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By Root 1265 0

of ice. He was a year younger than she, sixty-five, with short gray hair, a long narrow face, full lips. He was naturally pale, conscious of his weight, and fussy about his food, a lover of opera and sports cars. Trace had been an Olympic swimmer once, had almost won a bronze medal, and he thought nothing, still, of diving into the Monongahela and swimming to the opposite shore. One afternoon he’d risen out of the water and staggered up the riverbank, pale and dripping, into the middle of the annual picnic for the department of physics. That was the story of their meeting. Trace was kind and good to Doro, who clearly adored him, and if he seemed aloof to Caroline, a bit distant and reserved, it really wasn’t any of her business.

A gust swept a pile of napkins off the table and Caroline stooped to catch them.

“You’re bringing the wind,” Al said, as Doro drew near.

“It’s so exciting,” she said, lifting her hands. She had come to resemble Leo more and more, her features sharper, her hair, short now, pure white.

“Al’s like those old mariners,” Trace said, putting the ice on the table. Caroline used a small stone to weigh down the napkins. “He’s attuned to atmospheric changes. Oh, Doro, stay just as you are,” he exclaimed. “God, but you’re beautiful. Honestly. You look like a goddess of the wind.”

“If you’re the wind goddess,” Al said, catching the paper plates as they lifted, “you’d better cool your jets so we can have this party.”

“Isn’t it glorious?” Doro asked. “It’s such a beautiful party, a wonderful farewell.”

Phoebe ran up, holding the tiny kitten, a ball of pale orange, in her arms. Caroline reached out and smoothed her hair, smiling.

“Can we keep him?” she asked.

“No,” Caroline replied as she always did. “Aunt Doro’s allergic.”

“Mom,” Phoebe complained, but she was distracted at once by the wind, the beautiful table. She tugged on Doro’s silky sleeve. “Aunt Doro. It’s my cake.”

“Mine too,” Doro said, putting one arm around Phoebe’s shoulders. “I’m going on a trip, don’t forget, so it’s my cake too. And your mother’s and Al’s because they’ve been married five years.”

“I’m coming on the trip,” Phoebe said.

“Oh, no, sweetie,” Doro said. “Not this time. This is a grown-up trip, honey. For me and Trace.”

Phoebe’s expression was touched with a disappointment as acute as her earlier joy. Mercurial, quicksilver—whatever she felt in each moment was the world.

“Hey, sweetie,” Al said, squatting down. “What do you think? You think that kitty cat might like some cream?”

She fought a smile and then gave in, nodding, distracted for the moment from her loss.

“Great,” Al said, taking her hand, winking at Caroline.

“Don’t take that cat inside,” Caroline warned.

She filled a tray with glasses and moved among her guests, still marveling. She was Caroline Simpson, mother of Phoebe, wife of Al, organizer of protests—a different person altogether from the timid woman who had stood in a silent snow-swept office thirteen years ago with an infant in her arms. She turned to look at the house, the pale brick strangely vivid against the graying sky. It’s my house, she thought, echoing Phoebe’s earlier chant. She smiled at her next thought, strangely apropos: I’m confirmed.

Sandra was laughing with Doro by the honeysuckle bush, and Mrs. Soulard was walking up the alley with a vase full of lilies. Trace, wind pushing his gray hair into his face, cupped a match in his hand, trying to light the candles. The flames flickered, sputtered, but finally held, illuminating the white linen tablecloth, the small transparent votive cups, the vase of white flowers, the whipped-cream cake. Cars rushed past, muted by the laughing voices, the fluttering leaves. For a moment Caroline stood still, thinking of Al, his hands reaching for her in the darkness of the night to come. This is happiness, she told herself. This is what happiness means.

The party lasted until eleven. Doro and Trace lingered after the last guests had left, carrying trays of cups and leftover cake, vases of flowers, putting tables and chairs away in the garage. Phoebe was