A/N: Okay, finally, chapter five. My only comment about this chapter is that it's not what I originally intended but, since it's highly unlike I'll ever revise it, it'll have to do. I want to thank all those who reviewed this story and the other one I posted. Y'all say the nicest things. I appreciate them more than you know.

Finally, I've been thinking about doing a JoA/Everwood summer fic. I have a basic idea but I'd need help from someone who watches both shows. Would y'all be interested in such a story? And is there anyone who could help me with it? Let me know.

Enjoy the chapter.

"Maybe I should go back and change," Joan fretted as the cab headed down Second Avenue.

Kat heaved a weary sigh. "You look great. Stop worrying."

Rodney bit his lip to keep from laughing. Kat, who rarely doubted how she looked, had remarkably little patience for Joan's fidgetiness. He, however, had grown up with four sisters. He knew that most women were seldom satisfied with how that looked, especially when it really mattered to them. And tonight mattered a great deal to Joan. To calm Joan's frazzled nerves, he patted her knee.

"I should go change," she said.

"We're almost there," Kat countered as they turned onto Houston, trying without success to keep the exasperation out of her voice. "There's no point . . ." She trailed off when Rodney caught her eye and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

"Joan," he said softly. She raised her eyes to his. She looked miserable. "What's really the matter?"

For a moment, he thought she wasn't going to answer. Then, in a small voice, she said, "I don't want to embarrass him."

Flicking a glance at Kat's astonished face, he gave her another headshake before returning his attention to Joan. "What makes you think you'll embarrass him?"

"I don't know," she said with a shrug. "I'm not elegant or glamorous like Kat is or the other women at this thing are bound to be. I'm just Joan—plain, small town Joan—and I feel incredibly . . . awkward."

"First of all, there is nothing plain or small-town about you." Rodney nodded to back up his statement. "Second, Kat is elegant and glamorous and there's nothing we can do about that, but most of the women who attend these things just have money, some education, and very little imagination."

Despite a hint of a smile, Joan was not yet convinced. "Maybe, but they won't be dressed like this," she said with a wave at her dress. "I look like I'm going on a date, not to a sophisticated gallery opening."

Rodney assessed the rose-colored, vintage-inspired lace dress. "That is the dress of a woman in love. It's sweet, romantic, and effortlessly charming. It's very you. That's all that'll matter to Adam."

"You think so?"

"Are you kidding? I know so."

The tentative smile that had been hovering on her lips emerged full-blown. "You should talk more."

"Well, thank you," he said, clearly amused. "Feel better?"

Joan nodded. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." As she settled back into the seat, Rodney looked over her head at Kat. Obviously impressed, she tipped her head to him. He returned the gesture and looked out the cab window. For all of her maternal instincts, he was going to be the one to soothe the female egos in the family they'd have one day. He couldn't hold back the pleased smile that lit his face as he contemplated a future with Kat. His thoughts turned to the ring in his nightstand. Maybe tonight was the night. Rodney settled back in his seat to enjoy the rest of the ride.

"This is not good."

Joan slipped her hand in Adam's and squeezed it. "I'm sure it's fine." This, of course, was a lie. She was just as concerned and confused as Adam. In her experience, art showings were lively. Slightly obnoxious music battled with the barely contained din of conversation. Instead, the gallery was eerily hushed. The music was low, soothing, jazzy. People milled around in solemn little clusters occasionally whispering among themselves. Kat and Rodney weaved through the crowd looking vaguely overwhelmed. "They're just . . ."

"Thinking it sucks."

"Hey." Joan tugged his hand until he looked at her. "What do you think of your collection?"

He looked back at the silent patrons. "It doesn't matter what I . . ."

"Yes, it does." Joan hated seeing insecurity and disappointment cloud his face. He'd worked so hard this summer. A deep fury boiled inside her at these people for making him doubt himself. "So tell me, is your work good?"

"I think so."

"Is this work good?" she demanded with a wave at the gallery.

"Yes."

She detected the beginning of a smile. "How good?"

