Wyatt saw the article in the paper, and when the date arrived, made the drive to the city. He found the house on a block where the trees joined hands above the street and made a tunnel of deep and spotted shade. The yard was half usurped by a garden. She had dozens of kinds of flowers, most of them in bloom, thronged by butterflies and bees. Red honeysuckle covered the skirts of the front porch, and a hummingbird feeder hung from a branch on a great old oak.

He followed the regular tour through the house but didn't see her anywhere and went to the back yard. In the open tent in front of the carriage house a group of women were talking. One, a redhead, had her back to him. She was thin and short, but her hair fell halfway to her waist and she wore a sleeveless white dress and white shoes; Ada's hair had been little longer than a man's, and the dress was not the sort of thing she had ever worn. Then she turned to talk to someone, and he saw her in profile, and his heart hammered. After ten years he had only to see her, to feel like a boy in the presence of his adored.

She still made mistakes other women didn't. In the sleeveless dress her arms showed brown to just above the elbows. His guess was that she gardened often, and without gloves. Her face looked worn and faintly sad. She was calmer than she had been, more poised, even detached. Her expressions were less changeable and transparent than the girl she had been. She had become guarded.

She said goodbye to her friends and turned, eyes down at the grass for a moment, then up and past him. After a few steps her eyes drifted to him, probably because he was staring at her. She paused, stopped, and turned. Her eyes went blank for a moment, looked puzzled, then lit up. Then she looked eager and started to run to him, but he saw her doubt herself, or wonder how he would react and what she should say, or even could say. She slowed, and stopped, and stared. He wondered how long the silence would last. He would wait for her. He wouldn't make her comfortable by speaking first.

"Wyatt?" Her voice was unbelieving.

"Yes."

She came to him and reached to touch the sleeve of his jacket, and stopped just short. He remembered that gesture, as he remembered other gestures, and her thinness, and her dark eyes, and the plainness of her speech and behavior. No time had passed. Everything he had imagined in her face - the guardedness, the sadness - was gone, and he was looking at the same girl, the only one he had ever loved, and still did love. Why had he come? What was to be gained? Why couldn't he forget her?

"Wyatt. I'm glad you're here." She spoke so softly he almost didn't catch what she'd said.

"What?" he asked, pretending he hadn't heard, wanting to embarrass her, and hoping she would say it again.

"I'm glad you're here." Then she did touch his sleeve, so lightly that he saw it without feeling it. "I've always wondered. How are you?"

"Fine, I suppose. How are you?"

"Glad to see you. I didn't recognize you, your hair is so short."

Again they were looking at each other without speaking. It was like facing his own execution, but he couldn't look away.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

He remembered that, too. She had asked him the same question outside Strong Hall the day he had waited for her, and caught her going in. If only now were then. If only he could change everything that had happened. "No... I was just thinking."

"What?" She waited. "What were you thinking?"

How beautiful you are. "I'm not sure. I didn't expect this to be so difficult."

"Yes. I know. You could have called."

"I wouldn't have come if I'd called. I had to just do it."

"I meant all those years. All that time. I wish you'd called. I wondered what happened to you."

"I didn't call because you said you didn't want me to. And you were putting me under a peace bond."

"I changed my mind later. After the panic wore off. I knew you wouldn't hurt me. You just wanted me not to run away, you wanted me to listen. Besides, things change. You heal. Parting doesn't mean you don't care, you don't still want to know how he is, whether he's happy."

"You didn't have to wait for me to call. You could have called me."

"I didn't know where you were."

"L.A." He waited. "I was in the book for a year, after you." He waited again. "I see. Never mind, then."

Her face changed, as if it were collapsing. "I was hurt and then I was afraid, afraid you wouldn't want to talk to me, and then time went by and it seemed too late. I was going to, but there was the picture of you and that girl in Rolling Stone."

"What are you talking about? What girl?"

"The article before your first album came out - "

"Oh, that. I didn't even know who she was. Some friend of Dave's."

"No."

"You thought - "

"Yes. I thought she was your girlfriend. It looked that way. You looked so happy."

"She was telling me a joke. It doesn't matter now anyway. You have that ring on your finger."

She looked at it, surprised, and said, "Yes," as if she had forgotten that she wore it. "Yes. You saved him. Then he married me. Strange, how things turn out."

"Where is he?"

"Out in the field, working. He's building a new subdivision. He's very busy." She stepped past him. "Let me show you my gardens."

He made a quarter-turn, to keep her in view. "I didn't come to see gardens. I came to see you."

