Not knowing where else to go, Garrett caught a cab to the airport after leaving  Theresa's apartment. Unfortunately no flights were available, and he ended up staying in the terminal the rest of the night, still angry and unable to sleep.

Pacing the terminal for hours, he wandered past shops that had long since closed up for the evening, stopping only occasionally to look through the barricades that kept nighttime travelers at bay.

The following morning he caught the first flight he could and made it home a little after eleven and then went straight to his room. As he lay in bed, however, the events of the evening before kept running through his head, keeping him awake. Trying and failing to fall asleep, he eventually gave up. He showered and dressed, then sat on his bed again. Staring at the photograph of Catherine, he eventually picked it up and carried it with him into the living room. On the coffee table he found the letters where he'd left them. In Theresa's apartment he'd been too shocked to make sense of them, but now, with her picture in front of him, he read the letters slowly, almost reverently, sensing Catherine's presence filling the room.

"Hey, I thought you'd forgotten about our date," he said as he watched Catherine walking down the dock with a grocery bag.

Smiling, Catherine took his hand as she stepped on board. "I didn't forget, I just had a little detour on the way."

"Where?"

"Actually, I went to see the doctor."

He took the bag from her and set it off to one side. "Are you okay? I know you haven't been feeling well-"

"I'm okay," she said, cutting him off gently. "But I don't think I'm up for a sail tonight."

"Something is wrong, isn't it?"

Catherine smiled again as she leaned over and pulled a small package out of one of the bags. Garrett watched as she began to open it.

"Close your eyes," she said, "and I'll tell you all about it."

Still a little unsure, Garrett nonetheless did as she asked and heard as tissue paper was unwrapped. "Okay, you can open them now."

Catherine was holding up baby clothes in front of her.

"What's this?" he asked, not understanding.

Her face was buoyant. "I'm pregnant," she said excitedly.

"Pregnant?"

"Uh-huh. I'm officially eight weeks along."

"Eight weeks?"

She nodded. "I think I must have gotten pregnant the last time we went sailing."

Hesitating from the shock, Garrett took the baby clothes and held them delicately in his hand, then finally leaned forward and gave Catherine a hug. "I

can't believe it. . . ."

"It's true."

A broad smile crossed his lips as the realization finally began to sink in.

"You're pregnant."

Catherine closed her eyes and whispered in his ear, "And you're going to be a father."

Garrett's thoughts were interrupted by the squeaking of the door. His father peeked his head into the room.

"I saw your truck out front. I wanted to make sure everything was okay," he said in explanation. "I didn't expect you back here until this evening." When Garrett didn't respond, his father walked in and immediately spotted Catherine's picture on the table. "You okay, son?" he asked cautiously.

They sat in the living room while Garrett explained the situation from the beginning-the dreams he'd been having over the years, the messages he'd been sending by bottle, finally moving on to the argument they'd had the night before. He left nothing out. When he finished, his father took the letters from Garrett's hand.

"It must have been quite a shock," he said, glancing at the pages, surprised that Garrett had never mentioned the letters to him. He paused. "But don't you think you were a little rough on her?"

Garrett shook his head tiredly. "She knew everything about me, Dad, and she never told me. She set the whole thing up."

"No, she didn't," he said gently. "She may have come down to meet you, but she didn't make you fall in love with her. You did that on your own."

Garrett looked away before finally returning his gaze to the picture on the table. "But don't you think it was wrong of her to hide it from me?"

Jeb sighed, not wanting to answer the question, knowing it would lead Garrett to retread old ground. Instead he tried to think of another way to get through to his son. "A couple of weeks ago, when we were talking on the pier, you told me you wanted to marry Theresa because you loved her. Do you remember that?"

Garrett nodded absently.

"Why has that changed?"

Garrett looked at his father, confused. "I've already told you that-"

Jeb gently cut him off before he could finish.

"Yeah, you've explained your reasons, but you haven't been honest about it. Not with me, not with Theresa, not even with yourself. She may not have told you about the letters, and granted, maybe she should have. But that's not why you're still angry now. You're angry because she made you realize something that you didn't want to admit."

Garrett looked at his father without responding. Then, rising from the couch, he went to the kitchen, suddenly feeling the urge to escape the conversation. In the refrigerator, he found a pitcher of sweet tea and poured himself a glass.

Holding the freezer open, he pulled out the metal tray to crack out a couple of cubes. In a sudden spurt of frustration, he pulled the lever too hard and icecubes flew over the counter and onto the floor.

As Garrett muttered and cursed in the kitchen, Jeb stared at the picture of Catherine, remembering his own wife from long ago. He put the letters beside it and walked to the sliding glass door. Opening it, he watched as cold December winds from the Atlantic made the waves crash violently, the sounds echoing through the house. Jeb contemplated the ocean, watching it churn and roll until he heard a knock at the door.

He turned, wondering who it could be. Strangely, he realized that in all of his visits here, no one had ever come to the door.

In the kitchen, Garrett apparently hadn't heard the knock. Jeb went to answer it. Behind him, the wind chimes hanging over the back deck were ringing loudly.

"Coming," he called out.

When the front door swung open, wind gusted through the living room, scattering the letters to the floor. Jeb, however, didn't notice. All his attention was focused on the visitor on the porch. He couldn't help but stare.

Standing before him was a dark-haired young woman he'd never seen before. He paused in the doorway, knowing exactly who she was but finding himself at a loss for words. He moved aside to make room for her.

"C'mon in," he said quietly.

As she entered, closing the door behind her, the wind abruptly died. She glanced at Jeb, uncomfortable. For a moment, neither spoke.

