have to talk about him. We can talk about other things, you know."

"Like what?"

She kissed his neck. "Like what I want to do with you now that I have you all to myself."

"Are you sure you just want to talk about it?"

"You're right," she whispered. "Who wants to talk at a time like this?"

*  *  *

The next day, Theresa again took Garrett on a tour of Boston, spending most of the morning in the Italian neighborhoods of the North End, wandering the narrow, twisting streets and stopping for the occasional cannoli and coffee. Though Garrett knew she wrote columns for the paper, he didn't know exactly what else her job entailed. He asked her about it as they made their way leisurely through the city.

"Can't you write a column from your home?"

"In time, I suppose I can. But right now, it's not possible."

"Why not?"

"Well, it's not in my contract, for starters. Besides, I have to do a lot more than sit at my computer and write. Often, I have to interview people, so there's time involved in that-sometimes even a little travel. Plus, there's all the research I have to do, especially when I write about medical or psychological issues, and when I'm in the office, I have access to a lot more sources. And then there's the fact that I need a place where I can be reached. A lot of the stuff I do is human interest, and I get calls from people all day long. If I worked out of my home, I know a lot of people would call in the evenings when I'm spending time with Kevin, and I'm not willing to give up my time with him."

"Do you get calls at home now?"

"Occasionally. But my number isn't listed, so not all that often."

"Do you get a lot of crazy calls?"

She nodded. "I think all columnists do. A lot of people call the paper with stories they want printed. I get calls about people who are locked up in prison who shouldn't be, I get calls about city services and how the garbage isn't being picked up on time. I get calls about street crime. It seems like I've gotten calls about everything."

"I thought you said you write about parenting."

"I do."

"Then why would they call you? Why don't they call someone else?"

She shrugged. "I'm sure they do, but it still doesn't stop them from calling me. A lot of people begin their calls with, 'No one else will listen to me and you're my last hope.' " She glanced at him before going on. "I guess they think I'll be able to do something about their problems."

"Why?"

"Well, columnists are different from other newspaper writers. Most things printed in the newspaper are impersonal-straightforward reporting, facts and figures, and the like. But if people read my column every day, I guess they think they know me. They begin to see me as a friend of sorts. And people look to their friends to help them out when they need it."

"It must put you in an awkward position sometimes."

She shrugged. "It does, but I try not to think about it. Besides, there are good parts about my job, too-giving information that people can use, keeping up with the latest medical data and spelling it out in laymen's terms, even sharing lighthearted stories just to make the day a little easier."

Garrett stopped at a sidewalk store selling fresh fruit. He picked out a couple of apples from the bin, then handed one to Theresa.

"What's the most popular thing you've ever written about in your column?" he asked.

Theresa felt her breath catch. The most popular? Easy-I found a message in a bottle once, and I got a couple of hundred letters.

She forced herself to think of something else. "Oh . . . I get a lot of letters when I write about teaching disabled children," she said finally.

"That must be rewarding," he said, paying the shopkeeper.

"It is."

Before taking a bite of his apple, Garrett asked: "Could you still write your column even if you changed papers?"

She considered the question. "It would be hard to do, especially if I want to continue to syndicate. Since I'm so new and still establishing my name, having the Boston Times behind me really helps. Why?"

"Just curious," he said quietly.

*  *  *

The next morning Theresa went into work for a few hours but was home for the day a little after lunchtime. They spent the afternoon at the Boston Commons, where they ate a picnic lunch. Their lunch was interrupted twice by people who recognized her from her picture in the paper, and Garrett realized that Theresa was actually more well-known than he had thought.

"I didn't know you were such a celebrity," he said wryly after the second person walked away.

"I'm not really a celebrity. It's just that my picture appears above my column, so people know what I look like."

"Does this sort of thing happen a lot?"

"Not really. Maybe a few times a week."

"That's a lot," he said, surprised.

She shook her head. "Not when you consider real celebrities. They can't even go to the store without someone taking their picture. I pretty much lead a normal life."

"But it still must be odd to have total strangers coming up to you."

"Actually, it's kind of flattering. Most people are very nice about it."

"Either way, I'm glad I didn't know you were so famous right off the bat."

"Why?"

"I might have been too intimidated to ask you to go sailing."

She reached over and took his hand. "I can't imagine you being intimidated about anything."

"Then you don't know me very well."

She was quiet for a moment. "Would you really have been intimidated?" she asked sheepishly.

"Probably."

"Why?"

"I guess I'd wonder what someone like you could possibly see in me."

She leaned over to kiss him. "I'll tell you what I see. I see the man that I love, the man who makes me happy . . . someone I want to continue to see for a long time."

"How come you always know just what to say?"

"Because," she said quietly, "I know more about you than you would ever suspect."

"Such as?"

A lazy smile played over her lips. "For instance, I know you want me to kiss you again."

"I do?"

"Absolutely."

And she was right.

*  *  *

Later that evening Garrett said, "You know, Theresa, I can't find a single thing wrong with you."

