Rosenstein playing bridge intently across the room and they both laughed. He had been devoted to his wife for forty years, and although he had good friends here, he had never wanted to date, or remarry. “I had a number of very interesting conversations with my Jesuits on that subject, and they never convinced me of the validity of the theory.” But what he said reminded her instantly of Joe, and he could almost see her pull back in anguish, and he was immediately sorry. “Did I say something to upset you?” he asked, looking worried.
“No… of course not… I just… miss it a lot,” she said, turning sad eyes up to him, and he could see tears there. “It was hard to leave them.” Something about the way she said it told him she had been forced to, and he decided it was time to change the subject.
“Tell me about your writing,” he said warmly.
“There's nothing to tell.” She smiled gratefully at him. “I just write silly stories occasionally. Nothing worth talking about, and certainly nothing of the caliber you're used to at Harvard.”
“The best writers say things like that. The really bad ones tell you how great their work is. Beware of the writer who tells you how much you're going to love his novel. I guarantee you, you'll be asleep before the end of the first chapter, and snoring!” he said, wagging a finger at her for emphasis as she laughed at the description. “So, having said all that, when may I see your work, Miss Harrison?” He was gentle, but persistent, giving it an importance she knew it didn't deserve.
“I don't have any with me.”
“Then write some,” he said, waving a hand magically. “All you need is pen and paper, and a little inspiration.” And time, and perseverance, and the soul to put into it, still feeling as though her own had been extinguished when Joe died. “I suggest you buy a notebook tomorrow.” And then he hit a nerve again, without intending to, and he realized that talking to her was like tiptoeing through a minefield. “Have you ever kept a journal?” he asked innocently, and was devastated when he saw her look of sorrow.
“I… yes… I have… but I don't do that anymore.” He didn't ask her why she'd stopped. He could see it was a painful subject. For one so young, she had a great many scars, and many of them seemed fresh still.
“What do you enjoy most? Poetry or short stories?” He liked drawing her out, and talking to her. And he liked sitting next to her too, she was so young, and so pretty. It reminded him of a thousand years before, with Charlotte, when they had both been at the University of Washington, and had been barely more than children. He married her the week after they graduated, and his only regret with her was that they had never been able to have children. But for forty years after that, his students had been his children. She had taught music, theory and composition. She used to write him songs sometimes, with wonderful lyrics, and he told Gabriella all about it while she listened, smiling at him.
“She must have been a lovely person.”
“She was,” he said wistfully. “I'll show you a photograph of her sometime. She was very beautiful when she was young. I was the envy of all the young men who knew her. We got engaged when we were twenty.” He asked Gabriella how old she was then, and she said twenty-two. The memory of it made him smile, as he patted her smooth hand with his gnarled one.
“You don't know how lucky you are, my dear. Don't waste it with regrets of the places and people you have lost. You have a lifetime to fill, so many good times and good years and great people ahead of you. You must rush to meet it.” But she wasn't rushing lately. She was still barely crawling, and she knew it. But what he said to her touched her deeply.
“Sometimes it's difficult not to look back,” Gabriella mused to him, and in her case, she had a great deal to look back at, and not all of it pretty.
“We all do that at times. The secret is in not looking back too often. Just take the good times with you, and leave the bad times behind you.” But she had so many of them, and the good times had been so