"Yes. Of course. This is hard for me. We need to talk. I wish you'd called, we've lost time."

"I thought we just discussed that."

"I mean, you're back in Lawrence. The newspaper said so. I tried to look up your number but it isn't listed. I was hoping you'd call."

He was unprepared now for the candor he had loved. It threw his timing off. He had grown used to dissembling and euphemisms. "Your hair looks wonderful," he said. "Long and brilliant. It's gorgeous." He had always wanted her to wear it long; he hadn't been with her long enough to persuade her, and then to see it grow. The red showed a few threads of summer gold. "You're wearing a dress. No more self-inflicted haircuts and jeans?"

"No. I've made some compromises." She smiled. She still had that smile.

"You had that tooth straightened."

She said, "That was a compromise, too. Stop talking about me. I want to know why you stayed away so long."

"I remember a letter. A Dear John. You hid somewhere. I couldn't find you. Did you forget?"

"No. I haven't. How could I? I'm sorry. Truly."

"Where did you hide?"

"I slept on the floor of the lab."

He said nothing.

"Let's go where we can talk." She led him to the back of the yard, almost behind the carriage house, to spring steel chairs standing on flagstones, next to a stone wall. An old elm soared above.

"There aren't many trees like this now," she said. "Even before I moved here, Dutch Elm killed most of them. This is one of the biggest in the city... You didn't have to come alone. You could have brought - anyone. Anyone in your life. I would have been glad to make her welcome."

"Bring a date? There's no one to bring."

"No one at all?"

"No. I left a girlfriend in L.A."

"Why did you split up?"

"She wasn't you."

She twisted the ring on her left finger.

"Okay," he said. "That was out of line. Sorry."

"What was her name? What does she do?"

"Angela. She's an actress. You might recognize her. 'Oh, her!' You know? She does a lot of TV commercials. I met her shooting a music video. She was one of the dancers. We lived together six years. A really long one-night stand," he said.

"She must have meant something to you, to stay together for so long."

"She was easy to get along with."

"I went to your concert at Sandstone. The one with Whisky Priest."

"I thought you didn't like rock."

"I listen to it sometimes. Some of your songs are amazing. The lyrics and the melodies, they're glorious... Especially 'Weightless'. It's almost unearthly."

"Glad you like it."

"They were selling tee shirts with the list of cities. London, Amsterdam, Frankfurt, Munich. What was Europe like?"

"Europe is just Europe. Not better, not worse. Different. Touring is lousy there, too. You can't see anything. You spend your time waiting. Hotel rooms, airplanes, busses. Trying to keep track of your laundry. Groupies crawling all over you. Saying the same things to interviewers over and over. People smoking and talking and drinking and shaking your hand and offering you drugs and breathing on you. Parties. People doing stupid things, to show off for each other. It's ugly. It's tiring. It's boring. It makes you cynical."

"It's supposed to be glamorous."

"It looks that way from the outside."

"You haven't changed," she said. "Your life was big. Bigger than anyone else's. You've been everywhere. You've done everything. You're always ready, whatever happens."

"Sure. I hear they're making a movie about my life. It's a comedy." I'm the joke, and you're the punchline. "Maybe it will sell some records. I can use the money."

She shrugged it off. "Think about it. You rescued me. You rescued Owen. You always knew what to do, and you'd do it immediately. You never needed to think. Now I see you in magazines and newspapers and here you are, you reappear after all this time, like a magic trick."

"I drove over from Lawrence. Big deal."

"It is. You always made light of things, you always tried to make things seem ordinary. Like the way you gave me the ring, so casually. But it was a big deal."

"I still have that ring."

She was silent.

"You're right. It was a big deal. I didn't have to get down on one knee or take you to a fancy restaurant to ask the question. We both like things simple. You knew how I felt. I thought I knew how you felt." He was trying to be calm, but the tremor crept into his voice. "But hey, it looks like you did pretty well for yourself."

"That's cruel."

"No. Your letter was cruel. Not talking to me was cruel. I'd rather lose a hand than go through anything like that again."

"You never used to blame me for anything."

"I never needed to, but that changed."

"Please don't ruin my memories."

"This sounds promising. Like you're willing to argue. Maybe if you'd argued then, when I came back from L.A., came back hoping you'd listen to reason, we'd still be together."

"I won't fight with you, Wyatt. I love, loved you. I won't fight with you."

