lizabeth sat on her favorite beach rock, staring out at the view that owned such a piece of her heart. She was alone out here today. There were no seals lazing on the rocks along the shoreline, no otters zipping back and forth. No birds diving down into the water. Waves washed forward, a foamy white line that pushed her back, back.

All last night she'd tossed and turned in bed, unable to find the sweet relief of sleep. She'd thought of so many things. Her mother and the terrible price she paid for love. Her daddy, her children, her marriage, her art.

Her whole life had been in bed with her, crowding her with memories of times both good and bad, of choices taken and roads not taken. For the first time, perhaps, she saw the big picture. She loved Jack. True, she'd let weakness in, and loss and regret, and those emotions had tainted her view of herself, but her love had run deep and been honest.

Her biggest failure had been an inability to love herself as well as she'd loved her family.

Then she'd finally taken the wheel and changed her course. She'd put her needs first and left Jack and dared to dream her own dream. She'd worked hard for it, painted until her fingers cramped up and her back ached.

But at the first bump in the road, she'd crumpled, pure and simple.

One little setback and she'd folded into the old Birdie. She'd considered quitting. As if the point of art could be found in supply-and-demand economics.

That pissed her off.

She stood up, walked forward. The tide tried to stop her. Water lapped over her rubber gardening clogs; icy water slid inside, dampened the hem of her pants. But nothing could push her back anymore. She'd never quit painting again. Even if no one ever liked her work. It would be enough that she did.

She ran forward suddenly, splashed into the freezing cold surf. It wasn't until the very last moment, when the water hit her full in the face, that she realized she wasn't going to turn around.

She dove headfirst into the next wave--something she'd never had the courage to do before. She came up on the other side, where the water was calm.

Life, she realized suddenly, was like this wave. Sometimes you had to dive into trouble to come out on the other side. That was what she'd learned at her failed art show: perspective. She needed to work harder, study more. Nothing in life came easily; it was time she said okay to that.

A big wave scooped her up and sent her tumbling toward the beach. She landed spread-eagled on the shore and burst out laughing.

When elizabeth came home, soaking wet and freezing cold, the house smelled heavenly, of vanilla and cinnamon and freshly brewed coffee. It reminded her of her childhood. Anita had always made wonderful Sunday brunches after church.

She kicked her wet clogs into a corner, where they hit with a splat. "Breakfast smells great," she said, shivering.

Anita was at the stove, cooking. Her face was flushed from the heat. "What happened to you?"

Elizabeth grinned. Water ran in icy squiggles down her forehead. "I started over. Again."

Anita smiled back. "Well, start for the stairs and change your clothes. I'm starving. And don't give me any of your new calorie crap, either. I've been dying for French toast."

"I'll eat anything someone else cooks, you know that."

Elizabeth ran upstairs, dried off, and changed into a pair of fleece sweats, then hurried back downstairs. By the time she got to the kitchen, Anita had already dished up--French toast soaked in Grand Marnier, fresh strawberry slices, and soft-boiled eggs--and was sitting at her place. Half of Anita's toast was missing.

"I waited for you like one pig waits for another."

Elizabeth laughed and sat down. "Daddy used to say that."

"I dreamed about him last night."

Elizabeth looked up. "Really? What was he doing?"

"Sitting in that white wicker rocking chair on the porch--the one he always bitched about bein' too small for a real man's ass. But he wasn't complainin'. He was smokin' one of his cigars and staring out at his fields. I sat down at his feet and he squeezed my neck just like he'd done a million times. 'Mother,' he said, 'it's time.' "

Elizabeth could picture it--picture him--perfectly. "He was probably mad because the corn didn't get planted this year."

Anita set down her fork. "I don't think that's it, actually. I think he was talkin' about me."

Elizabeth took a bite of her French toast. "This is sinful it's so good. So, what did he mean?"

"It's time for me to go home," Anita answered gently, "time for me to get on with my new life. I've been hiding here long enough. I had a long talk with Mina that night at the meeting. She convinced me that I need to start living again. We talked about going on a cruise together."

Elizabeth set down her fork. She was surprised at how much she wanted Anita to stay. "Are you sure you're ready?"

"I left Sweetwater because I couldn't stand to be so alone. But now I have you."

"Yes," Elizabeth answered slowly, "you do."

"Will you be okay alone?"

"Yes. I guess that's something we both learned. It's okay to be alone. But I'll miss you."

"Do you love Jack?" Anita asked suddenly.

Elizabeth was surprised by the question, but the answer came easily. "Yes."

Anita smiled broadly. "Well, honey, I'm not one o' those women who hand out advice as if it were hard candy, but let me say this: True love is a rare thing. We lean on it for years without botherin' to look at what's holdin' us up. It lasts forever, as the poets say, but life doesn't. One minute you're in bed with your husband, and the next second you're alone. You'd best think about that."

