The funeral was hard on Rose. Dealing with the grief of losing her mother and being the only one to take care of the arrangements had taken a toll on her. She had not broken under the pressure and strain outwardly, yet the stress had affected her own emotional well-being, as had the cancer that had taken her mother’s life. She responded to the grief by becoming numb to the pain.
        At least she had found comfort by being at her mother’s bedside when her mother passed on. Rose had retired early from her work as an elementary school teacher in order to care for her ailing mother. In the last chapter of her mother’s life, Rose had moved back into her mother’s house, so that she could be there to care for her and to share their last precious times together.
        And she had been there through her mother’s final moments – there to hold her hand and to kiss her forehead, there to tell her that she loved her and did not want to let her go but that it was okay for her to leave and no longer be in any more pain, there to say goodbye.
        Rose had not been as fortunate with her son, Tommy. He had been killed seven years earlier, during the Persian Gulf War, in 1991. He had been so far away from her. She had not been able to comfort him about dying, or able to hold his hand as his soul slipped away into eternity.
        The last time she saw him, he was laughing and smiling, and reminding her that his birthday was coming and he would no longer be a teenager. Sensing her fear from his going to war, he had taken her into his arms, as she had so often comforted him when he was a little boy and had been afraid. "Don’t worry, Mom," he had told her. "I’ll be home soon."
        Then, he was gone. Her only child was gone.
        When his birthday did come, she tried to find solace in his favorite place, listening to the waters of the Atlantic as she sat by the Charleston shore. She sat on the beach for hours, remembering holding him as a baby, hearing him say his first words, watching him learn to walk, taking him to his first day of kindergarten, going to his Little League baseball games, and attending his high school graduation – times that held even more significance in retrospect.
        And she had thought of all of the moments she could never enjoy: watching him falling in love and getting married and having children of his own. All of those days were stolen from her. Those moments were lost forever. Gone with him were her future grandchildren, whom she would never meet, never hold, never rock to sleep, never tell bedtime stories to, never know their names, and never know.
        She now had the same feeling she had had after Tommy’s funeral, a feeling of being so alone in the world; except now, she had no family left at all.
        Her husband, Peter McAlister, was long gone years ago, leaving Rose as a single mother to raise their son alone.
        She never fell in love again, and never met anyone who wanted to date a divorced woman with a pre-teen child. But she had used the opportunity to spend more time with Tommy, and mother and son had grown close.
        Peter was only a part-time father at best, and Tommy, needing a father figure, had become close with his maternal grandfather, Henry Davis, and had looked to his Granddad as a role model. Henry, retired from the military, had time to spend with his grandson that he had not had to spend with his daughter when she was growing up.
        His Granddad’s military experience had led Tommy to join the Army after his high school graduation, but he and Henry had argued about Tommy’s joining the service. "I want to be like my Granddad," Tommy had told him, to which Henry had replied, ‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’
        When Tommy was killed, grief and anguish tore Henry apart, and he, himself, died not long afterward. He would barely rest at night after Tommy’s death. When he did sleep, he suffered from nightmares and awoke in a nervous sweat. Then, while driving one morning after a restless night, Henry suffered a massive heart attack and lost control of the vehicle. He died instantly.
        Rose had lost her husband, her son, her father, and her mother. She never felt so alone.
        Now, one month after her mother’s funeral, Rose had finally found strength to do what was necessary, going through her mother’s belongings, taking care of business, and here she was, in the last place in the house that needed to be cleaned out, the most private spot of all, her mother’s bedroom closet.
        Standing at the door of the walk-in closet, Rose glanced around at the empty bedroom, the result of her packing away a lifetime of memories from a fifteen foot by fifteen foot room.
        There had not been too much to pack – a few knickknacks, but mostly photographs, some in frames and others in albums. Her mother had not been one to hold onto many material possessions.
        Lily had wanted Rose to sell the house after her death. She had not become attached to it, for she and Henry had not lived there long before his death. Rose was not attached to it, either. To her, it was only a house, like one of many she had lived in – a building, not a home.
        Once Rose was finished with moving the house’s possessions to her apartment, which she had still kept while caring for her mother, the house would be ready to be sold. 