"No. You never would, except when you wanted to. The rest of the time you were above it. But that's arrogant. You can't settle anything. You stay clean, but what about me? It was like knocking on a locked door, asking to be let out. I'm still locked in. You have to fight me. I want to forget you. You owe me that. You wouldn't even speak to me. You still won't, not really. How am I supposed to get over it?"

"Is fighting the only choice? It's wrong and it doesn't work. People hurt each other too much, even when they're trying not to."

"You always talked about how much you needed me, you told me to put us first, but then you wrote that letter and you sent the ring back and you ran away and hid. You're the one who didn't put us first. You're the one we weren't important to."

"You're needling me," she said. "It won't work."

"Don't you feel anything?"

"Of course I do. I don't show it the way you're trying to make me show it, that's all."

"Do you know what that did to me? What it did to my life?"

"This isn't like you, holding onto your resent - "

He interrupted, "What would you know about that? What would you know about me?"

"I knew you very well. I think I still do. I know you suffered, but this won't help. You can't say anything I haven't accused myself of. It was my fault. I know that. But I can't change it. I'm promised to someone else."

"You promised yourself to me. You didn't keep that."

"Yes. I thought things should be perfect. I didn't know any better."

"That's your excuse? Weren't you listening when I warned you? When I said I wasn't your knight in shining armor? What was the name of that imaginary nobleman you used to write stories about when you were little? The one who would rescue you? Did you think I was him?"

She didn't respond.

"Same old Ada," he said. "The silent treatment. Next, you'll get up and leave."

"No." She grasped his hand. "I'll listen. No matter what you say, I'll listen."

At that, his heart broke on the same old crack. Nothing had changed. Nothing would. He was stuck with the pain and futility, because he couldn't make her hurt him so he could stop loving her. She would always win, with gentleness.

"I'll go home," he said. "You should be seeing to your guests."

"They're not my guests. The League is handling this. Talk to me." She smiled. "Tell me your life story."

"There's not much to tell these days. I write songs and people hire me to back them in the studio."

"You're not in a band?"

"No. I like being a studio musician. Bands don't last. Euphoria sure didn't."

"I'm sorry. I know how much you loved your friends."

"It wasn't the same, after they all quit. It was hard, coming back from that. They were everything - my friends, my partners, my family - but they just couldn't handle the success. I was the only one who knew things were going to change. I tried to warn them. They laughed when I said success would just bring a different set of problems. Then Dave died. That was the end. He was crazy, but he was the heart of that band. I always thought I was, but I was only the brain. When Dave died, the band died."

"But you did it. You came back. Now you're famous."

"No. I was famous for a while. Now I'm just another one-hit wonder."

"A friend of mine plays that first solo album all the time. People love those songs. The critics rave about them."

"You've been studying up."

"But there was so much - "

" 'I didn't know'," he finished for her.

"Of course. You remember. I still feel that way. I'm studying art, and classical music..." There was a silence, then she said, "Have you made any friends? Can I give you a party?"

The old Ada would never have thought of that. "No," he said. "I went to too many parties in L.A."

"Why did you leave?"

"It was getting on my nerves. Everybody I knew was in the business. I couldn't go anywhere without everybody talking shop. Plus the trendiness, the constant driving, the miles of houses, the anonymity. It wore me down. It was all so plastic. It was pleasant, but the important things were missing. I started going to the Sierras to get away from the crowding and the noise and the scale of it, the deadening quality. I didn't like the place. I didn't like the lifestyle, or the people, or the Ferraris, or the car alarms. I didn't like the clothes, or the houses, or the freeways. I didn't even like the air. I can write songs anywhere. I might as well live here. I was always remembering Lawrence. It seemed like home, even after all the years... I still do a lot of sessions in L.A. My life is actually pretty dull."

She laughed. "This is like the night we met. Remember? You thought your life was ordinary, and I didn't? Now you're famous, and you still think your life is ordinary."

"This is boring. You talk."

"Speaking of boring, I got the botany doctorate and I was bored, so Owen encouraged me to get another one. Central American agricultural economics, at K. State!" She laughed again. "My Jayhawk friends think I'm a traitor."

"Aren't you overdoing it? Two of them?"

