Diana Barry always knew what was expected of her. Find a nice boy, get married, and have children. She was certain that it would be easy. That is, until a certain redhead had entered her life. Anne Shirley was an enigma. She was crass, improper, adventurous, but oh so intriguing. Everything that Diana felt on the inside, Anne expressed on the outside.
Even now, as she looked back on her life, all she could remember were the hours of conversations, the feel of Anne’s soft hair as she lay next to her in Diana’s bed. What adventures they had experienced, and oh, the troubles of youth that seemed so important at the time, yet no longer seemed of any importance.
Yet everything was important, because Anne was her one and only true love. Diana’s marriage had been good and loving, but nothing would ever match how she felt about Anne. A tear fell from the corner of her eye, a tear of regret of what might have been.