Ada wears a simple cotton dress, pale yellow with tiny purple flowers. She sets out snacks on a table on the back porch, then fills a galvanized iron tub with ice and long-neck beers. She wears sandals, which she'll kick off later, and which will separate from each other. The dress is calf length; her legs below the hem are the eggshell color of a true redhead, but her arms are sunburned and peeling. She wears a blue baseball cap, a short ponytail sticking out the back.

Melody runs in and out of the house. Party night, Friday, is her favorite time of the week. She flies back and forth on the swing that hangs from the big oak. She runs to her mother and asks for something to do. Ada tells her to bring out the iced tea. "Don't hurry," she says, as her daughter runs inside. "Don't spill it."

Wyatt isn't home. He's driven to the city, to the airport, to pick up his friend Brad, who abandoned music when Euphoria broke up. Ada counts the number of people she knows are coming. Sometimes there are more than she expects. Friends drop in, and bring friends of their own, and people who said "no" change their minds and turn up. Wyatt loves this. These parties are his recreation, when he's in Lawrence. Ada prefers a private life, but she is always surprised that she enjoys the music and dancing, which are unlike her quiet childhood, or most of her adulthood. The hilarity -- Wyatt's friends on the floor howling; the uninhibited dancing and talk; the drinking. At first these frightened her, but there has never been any violence, and rarely any anger, only uninhibited Dionysian glee. Wyatt somehow manages to keep matters under control, always appearing at the right moment, taking offenders outside for a talk. Some of them have never returned. Ada wonders where her husband's authority comes from; it seems inborn.

She sits on the step, wondering what she has left undone, but she has little time to think. First the Larsons appear. Melody helps them with their horses. She eats dinner with them several nights a week. When she was six years old she asked Ada,

"Mommy, can the Larsons adopt me?"

To which Ada replied, "Oh, honey, I'd miss you."

This has become one of the stories in the family lore, a disorderly trove of anecdotes about the children, with a few about Wyatt and Ada. The story of how her parents met was Melody's favorite at bedtime when she was small. After the girl had corrected Ada's telling of the story twice, Ada made a habit of introducing one mistake, a different one each time.

"And then your father wrapped the gray wool blanket around me -- "

"No. It was the other way. The wool blanket first!"

"Oh, yes, that's right. Thank you, honey. The gray wool blanket and then the electric blanket. You're right. Thank you."

And Melody's annoyance would change to a smile, and her mother would smile back for a moment before continuing.

What had happened to the little girl? Now the boys were coming around. Soon Melody would lose her innocence, and then she would never be able to get it back. The thing that was wrong with children, Ada thought, was that they didn't remain children. They started off helpless and perfect and innocent, and then they acquired skills, and with the skills they began to acquire autonomy -- and as they did, they acquired flaws, or the inherent flaws came into the foreground. They were still perfect, in a way, but they were problematic: Clover's reserve and secretiveness; Gabriel's passivity and eagerness to please, whatever the cost (an amiability that didn't consider the trouble if he let others have their way); Melody's impulsiveness and love of the physical. Ada worried more about her youngest than the other two, who would make no mistakes that couldn't be repaired. Melody never counted the cost, and she didn't seem to learn from experience.

The arrivals, in order, were: a couple from the Zen Center; Gary, who lived two blocks away and had carried a mini-keg all that distance (but he was big and muscular); Pilar, the neighbor girl, who ran with Melody to Melody's room to listen to a new album; Dr. Martin, the ornithologist from the University, who was teaching Gabriel about birdwatching; three graduate students; a friend from Oread Meeting.

Ada lost track then. They were too many to sit on the porch, so they adjourned to the big table in the kitchen. Buzz and Chick arrived, with the van and the boys. They unloaded their instruments and carried them in. The weather was good, and they went upstairs to play on the balcony outside the master bedroom.

Ada was listening to an argument at the kitchen table when Clover walked in. Behind her was Owen. His black hair and mustache had gone half gray. She stopped.

"Aren't you going to say hello?" he asked.

She set the tray on the table and walked to him, and took his hands in her own. "Owen, I'm so happy. You look wonderful. Will you stay for the party?"

"I was dropping Clover -- "

"Tomorrow's Saturday. Stay. We have a guest room. Please."

"You seem the same."

"Oh, I'm afraid I've changed a great deal."

"I meant the way you act."

"What made you decide to visit?"

"I have business in Omaha so I thought I'd surprise Mother, but she wasn't home."

"She's here. She and Sarah are out in the gazebo."

They walked out, and heard Nina's laugh. Then Nina called to her son. "You didn't say you were coming!"

