Her red VW Beetle is stuffed with all sorts of items that she has to clear away from the passenger's seat before I can get in. We drive in heavy silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the faint humming of the motor and the windscreen wipers gliding over the front window. I don't dare start a conversation; I think she is glad I don't. We are both savoring the silence, saving the important words for later.

Joan has picked the road into town, going at a steady pace just above the speed limit. The quiet grows too heavy to withstand and Joan slightly shifts in her seat, staring out the windscreen intently. As if this is just any normal conversation, she half asks, "So, you're here." What I really hear her say is, 'Why the hell did you come?'

"Yes, I'm here," I reply stupidly, not knowing what else to say.

"You flew out all the way from Chicago, why would you do that?"

"I think you know why I'm here, Joan," I tell her quietly.

"For my mother's funeral? Oh please, you didn't even show up!" Her voice hovers somewhere between indictment and exasperation.

"I did show up," I admit. 'You just didn't see me, I was too much of a coward,' I mentally add.

"Then why did I not see you there?" Her tone is suddenly more curious, yet still accusing me silently.

"Because I didn't want to intrude. I didn't want for things to get worse than they already are. I thought it would make things more difficult and I... It was probably for the best." I chickened out, the spineless faintheart that I am. Isn't that what I should be saying?

I am suddenly fed up with all of this, us dancing around each other, me quietly loathing myself for my screw-ups, bathing in my ever-growing self-pity. "Look, Joan, can you stop the car?" I say decidedly. "I don't think we should be doing this."

Not expecting her to heed my words, she does anyway. "Fine," she says, resigning. Braking a little too abruptly, she swerves to the right into one of the vacant parking spots. I angrily slam the car door behind me when I get out and walk away, having completely forgotten about my traveling bag in the trunk.

In fast paces I walk along the sidewalk, not caring where I'm going. I am fairly sure she isn't following me, if only for the fact that I haven't heard her car door opening and closing. After a while, I get to a small bridge that spans one of Arcadia's creeks which run throughout the whole downtown area. I stop there and lean onto the railing with my forearms, absently watching the myriad of raindrops forming little circles in the water current below me.

Why is it that I can't seem to gather the courage to face her? Why is it that I'm afraid of the possibility of resolving our mutual loathing for each other? Why am I running away again?

'Go and hide, that's what you do best.' That is what she accused me of. But she's right, isn't she? What kind of a complete loser am I to not jump at the first chance she offers me to attempt to right my wrongs?

I've always been good at screwing up all the things that brought joy into my life. That's what I told Grace after things had fallen apart with Joan for the first time—after the Bonnie incident. Guess that hasn't changed.

All those years ago, I might have stood here, crying with self-pity and remorse. But in the time since I left Arcadia, I have learned to swallow it down and replace the sorrow with bitterness and silent rage. I lean back and grip the railing with both hands, bowing my head even lower.

I suddenly sense a figure approaching, stopping next to me. I don't have to look up to know it's her and there is nothing I can say.

She stands next to me in silence for half a minute before she very softly asks, "Look, Adam, don't you think you've been punishing yourself enough?"

'No!' I want to scream. 'There is no punishment great enough to pardon what I did!' I don't want to yell at her, so I strengthen my resolve, clench my teeth and grip the railing even harder.

"Adam, please look at me," she demands, and there is something so determined in her voice that it makes me lift my head and meet her gaze.

I know she sees the anger in my eyes because I am not making any attempt to hide it. With more urgency to her voice, she pleads, "We need to talk about this, sort this out. Please. If you can't do it for yourself, do it for me."

I look down again at the wooden crossbeams of the bridge. Maybe she's right. Maybe it's time I stopped running and hiding and finally faced my shame. "Okay," I softly say. "Maybe it's time we talked."

Wordlessly, she hands me my nylon bag. I take it from her and put the strap over my shoulder as she says, "Come on, let's find some place warm and dry."