Elizabeth knew her stepmother was right. In her months away from Jack, she'd been waiting for her new life to unfold in a line that was straight and true. No hairpin turns, no sudden drop-offs. She'd wanted certainty.

But life wasn't like that.

I love you.

Those were the words that mattered. She'd been six years old when she'd learned that you could wake up one sunny Sunday morning and think that everything was right in your world, and then find out that someone you loved was gone.

She loved Jack. Needed him, though not in the desperate, frightened way of before. She could live without him. She knew that now. Maybe when all was said and done, that was the truth she'd gone in search of.

She could make her way alone in the world, but when she stared out over the rest of her life, she wanted him beside her, holding her hand and whispering to her that she was still beautiful. She wanted to watch his hair turn white and his eyes grow dim and know that none of it mattered, that their love lived in a deeper place. Whatever else she would search for in life, he would always be at the center of it. The place she came home to.

Anita was watching her closely.

"I'll miss you," Elizabeth said again, feeling her throat tighten.

"The planes fly east, too, you know." Anita stabbed a piece of French toast and popped it into her mouth. "Now, what about your painting?"

"What do you mean?"

"You won't give up, will you?"

Elizabeth smiled. "Because of one little old failure? No. I won't give up. That's a promise."

Years ago, when Jack's life had been falling apart the first time, he'd been called on the carpet by his network boss. He'd begged for a second chance, but it hadn't worked.

He'd been young then, still swollen by his own importance. Begging had felt unnatural and vaguely unnecessary; it wasn't surprising that he'd done it poorly.

Now, all these years--and losses--later, he knew better. Some things, once lost, were worth dropping to your knees for. Even if your knees were made of glass and might shatter on impact.

He sat in his rental car, thinking about all the mistakes he'd made in his life. Of this extensive list of wrongs, nothing had been as bad as taking his family for granted.

He got out of the car.

The Washington, D.C., weather was bitingly cold. The promise of spring felt distant today, even though the winter air was thick with tiny pink cherry blossoms.

As he walked up the concrete steps toward the building, he realized that it was the first time he'd been here.

Shameful, Jack.

He pushed through the double glass door and stepped into the chlorine-scented humidity. The familiar scent and heat immediately reminded him of long ago. So many family hours had been spent sitting on wooden bleachers, cheering Jamie on.

At the front desk, a green-haired kid sat in front of a computer screen.

"Are the ECAC Championships here today?" Jack asked.

The kid didn't look up. "They're almost over. Go through the men's locker room. Take the first door on your left."

"Thanks." Jack took off his suede coat and slung it over his shoulder as he walked through the busy locker room. He emerged into the hot, damp world of an indoor pool.

The bleachers were full to capacity. Along the back wall, dozens of women in Speedo bathing suits and bright rubber swim caps stood clustered together, talking to one another.

A sound blared. Instantly, a row of swimmers dove into the pool and raced for the other side.

Jack eased his way up the bleachers and sat down. His narrowed gaze studied the Georgetown team.

There she was. His Jamie.

She stood head and shoulders above her teammates. She had her hands at her mouth; she was yelling encouragements to a woman in the pool.

He felt a bittersweet ache at the sight of her, so tall and grown-up. Only yesterday, she'd been seven years old, a water baby who once dove into the pool when it wasn't even her race.

I just wanted to swim, Daddy.

He'd been so proud of her then. Why hadn't he pulled her into his arms and whispered, Good for you, instead of telling her to wait her turn?

Suddenly the race was over. A new group of swimmers was walking toward the edge of the pool.

Jamie stepped into place, stretched, then bent into position.

It was the 200 IM. Never her best event.

The horn blared, and the swimmers dove into the water.

Jack couldn't yell. Slowly, feeling as if he were the one in deep water, he got to his feet.

She was in second place at the first turn.

"Come on, Jamie," he said.

By the second turn, she'd fallen into fourth place. In the old days, he would have gone to the pool's edge, bent down, and encouraged her to try harder.

He'd thought that winning was everything. Now he knew better.

At the final turn, she picked up speed. Her strokes were damned near perfect.

He moved down the bleachers, stepped onto the floor. "Come on, Jamie," he said, still moving.

The finish was close.

She came in third, with a time of 2:33. If it wasn't her personal best, it was damned close. He'd never been so proud of her.

When she got out of the pool, her teammates clustered around her, hugging and congratulating her.

Jack stood there, waiting for her to notice him.

When she finally looked up, her smile faded. In that moment, across the crowded room, everything blurred and fell away. Only the two of them were left.

He was the first to move. He closed the distance between them, mentally preparing for her anger. God knew, it could hit you like a hammerblow. Sometimes, you had to duck fast. "Hey, Jamie. Good race."