Wyatt arrived with his L.A. friend, and Ada turned, halfway to the gazebo, and didn't hear the conversation between Owen and his mother. Soon Gabriel and his father and Brad were in the studio, playing music. There were four parties going on: one in the kitchen, another in the gazebo, a third on the upstairs balcony, and more music in the studio above the garage. Ada wandered among the four groups, watching and listening, until she fetched up alone on the back porch, her feet on the steps, listening to the voices in the kitchen, the intermittent patches of singing from the balcony, the music from the studio, the laughter from the gazebo. She had no need to do, no desire to do, no thought of doing. She might sit forever, waiting and listening. Fireflies blinked, now one, now none, now two or three, then none again, the pairs and threes overlapping but never synchronized. A wind stirred the patch of tall maiden grass at the corner of the garage; the air slid across her skin. Her mind was clear of all desire and thought, clear of anything except the nearness of perfection. All the sights before her eyes might disappear at any moment. She no longer recognized the voices, only the collective message of joy. All these people she loved. Her many-chambered heart.

Someone was walking toward her, across the grass. Her son: sweet, adored Gabriel. She smiled at him. He looked into her face for a moment and smiled back. He sat next to her and said something she didn't understand. She held up a hand, in a tentative gesture. He was silent. Nothing stirred or changed but the fireflies, and the soft wind, and the voices and music. Underneath all these, silence, and a great calm. Under these thousand things, an unchanging presence.

When she remembered how to speak, she said to her son, without looking at him, "Tonight I am happier than I have ever been. I hope you feel this sometime."

"Feel what?"

She gestured again, outward, without speaking. Her contentment was so full now it was painful. Her heart hurt. She couldn't breathe. Her face was as raw as if it had been frostbitten, or burned.

"Mom, is something wrong?"

The vacuum in her throat unsealed itself and she gasped. "Ah," she sighed. "I wish I could give you this." This intensity in each single thing and thought, none of which referred outside themselves. This boy, her child; these voices; the wind and the grass: they exhibited themselves in their own, pure, unintelligible simplicity, beyond comprehension. The only response to such a gift, such infinite, unrequested, unimaginable beauty, was love and gratitude.

She took her son's hand in her own. They sat without speaking. His fingers were long and thick, his skin tan from his lifeguarding job. He was becoming a man. She looked at his face, which had become heavier and longer. He was growing a mustache. He spoke, and his voice was deeper than she remembered. Soon he would have a life of his own.

"I'm sorry," she said. "What did you say?"

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. Shush."

The music in the studio ended, and she heard Wyatt ask Brad a question about their old band, Euphoria. Brad answered "Yes".

A car drove past and turned into the parking lot of the nursery, its wheels on the gravel sounding like popcorn. Its engine and its lights went off. A nighthawk flew over, crying. A bicyclist rode by, wheels whirring and lights dimming and brightening in synchrony with the pedalling. Someone ran water in the kitchen sink. Ada heard herself sigh again, and Gabriel did the same a moment later. Their dog Apache came trotting up and flopped in the grass. The kitchen radio came on -- a gentle, nasal blues; Jimmy Reed. Melody and Pilar ran past, on either side of Ada and Gabriel, the door slamming as they reached the bottom of the steps.

"We're going to her house," Melody shouted. They vanished.

Gabriel went to the table and filled a glass with tea and returned to sit beside his mother. He drank. She watched the dark fluid disappear from the glass into him.

The light in the studio went out. Her husband and his friend were walking toward her. Wyatt stooped and kissed the top of her head. She looked up and touched him on the hip. He smiled and went in the house, holding the door to let the dog in.

"How I love that man," she said.

"I know," her son replied. "Sometimes it's funny."

"Why?"

"It's like watching puppies."

He finished the tea and followed his father into the house. She was alone again with her problem: how to share her feeling. This bliss was drowning her.

She went to the gazebo. Sarah, Nina, Owen, Clover, their faces dim. She took the last chair, the padded recliner.

Nina was telling the story of her recent vacation, a tour of the great galleries of Europe -- the Tate, the Prado, the Louvre, the Uffizi, the Hermitage. "I liked that best," she said, "partly for the building, the old palace."

"I remember you talking about that trip," Owen said.

"When?"

"Before you took it."

Laughter.

"It was my dream. The trip I always wanted to take."

Ada imagined the museums: what might be in them, their architecture, the people, the streets around them, the cities and the busses she would take to get to each of them, her rooms, the texture of the bread at breakfast (flaky, hard, or chewy), the sound of the local languages, the taste of the coffees, the length of daylight and the angle of the sun in the sky, the stamps in her passport, the color and shape of the airletters on which she would mail reports of her adventures; the glow of jewels in a shop window, the breeds of dogs in the street, the sounds the cars and trucks made, the absence or presence of motorscooters. She had no desire to go. Imagining these things was more fun. She wanted never to be apart from her family, only to sit here forever. What would she do when the children had grown up and gone? Adopt, maybe. She should prepare Wyatt for the idea, sound him out, mention the good it would do. A house without a child was no house at all.

