LM Montgomery owns Anne of Green Gables. Margaret Mitchell owns some other characters. I own the characters you don't recognize from any stories you have read.

Thank you to everybody who's reviewed so far--it does help keep me focused.

Anna and Jomishie sat on Marybeth's bed and watched her get ready to go out for the evening. She was standing in front of the mirror smoothing down the skirt of her claret colored silk dress, really studying her reflection for the first time in many years.

Marybeth liked this dress and she knew it was becoming to her. It had no neck and short sleeves and made her waist look tiny. But she had managed to keep her figure even with her frequent childbearing. She always liked pretty clothes, but she hadn't payed more than superficial attention to her appearance in these last several years. When her husband was alive it had been enough for her to know she was beautiful in his eyes. What any other man's opinion was, she didn't know and could care less. Then of course there were those years when it seemed she was forever expecting a baby or nursing a baby or bustling about with a baby on her hip. Those were the days when she hiked the waist tape of her petticoat higher or lower as circumstances dictated. But she wouldn't have been able to fit into anything like this.

"We're going to miss you tonight, Mama," Jomishie said wistfully as Marybeth slipped in her pearl earrings.

"I'll miss you all too, sweetie, but the Blythes were nice enough to invite me to dinner."

"You can wear this in your hair, " Jomishie said and she handed her mother a Queen Anne's Lace she'd picked from the garden.

Marybeth kissed her daughter with a quick "thank you" and tucked it into her hair, securing it with a hairpin. If she looked closely enough she could find the scattered silver threads here and there. If she were so inclined she could pluck them out, but that seemed like more trouble than it was worth.

When she was all ready, she hugged her daughters goodbye and they could smell her lilac sachet. Mama didn't wear scent all the time, but when she did, it was invariably lilac. It was a scent they always associated with Mama.

The girls followed her downstairs and they joined their brothers. Marybeth gave some last minute instructions. "Dinner's on the stove, and there's pie for dessert, take only one slice. You can go down to Rainbow Valley until it's dark. And try not to stay awake too late. Don't forget, tomorrow's Church."

"Mama, this letter came for you, but it got lost, but I found it again," said Beau.

"Who's it from?"

"It doesn't say."

"Just put it on the table in the dining room. I'll look at it later. I don't have time now." With that she kissed her children and left the house.

Marybeth walked down the road, carrying her wrap over her arm for it was still hot, although she knew it would cool down once the sun set. Canadian nights were almost always chilly, even in the summer.

She was all the way to the Ingleside garden gate when she heard her name called. She turned around to see John Meredith hurrying towards her. Anne had told her she invited him also, along with the Elliots. She smiled at him in greeting when he caught her up but there was something tense and expectant about her, as though she were waiting for him to talk first; as though she wanted to hear what he would say.

They exchanged the customary pleasantries before he took a deep breath and said, "I've been thinking that our last conversation didn't go very well. And it wasn't your fault--I take the blame for it," he said.

"Why Mr. Meredith! You didn't say anything to offend me."

"That may be, but my attitude was wrong. I should have been thinking about your welfare rather than trying ferret out your reasons for telling me."

"Don't, please. I said too much that night--you weren't expecting it--you didn't see it coming--how could you have? --I was wrong to drop all that on you--" As she spoke her hand reached out to pick a piece of moss from the pillar of the gate. He recalled seeing her do that once before.

"No, Mrs. Hamilton. I realize now--there's something I need to tell you--to talk to you about--it's only fair, and I should have--"

"Mr. Meredith, Mrs. Hamilton," a voice called. Marybeth didn't need to look to see it was Miss Cornelia and her husband approaching them. Mr. Meredith waved, then looked back down at Marybeth, with a faint look of frustration, but she was smiling up at him with a glint of humor in her eyes.

"Interruptions, interruptions. Nothing but interruptions," Marybeth muttered. "Later, Mr. Meredith, we can talk later."