Adam faced her, the tiny smile now full-grown. "I believe this is the best work I've ever done."

"Then why are you standing here with me?" she asked, pleased to see the confidence return to his eyes. "You should be mingling with all these potential buyers and critics and reporters. Make them truly see what you've done here."

He raised her hand to his lips and gratefully kissed her palm. "How do you always manage to believe in me?"

"Actually, it's pretty easy," she answered. "You see, I have it on very good authority that you're worth it."

"I'm glad you're here."

"Then you won't mind doing me a favor."

"What?"

"Take a deep breath." She waited for him to comply before continuing. "Get a glass of wine and get out there."

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured as he dropped a kiss on her lips. "You'll be all right by yourself?"

"Mm-hmm. Go." She watched him disappear into the crowd before heading for the closest sculpture. As eager as she was to see Adam's work, she was nervous about it too. This was a part of his life that she didn't fully understand. She knew he'd want her opinion but she feared she wouldn't be able to give him anything more than "I like them, they're beautiful." Unfortunately, she didn't inherit her mother's artistic sense.

Taking a deep breath herself, Joan looked at the first sculpture she came to. "Here goes nothing."

Thirty minutes later, Joan burst out of the gallery, tears shimmering in her eyes. She understood now why everyone had been so quiet. Stumbling through a crowd of cigarette-smoking art patrons, Joan collapsed on a bench in front of the building. She groped through her handbag and pulled out her cell phone. Impatiently, she dialed the number she wanted. Finally, when she was on the verge of hanging up, she heard a voice say, "Hello?"

"Mom," she breathed then sniffed as her emotions got the better of her again.

"Joan?" Helen asked with obvious concern. "Honey, are you all right? What happened?"

Feeling immensely silly for alarming her mother, Joan gave a shuddery laugh. "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"Honey, just tell me. Is everything all right?"

"Yeah. I just wish you were here." Grinning over her own dramatics, she took a calming breath. "Mom, do you remember back when we first met Adam?"

"Of course."

"I asked you if he was any good at art? Do you remember what you said?"

Helen gasped. "That's right. Tonight's the big gallery show. How is it?"

"I'm getting to that. Do you remember your answer?"

She could almost hear her mother's smile over the line. "I said he had the potential to be great."

Nodding even though Helen couldn't see her, Joan said, "I think you're right."

"Really?" Helen said, sounding, for all the world, like the proud mama she was.

"It's amazing, Mom." She sighed, trying to think of the right words to describe what she'd just seen. "I stood there looking at his stuff and it all just clicked for me. It all made sense. I felt," Joan gave a little overwhelmed laugh, "so much. There was so much. I wish you were here. I wish you could see it yourself."

"So do I, honey." Joan let her mother's soft voice wash over her. "Tell him congratulations for me, okay?"

"Sure."

"You should get back to the showing. I'll talk to you later."

"Bye, Mom." Joan shut off her phone and put it back in her purse. Helen was right; she should get back to the gallery. Adam would surely be looking for her, waiting for her opinion. She just needed a moment to get a grip on her emotions. Then she'd go back in.

"You know, it's dangerous for a young woman such as yourself to sit outside unaccompanied like this?"

Joan glanced up to find a kind-looking older man staring pointedly at her. "I'm sorry?"

The man drew himself up to his full height—which wasn't very tall—and said, "You should always pay attention to your surroundings, Joan. You never know when something could happen, good or bad. Just a friendly word of advice."

Joan groaned. "Long time, no see."

Old Man God shrugged. "You've been busy."

"That's never stopped You before."

He gave her a lop-sided smile like he was trying to hide His amusement but couldn't quite manage it. "I'm God, Joan, not a dictator. I understand that you have a life. Speaking of which, why are you out here?"

"You know why."

"Joan," He sighed. "I can't help you if you won't let Me. Why are you out here?"

Slumping on the bench in resignation, Joan raised tearful eyes to His face. "He calls his collection Home. I was looking at Adam's art and there was so much emotion in it. Things I never knew. How can he and I have such a powerful connection and I not know?"