They were in the tub together, surrounded by mountains of bubbles, Theresa leaning against his chest. He used a sponge to wash her skin as he spoke.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked curiously, turning her head to look at him.

"Just what I said. I can't find a single thing wrong with you. I mean, you're perfect."

"I'm not perfect, Garrett," she said, pleased nonetheless.

"But you are. You're beautiful, you're kind, you make me laugh, you're intelligent, and you're a great mother as well. Toss in the fact that you're famous, and I don't think there's anyone who can measure up to you."

She caressed his arm, relaxing against him. "I think you see me through rose-colored glasses. But I like it. . . ."

"Are you saying I'm biased?"

"No-but you've only seen my good side so far."

"I didn't know you had another side to you," he said, squeezing both of her arms simultaneously. "Both sides feel pretty good right now."

She laughed. "You know what I mean. You haven't seen my dark side yet."

"You don't have a dark side."

"Sure I do. Everyone does. It's just that when you're around, it likes to keep itself hidden."

"So, how would you describe your dark side?"

She thought for a moment. "Well, for starters, I'm stubborn, and I can get mean when I'm angry. I tend to lash out and say the first thing that pops in my head, and believe me, it's not pretty. I also have a tendency to tell others exactly what I'm thinking, even when I know it would be best just to walk away."

"That doesn't sound so bad."

"You haven't been on the receiving end yet."

"It still doesn't sound so bad."

"Well . . . let me put it this way. When I first confronted David about the affair, I called him some of the worst names in the English language."

"He deserved it."

"But I'm not sure he deserved to have a vase thrown at him."

"Did you do that?"

She nodded. "You should have seen the look on his face. He'd never seen me like that before."

"What did he do?"

"Nothing-I think he was too shocked to do anything. Especially when I started in with the plates. I cleaned out most of the cupboard that night."

He grinned in admiration. "I didn't know you were so feisty."

"It's my midwest upbringing. Don't mess with me, buster."

"I won't."

"That's good. I'm much more accurate these days."

"I'll remember that."

They sank deeper into the warm water. Garrett continued to move the sponge over her body.

"I still think you're perfect," he said softly.

She closed her eyes. "Even with my dark side?" she asked.

"Especially with your dark side. It adds an element of excitement."

"I'm glad, because I think you're pretty perfect yourself."

*  *  *

The rest of their vacation flew by. In the mornings Theresa would go into work for a few hours, then come home and spend the afternoons and evenings with Garrett. In the evenings they would either order something in or head to one of the many small restaurants near her apartment. Sometimes they rented a movie to watch afterward, but usually they preferred to spend their time without other distractions.

On Friday night Kevin called from the soccer camp. Excitedly he explained that he'd made the all-star team. Though it meant more games would be played outside of Boston and they'd have to travel most weekends, Theresa was happy for him. Then, surprising her, Kevin asked to speak to Garrett. Garrett listened as he described what had happened that week and congratulated him. After hanging up, Theresa opened a bottle of wine and the two of them celebrated Kevin's good fortune until the early morning hours.

On Sunday morning-the day he was leaving-they had brunch with Deanna and Brian. Garrett saw immediately what Theresa loved about Deanna. She was both charming and amusing, and Garrett found himself laughing throughout his meal. Deanna asked him about diving and sailing, while Brian speculated that if he owned his own business, he'd never get anything done because golf would simply take over his life.

Theresa was pleased that they seemed to get along so well. Excusing themselves after they'd eaten, Deanna and Theresa headed together into the bathroom to chat.

"So, what do you think?" Theresa asked expectantly.

"He's great," Deanna admitted. "He's even better looking than he was in the pictures you brought back."

"I know. My heart skips a beat whenever I look at him."

Deanna primped her hair, doing her best to add a little body to it. "Did your week turn out as well as you hoped?"

"Even better."

Deanna beamed. "I could tell by the way he was looking at you that he really cares about you, too. The way you two act together reminds me of Brian and me. You seem like a good match."

"Do you really think so?"

"I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

Deanna took some lipstick out of her purse and began to apply it. "So, how did he like Boston?" she asked offhandedly.

Theresa took out her own lipstick as well. "It's not what he's used to, but he seemed to have enjoyed himself. We went to a lot of fun places."

"Did he say anything in particular?"

"No . . . why?" She looked at Deanna curiously.

"Because," Deanna answered evenly, "I was just wondering if he'd said anything that might make you think he'd move here if you asked him to."

Her comment made Theresa think about something she'd been avoiding.

"We haven't talked about it yet," she said finally.

"Were you planning to?"

The distance between us is a problem, but there's still something else, isn't there? she heard a voice inside her whisper.

Not wanting to think about it, she shook her head. "I don't think it's the right time-at least not yet." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "I mean-I know we have to talk about it sometime, but I don't think we've known each other long enough to start making decisions about the future. We're still getting to know each other."

Deanna eyed her with motherly suspicion. "But you've known him long enough to fall in love with him, haven't you?"

"Yes,"............