Nicholas Sparks - The Last Song

“Do you want to talk about it?” her dad asked one day as they strolled along the beach. They were making their way toward the church. Since the construction had started up again, things were moving fast. The crew was massive: framers, electricians, men who specialized in trim carpentry or drywall. There were at least forty trucks on the work site, and people flowed in and out of the building constantly.

“About what?” she asked carefully.

“About Will,” he said. “The way it ended between the two of you.”

She gave him an appraising stare. “How could you possibly know about that?”

He shrugged. “Because you’ve mentioned him only in passing over the past few weeks, and you never talk to him on the phone. It’s not hard to figure out that something happened.”

“It’s complicated,” she said reluctantly.

They walked a few steps in silence before her dad spoke again. “If it matters to you, I thought he was an exceptional young man.”

She looped her arm through his. “Yes, it does matter. And I thought so, too.”

By then, they’d reached the church. She could see workers carrying in loads of lumber and cans of paint, and as usual her eyes sought out the empty space beneath the steeple. The window hadn’t been installed yet-most of the construction had to be completed first to prevent the fragile glass pieces from cracking-but her dad still liked to visit. He was pleased by the renewed construction, but not primarily because of the window. He spoke constantly of how important the church was to Pastor Harris and how much the pastor missed preaching in the place that he’d long considered a second home.

Pastor Harris was always on site, and usually he would walk down to the beach to visit with them when they arrived. Looking around now, she spotted him standing in the gravel parking lot. He was talking to someone as he gestured animatedly at the building. Even from a distance, she could tell he was smiling.

She was about to wave in an attempt to get his attention when she suddenly recognized the man he was talking to. The sight startled her. The last time she’d seen him, she’d been distraught; the last time they’d been together, he hadn’t bothered to say good-bye. Perhaps Tom Blakelee had simply been driving by and stopped to talk to the pastor about the rebuilding of the church. Maybe he was just interested.

For the rest of the week, she watched for Tom Blakelee when they visited the site, but she never saw him there again. Part of her was relieved, she admitted, that their worlds no longer intersected.

After their walks to the church and her dad’s afternoon nap, they usually read together. She finished Anna Karenina , four months after she’d first started reading it. She checked out Doctor Zhivago from the public library. Something about the Russian writers appealed to her: the epic quality of their stories, perhaps; bleak tragedy and doomed love affairs painted on a grand canvas, so far removed from her own ordinary life.

Her dad continued to study his Bible, and sometimes he’d read a passage or verse aloud at her request. Some were short and others were long, but many of them seemed to focus on the meaning of faith. She wasn’t sure why, but she sometimes got the sense that the act of reading them aloud had shed light on a nuance or meaning that he had previously missed.

Dinners were becoming simple affairs. In early October, she began to do most of the cooking, and he accepted this change as easily as he’d accepted everything else over the summer. Most of the time, he would sit in the kitchen and they would talk as she boiled pasta or rice and browned some chicken or steak in the pan. It was the first time she’d cooked meat in years, and she felt strange prodding her dad to eat it after putting the plate in front of him. He wasn’t hungry much anymore, and the meals were bland because spices of any kind irritated his stomach. But she knew he needed food. Though he didn’t have a scale in the house, she could see the pounds melting away.

One night after dinner, she finally told him what had happened with Will. She told him everything: about the fire and his attempts to cover for Scott, about all that had transpired with Marcus. Her dad listened intently as she spoke, and when at last he pushed aside his plate, she noticed he hadn’t eaten more than a few bites.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” she said. “You can ask me anything.”

“When you told me that you were in love with Will, did you mean it?”

She remembered Megan asking her the same question. “Yes.”

“Then I think you might have been too hard on him.”

“But he was covering up a crime…”

“I know. But if you think about it, you’re now in the same position that he was. You know the truth, just as he did. And you’ve said nothing to anyone either.”

“But I didn’t do it…”

“And you said that he didn’t either.”

“What are you trying to say? That I should tell Pastor Harris?”

He shook his head. “No,” he said to her surprise. “I don’t think you should.”

“Why?”

“Ronnie,” he said gently, “there might be more to the story than meets the eye.”

“But-”

“I’m not saying I’m right. I’ll be the first to admit I’m wrong about a lot of things. But if everything is just as you described it, then I want you to know this: Pastor Harris doesn’t want to know the truth. Because if he does, he’ll have to do something about it. And trust me, he would never want to hurt Scott or his family, especially if it was an accident. He’s just not that kind of man. And one more thing. And of everything I’ve said, this is the most important.”

“What’s that?”

“You need to learn how to forgive.”

She crossed her arms. “I’ve already forgiven Will. I’ve left him messages…”

Even before she finished, her dad was shaking his head. “I’m not talking about Will. You need to learn to forgive yourself first.”

That night, at the bottom of the stack of letters her dad had written, Ronnie found another letter, one she hadn’t yet opened. He must have added it to the stack recently, since it bore no stamp or postmark.

She didn’t know whether he wanted her to read it now or whether it was meant to be read after he was gone. She supposed she could have asked him, but she didn’t. In truth, she wasn’t sure she wanted to read it; simply holding the envelope frightened her, because she knew that it was the last letter he would ever write to her.

His disease continued to progress. Though they followed their regular routines-eating, reading, and taking walks on the beach-her dad was taking more medicine for his pain. There were times when his eyes were glassy and out of focus, but she still had the sense that the dosage wasn’t strong enough. Now and then, she would see him wince as he sat reading on the couch. He would close his eyes and lean back, his face a mask of pain. When that happened, he would grip her hand; but as the days wore on, she noticed that his grip was growing weaker. His strength was fading, she thought; everything about him was fading. And soon he would be gone completely.

She could tell Pastor Harris noticed the changes in her dad as well. He’d been coming by almost every day in recent weeks, usually right before dinner. For the most part, he kept the conversation light; he updated them on the construction or regaled them with amusing stories from his past, bringing a fleeting smile to her father’s face. But there were also moments when both of them seemed to run out of things to say to each other. Avoiding the elephant in the room was taxing for all of them, and in those moments, a fog of sadness seemed to settle in the living room.