--...----...----...--

The lit white, green and black Starbucks sign flickers, the way light bulbs do shortly before they stop working altogether. Joan and I jog towards it to get out of the torrent-like rain that has suddenly started to pour down. Her small umbrella fails miserably at protecting both of us from the rainfall as we run towards the entrance. By this point I don't care about the rain because my clothes are already soggy with rain, my hair plastered to my head.

We queue at the counter, ordering our hot beverages. Double-tall Caffè Latte for me, tall White Chocolate Mocha for her. Waiting for our coffees, this is the prelude—we're both holding our breaths for the main event.

Upstairs, all the comfortable chairs are taken, so we pick out a table with dark, wooden chairs in the corner, sitting down opposite each other. Columbian-sounding background music is trickling from the speaker above us as I wrap my hands around my mug, trying not to shiver. She looks at me. "I'll be right back," I hear her say as she gets up again, vanishing downstairs. Something in her walk is completely familiar to me, even after all these years.

A minute later she returns with a green towel that carries a Starbucks logo, handing it to me. "Here. You're soaked."

"Thanks," I mutter and accept it gratefully, drying my hair and face with it as best as I can.

"So—" we both say at the same time after a few seconds of uneasy silence. We look at each other; she is smiling faintly at the awkward moment. I try to silently convey to her she should talk first. After all, she suggested this. I'm just along for the ride. Yeah, right, who am I kidding?

"So, it was Grace who told you about my mom, huh?" she starts.

"Yeah," I say quietly. "I was pretty shaken-up when I heard. And then I got on that plane and I... I didn't mean any disrespect when I came here. It's just... I wanted to say goodbye in person, you know.

"No matter what happened between us, she was always a special person to me. I think you know that."

I look up and I see tears glistening in her eyes. I have to swallow heavily because I know better than anyone what it feels like to lose a mother. I remember the endless nights of crying, every little memory wrenching your gut, the emptiness of the house without her voice and her presence in it. I wish I could tell her all of that, comfort her in some small way to lessen the pain just a bit. But I have long forgotten how—the connection we once had is gone.

When I study her face that is now etched with a permanent sadness in her features, for a split second there is something—a flicker of that bond between us—and I try to hold onto it. Making my voice as compassionate as I can, I tell her, "It'll get better. Give it time."

"Yeah," she says softly, the disbelief too articulate in her voice.

Instinctively, I want to take her hand that is draped on the tabletop to underline my words, so mine unconsciously edges closer to hers. I catch myself just in time and draw back my own hand that finds its way back to the white handle of my mug.

Her eyes meet mine, and even though she is so much older than I remember her, she can still disarm me with a sheer look. I quickly avert my eyes, turn my head sideways, to watch the people in the street hurrying along to escape the drizzly rain that has yet to stop.

"Adam?" Her voice draws my gaze back to her—and there is more in that word than just her calling for my attention. I know I am uncomfortable with speaking about everything that has happened, but I sense this is the beginning of a very plain-talk conversation, one that is long overdue.

I quickly draw in a breath and throw all caution to the wind. "Look... What happened... I'm not proud of it. I've done a lot of things in my life I'm not proud of. But I think that was the worst."

I pause, playing with the white and green napkin on the table, looking at my hands as I do. I have a hard time putting this into words. "That was the worst—hitting you. That was when everything fell apart.

"I will never forget that look in your eyes. It was then that I knew I had to leave. Because there was no way I could ever make up for that."

I lean back, somehow out of breath. Joan sits opposite me, her hands folded in front of her mouth, her elbows on the tabletop. She looks at me and seconds pass before she says, "I won't deny that I hated you for a long time. And it might have been the best thing for you to leave then, because I think it would only have gotten worse if you hadn't. But as the years went by, and Grace kept telling me about what you were doing, sometimes I wished you would come back.

"There were times when I would sit by the telephone, choking up the courage to call you. But I never did. I never did because I wasn't sure... I wasn't prepared for your reaction, whatever it might be."