        Rose clasped the necklace, a locket, she wore about her neck, and caressed it. Just one month earlier, the necklace had hung around her mother’s neck, as it had all of Rose’s life, but, just before she died, Lily had removed it from her own neck and had placed it around her daughter’s. "Your father gave this to me," Lily had told Rose. "It’s yours, now. He loved you." 
        Rose did not know why her mother had told her this. She knew that her father, Henry, had loved her, at least, she thought he had. He was a good man, and Rose had loved him in her own way, but she and he had not always gotten along. They just had not connected. 
        Rose had always sensed that her mother was not in love with him, even though she believed that Henry was in love with Lily. Rose knew that Lily loved Henry, but Rose did not feel that her mother was in love with him. 
        When the teenage Rose had accidentally discovered that Lily and Henry had married after she had been born, Rose felt that they had probably wed for her sake, and not for true love. They had grown accustomed to each other through the years, and had grown to know one another well, and one had never hurt or betrayed the other, but Rose had always felt that there was no special bond between them, as a husband and wife should share.
        She had always felt guilt, that she was the reason for their union, that, if not for her, each of them would have found another mate who loved them more.
        Rose knew that the necklace was important to her mother, for Lily had never taken it off. She would remove other jewelry, but she had always worn her wedding ring and her necklace, even while asleep.
        When Lily became ill, years after Henry had died, she removed her wedding ring and placed it in a jewelry box Henry had given to her. But she had still worn this necklace every day, until the day she gave it to Rose.
        Shortly before her mother’s death, when Rose would enter her mother’s room, she would find Lily holding the necklace and seeming to be in a dream-like state, as if her mind were wandering back to another time and place, and she would want Rose to play one of her Frank Sinatra records.
        Rose realized that, for a woman who did not care for possessions, her mother surely loved this necklace, and she could not part with it until she realized that she had no choice.
        Rose now gazed admiringly at the necklace, as her mother had. On the outside was a picture of a beautiful white lily. She opened the locket, as she once had as a little girl when her mother had noticed her admiring it and had allowed little Rose to open it. Inside the locket was a photograph of Lily as a young woman, still in her teens. The first time Rose had seen the locket, she, of course, had thought of her mother as looking grown up, but now, since Rose was more than twice the age of her mother in the photograph, she saw a young woman. Age is relative, she knew.
        What must she have been like as a young woman, Rose wondered. Lily had never told Rose about her youth. She had spoken about her childhood, but not about her life just before her marriage, not about the time in her life when this photograph was taken.
        As Rose continued to look through the closet, she found a small wooden box hidden away on a top shelf. She reached for it, opened it, and thumbed through various clippings and other miscellaneous items noteworthy only to her mother.
        But then, she found something in the box that caught her attention. "What’s this?" she wondered aloud, even though no one was there to hear her. She looked closely at the piece of paper. It was a deed, nearly fifty years of age, older than Rose, a deed to some land and a cabin on Deer Lake near a small Carolina town named Sunrise in the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains.
        Sunrise, South Carolina was where Rose’s mother was from, originally, before she had married Henry and before they had moved from place to place, or, as Rose remembered, from no place to no place.
        Henry had been a career military man, and Rose had been an ‘army brat.’ She had never known any roots or felt a sense of belonging. Before they settled too long in one place, they would be uprooted once more, and Rose would have to leave old friends and make new ones. She often wished that she could stay in the same school for at least one grade, a complete school year.
        Rose had been to Sunrise a few times as a child to visit her maternal grandparents, Michael and Elizabeth Wilder, before they passed away. Her grandfather, in fact, had once taken Rose to Deer Lake, to teach her to swim, when she was seven years of age. But Lily had not been proud of her young daughter’s accomplishment. Instead, Lily had become upset with her father for having taken Rose to the lake, although she never told Rose why, and Lily had made her parents promise not to take Rose there ever again. Young Rose could not understand their argument, why her mother did not want her near the lake, when all she had wanted to do was to swim.
        Rose’s curiosity was aroused. Why did her mother own property on this lake and never tell her about it?
        Rose decided that she would go there, just to see this cabin, so that she could put her mind at ease and satisfy her curiosity. Even though she had physically buried the people she had loved, she had not yet been able to bury the uneasiness she had always felt about her past.

