She watched him walk down the service road that ran behind her backyard, then cut across the park toward his home, which lay beyond the woods at the east end. He grew smaller and less distinct as he went, receding slowly into the distance. It was like watching her past fade before her eyes. Even when she saw him again, it would not be the same. She knew it instinctively. They would be different people leading different lives, and there would be no going back to the lives they had lived as children.

Her throat tightened, and she took a deep breath. Oh, Robert!

She waited a moment longer, letting the memories flood through her one final time, then turned away.

Chapter 3

As Nest pushed through the hedgerow into her backyard, Pick dropped from the branches onto her shoulder with a pronounced grunt.

“That boy is sweet on you. Sweet, sweet, sweet.”

Pick’s voice was harried and thin, and when he spoke he sounded like one of those fuzzy creatures on Sesame Street. Nest thought he wouldn’t be so smug if he could hear himself on tape sometime.

“They’re all sweet on me,” she said, deflecting his dig, moving toward the picnic table. “Didn’t you know?”

“No, I didn’t. But if that one were any sweeter, he could be bottled for syrup.” Pick sniffed. “Classic case of youthful hormonal imbalance.”

She laughed. “Since when did you know anything about ‘youthful hormonal imbalance’? Didn’t you tell me once that you were born in a pod?”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t know about humans. I suppose you don’t think I’ve learned anything in my life, is that it? Since I’m roughly ten times your age, it’s probably safe to assume I’ve learned a great deal more than you have!”

She straddled one of the picnic bench seats, and Pick slid down her arm and jumped onto the table in front of her, hands on hips, eyes defiant. At first glance, he looked like a lot of different things. A quick glimpse suggested he was some sort of weird forest flotsam and jetsam, shed by a big fir or blown off an aging cedar. A second look suggested he was a poorly designed child’s doll made out of tree parts. A thick layer of bark encrusted him from head to foot, and tiny leaves blossomed out of various nooks and crannies where his joints were formed. He was a sylvan, in fact, six inches high and so full of himself Nest was sometimes surprised he didn’t just float away on the wind. He never stopped talking and, in the many years she had known him, had seldom stopped moving. He was full of energy and advice, and he had a tendency to overwhelm her with both.

“Where have you been?” he demanded, clearly agitated that he had been forced to wait on her return.

She brushed back her cinnamon-colored hair and shook her head at him. “We walked over to the cemetery and put flowers on my grandparents’ and mother’s graves. What is your problem, anyway?”