Nina was planning a visit to Owen in New York. "Ada, why don't you come with me? They have plenty of room. We can go shopping and see the art galleries and eat every kind of food. it would be great fun."

"Oh, no, I couldn't. I have to stay and take care of the children, and there are my students."

"Bring the kids," Owen said.

"School starts soon."

They had an answer for every objection. She didn't want to hurt them; she wouldn't say that she simply didn't want to go. She wanted to stay in her house; she wanted to garden and work. The house had become a part of her. She had always loved this house -- the haphazard sprawl of the exterior, the large lot surrounded by trees and an impenetrable tall hedge, the strange little nooks inside, the tongue-and-groove panelling on the third-floor walls, the enormous kitchen, the rabbits in the yard. Now she couldn't imagine living anywhere else. Her husband's house. Husband. How odd, to have had two of them, and to sit talking to the first.

"I won't be able to," she said. "I would like to see it. I wonder sometimes what your life there is like."

"It's good," he said. "Very good. We live a block from the park. We have a nice place, comfortable, convenient. I like my work. Our son is turning out well. We have good friends. Clover comes and spends the summers."

A guitar and a drum sounded from the house. "The dancing is starting," Ada said. "Let's go inside."

Melody was dancing with a girl who looked much like her: blond hair, strong round limbs, round face, prominent features, especially the cheekbones. Pilar was staring from the sidelines. The doors between the kitchen and the front room were open and Wyatt was seated at the grand piano, the dog underneath the piano. Buzz had plugged his acoustic guitar into an amp, and Gabriel was playing his small accordion. Chick was pounding on a tall drum. Brad was watching from the table.

"That's the strangest collection of instruments I've ever seen," Owen muttered to Ada.

She kicked her sandals into the corner and joined her daughter and the other blond girl, holding hands and spinning around the floor in a circle.

The band started "Black Magic Woman".

"Wait," Ada said. "I want 'Blue Danube'."

Wyatt started playing; the other musicians stood by.

She went to the table and led Owen to the middle of the floor. "Do you remember the Alaska cruise? The dance lessons?"

He groaned. "I haven't done this in years."

She held out her arms and waited. Finally, he shrugged and took her in the close position.

"Forward, slightly forward, step together," she said. She moved back, and almost fell.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Try again."

This time she waited for him to lead, and they glided, him forward, her back, but his right foot came too far and stubbed her toe. "Ouch."

He took off his wingtips and socks and reached for her again.

They hadn't got it by the time Wyatt finished. Owen was sweating, and released her.

"No," she said. "I know we can do this. Again."

Wyatt started over.

"Long left, short right, left back and together," Owen muttered. "Long right, short left, right forward and together. You're rushing the beat."

"Slow," she said.

They got through the second in better style. Wyatt picked up the tempo the third time through.

"There," she said. "Now the turn -- here -- remember?"

They almost fell over, and recovered. The turns were small at first, then larger, until they were dancing in flowing circles, and the music finally ended.

Applause.

"Teach me!" Melody shouted. "Teach me how to do that!"

Ada stood aside and indicated Owen with one hand. He bowed, and bowed to her, and held out his hands. She curtsied. They joined hands and gestured to Wyatt, who stood to take his own bow.

"Are you having fun?" she asked Owen.

"Yes. I haven't enjoyed myself this much in a long time. Thanks for making me do that."

"Let's go out on the porch. It's too loud to talk in here."

They sat on the steps, where she had sat with Gabriel.

"How many stars do you think there are?" she asked.

"Too many to visit in this lifetime."

She laughed. "Yes. Too many to visit." She inspected the sky. "Did you ever try to count them when you were a child?"

"No. It never occurred to me."

"I used to. It was so cloudy in Monteverde only the brightest ones showed. Then I came here, and there were more. Finally Wyatt took all of us backpacking in the mountains in the desert, up high, and there were -- amazing numbers of them. That was the kind of life I always wanted -- a wider view. Does this make sense?"

"Yes."

"So I guess I've had the life I dreamed of. I found someone I loved -- two of you, actually." She touched his knee and looked at the sky again. "I got a Ph.D., and almost got another one. I was by my father's side, to take care of him when he was dying. I have children, and they're interesting people. Teaching is wonderful. I think I've had a very good life, and so I don't want that larger -- scope? -- any more, that wider view of things? I don't want it the way I used to. Do you remember how hard I used to study?"