HOMECOMING

        Rose stared at the small, seemingly deserted cabin, a strange place, though somehow vaguely familiar. The lake had not been difficult to find, once she had arrived in town after a drive of several hours from Charleston and had inquired of some local townspeople. She had driven her car to the end of a dirt road and had begun walking a footpath leading to the cabin. Not very far from town, she thought, but so far from civilization.
        The cabin stood alone in the heart of the woods, completely enveloped by nature’s beauty. Save for this one fortress, this lone man-made structure near the lake, the entire area remained untouched by mankind’s encroachment. 
        At half a century old, the cabin was still younger than its surroundings. These woods were ancient, as was the water, older than the small nearby town of Sunrise, whose residents were its only occasional visitors. To walk beneath its green canopy, one would feel that the forest was as old as the earth itself.
        With age comes wisdom, and mother nature would share of her bounty with those who would hear her call and come to her and yearn to possess her secrets. Nature speaks not a word – this kind of wisdom must be received in stillness, heard in silence, seen with eyes closed to all else, and felt with an open heart. True wisdom means possessing knowledge of that which is the greatest discovery – one’s own self and spiritual direction in life – and one must often venture deep into the wilderness to find such wisdom.
        And this was pristine wilderness, this deep-water mountain lake, these rolling tree-covered hills at the foot of the majestic Blue Ridge mountains, these old-growth forests, streams, and mountain gorges. 
        In early morning and late evening, white-tailed deer came unafraid to the streams to drink and to the meadow to feed, and various species of birds took wing confidently over the lake.
        The forest, which favored maple, pine, and poplar, was abundant with small wildlife.
        The woods and an open meadow were plentiful with plants and wildflowers. 
        Early spring welcomed mountain laurel, jack-in-the-pulpit, hepatica, mayapple, birdfoot violet, trout lily, and dwarf crested iris. In late spring to early summer bloomed foam flower, large-flowered trillium, bellwort, and partridgeberry, and from summer to early autumn Carolina lily, evening primrose, yellow fringed orchid, cardinal flower, jewelweed, fire pink, and bee balm.
        This was unspoiled, natural beauty. She knew she had entered a paradise.
        As Rose drew closer to the cabin, the path split, one way leading to the cabin, the other to the lake at the bottom of the hill. The front of the cabin looked directly onto the lake below. Through the trees, she could see the inviting waters of Deer Lake, and she decided to take the path down to the lake before going into the cabin. Two squirrels scampered across the path in front of her and darted up a tree.
        The hike to the lake was moderately strenuous, and the walk in the hot sun had drained her.
        She sat on the shoreline, pulled off her shoes, and rolled her jeans partly up the calves of her legs. She dropped her feet in the water, and immediately withdrew, then shuddered. Though the May air felt warm on this Saturday afternoon, the sun had not yet warmed the water enough for her.
        She dipped her toes into the water and then a little more until she became adjusted to the water’s temperature. Her tired feet felt rested from the soak. 
        She closed her eyes and let the sun’s rays warm her face as she listened to the lapping of the water against the shore. The sound of water was sweet music. She could hear the calls of birds and other sounds of wildlife, made more distinct by her darkness.
        She nearly felt young again, remembering her grandfather’s face as he smiled at her that day so long ago, when she learned to swim in the waters of Deer Lake. 
        She opened her eyes and looked toward the top of the hill. The cabin was barely visible through the trees. She turned back and gazed out on the waters for a few more moments of stillness.
        "Hello," she heard a man’s strong voice call out.
        Startled, she turned back and looked to the top of the hill and saw a tall figure with his left arm raised, shielding his eyes from the sun. 
        She began putting on her shoes as a man about her own age walked down the trail toward her.
        As he grew closer, Rose was struck by his handsome, rugged appearance, although she felt shallow for regarding looks with such importance. Still, there was something about him. He was casually dressed, in jeans and a lightweight shirt. His blondish-brown hair reflected with a reddish tint in the sun, and his short sleeves revealed bronze arms.
        Then, she realized that he was a stranger and that she knew nothing about him.
        ‘Hello, yourself,’ she answered him as he approached her.
        "I didn’t mean to startle you," he said.
        ‘I thought I was alone,’ Rose responded.
        "Nearly," he said, and smiled. "It’s almost completely isolated here. That’s why I like it. Reminds me of Walden, you know, Henry David –"
        ‘Thoreau,’ she completed his sentence.
        "Yes, Thoreau," he said, and smiled. "The lake even comes with its own cabin, Thoreau style." He pointed in the direction of the cabin at the top of the hill. 
        "What brings you here?" he asked, but then apologized. "Oh, forgive me. Where are my manners?" He extended his right hand, as he introduced himself. "I’m Robert Holbrook."