She crossed her arms and jutted out her chin, but there was a softness in her eyes that gave him hope. "I came in third."

"You swam your heart out. I was proud of you."

She immediately looked down. "Why are you here? Business in town?"

"I came to watch you swim."

Slowly, she looked up. "It's been a long time." She obviously meant to sound tough, but her voice cracked.

"Too long."

In her eyes, he saw a flash of the girl who'd once followed him everywhere, afraid he'd get lonely without her. "Well. Thanks for coming. I'll tell Stephie you were here. She's finishing a big paper." She turned and walked away.

For a minute, he was so shocked he just stood there. Then he called out, "Wait!"

She stopped, but didn't turn around.

He came up behind her. "Forgive me," he whispered, hearing the desperate harshness in his voice. "I spent too much time looking at my own life."

"Forgive you?"

His voice fell to an intimate whisper, "Remember when you had that bad start at the state meet when you were a junior in high school? I took you aside and told you you'd had your stance wrong. But you knew that, didn't you?"

"Of course."

He stared at her back, wondering if he dared touch her. "I should have hugged you and told you it didn't matter. What you do is nothing compared to who you are. It took me too long to figure that out. I'm sorry, Jamie. I let you down."

Slowly, she turned around. Her eyes were moist.

"Please don't cry."

"I'm not. What about you and Mom?"

"I don't know."

"What happened? I don't get it."

"Think about you and your boyfriend, Mark."

"Michael," she said.

Damn. "Sorry. Anyway, imagine marrying him. You live with him for twenty-four years. Day in and day out, you're together. You raise children together and change jobs and move from town to town. Along the years, you bury parents and watch your friends divorce and say good-bye to your daughters. It's easy, in all that time, to forget why you fell in love in the first place." He took a step toward her. "But you know what I found out?"

"What?"

"You can remember if you want to."

"Do you still love her?"

"I'll always love her. Just like I'll always love you and Stephanie. We're a family." He said the word gently, with a newfound reverence. "I don't know what's going to happen with me and your mom, but I know this: You're my heart, Jaybird. Always."

She looked at him then, her eyes watery with tears that didn't fall. "I love you, Daddy."

He pulled her into his arms.

By the time elizabeth returned to the house from the airport, it was almost completely dark outside. Night coated the trees; they stood in black relief against the neon pink sunset. When she opened the door and went inside, she opened her mouth to call out for Anita.

I'm home.

But Anita was on an airplane, flying east.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and went up to her bedroom, where the papers Meghann had sent to her were stacked neatly beside her bed. She picked them up, stared down at them. Letterheads blurred before her eyes. Columbia University... SUNY... NYU. All New York schools. Near Jack.

Pretty subtle, Meg.

She tucked the papers under her arm, then grabbed a yellow legal pad and a pen. Downstairs, she took a seat at the kitchen table and began filling out the forms. When she'd finished that, she picked up the phone and called Meghann.

"Hey, Meg," she said without preamble. "I need you to write a letter of recommendation for me. I'm applying for grad school."

Meghann screamed into the phone. "Oh, my God! I'm so proud of you. I'm hanging up now; I have to draft a letter that makes my best friend sound like da Vinci in a bra and panties."

Elizabeth hung up, then called Daniel, who had pretty much the same reaction. She spoke to him for a few minutes, gave him the schools and addresses, then hung up. A third call to the University of Washington had her dusty transcripts sent out.

There were only two things left to do. Photograph her work so that she'd have slides to put in a portfolio to be included with the application, and write her admission essay. Three hundred words on why they should let a forty-six-year-old woman into graduate school.

She poured herself a glass of wine and returned to the kitchen table.

She opened the yellow pad to a blank page and began to write.

Right off the bat, I should tell you that I'm forty-six years old. Perhaps that's relevant only to me, and then again, perhaps not. I'm sure your school will be inundated with applications from twenty-one-year-old students with perfect grades and stellar talents. Honestly, I don't see how my record can compete with theirs.

Unless dreams matter. I know a dream is a dream is a dream, but to the young, such a thing is simply a goal to reach for, a prize to win. For a woman like me, who has spent half a lifetime facilitating other people's aspirations, it has a whole different meaning.

Once, years ago, I was told that I had talent. It seemed an insubstantial thing then, not unlike hair color or gender. Something that had traveled in my DNA. I didn't see then--as of course I do now--that such a thing is a gift. A starting place upon which whole lives can be built. I let it pass me by, and went on with everyday life. I got married, had children, and put aside thoughts of who I'd once wanted to be.

Life goes by so quickly. One minute you're twenty years old and filled with fire; the next, you're forty-six and tired in the mornings. But if you're very lucky, a single moment can change everything.

That's what happened to me this year. I wakened. Like Sleeping Beauty, I opened my eyes, yawned, and dared to look around. What I saw was a woman who'd forgotten how it felt to paint.

