author's note. Okay, this is a late-breaking addition to the story. I was fully intending to finish revising the next chapter to get it ready for posting, but I started thinking about Stirling this afternoon, and wondered what he was doing when he was offscreen (especially after Kit told him off like that). Before I knew it, I was sitting down at my computer and this came out. Hey, if Almanzo Wilder got an entire Farmer Boy to himself, the least Stirling deserves is a chapter all for his very own. Sorry it's a little choppy and disjointed but we've got a lot of ground to cover. Enjoy!


"Stirling Howard," Kit said, eyes burning in her white face, "I never want to see you again."

An apology sprang to Stirling's lips and died there. He could tell that there'd be no reasoning with her in her current state. "I see," he mumbled, going for his hat. "I'll let myself out." In the next instant he was gone. Out of respect for the Howard family, he refrained from slamming the door.

Stirling allowed himself one day, and only one, to wallow in self-pity. He called in sick to work and locked himself in his rented room. And when it was over, he squared his shoulders, splashed cold water on his face, and went out again to face the world.


Although the war-propaganda business paid well, Stirling lived cheaply. His rented room was shabby and waterstained, but it possessed the dual advantages of cheapness and being close to work, saving on streetcar fare. He prepared his bachelor meals on a hotplate, or ate grilled cheese or scrambled eggs at a lunch counter. His shabby clothes didn't really stand out in 1945, and besides, as an artist he was expected to be eccentric. He put as much of his earnings as he could - what was left after buying sketchpads and charcoal pencils and War Bonds - into a savings account. Although his mother was handling herself well at the moment, when she grew old, he knew, it would be his responsibility to care for her.

On Saturdays he went to the library, lugging home great leather-bound volumes of art, or he'd sit in the park and draw when it was fine, or he'd go down to Union Terminal and sketch the WPA murals. Every Sunday he paid the train fare to spend the day with his mother, who was keeping house for a wealthy old woman outside of town. Louise Howard had to make do with seeing her only son one day out of seven, and she always made the most of it. Usually, she'd even send him home with a bundle of food. She didn't trust his cooking.

Stirling wrote dozens of letters to Kit, wrote until his arm ached, begging her forgiveness. One day in July, with a firm set to his lips, he dropped the entire bundle in the incinerator. Sometimes he'd see a girl on the street or on the train who reminded him of her. In fact, it happened often enough that he began to make a study of it. He started a sketchpad with comparisons so that he could analyze just what the difference was. Maybe it was the freckles, the exact angle at which she wore her hat. She wasn't the most beautiful girl in the world, he decided - there were plenty of girls who could vie for that title - but she was definitely the most interesting to look at.

It wasn't that Stirling didn't notice other girls. Although he considered himself far too skinny to be attractive, there were plenty of young women in his office who wouldn't have minded the chance to fatten him up. And after Carole Miller spent enough time lingering around his desk, he finally asked her to the movies. They went to a double feature; he duly held her hand; they went out a few more times. But the spark just wasn't there. Stirling knew it, and he knew that Carole knew it. Not that she wasn't a lovely girl, but he was relieved when she started going with George Reinhart from downstairs.


V-J Day, and downtown Cincinnati exploded with celebration. Stirling joined his office mates down on the street; there was crying, and kissing, and ticker-tape. And then he saw someone he thought he knew. The uniformed figure on crutches turned slightly, and Stirling saw that it was indeed Charlie Kittredge. A smile crossed Stirling's face; he'd always liked Charlie, considering him sort of a surrogate older brother during the years he lived at the Kittredges'. Stirling prepared to make his way through the crowd to speak to his old friend, but before he could, Charlie turned and addressed the girl at his side. Kit.

Stirling turned away before he could be spotted. The party was quite ruined for him after that; he pushed his way through the crowds and back to the deserted office, where he worked at his desk far into the night.


Stirling caught his usual cold that October. He'd sneezed and snuffled his way through every fall and winter since he was a kid, and he didn't expect this year to be any different. He hated to admit it, but his mother was right about him. Stirling cursed his weakness - he was sure that Roger Fulton had been a perfect specimen of fine physical health.

There was still plenty of work to do, even though the war was over. And Stirling was stubborn. He kept on going to work each day, visiting his mother on Sundays, just like he had always done. He kept thinking now that the war had ended he should be happy, and he would be, if he could just shake off that cold.