"Later," he smiled at her, and the familiar flush came into her cheeks, but for the first time since he knew her she held his gaze and didn't look away as she usually did under the circumstances, and his heart gave a thump at the realization.

The Elliots caught up with them at the gate and they entered Ingleside together. There wasn't any further opportunity for private conversation with the minister. By unspoken consent they kept a distance from each other, keeping conversation with each other to a minimum, but Marybeth was acutely aware whenever he looked at her. Whether it was on the veranda as they held polite conversation with their hosts and the other guests, over dinner, or even when they sang around the piano as the sun went down.

Only one time, when she had been obliged to pass him a cup and saucer, their eyes met and she almost dropped it from the look he gave her. She had to look away, quickly. But, she was pretty sure nobody else had noticed it.

However, all pleasant evenings must come to an end, and it was late when they left the Blythe's and walked homeward with the Elliots, decorously enough that even Miss Cornelia could find no fault. After they left the Elliots at their gate, they continued their walk homeward, talking quietly about innocuous, sober subjects until Marybeth, holding her skirt to avoid trailing it in the dirt, sidestepped a small, barely seen obstacle. Mr. Meredith took her arm to steady her, then took her hand. She thrilled to his firm grip, and responded with pressure of her own. He looked down at her then and she smiled up at him from beneath her eyelashes. They continued to walk but he didn't let go of her hand.

At her house, she leaned back against the doorframe and said to him, "I'm going to make some tea. Have a cup with me."

Good sense told him to leave her now, but he looked down at her hand still held in his, then into her eyes and agreed to come in.

Once inside, she turned to him and put a finger to her lips. "Everyone's asleep" she whispered and drew him through the parlor. "Would you please stoke the fire? It's almost going out," she added as she disappeared through the door that led to the kitchen.

She was boiling water on the stove and gathering the tea things on the kitchen table when he joined her.

"Why don't you use the kettle instead of a pot?"

"The kettle would whistle and make a loud noise," she answered, reasonably.

I'm sure nobody would appreciate me making loud noises in the middle of the night."

"The fire's going in the parlor."

Marybeth nodded and turned to the pot. It had a nice rolling boil, and she carefully poured it into the teapot and placed it on the tea tray. Then she picked the tray up and he held the parlor door for her. He sat on the sofa and moved a book that was on the low table in front of it and she and she put the tray down, sat down next to him and proceeded to pour.

He looked at the book. "I didn't know you like Tennyson"

"Some of it. I really like "The Lotos Eaters."

"Ah, the lure of a life without too-strong emotions."

Marybeth laughed. "No longing, no desire. It's the temptation to live in a world of drowsy abstractions rather than in the real world."

"Some people might say that describes me," he replied, dryly.

Marybeth got serious, thinking. "No, I don't think so. I could be wrong, but I always thought the lotos eaters were motivated by the hope to avoid all work and toil. But not you. I do believe you're driven, John Meredith, but by something else altogether."

She turned her head in time to see the embers die out. The room was still lit by the lamps, but she asked him, motioning, "Would you please?"

He got up and went over to the fireplace, poked at the logs and added tinder. Then he looked around for matches.

She got up then, but he waved her back. "I'll find them."

"No you won't. We keep them hidden. It's a habit we fell into ever since the children were very young and never stopped."

She lowered herself gracefully to the floor next to him and reached behind the hearthstone where they kept the matches. She handed them to him then rose to her feet, lightly leaning on his shoulder for support. She went back to the couch to sit down and waited quietly while he restarted the fire. He worked over it until it was a comfortable blaze. Then he joined her on the sofa. The book of poems was in her lap and he picked up the thread of their earlier conversation.

"You mentioned a life without longing or desire. It would be very cold and dead. But there is something I desire from you. If I may?" With that, he reached out for the sprig of Queen Anne's lace she had pinned in her hair. It was too much of a wildflower to really go with her gown, but he thought that somehow it suited her. In trying to remove the flower, he pulled loose half a dozen hairpins and Marybeth could feel her top-heavy hairdo come unraveled. She giggled as her hands flew to her head, hoping to pin her curls back into some semblance of order.