"You must be Theresa," Jeb finally said. In the background, Jeb could hear Garrett mumbling to himself as he cleaned up the ice in the kitchen.

"I've heard a lot about you."

She crossed her arms, hesitating. "I know I'm not expected. . . ."

"It's okay," Jeb encouraged.

"Is he here?"

Jeb nodded his head in the direction of the kitchen. "Yeah, he's here. He's getting something to drink."

"How is he?"

Jeb shrugged and gave her a slow, wry smile. "You'll have to talk to him. . . ."

Theresa nodded, suddenly wondering whether coming down was a good idea. She glanced around the room and immediately spied the letters spread around the floor. She also noticed Garrett's bag sitting by his bedroom door, still packed from his visit. Other than that, the house looked exactly the same as it always did. Except, of course, for the photograph.

She spotted it over Jeb's shoulder. Normally it was in his room, and for some reason, now that it was in plain view, she couldn't take her eyes off it. She was still staring at the picture when Garrett reentered the living room.

"Dad, what happened in here-"

He froze. Theresa faced him uncertainly. For a long moment, neither of them said anything. Then Theresa took a deep breath.

"Hello, Garrett," she said.

Garrett said nothing. Jeb picked up his keys from the table, knowing it was time to leave.

"You two have a lot to talk about, so I'll get out of here."

He went to the front door, glancing sidelong at Theresa. "It was nice meeting you," he murmured. But as he spoke, he raised his eyebrows and shrugged slightly, as if to wish her luck. In a moment he was outside, making his way down the walk.

"Why are you here?" Garrett asked evenly once they were alone.

"I wanted to come," she said quietly. "I wanted to see you again."

"Why?"

She didn't answer. Instead, after a moment's hesitation, she walked toward him, her eyes never leaving his. Once she was close, she put her finger to his lips and shook her head to stop him from speaking. "Shh," she whispered, "no questions . . . just for now. Please . . ." She tried to smile, but now that he could see her better, he knew she'd been crying.

There was nothing she could say. There were no words to describe what she'd been going through.

Instead she wrapped her arms around him. Reluctantly he drew his arms around her as she rested her head against him. She kissed his neck and pulled him closer.

Running her hand through his hair, she moved her mouth tentatively to his cheek, then to his lips. She kissed them lightly at first, her lips barely brushing against them, then she kissed him again, more passionate now. Without conscious thought, he began to respond to her advances. His hands slowly traveled up her back, molding her against him.

In the living room, with the roar of the ocean echoing through the house, they held each other tightly, giving in to their growing desires. Finally Theresa pulled back, reaching for his hand as she did so. Taking it in hers, she led him to the bedroom.

Letting go, she crossed the room as he waited just inside the door. Light from the living room spilled in, casting shadows across the room. Hesitating only slightly before facing him again, she began to undress. Garrett made a small movement to close the bedroom door, but she shook her head. She wanted to see him this time, and she wanted him to see her. She wanted Garrett to know he was with her and no one else.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she shed her garments. Her blouse . . . her jeans . . . her bra . . . her panties. She removed her clothing deliberately, her lips slightly parted, her eyes never leaving his. When she was naked, she stood before him, letting his gaze travel over all of her.

Finally she approached him. Standing close, she ran her hands over him-his chest, his shoulders, his arms, touching him gently, as if she wanted to remember the way he felt forever. Stepping back to allow him to undress, she watched him, her eyes taking everything in as his clothes fell to the floor.

Moving to his side, she kissed his shoulders, then slowly worked around him, her mouth against his skin, the wetness of her lips lingering everywhere she touched. Then, leading him to the bed, she lay down, pulling him with her.

They made love fiercely, clinging desperately to each other. Their passion was unlike any time they'd made love before-each painfully conscious of the other's pleasure, every touch more electric than the last. As if fearful of what the future would bring, they worshiped each other's bodies with a singleminded intensity that would sear their memories forever. When they finally climaxed together, Theresa threw back her head and cried aloud, not attempting to stifle the sound.

Afterward she sat up in the bed, cradling Garrett's head in her lap. She ran her hands through his hair, rhythmically, steadily, listening as the sound of his breathing gradually deepened.

Later that afternoon, Garrett woke up alone. Noticing that Theresa's clothes were gone as well, he grabbed his jeans and shirt. Still buttoning his shirt as he left his bedroom, he quickly searched the house for her.

The house was cold.

He found her in the kitchen. She was seated at the table, wearing her jacket. On the table in front of her, he saw a cup of coffee, nearly empty, as if she'd been sitting there for some time. The coffeepot was already in the sink.

Checking the clock, he realized he'd been asleep for almost two hours.

"Hey there," he said uncertainly.

Theresa glanced over her shoulder at him. Her voice was subdued.

"Oh, hey . . . I didn't hear you get up."

"You okay?"

She didn't answer directly. "Come sit with me," she said instead. "There's a lot

I've got to tell you."

Garrett sat down at the table. He smiled tentatively at her. Theresa fidgeted with the coffee cup for a moment, her eyes downcast. He reached over, brushing a loose strand of hair away from the side of her face. When she didn't respond, he pulled back.

Finally, without looking at him, she reached into her lap and removed the letters, laying them on the table. Apparently she'd gathered them up while he slept.

"I found the bottle when I was jogging last summer," she began, her voice steady but distant, as if recalling something painful. "I didn't have any idea what the letter inside would say, but after reading it, I started to cry. It was just so beautiful-I knew it had come straight from your heart, and the way it was written . . . I guess I related to the things you wrote because I felt so alone, too."

She looked at him. "That morning, I showed it to Deanna. Publishing it was her idea. I didn't want to at first . .............