I release my breath, suddenly aware I have been holding it. I put my face in my hands and lean my head down, so that my hands comb through my hair. I look back up at her when I say, "I was such a fool. I know that what I did was unforgivable. But sometimes... I hope that we can at least... I don't know... not be like this. I'm not expecting you to forgive me, I would never expect that, but maybe we can just stop to shun each other."

She rewards me with the smallest of smiles. "Yeah, I'd like that. I think it's time that we put this behind us. This might be a good time to start over."

This is more than I would ever have ever expected from Joan, and a smile creeps into my features as I remember my last conversation with Grace. 'You underestimate the human potential for forgiveness,' she had said. When did she ever get so wise and insightful? Guess we all grow up.

"Shoot, my flight!" I suddenly exclaim as my gaze meets the wall clock behind Joan. I roam my jacket pocket for my cell phone. Finding it, I take it out and start to search my address book for the taxi company number.

"What are you doing?" Joan asks me.

"I'm calling a cab." What does she think I'm doing?

She takes the cell phone from my hand and puts it on the table. "Don't be ridiculous, I'll drive you."

"No, you don't have to do that."

She gives me an almost chastising look. "Starting over, remember?"

I pocket the cell phone again. "Okay."

We get up from the table and leave the café together. Outside, it has stopped raining. I look up at the sky and deeply breathe in the cold but fresh air. It's like a heavy weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

I feel Joan tugging at my sleeve. "Come on, you'll miss your flight."

I follow her to the car and suddenly can't seem to wipe the smile off my face. Life sucks just a little less at this moment.

--...----...----...--

The American Airlines employee sitting behind the check-in counter puts a tag with 'CHI' in capital letters around the carrier handles of my nylon bag as it's being weighed. I grab the boarding card she hands to me and find Joan waiting for me a few steps away.

In front of the automatic door that separates the visitor's area from the passenger area, we stop. I'm not sure how to do this. Uncomfortably, I shrug my shoulders. "So, this is it."

"Yeah," she sighs but quickly smiles. I expect her to bid me a swift farewell, but she surprises me yet again.

"Adam, you know what I think our problem was? We didn't talk about all those things that came between us. I mean, at work I see all these kids and parents, and how they get stuck in all those bad places because they don't communicate enough. I think we might not have ended up where we did if we had only talked about it." She twirls a strand of hair around her finger and there is something completely endearing in that simple gesture. "Let us start talking again."

"Yes, I'd like that." I underline it with a small smile. "In case you don't have my details, ask Grace, she has my numbers and e-mail address and everything." As I am about to go, she calls my name again. "Adam?"

I turn around and she asks me, "Do you remember 'Jane'?"

I nod. Of course. Did she think I would ever forget?

"Do you think I could ever become her again?" she asks, looking at me expectantly.

"I don't know," I tell her honestly. "Maybe one day when we're both ready."

"Yeah, okay. I can live with that."

Her smile that followed is what I cherish for the rest of the flight. It is still with me as I exit the cab in a very frosty Chicago and unlock the front door to my apartment building.

THE END

--...----...----...--

Tabitha's Secret
Dear Joan

Dear Joan
I've almost forgotten the pane in the window
Blue dress in the doorway

Dear Joan
Help me remember the face I forget
And the traps that I've sprung

I guess I've grown tired, it's just what's expected of me
To tear your heart from the inside to the outside
You know I was wired, I just couldn't help it
The hundred thousand times I hurt you

Dear Joan, I wanted to say
That I'm sorry for the screaming last night
And the nights before
Well I've wanted more from this
Than anything I've ever known
Dear Joan

Dear Joan
Your face has a brightness that I've never seen
In the years that I've known you

Dear Joan
I pick up the pieces, but some scattered too far
You say they flew when I kicked them

I know you believed when I said it was over
You stood by me patiently waiting and brooding
So deeply in love with every face that I've shown

