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rambling saga, she would realize later when she got better at storytelling, but Walter had listened intently and thanked her when she was finished.
    Then she asked him why he had come to sit under her trees, because it wasn’t something adults usually did, especially when they weren’t dressed for it.
    “I thought we should get to know each other a little,” he’d said, “because I’m going to be in your life for a long time. You see, I’m going to be marrying your mother. I hope that meets with your approval.”
    And Gwen had thought about the shine in Cassandra’s eyes and the way she ran down the stairs to meet him. And she had thought about the way Walter had listened to her story. And she said, “Yes. I think that will be fine.”
    “Thank you,” he’d said gravely. “That’s a big relief to me.”
    *                           *                           *         
    It had been better than fine. The advent of Walter had been the beginning of a new relationship between Gwen and Cassandra. The chill Gwen had always felt had begun to warm; the distance had been lessened. Her mother was a happier person now, and the happiness poured over everything and everyone around her.
    And then, out of the blue, came the bedtime story. Gwen was never really sure how or why Cassandra decided that she wanted to read to her daughter every night. She suspected that in some way Walter had been behind it, although she didn’t know that for sure. It would have been like him to point out to his wife that Gwen was a child who loved stories and Cassandra herself was a voracious reader. It was Walter’s instinct to bring people together, and to bring out the best in them. Or maybe Cassandra herself was looking for something she and her daughter could share; maybe she felt the lack of closeness between them and was looking for a way to reach out. Maybe she was trying to expand Gwen’s mind. Maybe it was a little of both.
    The idea of Cassandra Wright cuddling up with her little daughter every night for a cozily domestic reading of a bedtime story was so impossible that Gwen had never even dreamed of such a thing. But one evening as she lay in bed and Sarah turned on the television that would lull her to sleep, Cassandra appeared in her room with a book in hand.
    “I’ve brought a novel I thought we might enjoy together,” she said as she snapped off the TV. “It’s called
Heidi
. Your pediatrician says it’s too advanced for a child of your age, but I’m not sure he knows how very bright you are. It was one of my favorite stories growing up, and in any case, I’m afraid I couldn’t bear reading some of the pap they write for children these days.”
    So there were no rhyming kittens or fairy princesses saved by white knights for Gwen. She didn’t care. The bedtime story became her favorite part of her day. Propped up against her pillows, bathed and bundled into her nightclothes, she would wait for Cassandra to come in—often dressed for an evening out—sit on a chair at the side of the bed, and read.
    Gwen had no trouble following the story. She and her mother laughed together at Fräulein Rottenmeier; they sighed over the mountains of Switzerland together, and the wildflowers. For several weeks the only thing Gwen wanted to eat were grilled cheese sandwiches, and the cook had instructions to oblige her—after all, cheese melted on a chunk of bread over the fire was what Heidi and her grandfather ate.
    The bedtime story had been a turning point; and over the next few years Gwen and Cassandra would find other interests and passions they shared. Gwen developed a taste for the classical music her mother adored: Beethoven, Schubert, and Mozart. They listened to Cassandra’s favorite recording of
La Bohème
together and followed along with the libretto. Both mother and daughter had a deep love of animals, and a need for nature. They felt the same sense of loss