A Different Kind of Forever(71)

Diane sighed. “What about insurance? How are you going to pay for that?”

Emily shrugged. “Just add me to your policy,” she said.

Diane raised her eyebrows. “What makes you think I can afford to add you? Do you have any idea how much that’s going to cost?” Emily sighed and went upstairs without answering. Diane felt a headache coming on.

Megan decided not to go to France after all. She had met a boy while at the shore, Stan, a year older, a junior at a neighboring high school. She was in love, and didn’t want to leave him next spring. Diane was relieved that it was no longer an issue, and did not mention to her daughter the possibility that Stan would be only a memory by next year.

Diane had one less class to teach that fall. Marianne had taken away her freshman comp class, to free time for the graduate class that she would begin in January. Rehearsals for her play were every day. Her part of the process was technically over, but she still was there two or three evenings a week, just to watch.

It was during one of those evenings, early in September, that Quinn Harris slipped into the back row of the auditorium and sat through a rehearsal. Diane did not notice him. The cast was getting through a complicated, funny scene in Act 1, and, when Sam called it a night, Quinn rose from his seat, clapping his hands.

Diane was surprised and happy to see him. He greeted her warmly, giving her a hug and a dry kiss on her cheek. He congratulated the cast, who were slightly star-struck in his presence. He and Sam began an immediate discussion of the scene. Diane listened, fascinated. Quinn had an intimate knowledge of all things theatrical. His passion for his work was one of the things she had loved about him

She watched him closely. He had not changed. He was a tall, slightly stoop-shouldered man, well-made and graceful. He was around fifty, with thinning hair and surprising green eyes. He had a nervous energy and seemed constantly in motion, his hands moving through the air as he spoke, his foot moving back and forth. He was shy, quiet with strangers, but dynamic and charming when talking about his craft, or among friends.

She was grateful for the small flurry of butterflies in her stomach. She was afraid she would react badly on seeing him again, afraid that all the old feelings would come back in a painful rush. She had worried about it, a small, constant nag that had been following her since classes had started. Now there was just a shimmer of nervousness, no icy palms, no rush of blood to her temples. She took a long slow breath. She really was over him.

He turned to Diane. “I would love to talk to you about this, both of you. Can you get away for a drink? Sam?” Sam was agreeable. Diane accepted gratefully. She was feeling anxious about the way the play was going, and knew that Quinn would give a sound, honest opinion.

They went down to the campus pub, drank coffee, and talked about her play until the place closed. He had gotten a copy of the play from Sam a week before, and had read it carefully. He thought it was wonderful. He was pleased to see that Sam was keeping the actors light and fresh. It was a positive discussion, and as they left the pub, Diane was grateful for his input.

Sam said good-night, and Quinn walked her to her car. His hands were in his pants pockets, shoulders hunched.

“Would you like to have dinner, say, tomorrow night?” he asked, as she knew he would. When she hesitated, he hurried on. “Or the night after, or lunch, if that would be better.”

“No, tomorrow would be fine. I’ve got a late class. I could meet you somewhere.”

“Alright. Wonderful. Name the place.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I’m in Manhattan, actually. I’ve got a flat up on West 82nd.”

“Oh.” She thought a minute. “Do you drive in?”

“Oh, good Lord, no. Train. Drops you right at the end of the lane here. Do you really think I’m idiot enough to try to drive through the Lincoln Tunnel?”

She smiled. “No, of course not. There’s a great place, about three blocks from here. O’Briens. Ask for directions at the station. Around six thirty?”

“Lovely.” He kissed her again, on her forehead. “Good night.”

She got home late, too late for any work. She did not go on her computer, although Michael e-mailed her almost every day. He sent her bits and pieces of his life, the weather, Prescott’s tantrum, Seth’s adventures. She returned in kind, the girls, the play, her students. They did not say they missed one another. They did not talk about seeing each other again.

She had thrown herself into work, reworking her current classes, fine-tuning the graduate class to begin that spring. Emily had basketball practice almost every night. Megan became involved in the high school play, and was at her own rehearsals every night. Diane was pulled in too many directions, and she knew she had spread herself too thinly, but it filled the hours that had once been filled with Michael. She missed him unbearably. There were nights that her body ached for him. There were countless things each day, small, funny, moments that she would file in the back of her head so she could tell him, until she remembered he was not around. Every time it happened, it hurt her cruelly. She kept waiting for the feeling to dull. So far, it had not.