Once I forgive, twice I'm a fool, three times I wrapped my hands around your neck
While you're sleeping, you're quietly sleeping, sleeping and dreaming

Dear Joan
Don't walk out the doorway
Because if you did
I believe I could honestly kill you

Dear Joan, I wanted to say
That I'm sorry for the screaming last night
And the nights before
Well I've wanted more from this
Than anything I've ever known
Dear Joan

--...----...----...--

Author's Note continued:
Okay, this is where the story stops. I'm not completely ruling out a sequel or an epilogue or anything like that. But don't hold your breaths. And I want to say: I have never had such a hard time writing a story as I've had with this one. I didn't enjoy it any less, however. Hope you did too.

Just a few things I'd like to say because this story is probably the one dearest to my heart of all those I have written so far. So, yeah, Joan and Adam eventually attempted to talk and start healing their "old wounds". (I hope I didn't rush things because somehow I felt I was for a while...) Almost-fluff there at the end, huh? Well, what did you expect, my pathetic little heart roots for the both of them, and as much as I hate Adam for what he did with Bonnie (and what he did to Joan in this story), the only way I can picture Joan and Adam in the end is together. Okay, they're not together in this story—not even close—but maybe they can be, will be. One day. Isn't that enough to know, that they may be? Of course they just as well might not. All for you to decide. Or for me at a later point.

A huge thank you goes out to everyone who reviewed this story or contacted me with comments. You guys may not know how much this encourages you as a writer, even if it's "only" fan fiction. Thank you, each and every one of you. It is so flattering to receive comments about how readers feel about situations you've invented, dialogues you've created, about their take on what's going on your little universe. Some of your comments and reviews made my day. I wish more readers would leave reviews, but I am of course painfully aware that most readers are the passive types. Not that I don't understand or resent them for it—far from it. It's just so much cooler to get feedback instead of just looking up how many people have accessed your story. :o)

To pick up on the anonymous review someone left. Gee, thanks that you don't think it's an awful story. I'll take that as a compliment. :o) And you think I made Grace an idiot? Really? You mean the lack of computer skills? Hey, we don't know anything about how well Grace handles a computer, we only know she can use chat software. I know a lot of people I don't consider idiots who couldn't set up a computer or software if their lives depended on it. Doesn't mean that Grace is an idiot (and I absolutely don't see her as one!). Sorry if it came across that way. Oh, well, guess you can't please everybody...

Last but not least, another small tribute to "Joan of Arcadia" from me: This show was and is a true marvel among television shows and I'm glad it has so many loyal and wonderful fans. Having CBS cancel it way before its time has become just a little less harder to bear with me writing all these stories of mine, and knowing that there are at least a few people out there who seem to understand and share my obsession with this show and these characters. Okay, enough with the mushy speeches. This isn't the Oscars... (Oh, and this isn't a goodbye or anything. I'm sure going to keep writing JoA stories, I just felt I needed to say this.)

For those of you who are following my other stories... I'm currently working hard on "Seeing Is Believing", although it's not easy for me to find the time, now that I started work again (which kinda sucks, but, well... :sigh:). I kinda got stuck on "Sweet Crusader", might be a while before I go back to that one. I also have a sequel for "Moonlight and Magic" tucked away somewhere in my head, but I don't think I'm gonna get to that any time soon. Of course "All Of You" is also not finished, but sometimes it's just too bittersweet (more on the bitter end, actually) to get so up close and personal to cheating Adam and hurting Joan. Man, I have too many works-in-progress right now. I hate it when I can't seem to finish anything! There's also this other project I'm doing with Tote, for which I see great things in the works, but it might be a while before that's "postable". Just thought I'd tease you anyway.

Can someone please make me stop writing Author's Notes, mine always almost become longer than the actual story. I'll stop now. I promise. Okay, almost.

One last thing before I go: "Dear Joan" lyrics and song belong to Tabitha's Secret and Jtj/Redeye and whoever else holds the copyrights.