        ‘Rose McAlister,’ she said, as she extended her own hand, but, instead of offering a handshake, he took her hand gently in his own and lightly kissed it. 
        "Charmed to meet such a lovely lady," he said, as her cheeks flushed. "I do believe the lady is blushing. My apologies for embarrassing you."
        ‘Nonsense,’ Rose said. ‘There’s no one else around, for me to be embarrassed. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ Then, she added, ‘That cabin is what brought me here.’
        "Oh?" Robert asked.    
        ‘It belonged to my mother,’ said Rose. ‘I found the deed when I was cleaning out her house, going through her things. She…passed away…a month ago.’
        "I’m sorry to hear that," said Robert. "I’m sorry."
        ‘I’ll be okay,’ Rose said, and then smiled, as if she could not believe what she had said. ‘That’s what Mother used to say – I’ll be okay – no matter what happened – I’ll be okay.’ 
        "She must have been a strong lady."
        ‘She was.’ Then, as Rose looked toward the cabin, she said, ‘I just wanted to see what the place looked like. Curious, you know.’
        "Well, that cabin was abandoned a long time ago, and then it was sold," said Robert.
        ‘Do you know who bought it?’ she asked. ‘I can tell it’s been cared for.’
        "My father," said Robert. "I was just a boy then. We’d come up here each summer. When I was in college, I’d come up here alone during vacation. After college, I moved to New York. When my folks moved to New York, too, I bought the land from my father." He gazed out on the water. "This is where my fondest childhood memories are."
        ‘So, you live in New York?’ she asked. ‘What do you do in New York?’
        "I’m a travel photographer," he said. "I’m taking photos for a story on picturesque lakes, and so I came back here. This is the most beautiful lake I’ve ever known. And I’ve been to many places all across America."
        ‘You must lead an exciting life.’
        "The city is exciting. But here, I can leave my door unlocked. And the sounds of bullfrogs croaking and crickets chirping and birds singing are more peaceful than car horns honking and sirens blaring," he said, with a smile. "I have to come here every once in awhile to regain my sanity."
        She smiled. ‘And you never wanted to tear down the old cabin to build a new summer home?’
        "I could never destroy that old cabin," he said. "It holds too much history." He paused, and then a thought struck him. "Your name is Rose?" he asked.
        ‘Yes,’ she answered.
        "The cabin belonged to your mother? Was her name …" He searched his memory. "Lily?"
        He spoke the name at the same moment that he glanced downward and noticed her necklace, serving as confirmation even before she asked, ‘How did you know?’
        "Her parents were the ones who sold the cabin for her," he said, "to my father, a few years after Lily left." Robert looked up the hill toward the cabin. "They had a problem finding the deed and thought she had lost it, so they had to go to the courthouse for a new one." As his eyes returned to Rose, he added, "There’s something I think you should read."
        He offered his hand to help her stand, and she followed him up the trail to the cabin.
        As they entered, Rose was impressed by how rustic, yet cozy the cabin appeared. It consisted of only three rooms. The main room had a small kitchen area and sitting area, and another room, she could tell from the open doorway, was a small bedroom with barely enough room for the one bed and nightstand. The third room, with the closed door, she assumed to be the bathroom.
        Robert reached for a book from atop the fireplace. "I found this in the cabin," he said. "I know I shouldn’t have read it. A diary is a personal thing. But I became so involved with the story, and I couldn’t put it down."
        ‘I don’t understand,’ said Rose.
        Robert handed the small book to her. "Rose, this was your mother’s diary."
        ‘My mother’s?’ she asked, as she accepted it.
        "She left it here when she abandoned the cabin."
        ‘And you read it?’
        "More than once. It’s so romantic."
        ‘Romantic?’ she asked. ‘My mother?’
        "As I said, I apologize for having intruded into her life, but I never knew that anyone would come back for the diary."
        ‘No, it’s okay, I think.’
        "Do you know anything about your mother’s past?" Robert asked. "I mean, when she was young, before she was married?"
        ‘No, my parents never talked about that time in their lives,’ Rose answered.
        "Then, I think I had better let you read this alone." He picked up his camera and tripod. "I was scouting out an area to take photographs of, and I was coming back to the cabin for my equipment when I found you at the lake. I’ll go ahead now to take the photos, and I’ll be gone for awhile to give you time to read, alone."
        Rose spotted, atop the fireplace, an old framed photograph of a young couple. ‘Tommy,’ she immediately said, but realized that the young man was not him. ‘I can’t believe it. He looks so much like my son.’ Then, she recognized the young woman. ‘That’s my mother,’ she exclaimed, as she reached for the photograph and held it. ‘But who is this man with her? That’s not my father.’
        Robert said only, "His name is Adam. I think it would be best if you were to read the diary to find out who he is. I’ll give you some privacy."
        Rose watched him enter the woods with his camera and tripod in hand. When his image completely disappeared, blending with the trees, she opened the small book and read the first page:

        Personal Diary of Lily Wilder

        Lily Wilder, Rose thought, Mother’s maiden name. Should I?
        She turned the page and began reading.

Saturday, June 9, 1951
        I met him today – the man of my dreams. His name is Adam Forrester, and he is most handsome and dreamy.
        I bought this diary today and decided to write about my feelings for him, for I cannot contain my emotions. I have to tell someone, and you, dear diary, are the safest one to tell. 
        Allow me to relate the story of how we met. I was at Deer Lake with several of my friends, having a summer picnic. A group of young men we knew from high school (they were boys not so long ago, but, now that we have graduated, they are young men), well, a group of them came over to ‘raid’ our picnic, much to the delight of the young ladies.
        Charlie Beck introduced me to his cousin, Adam Forrester, who is already eighteen, and visiting from Riverton, in the next county. 
        I’ll never forget that name for as long as I live – Adam Forrester.
        We said hello and looked into each other’s eyes and smiled.
        Later, when the rest of the gang decided to go swimming, Adam and I sat on a blanket by the lake shore and talked. 
        Never have I spent such a worthwhile afternoon by doing nothing but sitting and talking.
        I’ve never met anyone quite like him. He is young and vigorous, virile and strong, but, then again, he seems much older – mature, that is, and tender and sensitive, because he lost both of his parents at an early age and was raised by an aunt and uncle, and he knows about the frailties of life and how precious every moment is. Most young men do not possess that kind of foresight.
        He is so handsome. He is tall and has dark, wavy hair, and the greenest eyes. He has the sweetest smile – not a big grin, as some boys have, but sort of a half-smile, shy like, and then he finishes the smile with his eyes. Oh, I could get lost in those eyes. 
        I hope that he will not go back home to Riverton and forget me and leave me brokenhearted.

Sunday, June 10, 1951
        I am making a second entry in as many days, because I have exciting news to share.
        This morning, Charlie’s cousin, Adam, came to my home and asked me to go to the lake with him on a picnic – just he and I and Charlie and his girl, Emma. Of course, he asked my parents’ permission first, and they obliged.
        What a wonderful picnic and more private with just the four of us, unlike the day before, when the whole gang was there. 
        After our lunch, Charlie and Emma walked, hand in hand, toward the meadow, and Adam and I were alone.
        Adam said that he had a confession to make. Yesterday, he had wanted to ask me something, but had been too afraid to ask, so he and Charlie planned this picnic, so that he could work up his nerve today.
        "What did you want to ask?" I inquired.
        ‘If…I…’ he shyly began, and then more forcefully concluded, ‘could kiss you.’ He released a deep breath.
        I leaned forward and smiled. "For a price," I said, taking him by surprise. "For a flower," I explained. 
        He grinned a sigh of relief and went searching. 
        He returned with a handful of daisies. ‘I would have brought you lilies,’ he said, ‘if I would have found some, for your name, but, to tell the truth, roses are my favorite. Will these daisies do?’
        I accepted the flowers and said, "They’re beautiful."
        ‘One kiss for each flower?’ he asked, with a sly grin.
        I counted the daisies. "Seven is a lucky number," I said, and we kissed as many times before Charlie and Emma returned from their walk.
        "This is the first time," I whispered, "that a young man … brought me flowers." 
        We both smiled.