"Yes."

"I don't feel that need any more. I don't have those drives. This air -- " she took a breath -- "is enough. I'm healthy, and my family is happy." She turned to him. "I hope -- that's what I want for you. Are you happy?"

"Yes. I am."

"I think of you. I wonder how you are, how you feel, whether you're satisfied in your work, whether your wife loves you and is good to you -- why are you crying?"

He shook his head.

"What is it? Did I hurt you? I'm sorry. Did I say something wrong?"

"No, no. You know how you imagine a conversation with someone, what you'll say to them, and what they'll say to you?"

"I've done that. Imagined that."

"I've wanted to talk. Since the divorce. Then you started saying these things."

"I still love you, Owen. I want to know that you're happy."

"Do you think you made a mistake, marrying me?"

"Yes, but what difference does it make? Look at us. I've had everything I wanted. You've done extremely well in business. We have a daughter who's brilliant and beautiful. How could I regret our marriage?"

"Even the way, even the night, the way it ended."

"That? Oh, don't worry about that. I've practically forgotten it. In fact, I'll tell you a secret if you can keep it to yourself."

"All right."

She said, "Sometimes Wyatt and I do it that way. It's an acquired taste. Sometimes I like a change of pace."

He stared, and then shouted with laughter. "Goodbye innocent Ada. At least I know you got over it."

"It was a long time ago."

"Yes. A different life."

"Yes. A different life. Different days, other places, our old obsessions."

"I'll take you up on that offer to spend the night."

"Good. There's a guest room in the attic. We can go out to breakfast. It'll be fun."

They talked about Clover -- her intelligence, her stubbornness, her solitary nature; what to do with her; where she might go to college; the difficulties each time she went to New York, and each time she returned to Lawrence. They agreed that she would probably major in math, since it seemed to be the only thing besides clothes that she cared about. She would probably do well for herself: she knew how to work the system, and people, for her own benefit. "She's better with abstractions than human beings," Ada observed.

"I'm tired," Owen said. "I'd like to go to bed."

"Bring your bag to the third floor."

She was making the bed when he reached the top of the stairs with his suitcase. She was unfurling a flat sheet.

"Here, let me help." He went to the top of the bed and centered the sheet and flattened it. They moved from one corner to another, tucking the corners and sides under the mattress. She picked up another sheet and they took opposite ends. This time he centered his at the top without tucking it in, and she made up the foot of the bed. She handed him a quilt, which he refolded and set on top of the sheet. He didn't intend to use it; the attic was warm. She put a pillow in a case that didn't match the sheets, and tossed it to him. He set it on the bed. She went to the window and switched on a square exhaust fan.

"Good night," she said, kissed him, and left.

At dawn sleepers were scattered on the couch, at the table, outside in the grass. Ada hadn't slept. The musicians had stopped playing about four a.m., and she'd sat at the table with Wyatt and a few others. Melody had fallen asleep in her father's lap, and his legs had gone numb. He'd shook her awake and sent her off to bed, Pilar following her.

"She's too big," he said. "Another milestone."

"Do you think it's wise to let that girl go with her?"

"Why?"

"I don't know." She gave him their "we'll take about it later" sign.

"Ah."

They stayed up talking with Brad. At dawn they walked a mile east and wandered through the Catholic cemetery.

A stone with an angel on top, a sculpture of a child, obelisks. Around them, grass, gravestones, mausoleums, asphalt drives, trees. Traffic passing on 15th street.

"I like graveyards," she said. "They're peaceful."

"The best thing is the markers and the families. The things on the stones -- 'beloved wife'," Wyatt said.

"Will you put that on mine?" Ada asked.

"If that's what you want."

"What would you like on yours?"

" 'Who turned out the lights?' "

She laughed, and said to Brad, "He's always like this. Won't be serious."

"Look at this one," Wyatt said. The name on the stone was Ada.

"How odd. She was born exactly 100 years before me."

"Died in 1905."

"Do you suppose I'll die in 2005? A century later?"

"At least these are marble," Wyatt said. "You can read them. There was a cemetery behind our house when I was growing up and the markers were limestone. The names and dates had all washed away."

Brad looked around. "The only thing missing is a cortege," he said.

"Is anyone else hungry?" Wyatt asked. "Breakfast?"

They returned to the house. Ada woke her other husband and searched for her sandal in the kitchen, finding it between the refrigerator and a cabinet just as Owen came downstairs. They went to the Eldridge Hotel, downtown, the old place with the marker that it had survived Quantrill's burning of the town, a century and a half before.

"Twenty years," Owen commented. "Twenty years since I've been here."