"The eternal student. Owen is proud of that. He thinks I'm 'accomplished'. He's trying to live up to his family history. He's made me part of that, in his mind. Owen Amory Fischer the third. He's named for his grandfather, and his grandfather was named for his grandfather." She looked at the flagstones. "We didn't know how different we were. I grew up poor. But Owen takes this for granted." She gestured at the big house, the beautiful back yard and the well-dressed people. "I'll never get used to it. It's wasteful... He wants me to join in. I don't want to sit on boards of directors. I wouldn't know what to do. I go to the City Union Mission and log the donations. I answer the phone at Human Rescue. Those are the things I know how to do, the things I like to do. And he doesn't like me going to Penn Valley Friends on Sunday. He thinks it looks bad. He wants me to go to Country Club Christian, with him. He went to Meeting once. It's in a poor neighborhood, and he thought sitting in silence was strange. He fidgeted. He wants to wear a suit and hear a sermon and see his friends. I know he doesn't listen for the still, small voice. And yet, we're close, we know each other so well it's almost like being brother and sister. I'm fond of him, we enjoy each other. I wasn't complaining. I didn't mean it the way it sounded," she said. "You know, I've always wondered whether I'd see you again. I didn't think..." She leaned toward him. "Have you flown any kites lately?"

"The kite. How could I forget? It must have been a hundred degrees. You showed me that letter from your father."

"He and Henry came up for the wedding. I think they were glad to go home. They were uncomfortable. They've lost their American-ness."

"Is he still married to Maria?"

"Yes. She couldn't come. Someone had to stay and milk the cows."

"Do you ever miss that?"

"No. Absolutely not."

He snapped his fingers. "I meant to tell you, I got through Don Quixote. 'In a village of La Mancha, there lived an old gentleman'."

"Buena nota!" She clapped twice. "En un lugar de la Mancha, de cuyo nombre no quiero acordarme, no ha mucho tiempo que vivía un hidalgo de los de lanza en astillero, adarga antigua, rocín flaco y galgo corredor."

"Who would you be?" he asked.

"Don Quixote, of course. No responsibilities, completely crazy, wandering around having adventures."

"You're Dulcinea."

"Imaginary? No."

"Okay, then - Maritornes!"

She laughed uproariously. "The little slut. You always did bring that out in me... No, let me be Sancho Panza," she said. "But who are you?"

"Don Quixote. 'From little sleep and too much reading, his brain dried up and he lost his wits'. That's me."

"No, that's me!"

"I'm the insomniac."

"But I'm the romantic."

"All right," he said. "You can be Don Quixote if I can be Roque Guinart."

"Perfect! The swaggering outlaw. It's you!"

They fell into the talking trance, the same as before. She was unchanged. The conversation recalled the ones in the park, and his apartment, and the Union, and the library, and in bed. Finally it was dark and everyone had gone and the two of them were alone, with only the sawing of the cicadas for company, and the air had cooled, and his voice was hoarse. It had been years since he'd talked long enough to grow hoarse, though it might have been the laughter and not the talking that wore out his throat. Ada rubbed her arms in the same way she had in the park that night after the conversation about her brother and Cervantes and the ten thousand other things Wyatt couldn't remember now. Then, walking home, they had found Owen beaten half to death. Of such accidents our lives are made.

The phone was ringing.

"Aren't you going to get that?"

"I can't reach it in time. It's Owen. This is the time of evening he calls and says he'll be late."

"Go inside. You're cold. It's time for me to go home."

"I suppose." Pause. "I'm sorry about your girlfriend. You shouldn't be alone. You need to be with someone. Everyone needs someone. I have a friend at Meeting. She's pretty and kind and very smart. I can introduce - "

"Get real. Fix me up, after what we had together? If I got involved with her, I'd see you hovering over the bed like a ghost."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Divorce Owen and marry me."

She didn't respond.

"I just keep doing it, don't I?" he said. "I'll go before I dig up all the crap and throw it at you again."

She didn't answer.

"You're cold," he said. "Go inside."

"It was wonderful to see you. Wonderful. Talking to you is better than anyone else. Call me soon?"

They went in the kitchen and she reached in a drawer and pulled out a pen and a pad of paper and wrote her phone number on it, and tore the sheet off the pad and folded it over with the number on the inside and handed it to him.

"I miss you," she said. "You were more generous with yourself. I think about you. You know there's no question of, well, anything but talk. You know that. It's just that feeling of always being alone, and being different, and no one understanding me. You're the only one who ever took that away. I want to talk to you. Is that all right?"

"Yes. It is." He turned to leave.

"Wait," she said. "Your number."

He wrote it on the pad.

She was standing in the door as he drove off, and he leaned toward the steering wheel and looked over and saw her raise a hand in farewell and he returned the gesture, across the great lawn and the flowerbeds, to the woman whose first lover he had been. She'd said she missed him; he wondered who missed the other one more. He wondered who would cave in and call the other first.