The day of the summer play dawned crisp and clear. A beautiful Northwest autumn afternoon. Kate wanted to help Marah prepare for the big event, but she was too weak to do much. Smiling took effort. The pain behind her eyes was constant now, like the bleating beat of an alarm clock that couldn't be turned off.

Kate slept through most of it. By the time night had fallen, she was as rested as she could be and ready to face the challenge of what lay ahead.

"I'm ready. Maybe you should put some makeup on me so I don't scare little kids."

And so Kate handed over her duties to Tully, who performed them like a champ.

"I'd love it. I would have thought of it myself if I had any brain cells left." She reached for her oxygen mask and took a few hits.

"I thought you'd never ask. And I brought you a wig to wear -- if you want it."

Tully left the room and returned with her makeup kit.

Kate angled her bed up and closed her eyes. "This feels like the old days."

"Are you sure you're up to this?" Tully asked at six forty-five.

Kate meant to laugh. Maybe she even did.

Tully talked as she worked her magic, penciling on eyebrows, gluing on lashes. Kate let herself be carried away on the tide of her friend's voice. "I have a gift, you know. Do you have a razor?"

"Don't worry about me. I love it when people fall asleep while I'm talking."

"Okay," Tully finally said. "Time to try on the wig."

"Good," Tully said. "Let's round the troops up and go."

Kate blinked, realizing she'd fallen asleep, and grinned. "Sorry about that."

Tully put the wig on, positioned it, then helped Kate dress in a black wool dress with tights and boots. In the wheelchair, they wrapped her in blankets, then Tully wheeled her over to the mirror. "Well?"

Kate pulled the stocking cap off her head and the mittens off her hands. She was always freezing cold.

She stared at her reflection -- pale, thin face with eyes that looked huge beneath the drawn-on eyebrows, brightly blond shoulder-length hair, perfectly red lips. "Great," she said, hoping she sounded honest.

Perfect.

A half an hour later, they pulled up to the auditorium. They were so early that no other cars were yet in the parking lot.

Johnny put Kate in the wheelchair, covered her in blankets, and led the way to the front doors.

Inside, they took up most of the first row, saving places for the rest of the family; Kate's wheelchair was positioned on the end of the aisle.

"I'll be back in thirty minutes with your folks and the boys," Johnny said to Kate. "Do you need anything else?"

We'll be TV journalists. Someday I'll tell Mike Wallace that I couldn't have done it without you.

"No."

Tully didn't miss a beat. She started talking about yesterday's rehearsal, then went on to her troubles with the carpool protocol.

When he was gone, she and Tully sat in the shadows of the empty auditorium. Kate shivered and tightened the blankets around her. Her head was pounding and she felt sick to her stomach. "Talk to me, Tully. About anything."

Kate closed her eyes, and suddenly they were kids again, sitting by the Pilchuck River, wondering how their lives would unfold.

"I thought you didn't want her to be in the arts."

Dreams. They'd had so many of them, and a surprising number had come true. The funny thing was that she hadn't valued them all highly enough when she'd had the chance.

"It scares the hell out of me to think of my baby in Hollywood. But you're a TV star. Her dad's a news producer. The poor kid is surrounded by dreamers. What chance did she ever have?" She reached over, squeezed Tully's hand. More than anything, she wanted to look at Tully, but she couldn't do it, didn't dare. "You'll watch out for her and the boys, right?"

"I do." Tully looked at her. "Why?"

Leaning back in her seat, she said quietly, "Do you still know the guy who runs the drama program at USC?"

"Always."

Kate felt the start of a smile; that one word released a little of her sadness. One thing about Tully: she kept her word. "And maybe you'll look up Cloud again."

Kate felt Tully's scrutiny on her profile. Without making eye contact, she straightened her wig. "Maybe you could call him. Marah would love to go there." With the words came the thought: I won't be there for her. For any of it. Marah would go off to college without her…

"Please don't say it."

Kate looked at her friend. Bold, brassy, larger-than-life Tully, who'd barreled through the years like a lion in a jungle, always the king. Now she was quiet, afraid. The very idea of Kate's death had unraveled her, made her smaller. "I'm going to die, Tully. Not saying it won't change it."

"Here's what I want you to know: I loved my life. For so long I was waiting for it to start, waiting for more. It seemed like all I did was drive and shop and wait. But you know what? I didn't miss a thing with my family. Not a moment. I was there for all of it. That's what I'll remember, and they'll have each other."

"I'm worried about you, though," Kate said.

"You would be."

"Good," Kate said softly but firmly. "Chad was right, and I was wrong about that. When you get… to the end, you see that love and family are all there is. Nothing else matters."

"Yes."

"I know."

"I know. You'll need more after --"

"It's funny you'd mention that. I was planning on it. Someday."

"You're my family, Katie."

Kate gave her a tired smile. "I'm proud of you, you know. Have I told you that often enough?"

"You're afraid of love, but you've got so much of it to give."

"I know I've spent a lot of years whining about being alone, and I've had a history of hooking up with inappropriate or unavailable men, but the truth is my career has been my love, and mostly it's been enough. I've been happy. It's important to me that you know that."

Before Kate could answer, the auditorium doors banged open and people streamed in.

Then the stage lights came on, the heavy red velvet curtains parted slowly, dragging across the wooden stage at their hem, and revealing the poorly painted set of a small town.

Johnny, Mom, Dad, and the boys took their seats just as the house lights flickered.

"And I'm proud of you." Tully looked at her best friend, and in that one look, thirty plus years crowded in between them, reminded them both of the girls they'd been and the dreams they'd shared, and of the women they'd become. "We've done all right, haven't we?"

There was no other word for it.

