Николас Спаркс - The Return

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**In the romantic tradition of *Dear John* , #1 *New York Times* bestselling author Nicholas Sparks returns with the story of an injured Navy doctor -- and two women whose secrets will change the course of his life.**
Trevor Benson never intended to move back to New Bern, North Carolina. But when a mortar blast outside the hospital where he worked sent him home from Afghanistan with devastating injuries, the dilapidated cabin he'd inherited from his grandfather seemed as good a place to regroup as any.
Tending to his grandfather's beloved beehives, Trevor isn't prepared to fall in love with a local . . . yet, from their very first encounter, Trevor feels a connection with deputy sheriff Natalie Masterson that he can't ignore. But even as she seems to reciprocate his feelings, she remains frustratingly distant, making Trevor wonder what she's hiding.
Further complicating his stay in New Bern is the presence of a sullen teenage girl, Callie, who lives in...

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Despite the cheeseburger and fries I’d had for lunch earlier in the week, I generally tried to stick to those guidelines. Experience had taught me that when I was overtired, or if I hadn’t exercised for a while or if I ate too much unhealthy food, I was more sensitive to various triggers, like loud noises or irritating people. I could dislike running all I wanted, but the simple truth of the matter was that I hadn’t been awakened by a nightmare in over five months and my hands hadn’t trembled since I’d arrived in New Bern. All of which meant another workout on Saturday morning, followed by a better-than-usual cup of coffee.

Afterward, I changed the boat’s spark plugs. Sure enough, the engine coughed to life, then began to purr. I let it idle for a while, thinking my grandfather would have been proud, especially since—compared to him—I’m not an engine guy. As I waited, I remembered a joke my grandfather had told me on my last visit. A lady pulls her car into the mechanic’s shop because her car is running poorly. A little while later, the mechanic comes out and she asks him, “What’s the story with my car?” The mechanic replies, “Just crap in the carburetor.” “Oh,” she says. “How often do I need to do that?”

My grandfather loved to tell jokes, which was yet another reason I always enjoyed my visits with him. He would tell them with a mischievous glint in his eye, usually beginning to chuckle even before he reached the punch line. In this and countless other ways, he was the opposite of my own earnest, achievement-oriented parents. I often wondered how I would have turned out without his easygoing presence in my life.

After I shut down the engine, I went back to the house and cleaned up. I threw on khakis, a polo, and loafers, then made the ten-minute drive to downtown New Bern.

I’d always liked the downtown area, especially the historic district. There were a lot of ancient, majestic houses there, some of them dating back to the eighteenth century, which was a bit amazing since the town was prone to flooding during hurricanes, which should have wiped them all out by now. When I first began visiting, many of the historic homes were in terrible condition, but one by one they’d been bought up by investors over the years and gradually restored to their former glory. Streets were canopied by massive oak and magnolia trees, and there were a bunch of official markers testifying to important historical events: a famous duel here, an important person born there, some roots of a Supreme Court decision the next block over. Before the revolution, New Bern had been the colonial capital for the British, and after he’d become president, George Washington visited the town briefly. What I liked most, however, was that compared to those in small towns in other parts of the country, the businesses in the downtown were thriving, despite the big-box stores only a few miles away.

I parked the car in front of Christ Episcopal Church and climbed out into bright sunshine. Given the blue skies and warmer-than-usual temperatures, I wasn’t surprised at the number of people thronging the sidewalks. I strolled past the Pepsi museum—the soft drink was invented here by Caleb Bradham—and then Baker’s Kitchen, a popular breakfast spot. It was already crowded, with people waiting on the benches outside for tables. A quick internet search before I left made the farmers’ market easy to find, located as it was near the North Carolina History Center. Since Natalie had recommended the place and I had nothing better to do, I figured why not?

A few minutes later, I reached my destination. It wasn’t the bustling agricultural horn of plenty I’d pictured, with overflowing bins of fruit and vegetables typical of roadside stands. Instead, the market was mainly dominated by vendors selling trinkets, baked goods, and all sorts of craft items out of garage-type stalls. Which made sense once I thought about it, considering it was only April and the summer crops had yet to come in.

Still, it wasn’t bereft of fresh produce, and I made a circuit of the market, getting a feel for the place and deciding what I needed for my own cupboards. As I looked, I bought a cup of apple cider and continued to wander around. In addition to food, I saw dolls made of straw, birdhouses, wind chimes made from seashells, and jars of apple butter, none of which I needed. It was getting crowded, though, and by the time I got back to my starting point I spotted Natalie Masterson hovering over a table of sweet potatoes.

Even from a distance, she stood out. She was holding a basket and wearing faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and sandals, all of which did a lot more for her figure than the boring uniform had. A pair of sunglasses was propped on her head and aside from lipstick, she wore little makeup. Her hair swept the top of her shoulders in untamed glory. If I could picture Ms. Masterson earlier that morning, I thought she must have dressed, run her fingers through her hair, and applied a quick coat of lipstick before skipping out the door, the whole process taking less than five minutes.

She appeared to be alone and after a moment’s hesitation, I started toward her, almost colliding with an older lady who’d been examining a birdhouse. When I was getting close, Natalie turned in my direction. She did a quick double take, but by then, I was already by her side.

“Good morning,” I chirped.

I could feel her eyes on me, gleaming with amusement. “Good morning,” she responded.

“I don’t know if you remember, but I’m Trevor Benson. We met the other night.”

“I remember,” she said.

“What are the odds I’d bump into you here?”

“Pretty high, I’d say,” she remarked, “since I mentioned that I come here regularly.”

“After your recommendation, I thought I’d check it out,” I said. “And I needed to get some things anyway.”

“But you haven’t found anything to buy yet?”

“I had cider earlier. And there’s a doll made of straw I’m thinking about.”

“You don’t seem like the kind of guy who collects dolls.”

“I’m hoping it will give me someone to talk to while I’m having coffee in the mornings.”

“That’s a troubling thought,” she said, her eyes lingering on mine for a beat too long. I wondered if it was her way of flirting, or if she scrutinized everyone this way.

“I’m actually here to pick up some potatoes.”

“Feel free,” she said, waving a hand at the table. “There’s plenty.”

She turned her attention to the table, chewing on her lip as she studied the produce. Moving closer, I stole a peek at her profile, thinking that her unguarded expression revealed a surprising innocence, as though she still puzzled over why bad things happened in the world. I wondered if it had something to do with her job, or whether I was simply imagining it. Or whether, God forbid, it had something to do with me.

She chose a few medium-sized potatoes, sliding them into the basket; I opted for two of the larger ones. After counting how many she’d already selected, she added a few more.

“That’s a lot of potatoes,” I observed.

“I’m making pies.” At my questioning expression, she said, “Not for me. For a neighbor.”

“You bake?”

“I live in the South. Of course I bake.”

“But your neighbor doesn’t?”

“She’s elderly, and her kids and grandkids are coming to visit later this week. She loves my recipe.”

“Very nice of you,” I commended her. “How did the rest of your week go?”

She rearranged the potatoes in her basket. “It was fine.”

“Anything exciting happen? Shoot-outs, manhunts? Anything like that?”

“No,” she said. “Just the usual. A handful of domestic disturbances, a couple of drivers under the influence. And transfers, of course.”

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