"No, don't pin it," he asked, almost in a whisper. Mesmerized by his eyes, she set to pulling out her hairpins one by one until she was holding them in her hand. "Give them to me," he said, taking them from her and putting the pins and the flower in a little dish on the table behind him. He turned back to her then, and plunged his hands into her hair, drawing the dark, unruly mass forward over her shoulders. She sat as one transfixed as he touched her, unable to look away from his eyes, unable to move.

"Marybeth, you are so--so--" he murmured as he leaned towards her and put a firm hand behind her head, twining his fingers in her hair.

She had sat, scarcely breathing since she handed him the hairpins. Now she leaned towards him, but didn't close her eyes until the last possible moment before she felt his lips gently touch hers. She rested her hands on his chest as she felt his other arm encircle her waist and pull her towards him. Now she was half in his lap and completely in his arms and he was kissing her and she was flooded with a warm, dizzy joy. She had never dared hope for this.

And yet, a quiet little nagging thought came to her and wouldn't let go--we must enjoy what we have, tonight, because we're going to end up hurting each other badly; with the best intentions, and never meaning to do so, he will hurt me and I will hurt him--sooner than either of us can imagine tonight--we better enjoy each other while we can...

She pushed away the thought as she reached up to touch his hair. He could smell the delicate scent of her lilac sachet and it was intoxicating to him. Arms around each other, they seemed to have been caught in a little bubble of enchantment where there was no past or future, only the now. And the now consisted of delighting in their closeness, in the feel of each other's embrace. What little talk they engaged in consisted of the now--poetry they liked, snippets of songs, anecdotes from books, and their own personal likes and dislikes in these matters. Because they both knew with absolute certainty as the clock ticked closer to morning, that the tendrils of affection that were binding them together in this night would have to, of necessity, be torn out. And that the rending process would begin the moment John Meredith left the Hamilton home.

All too soon the moment came. Marybeth had her head on John's shoulder when she heard a thump coming from upstairs. It was Wade Jr. He always started the day by jumping out of bed, finding a book then jumping back into bed for a little bit of reading. She and John looked at each other, Marybeth holding a finger to her lips. Then she heard the sound of the boy jumping back into the bed.

"You have to go now, John," she whispered.

They got up, and she helped him put on his jacket. They walked quietly across the room, opened the parlor door noiselessly, then the front door.

The sun was just over the horizon, and everything looked new in the morning light. Marybeth and John looked at each other, abashed, unsure what to say. Then he crushed her in his arms and kissed her fiercely before he put on his hat and left. Marybeth sagged against the doorframe, wanting to watch him until she couldn't see him anymore when she heard a voice behind her.

"Miz Marybeth, are you sparking that preacher?"

She whirled around to see Dilcey giving her a knowing look. Drawing a ragged breath, she said, "'Sparking?' Really, Dilcey, you make it sound so improper."

"What you were just doing didn't look too proper to me." Her eyes flicked over Marybeth's dress, the same one she was wearing the night before.

"Well, what do you think happened, then?" Marybeth demanded.

Dilcey's face softened. "Nothing. Nothing but foolishness, that is, because I know you and I know his type. But, Child, what do you think is going to happen now?"

Marybeth went back into the parlor. She quickly twisted her hair up into a knot and pinned it. She smiled when she saw the Queen Anne's Lace was gone. Then she reached for the tea things to take them to the kitchen. "I think I'm going to get changed, wake the children, then we'll all go to Mass..." She looked up at Dilcey suddenly. "Mass! Oh, no. Dilcey, when we had our tea, it was after midnight. Dilcey, I broke the fast."

Dilcey just looked at her, not knowing whether to hug Marybeth or shake her.