Marah walked onstage, dressed in a high school drama version of a nineteenth century gown.

Kate felt Tully's hand close over hers, squeeze gently. When Marah walked offstage, to a standing ovation, Kate's heart swelled with pride. She leaned against Tully and whispered, "Now I know why I gave her your middle name."

The end came on a bleak and rainy October night. With everyone she loved standing around her bed, she said goodbye to them one by one, whispering one last special thing to each of them. Then, as rain hit the window and darkness fell, she closed her eyes for the last time.

Tully turned to her. "Why?"

When Marah began to speak, it was magic.

Kate's last To Do list concerned her funeral and Tully followed it to the letter. The Catholic church on the island was filled with photographs and flowers and friends. Not surprisingly, Kate had chosen Tully's favorite flowers rather than her own.

Kate tried to smile, but couldn't. It took almost a full minute before she could find enough voice to say, "Because she's the best of both of us."

For days Tully focused on nothing else. She handled the details and took care of everything while the Ryans and the Mularkeys sat together on the beach, holding hands and occasionally remembering to talk.

Tully prepared herself for the day, as well, reminding herself that she was a professional; she could smile her way through anything.

But when the time came, and they actually pulled up in front of the church, she panicked. "I can't do this," she said.

"We're in the left front row," Mrs. M. said, sidling close.

It was time. Like a flock of black crows, they came together, hoping for strength in numbers. Holding hands, they walked past the throng of mourners and up the massive stone church steps and into the church.

Johnny reached for her hand. She waited for comforting words, but he had none.

Tully looked down at Marah, who was crying quietly, and the sight broke her.

While they sat there in silence, with the kids in the backseat, all of them staring at the church, the Mularkeys pulled up beside them and parked.

She wanted to comfort her goddaughter, tell her it would be okay, but they both knew better than that. "She loved you so much," she said, getting a strange and sudden glimpse of their future then. They'd be friends someday, she and Marah. In time, Tully would give her the journal and they'd share the stories of who her mother had been, and those stories would bind them together and bring Kate back for a few precious moments.

"Come on," Johnny said.

Tully couldn't move. "You guys go up. I'm just going to stand here for a minute."

"I'm sure."

"Are you sure?"

Up front an organ began to play a slow, plodding version of "You and Me Against the World."

Tully didn't want to be here for this. She didn't want to listen to pathetic music that was designed to make you cry, or listen to the priest tell stories about the woman he'd known, who was only a shadow of the woman Tully knew. Most of all, she didn't want to see the montage of pictures of Kate's life splashed on a giant screen above her coffin.

Johnny squeezed her shoulder and then ushered the boys and Marah forward. Mr. and Mrs. M., Sean, Georgia, and the rest of the family followed; they all ducked into the front row and sat down.

She closed her eyes, leaning back against the door.

Before she could even think about it, she turned and walked out.

Tully smiled at that, even though it hurt like hell. Of course Kate would know. "Thanks."

Startled, she opened her eyes and saw the funeral director standing on the bottom step. She'd met him once before, when she'd brought clothes for the burial and pictures for the montage. "Yes."

"She entrusted me with this box and asked me to give it to you on the day of her funeral. She said you'd be standing out front when it started."

"Mrs. Ryan asked me to give you this." He held out a big black box.

"Ms. Hart?"

"I don't understand."

She took the box and walked down the steps and across the parking lot. Across the street, she sat down on an iron park bench.

There, she took a deep breath and opened the box. On top lay a letter. Kate's bold, left-slanted handwriting was unmistakable.

Sweet, fresh air filled her lungs. She gulped it greedily, trying to calm down. Behind her, through the door, she heard the music change to "One Sweet Day."

Take care of Johnny and the kids for me, okay? Teach the boys how to be gentlemen and Marah how to be strong. When they're ready, give them my journal and tell them about me when they ask. The truth, too. I want them to know it all.

An autographed picture of David Cassidy that said, Kiss me, and an iPod with headphones that said, Play me and dance.

Kate

Then she looked down in the box again. There were three things left.

There will always be a TullyandKate.

BFF

It was signed:

I know you won't be able to stand my fucking funeral. You're not the star. I hope you at least had the photos of me airbrushed. There are so many things I should say to you, but in our lifetime we've said them all.

She pressed the letter to her chest.

I know you'll be thinking that I left you, but it's not true. All you have to do is remember Firefly Lane, and you'll find me.

It's going to be hard on you, now. That's one of the things I regret the most. So, here's what I have to say in my beyond-the-grave letter (very dramatic, don't you think?):

A Virginia Slims cigarette with a yellow sticky note on it that read, Smoke me.

Dear Tully --

Tully laughed through her tears and lit up the cigarette, taking a drag and coughing on the exhale. The smell of smoke immediately made her think of their nights on the banks of the Pilchuck River, lying against fallen logs, staring up at the Milky Way.

She closed her eyes, put her head back, and tilted her face to the cool autumn sun. A breeze touched her face and tangled in her hair, and with it, she thought: Katie.

"Hey, Katie," she whispered, then put on the headphones and hit play.

Suddenly she felt her friend beside her, above her, all around her, inside her. She heard Kate in the whispering of the wind overhead and the skudding of the golden leaves across the pavement.

She opened her eyes, gasping at the certainty that she wasn't alone.

"Dancing Queen" blared out at her, sweeping her back in time.

Young and sweet, only seventeen.

She stood up, unsure of whether she was laughing or crying. All she really knew was that she wasn't alone, that Kate wasn't gone. They'd had more than three decades of good times and bad times and everything in between, and nothing could take that away. They had the music and the memories, and in those, they would always, always be together.

There, standing in the middle of the street, all by herself, she started to dance.

Best friends forever.