The thing was, Derek thought as he made the same journey, that old dreams had an annoying habit of lingering long after they had no practical place in his life.
The dream, when he had allowed himself to indulge in it, had been the eternal one of the young and hopeful, he supposed—that vision of something more vividly wonderful and magical than anyone else had ever experienced, the grand passion and romance that had inspired the world’s most memorable poetry. It was a bit embarrassing to remember now. He probably would not have found any such love anyway. But there lingered even now a yearning for something different from what he could expect, some . . . passion. It was not to be, however. Life had other plans for him.
He gazed out at the flowering hedgerows, at the trees whose leaves w