Stirling awoke that morning feeling even worse than usual. His ribs ached from coughing, his head was pounding, and his entire body was sore. He considered begging off work that day; but then he had a sudden vision of keeling over dead in his rented room, leaving his landlady the unpleasant task of disposing of him. And she was a sweet lady, so that wouldn't do. So he fortified himself with bad coffee, buttoned his threadbare coat against the wind, and walked the six blocks to the office.

There was so much to be done, proofs that needed approval, sketches and contracts; by mid-morning Stirling was questioning whether he'd made the right decision, after all. He was so tired, deep in his bones, wishing he could hibernate like bears did. I'll just put my head down on my desk for a few minutes

"Hey, Howard!" Ben Matthews hissed in a whisper. "Look sharp, boss man is coming!" When Stirling didn't respond, Ben crumpled a sheet of paper into a ball and fired it across the aisle. "Howard!" Still no response from Stirling. Concerned now, Ben rose. "Hey Stirling, are you okay?" Alarm stirred the other man's voice when he couldn't rouse his friend. "Jane! Call a doctor!"


Stirling opened fever-bright eyes to an unfamiliar face. "Son?" the older man said. Judging by his white coat and concerned expression, he was a doctor. "Son, can you tell me your name?"

They had him laid out on the wooden bench in the hallway; his collar was loosened and his face was damp. The anxious faces of his co-workers floated in and out of view. Stirling scrunched up his brows in concentration. He really wasn't in the mood to be answering questions; all he wanted was to sleep for the next ten or twenty years. "I…" A fit of coughing took the rest of his answer.

The secretary sounded far away, like a dangling telephone receiver. "His name's Stirling," she was saying. "Stirling Howard. Is he going to be okay?"

The doctor whispered something to Jane, then turned back to Stirling. "Just hang in there, son." Stirling wanted to say, I'm not your son! Stop calling me that! But the words wouldn't even form in his brain, let alone make it to his lips. "We're going to get you taken care of, all right? Is there anyone you need me to call?"

Stirling had to work so hard to string together the sentence that tears of frustration gathered in his eyes. It didn't help that the only face he could picture at that moment did not match the name he was trying to say. "My mother," he managed, before slipping over the edge.


He came to the surface occasionally, like a drowning man. One evening he opened his eyes to the sight of his mother; she had been talking to a nurse but froze in mid-sentence when she felt his gaze on her.

"Stirling? Honey?" Mrs. Howard's smile was quivery and mixed with tears. "Oh, Stirling."

Stirling parted cracked lips to speak. So many thoughts were competing for his attention. How long have I been like this? How is it that I haven't died? Am I going to die? Does Kit know that I'm dying? Where is Kit, anyway? All the things he wanted to say made it impossible to decide, and in the end he decided it wasn't worth it. With a sigh, he shut his mouth and closed his eyes; the last thing he heard as he sank into oblivion was his mother's sobs.


The time allotted for visitors was precise: between four and five o'clock, on the dot. An extra hour on Sundays. His mother was there every minute of it, taking a train and two streetcars from the house she cleaned at the edge of town. For a born worrier, the situation came naturally to Mrs. Howard. She'd hold his hand, whether he knew it or not, and read him the newspapers (carefully omitting the sports page), and cry a little if the mood struck her. He had other visitors, too. He was well-liked at work; he had friends from school; even his widowed landlady was inordinately fond of him. Never, of course, the person he really wanted to see. Other times, he'd awaken at night, when the hospital ward was relatively quiet and dark, and search out the one window visible from behind the partition. He watched the moon wax and wane again, and wondered when he was going to be well again. And if it really mattered.

Stirling's fever dreams were vivid; the line between imagination and reality was blurred in those days and long nights. Once Kit came to see him, looking as cool and lovely as she had that first day at the Register. The conversation began with an apology, and ended with a kiss.

When Stirling awoke, his pillow was wet with tears, and he couldn't quite explain why.


"Thank you," Stirling croaked, some time later. He still couldn't make it more than two or three words without getting winded; luckily, his mother was a patient woman.

"Thank you for what, dear?" Mrs. Howard said, looking as if she wanted to add 'lamby' to the end of every sentence.

"Staying with me," he said. "It's nice… not being alone… all the time."

"I'd be here more," Mrs. Howard explained, "but the doctor says I mustn't wear you out."

Stirling actually grinned a tiny bit. "Smart man."

"Is there anyone you'd like me to write to? That Kittredge girl, for example?" Mrs. Howard couldn't conceal a frown.