"Adam has grown immensely since you met him. He's more open, more confident. But he isn't like you. He doesn't display his feelings as readily as you."

"Then what do You call that?" she scoffed with a wave at the building behind them.

"Adam's way of coming to terms with his past."

One of his sculptures, Mother, came to mind. She'd stared at it for so long, she'd felt like she was drowning. The piece's rage, fear, despair, and confusion gripped her, brought unwanted tears to her eyes. Yet, for all the pain, it was the awesome infusion of love and devotion, the sense of endless yearning and loss that had devastated her. Knowing that he'd been carrying such intense feelings around for so long and she had never realized it made Joan question just how well she understood him.

"It's hard to understand the unknown."

Joan gaped at Him. "Where did that come from?"

Old Man God just smiled and patted Joan's knee as He stood. "Don't blame yourself for not understanding the true depth and complexity of his feelings, Joan. As open as he is with you, Adam can't share with you what he won't share with himself. Remember that and give him time." With that, He walked off with His customary wave.

Joan absently returned his wave as her mind wandered back to Adam's sculptures. They weren't like the ones he'd made in high school. Those were in tribute to his mother, sometimes to Joan herself. They were important to him but they weren't really about him. Each of the new sculptures revealed another facet of his inner world. A world she'd never been allowed to fully see before now.

"Hey."

For the second time that night, she glanced up to find someone standing before her. This time it was Adam. "Hey."

He sat next to her. "What are you doing out here?"

"I just needed some air."

"So why are you crying?" he asked as he pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her.

Surprised, she dabbed at her tears. "I didn't realize I was."

"Jane, what's going on? You were fine when I last saw you."

Cupping his cheek in her hand, she smiled reassuringly. "I'm fine." He merely raised an expectant eyebrow, clearly not convinced. "It's just . . ." she tapered off and waved at the gallery.

"What about it?" he asked as he slipped his arm around her waist.

Her thoughts flashed back to the sentiments of his artwork: the comfort and gratitude of Friends, the admiration and respect of Helen, the awe and love of Her. It sounded so simple, yet each sculpture had so many layers of emotion. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"I didn't know." Shrugging, he moved closer to her. "Sometimes it all gets to be too much, so I contain it. I tamp it down and put it away. I've done that a lot since my mom died."

"So what prompted this emotional outpouring?"

He laughed at her phrasing. "I went home. Being in Arcadia again after all that time made me realize a lot of things, not just my enduring feelings for you. When I came back to New York, it just needed to come out."

"Well," she began after a long moment, "it's moving and powerful and beautiful. I am so proud of you."

"Yeah?"

She nodded. "Yeah."

Adam cupped the side of her face and gently drew her to him. Giggling, Joan closed her eyes in anticipation. He pressed a chaste peck first to one corner of her mouth then to the other. When he brushed a brief kiss across her mouth, she whispered his name.

"Hmm?" he asked as he nibbled her lower lip making her moan.

"Stop teasing and kiss me," she demanded. His warm, very masculine chuckle rumbled beneath her hand where it lay on his chest. Curling his hand around the back of her neck, he claimed her mouth with a long, drugging kiss. Joan sighed when he finally pulled back and rested his forehead on hers. "That didn't last long enough."

"No, it didn't," he laughingly agreed.

Trailing her finger down the front of his shirt, she said, "I suppose we have to go back in now."

"We should." He stood and held out his hand. She reluctantly took it and let him help her to her feet.

They had just reached the gallery entrance when Adam's cell phone rang. Sharing a look of surprised curiosity, he answered it. "Hello? . . . Yes, this is he . . . Who? . . . His what? . . . Wait, what? . . . Why? . . . I'll be right there . . . I'll be there as soon as I can."

He closed the phone with a snap and looked at it like he couldn't quite believe the conversation he'd just had.

"Adam?" Tugging his hand when he didn't respond, she called his name again. He raised his stunned eyes to hers. "What's happened? Who was that?"

"Dad's . . . girlfriend. He's in the hospital. He had a heart attack."