Anne stood before the door, heart racing, knees shaking, face heating. A mess of conflicting emotions swirled around her, but it was too late to turn back now.

The woman who answered the door was old and and haggard. New worry lines creased her face, and all her features seemed to sag downwards. The tight, severe bun on top of her head had more silver to it than it used to, and her posture had a newfound weariness to it. But when her eyes registered Anne's form, they almost lit up (though not quite). She might have dulled vision, but she would know that silhouette even if she'd gone completely blind.

"I'm sorry," was all Anne managed through the tears strangling her.

The flash of recognition was followed by elation, but hysterical anger and fear came as swiftly as her initial joy. The hand acted of its own accord, and contacted the pale cheek with such force, the slap was heard for miles around. Even before shock registered in the poor girl's eyes, grief engulfed her. She caressed Anne's skin with unparalleled tenderness, drinking in the essence of the person she loved more than life, then pulling her into a desperate embrace against her bosom. Once her arms folded around her, Marilla found she could not let go. Not that it would have done any good, because Anne was grasping her just as tightly.

"Don't you - ever - do that again," Marilla uttered, her voice quaking with relieved sobs. "You hear? Never. You can never do this again."

Anne nodded, safely cocooned in her adoptive mother's arms, breathing in the scent of the woman who'd fed and clothed her; who'd praised her accomplishments, scolded her for misbehaving, nursed her when she was sick. Bony, comforting hands stroked her back the way they used to when she was little, and Anne found it quite impossible to speak or move.

Through their sobs and wordless apologies, neither of them noticed Davy Keith riding away on the black mare, or Rachel Lynde shedding a tear of her own on the front porch.

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Gilbert had been so nervous on his first day teaching at White Sands, his hands shook as badly as his knees when he wrote his name on the blackboard. He hadn't banked on nerves coming into play today - hadn't fathomed how unprepared he'd been until he was facing a classroom full of children, a little over twenty faces staring at him, waiting for him to say something. His faculties had abandoned him, his mind had gone blank, and to this day, he still had no idea how he'd managed to get through the entire schoolday.

The day Gilbert had admitted his ambition of being a doctor to his father, he had been extremelynervous. His throat had constricted in such a way that he'd had to choose between speaking or breathing, and as the words tumbled clumsily from his mouth, he had started formulating a plan for enduring John Blythe's wrath and disappointment. This had proved to be quite unnecessary, but it had still taken his heart a few hours to find its natural rhythm after that particular talk.

During his second year of medical school, Dr. Karlsen had pointed at the surgical needle and thread, giving him the opportunity to close up a wound, Gilbert had been eager to demonstrate his abilities - that was, until he saw the patient's chest rise and fall rhythmically. The only actual practice Gilbert had had sewing humans up till now had involved cadavers - now faced with a real live, breathing body, his bravado had flown out the window. His trademark meticulous sutures were replaced with stitches that may as well have been crocheted by a 90 year old arthritic grandmother, in the dark. Sweating under the bright hospital lights, Gilbert had said a silent prayer with every puncture of the needle; as soon as he'd been dismissed, he'd hurried out of the building and been humiliatingly sick in the bushes, in broad daylight. He had even let his Lamb brothers pour a shot of brandy down his throat later that night, when he couldn't stop shaking.

Now, as he rode the horse Davy had lent him up to the Green Gables barn, Gilbert swore he'd never felt more nervous in his life. His entire being vibrated with energy, and his mind raced so incoherently, he couldn't formulate a single intelligent thought. All he could process was: Anne is here.

You're going to see Anne.

She's going to see you.

She's here. Anne is here.

He secured the horse, not bothering to unsaddle her (Davy would be heading over with the others in a bit, he'd see to it) and walked up the house in a trance. He could feel his pulse in his thighs and in his face as he knocked and pushed open the screen door.

"Hello?" There was no one in the kitchen, no one in the parlor. He floated upstairs, and heard muted voices emanating from the bedroom Jem and Walter occupied during visits. The door was half open - he pushed it all the way open, and saw her sitting on the bed, Marilla's arm around her shoulders. She looked up, and his heart throbbed in his ears. God, his wife was beautiful.

In a romance novel, he would have knelt in front of her and professed his undying love, begged her to have him back; she would have swooned into his arms and gazed lovingly into his eyes; they would have fused into a passionate kiss.

But real life had a more awkward way of playing out. As he approached her on weak legs, his shoe caught the edge of the carpet, and he just missed falling on his face. Anne moved toward him as he gained his balance, and the arm he flailed about in order to stay upright accidentally grazed her. Or, to be more specific: three fingers of his left hand frisked her breast. A husband and a doctor, Gilbert Blythe was not easily embarrassed by physical contact: however, Anne's electric gasp made blood rush to his face (and, well, other places). He apologized hastily, and Marilla made a sound that could have been disapproval or amusement (or possibly both).