June 30, 1951
        My dear Adam has been escorting me to the picture show every Saturday evening for three weeks now.
        He has taken a job at the lumber mill. I take him lunch at noon each day, so that we are able to see one another and talk. Each evening, we meet at the diner.
        On Sundays, we go to Deer Lake, our special place.
        The July 4^th town dance is coming up, but Adam has not mentioned it. I wonder if he knows about it, or if he does know but does not want to go. Perhaps he cannot dance. I think tomorrow I will mention it, but when no one else is near, so that he will not be embarrassed. 

July 2, 1951
        I asked Adam about the dance today.
        "I don’t know if you’ve heard," I casually mentioned, "but there’s a dance on the Fourth of July. It will be held in the town square at night."
        ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Charlie told me. I just haven’t worked up the nerve to ask you yet.’ He smiled. ‘But I guess I just did, didn’t I?’ 
        "If you are asking –"
        ‘I am.’
        "Then I’m accepting."
        ‘That wasn’t as hard as I thought,’ he said.

July 4, 1951
        The night of the dance!
        Adam met me at the door. I had not seen him dressed up before. He looked so dapper. I wore my finest summer white sundress, and he commented that I would be the loveliest young lady at the dance.
        "But you haven’t seen all of the young ladies," I told him.
        ‘Makes no difference,’ he said, and he took my arm in his and walked me to the dance. Everyone wanted to know who my escort was, and I was proud to introduce him.
        We sat with Charlie and Emma, and, at first, we all just drank punch and talked about the decorations and everyone else’s clothing. Then, Charlie asked Emma to dance, and Adam and I were left alone at our table. 
        I could sense Adam’s uneasiness. "I suppose you had a lot of dances in Riverton," I spoke up.
        ‘Some,’ he said. ‘But I always went stag. A group of us fellas would go to laugh at the fellas dressed up in monkey suits. Now, here I am.’ He grinned.
        "You never took a girl to a dance?" I asked.
        ‘I never met a girl I wanted to take,’ he said, ‘until now.’
        Then, the music died down, and another song began.
        ‘Sinatra,’ Adam said.
        "My favorite," I said.
        ‘Mine, too,’ he whispered and smiled. He stood and offered his hand. ‘May I have this dance?’ he asked.
        The soulful sound of Frank Sinatra’s voice began singing "Always."
        As we slow danced, I closed my eyes, and the words to the music echoed in my heart. He held my hand in his, and, as we danced cheek to cheek, I could feel his heartbeat. 
        As the one Sinatra song ended, another, "Embraceable You," began, and Adam and I continued to dance, he still holding me tight, clutching me as if to never let go. 
        All of the songs seemed to blend together as one. "People Will Say We’re in Love," Sinatra crooned. 
        With the next song, "How Deep is the Ocean," Adam looked deep into my eyes, as if he wanted to sing the words himself.
        While we danced, the night seemed to go on forever. It seemed like eternity and that no one else was around, that we were the only two people on the dance floor – indeed, the only two people on earth!
        It seemed that we had known each other all of our lives and that time had not existed before we met.
        The past did not matter, and neither did the future at that moment. Time had stood still for both of us.
        We held each other tight, not wanting to let go. The only thing that broke us from our spell was the sound of mischievous children’s firecrackers at our feet. 
        After the dance, Adam walked me home, and we kissed goodnight at my doorstep.

July 18, 1951
        I am heartsick. I thought that, after the dance, Adam would proclaim his love for me, but I never see him anymore. At the lumber mill, he is too busy to stop to eat lunch, and he is gone in the evenings and on the weekends, I do not know where.
        I am afraid he no longer wants to see me. But, if that were the case, would he not return to Riverton instead of staying here? 
        I have asked Charlie, and he has been aloof, refusing to give me a straight answer.
        I am beginning to become despondent. I have found my one true love, and I cannot love another. If he were to leave, I would never marry, for it is Adam I adore.

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