Now, I remember. I have spent the last few months studying again, pouring my heart and soul onto canvas, and have found--miraculously--that my talent survived. Certainly it is weaker, less formed than it was long ago, but I am stronger. My vision is clearer. This time, I know, I have something to say with my art.

And so, I am here, sitting at my kitchen table, entreating you to give me a chance, to make a place for me in your classrooms next fall. I cannot guarantee that I will become famous or exceptional. I can, however, promise that I will give everything inside me to the pursuit of excellence.

I will not stop trying.

Jack maneuvered his rental car down Stormwatch Lane. It was full-on night now, as dark as pitch as he pulled into the carport.

The house glowed with golden light against the onyx hillside.

He went to the front door and knocked. There was no answer, so he let himself in.

She was in the living room, dancing all by herself, wearing a long white T-shirt and fuzzy pink socks. She held an empty wineglass to her mouth and sang along with the record, "I can see clearly now, the rain is gone." Her butt twitched back and forth.

She turned suddenly and saw him. A bright smile lit up her face, and it was an arrow straight into his heart. Now he knew what the poets meant when they wrote about coming home.

In the old days, when he'd come home after a long absence, she'd run full tilt into his arms. They'd fit together like pieces of a puzzle; another thing he'd taken for granted.

Now they stared at each other, with the whole of the living room stretched between them. There was so much he wanted to say. He'd practiced the words all the way across the country, but how much would she want to hear?

"You won't believe what I did tonight," she said, coming toward him, doing a little dance.

"What?" It threw him off-balance, seeing her so shiny and bright. She looked happier than he could ever remember. Maybe it was because she liked being away from him.

"I applied to grad school."

"Grad school?" Whatever he'd expected, it sure as hell wasn't that. He felt a rush of pride that immediately turned cold. "Where?"

"Oh, I thought I'd try... New York." She smiled up at him. "That's where my husband lives. I didn't see any reason to go to school somewhere else."

He could breathe again. "I'm proud of you, baby. I always knew you had talent."

"They might not accept me."

"They'll accept you."

"If they don't, I'll try again next year, and the year after that. Maybe I'll go for the Guinness Book of Records." She smiled.

"They offered me the NFL Sunday show."

"That's great. When do you start?"

"I haven't given them an answer. I told them I needed to talk to my wife."

"You're kidding?"

He dared to reach for her. When he took her hand, she let him lead her to the sofa. He thought about all the words he'd come prepared to offer. I love you, Birdie. Those were the ones that mattered most of all; everything else was frosting. Somewhere along the course of two dozen years, they'd let that simple phrase erode into rote. Now he wanted to have it back, all of it. "I don't want to live without you anymore."

"You don't?" Her easy smile faded away. There was a new look in her eyes, something he didn't quite recognize. It frightened him a little, reminded him that she had Changed.

"You're my center, Birdie. I never knew how much I loved you until you were gone."

She leaned forward and kissed him, whispering, "I missed you," against his lips.

The words he'd been waiting for. And just that easily, he was home.

After the kiss, he drew back slightly, just enough to look her in the eyes. "This time it's our life, Birdie. I mean it. Nothing matters more than us. Nothing. That's why I didn't agree to take the job yet."

"Oh, Jack." She gently touched his face, and the familiarity of the gesture was almost painful. "I've learned something about dreams. They don't come true every day. And love... love might be fragile, but it's also stronger than I ever imagined. Take the job. We'll find a nice loft in Chelsea or TriBeCa. Somewhere I can paint."

They would make it this time, he knew it. After twenty-four years of marriage, and two children, they had finally found their way.

"Show me your work," he said.

Her face lit up. She grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet. Hand in hand, they walked through the kitchen. She let go of his hand just long enough to dart into the pantry, then came out holding a huge painting.

She set it up against the cupboards and stood back. "You don't have to pretend you like it," she said nervously.

He was too stunned to say anything.

Her painting was a haunting, sorrowful stretch of coastline in winter, painted in grays and purples and blacks. In the distance, a lone figure walked along the beach. It saddened him somehow, made him think about how fast life could pass a person by, how easy it was to walk past what mattered because you were busy looking into the future. "Jesus, Birdie... it's amazing." He turned to her, said softly, "You were painting the first time we met, remember? Near the marshes at the edge of Lake Washington. There was a dock in your painting and it looked lonely, too, like this beach... abandoned. I remember wanting to tell you that the picture made me feel sad, but I didn't dare."

She tilted her chin up. "I can't believe you remember all that."

"I forgot it for a long time. But nothing felt right without you. My world went from color to black-and-white." He touched her face, felt the warmth of her skin. "You take my breath away, Birdie."

"I love you, Jack. I'll never forget that again."

This time, when Jack leaned down to kiss her, he was the one who cried.