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It was a clear, cold night when they left the restaurant. Stars packed the night sky. Nick asked her if she was up for a drive, and Deidre agreed. They coasted down Buena Vista Drive, admiring the Christmas lights on the luxurious lakefront homes. Afterward, they went past the harbor and down Main Street, where cheerful lights and festive decorations adorned the park, shops and lampposts. Deidre was so comfortable in their conversation, it took her a moment to realize where Nick was turning a few minutes later.
“Oh...wait. This is Sycamore Avenue,” she exclaimed. “You’re not planning on—”
“It’s a pretty street. I like these old, established neighborhoods,” he said, driving the car at a snail’s pace. “I thought a trip down Sycamore Avenue might coax a memory or two from you. It’ll help me to get to know you better.” She caught the gleam in his eyes when he glanced over at her reprovingly. “Don’t worry. I’m not taking you to your mom’s. I wouldn’t share you tonight with anyone in the world.”
“Okay,” Deidre said, relieved Nick wasn’t suggesting they march up and knock at her mother’s front door. She was getting more comfortable with the idea of spending time with Brigit, but the idea of entering the house again intimidated her for some reason. “You really want to accompany me on a trip down memory lane?” she asked with a doubtful grin.
“Maybe not a whole trip, but a few snippets might be nice.”
She chuckled and glanced out the window. Sycamore Avenue looked like the front of a Christmas card on the frosty night. All of the neighbors who had decorated must have decided communally to use white lights and fresh greenery.
She leaned forward and pointed through the front window at the wooded cul de sac at the end of the street. “There’s an entrance to Sycamore Avenue Beach and the lakefront walk just through there. My brothers and sister and I practically camped out on the beach there during the summer. We dreaded the sound of our parents calling us home for dinner. Every August all the Sycamore Avenue neighbors used to gather for a huge barbecue down at the beach. My dad always manned an enormous grill, and the neighbor ladies gave him everything to cook from hamburgers to shish kebab to fresh vegetables out of their gardens. Mari’s father—Mr. Itani—made enough homemade ice cream to make us kids think we’d died and gone to heaven. He’d always try to surprise us with at least one exotic new flavor a year. My favorite was pistachio, so he made it for me every August. He was such a sweet man.” She smiled wistfully in memory. “At dusk, the adults would dance on the beach. My parents were always the best dancers of all,” she added, surprising herself when she heard the note of pride in her voice.
She pointed to the left of the street. “That was my friend Grace Schetel’s house, and there’s Mari’s family’s old house.”
“No old boyfriends used to live on Sycamore?”
She shook her head with mock somberness. “No such luck.”
He chuckled. “There’s a story there, I’m thinking.”
“I had a huge, unrequited crush on Mari’s older brother, Ryan. But that was nothing unusual. Half the girls in Harbor Town did.” They slowly approached the attractive white, colonial revival house on the right. She pointed to her mother’s house. “There’s the summer house. My bedroom was the corner one facing the street. I think I spent almost two entire weeks during my thirteenth summer in that window there, staring down Sycamore Avenue, waiting for Ryan Itani to come home on his motorcycle. I was heartbroken he didn’t know I existed.”
Nick gave her a wry sideways glance. “I find it hard to believe a guy didn’t know you existed.”
“Quite a normal phenomenon for a skinny as a rail thirteen-year-old girl, trust me,” Deidre assured, grinning.
Nick turned the sedan off Sycamore Avenue a few minutes later. Deidre reached out and touched his thigh.
“Thanks,” she said when he glanced over at her.
“For what?”
“For reminding me that while there are a lot of sad memories associated with that street, there were even more wonderful ones.”
As they returned to Cedar Cottage, Deidre coaxed him into talking about his parents.
“They’re all good memories of your mom and dad, even though they died when you were so young,” she said later as they pulled into the driveway. “You’re lucky in that aspect.”
“I am,” Nick agreed as he put the car in Park.
“Is that part of why you didn’t want Lincoln to become a true father figure to you? Out of loyalty to your real father?” she asked in a hushed tone.
He kept his face turned in profile. “Maybe.”
“It’s confusing, isn’t it?” she asked in a burst of honesty. “I feel so guilty at times, disloyal to my dad—Derry, I mean—because I wanted to know Lincoln so much. I feel guilty in regard to Lincoln, too. He might have been hurt if he knew when I think of ‘Dad’ I automatically think of Derry.”
“I can’t speak for Derry, but as far as Linc goes, I bet he would have understood completely.”
Deidre nodded. “He had a huge heart,” she murmured, thinking of what her mother had told her about Lincoln. “I wish my heart was so forgiving.”
She turned when Nick touched her, sliding her chin into the palm of his hand. He caressed her ear with his fingertips. A powerful surge of sexual awareness went through her at his touch.
“I wouldn’t sell yourself short on that,” he said gruffly. “Even the most generous of hearts needs time to heal.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “After seeing Mom today, I’m feeling a little more optimistic about things. Like...maybe the hardest part is over.”
He touched his lips to hers. Deidre closed her eyes and ran her fingers through his hair. The kiss started slowly, their mouths teasing and molding. Nick’s teeth lightly scraped at her lower lip and she sighed.
