by Belva Plain
They were standing in the little sun parlor overlooking the yard. She had shown him around the house, he had been welcomed by the family, who, perhaps guessing what was afoot, had left them in this room by themselves.
“Look out there,” Lynn said. “What do you see?”
“Don’t tell me you moved the birdbath with you.”
“At the last minute I couldn’t leave it.”
A mound of grainy, half-melted snow lay at the marble base, while the rest of the lawn was bare, ready for spring.
“I have it heated in the winter. Birds need water in the winter too.”
“It’s like you to think of that. Nine out of ten people wouldn’t.”
“Look, look at that lovely thing! It’s the first robin, first of the season. Watch it drink. It must be tired and thirsty after its long flight from the south.”
The bird fluttered into the water, shook itself, and flew away into the trees.
“I wonder what it thinks. That there’s a whole bright summer ahead, maybe.”
“I can’t imagine, but I know what I’m thinking.”
She looked up into the dear face. The glasses were pushed back again into the curly brown hair, and the eyes sparkled.
“I’m thinking of our own bright summer, and all the years ahead.”
BOOKS BY BELVA PLAIN
HER FATHER’S HOUSE
LOOKING BACK
AFTER THE FIRE
FORTUNE’S HAND
LEGACY OF SILENCE
HOMECOMING
SECRECY
PROMISES
THE CAROUSEL
DAYBREAK
WHISPERS
TREASURES
HARVEST
BLESSINGS
TAPESTRY
THE GOLDEN CUP
CRESCENT CITY
EDEN BURNING
RANDOM WINDS
EVERGREEN
