As a teenager, it had become a habit with her to put down her thoughts and emotions in her diary. Now as an adult, she continued the practice by writing daily in her computer journal. Almost every morning and sometimes at night, she could be found sitting in front of her computer, furiously typing. And this morning was no different. The previous night her world had been turned on its ear, and she needed to find some semblance of resolution in what had happened. Dry-eyed, she stared at the words on the monitor screen. She had never cried over a man, and she was not about to start now. She read what was written . . . . . . .

June 21, 1993, 10:15AM

Last night, the life I was so carefully constructing–minute by minute, hour by hour, and day by day-- came crashing down with the utterance of one simple but, oh so, powerful word. As soon as it was dark, Vincent and I had gone to visit Catherine’s grave in St. Cleo’s Cemetery, and as was his custom, he laid a red rose by the headstone. Silently, he stood at the graveside, his head bowed. Whether he was praying or reminiscing, I couldn’t tell. He uttered a deep sigh and furtively wiped his eyes. Without saying a word, we returned to the tunnels. He has been uncharacteristically reticent about her lately, and I wondered in the comfortable silence of our friendship if I had finally penetrated the shield he had erected around his heart.

Seated on the edge of his bed, Vincent was reading from a book of poetry, and I, lost in the music of his voice, sat next to him, wishing I had the temerity to rest my head on his shoulder. He has refused to read to me the poems and books that he read to Catherine, saying they were only for her. I hoped that someday he would read them to me.

A sudden silence snapped me out of my trance, and I looked up at him. “Vincent? Why did . . . ?” Then I saw that his eyes were staring wildly at the entrance to his chamber.

“C - Catherine?” His voice faded to a sibilant whisper.

My eyes darted to the entrance and she was there--wan faced, thin, dressed in clothes that had fit her once but were now miles too big for her--leaning wearily against the stone of the archway with one hand, but shining from her eyes was the love that had given her the strength to return to the man she loved.

In two long steps he was looming over her slight figure. She gazed up at him, drinking in his presence, and his head dipped slowly toward her. He stared intently into her eyes. The yearning to touch was almost palpable, and they leaned slightly forward. His hands twitched as if he wanted to grab her and hold on to her, afraid that she was only a dream. Watching as I was, everything seemed to be in slow motion as he gently raised his hand and moved the hair in front of her left ear aside and took a great gulp of air. “I thought I had lost you forever,” he rasped, the emotions of a lifetime making it difficult for him to speak.

“Never, my love. We can never lose each other.” She reached up and lovingly cupped his cheek. Turning his head, he nuzzled into the palm of her hand.

Softly he placed his large hands on either side of her face and, with great tenderness, kissed her as she rose on tiptoes to clutch him firmly around his neck.

From my position on the bed, I could feel the electricity and passion of their kiss, and with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I realized that he had never felt that with me. They whispered, “I love you,” as they broke apart, gazing at each other with such love that I knew I had to get out of there. I coughed loudly and Vincent started. He had forgotten all about me, and turning, he stood behind Catherine, enclosing her in an unyielding embrace; he was not going to lose her again.

I couldn’t believe the change in him. I was seeing Vincent as he had been before the loss of the woman he loved. In one brief moment, he had shed all his anger and despair, all the horror and grief, casting off the many emotions that had weighed on him, giving others the impression that he had lessened somehow in stature and in strength. Now he stood proudly erect, radiating a force and power that stunned me. The man I had fallen in love with had been but a mere shadow of the man who loved Catherine Chandler.

Holding her close to him, he said, “Catherine, I want you to meet a good friend of mine: Diana Bennett.”

Her eyes widened as she noticed me flinch at being called his good friend, and they darkened as she realized what I wanted to mean to him. “Hello,” she replied in a soft, cultured voice. “I’ve heard of you. You solved my abduction and killed Gabriel. Peter told me to what lengths you went to help Vincent find our son. Thank you,” she said sincerely.

“You’re welcome,” I managed to say. “Vincent, I really must get home. It’s late and I have an early call in the morning.” The look that Catherine gave me let me know that she understood why I had to leave. That made my leaving right then even more imperative.

Keeping his arm possessively around Catherine, Vincent said, “Let me call for someone to walk you to your loft.”

I shook my head and almost ran from the chamber. Sensitive to my feelings, I heard her say, “Let her go, Vincent. Her dreams were shattered tonight. Besides, I think she knows her way.”

Yes, I thought bitterly; I know my way. It’s the same old, lonely road I’ve traveled before. Somehow, I made it home, but I don’t remember much of it. I know the pipes were ringing with the joyful news that Catherine was back and that added impetus to my flight from their love.

In a daze, I undressed and threw myself into bed. I was instantly asleep, almost in a coma as I have no recollection of a single dream, which is strange as I dream almost every night. It must have been a way to protect myself, to give me time to build my defenses.

Question: Will I ever go Below again? I honestly don’t know. Right now, I can think of nothing that would give me more pain than to see Vincent and Catherine together with Jacob: the family that I wanted.

Question: Will I ever cease to love him? No, I don’t think so. He is all and more than I have ever wanted in a man. Maybe someday I will find someone or someone will find me, and I will have the happy life that Vincent always wanted for Catherine, but I seriously doubt it. As I look at the years ahead of me, I see only myself, alone and unloved. Oh, I know that he loves me, but friendship is not what I want. I want it all . . . all that she has with him. But I know that the entirety of his love is given to her for all time.

Conclusions: I was playing against the house. The major portion, if not all, of his heart had been given to Catherine the moment that he found her, leaving no room for me. Eventually I think he would have become lonely enough that he would have accepted me into his life. On what basis, I’m afraid I know. But is that what I want . . . just to be accepted . . . I, who have always demanded a total commitment from my lovers? Could I continue to love someone who could not return my love in full measure? Being brutally honest, I do not do well on hope. If I cannot have it all, I eventually tire of it. I don’t think I would ever stop loving him, but I would tire of a static relationship. I would become restive and demanding and finally drive him away, relieving me of any guilt over leaving him. Final conclusion: Looking back over my many relationships, I can see that I am now in the position that my lovers were. I couldn’t give completely of myself to any man until Vincent, and now when I can, I find that my love is not needed or--bitter pill–even wanted, a difficult lesson of life.

Fini