"I'll be downstairs if you need me," she said, depositing a cheek at Anne's temple. She stood and left the room, patting Gilbert's shoulder in a rare display of affection on her way out. The door clicked shut quietly, and then it was just the two of them.

It was an eternity before either of them spoke. All the things Gilbert had wanted to say - the accusations he'd wanted to throw, the curses he'd wanted to shout, the explanations he'd wanted to demand - all seemed irrelevant all of the sudden.

"You left," he blundered. It wasn't on the list of things he'd intended to say - not even close. "Why did you leave?"

Tears flooded her eyes. "Because I had to. I needed to leave...I was losing myself. Gil, I haven't been - right - in the head, for a long time."

He nodded as though he'd known all along. "And now?"

Her tearful attempts to smile tugged at his heartstrings. "Marilla has forgiven me - I hope you will, too. The boys..." A shadow passed on her face. "I'll do whatever it takes. How they must hate me...and you, as well."

"I don't hate you. I never have." He'd spoken without thinking, but the second the words came out, he knew they were the absolute truth. As much as he might have resented her, he'd never hated her. "Come home, darling. We need you. I need you."

Regret leaked from her eyes, rolling in fat drops down her pale cheeks. "I'm sorry, Gil. I can't."

Gilbert fell to his knees. He was dying: he was certain of it. The cramp around his heart, shortness of breath, blurred vision...his wife screamed his name in terror, confirming that he was indeed going into cardiac arrest.

"Gilbert!" she repeated, panic lacing the authoritative tone of her voice. "Breathe, Gil. Slower, from here." Her hand placed on his abdomen, and he was surprised that her touch didn't incinerate him. "In deeply - out. Again: in... There you go." She coached him until his head stopped swimming. She must have shifted him, because he was now sitting with his back against the bed. Her hand still above his stomach, the other rubbed his shoulder, her big, greenish eyes fixed on him with concern. Anne, his gorgeous wife - who wanted nothing to do with him anymore.

"Is it Jack?" he wheezed, his lungs functioning painfully.

"Jack?!" she started, surprised. He didn't detect any guilt in the gesture - then again, when had he ever been the expert?

"You love him, right? And now, he's come to sweep you off your feet." With the return of his senses, he suddenly felt exhausted. He leaned his head back on the edge of the bed. "Rescue you from a...lifetime wasted with me."

"Gilbert, you're not making any sense. Did you have a seizure?"

"Garrison." He opened an eye to gauge her reaction. "Rugged good looks, handsome grin, dead gone on you. Ring a bell?" So far, she only seemed confused. Had he caught her red handed? He didn't want to know - but he had to, for his sons' sake as much as his own. "Well, he's here. Followed me, supposedly to keep me out of trouble. Should have known."

Anne gaped at him. "You're jealous."

"So, you're admitting it?"

"You are unbelievable! Are you accusing me of - having romantic feelings - for someone else?"

He went back to staring at the ceiling. "Well, why not? Goodness knows you haven't looked at me that way since...ah, it's been years, at least."

"I might have stopped showing it," she said quietly, "but I never stopped feeling it. To be fair, you haven't been around much to notice." She sighed, and he felt a weight lift from his chest. He laid his clammy hand over hers, holding her limply. "Gil, I have no romantic sentiments towards Jack. I never had. He was - is - a good friend, and helped me when I was in need. That's all. But I can't come home with you, and have everything be like it was. I can't go back to us the way we were. Please understand."

Through his fear, and pain, and frustration, he saw what she was trying to convey. "Anne, I can't lose you. I wish I were noble and selfless enough to let you go, but I simply cannot. This being said, I know what you mean." A lone tear spilled down the side of his face. "What if - what if it weren't the way it was then? I can change. I'd do anything." He pretended not to notice how pathetically desperate he sounded, and hoped she would as well.

"I need to change, too, Gil. There are some things I have to sort out, of my own...I will need some time. And some space."

It wasn't an outright 'farewell'. It sounded more like a 'see you later...perhaps.' He swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Will you come back, after that?"

Anne nodded. "Yes."

His grip on her hand tightened. "Promise me."

"I promise, Gil. Whatever lies ahead, I will never leave you, nor the boys, forever. I just need time."

He nodded and exhaled heavily. "Then take all the time you need. And when you're ready, we'll be waiting for you."

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And thus ends the second installment of the saga! The story continues: (title pending) will complete the trilogy. There may be short spin offs or segments published separately, but for now, my goal is to bring the story arch a resolution.

In the meanwhile, THANK YOU to everyone who has been reading! Your reviews and criticism are worth gold. I am not brave enough to join any forums quite yet (but thank you for the invitations) so for the present, I will express my gratitude here. XOXOXO, mavors4986