A shadow crossed Stirling's face. "Not Kit," he said quickly. Then he thought for a few minutes. "Ruthie."


"There's a Mrs. Farmer here to see you," the nurse said.

Stirling's confused expression resolved into recognition when Ruthie appeared. "Well, hello!" he beamed. "So kind of you to come."

Ruthie kissed Mrs. Howard on the cheek and gave Stirling's hand a squeeze. "I just had to, since I was in town."

Mrs. Howard gathered her hat and coat. "I'll give you two some time to catch up," she said.

Ruthie settled into the chair. "So," she said comfortably, "you're looking well."

"Liar," Stirling grinned.

"I was raised to believe," Ruthie said coolly, "that one should always lie to a sick person." She returned his grin. "But you do look a lot better than I thought you would."

"Thanks anyway. A kind lie is always appreciated," Stirling said. "But you're the one who's looking well, these days. Your husband is a lucky man," he added, with admiration and not a trace of envy.

Ruthie blushed attractively. "Stop it."

"So, tell me about him? I've done a terrible job of keeping in touch."

"We met in Boston," Ruthie said. "He was wounded in Belgium. We met at a USO dance and were married just six weeks later. Mother and Dad were furious, of course. But they've come around to it - they love Doug. Everyone does. We're heading out to California soon but I'll bring him around so you can meet him."

"I'd like that."

"So, I suppose you know who I visited yesterday."

It was hard for him even to speak her name. "Kit."

"Maybe it's none of my business," Ruthie said. "But I'm claiming my right as a very old friend. What happened between you two?"

Stirling could tell there would be no lying to Ruthie. In as few sentences as possible, he sketched out the whole sad story. "I'm pretty sure she hates me now," he finished, "not that I can blame her."

Ruthie peered at him. "And you… don't hate her at all, do you?"

Stirling flushed. "I guess I'm pretty transparent, huh?"

"It's just that I've seen this coming since we were kids," Ruthie explained.

"Oh." Stirling considered this, biting his lips. "Ruthie, I gave up on that a long time ago."

"Well," Ruthie said with a knowing air, "if she doesn't come today then she'll definitely be here tomorrow." A smile curved on her lips. "So, you might want to shave."


Two thoughts occupied Stirling Howard's brain the rest of that day and the next: She'll come. She isn't going to come. He wondered what Ruthie (who insisted that she was called Ruth now, much like Kit had become Margaret) had actually told Kit that would be so persuasive. It had been almost a year since he'd seen her, not counting V-J Day, but she'd always been at the back of his mind. Now she was at the forefront of his thoughts again and he found he couldn't concentrate on anything else. He was practically vibrating with anticipation. The sleepless night hadn't helped his looks any, but he shaved carefully that morning and combed his hair until he was satisfied with his appearance. The few bites of food he managed to swallow sat uneasily in his stomach.

Mrs. Howard arrived promptly at four o'clock and took up her usual post. She knew something was up, Stirling could tell, but he wasn't about to volunteer any information. From his mother's comments, he'd gleaned that she didn't exactly have the highest opinion of Margaret Mildred Kittredge at the moment. She'd brought him a Life magazine - he'd been begging for art journals but she refused to allow her son to strain himself - and he gave its pages a cursory glance, surreptitiously watching the clock out of the corner of his eye.

At 4:19 he heard the click of the door and he tried to remain casual, turning the pages of the magazine with trembling fingers. His bed was at the end of a long ward and as the visitor walked past, he could hear the murmurs of the other patients' voices cease. Stirling only knew of one woman who had that effect on men. The footsteps - practical shoes, not heels - stopped just short of the curtain at his bedside and he envisioned her stopping to compose herself. Not checking her appearance - Kit wasn't that kind of girl - but gathering her wits. This was obviously a habit of adulthood as Stirling quite vividly recalled his first memory of Kit - bursting through the door of his sickroom with Ernie Lombardi in her hand, crashing into his mother and knocking her tray to the floor.

Stirling held his breath.

Time didn't stop, but it definitely slowed down. As she rounded the curtain, a rare sunbeam from the window illuminated her golden hair. Her face was drawn and anxious, but Stirling Howard had never seen anything so beautiful in all of his twenty-three years. They stared at each other for a few moments until Stirling broke the silence. There were so many things he wanted to say to her that he figured he ought to begin with a greeting, at least. "Hello, you."

The smile that broke over her face was the dawning of a new day. "Hi, Stirling."