Николас Спаркс - The Return

“It was wonderful,” she replied. “My mom and dad knew just about everyone in town, and we left our doors unlocked. I knew everyone in all my classes, and I’d spend my summers riding my bike and swimming in the pool and catching butterflies. The older I get, the more I marvel at the simplicity of it.”

“Do you think your parents will live there forever?”

She shook her head. “No. A few years ago, they bought a place in Atlantic Beach. They already spend as much time there as they can, and I’m pretty sure that’s where they’ll end up when they finally retire. We actually had Thanksgiving there last year, and it’s just a matter of time now.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“How did you end up working for the sheriff’s department?”

“You asked me that before.”

“I’m still curious,” I said. “Because you didn’t really answer.”

“There’s not much to say about it. It just kind of happened.”

“How so?”

“In college, I majored in sociology, and after I graduated, I realized that unless I wanted to get my master’s or a PhD, there weren’t a lot of jobs in my field. And when I moved here, it became clear that unless you own a business or have a job at Cherry Point or work for the government or the hospital, you’re limited to service jobs. I thought about going back to school to become a nurse, but at the time, it seemed like too much effort. Then, I heard the sheriff’s department was hiring and on a whim, I applied. I was as surprised as anyone that I was accepted into the training program. I mean, to that point in my life, I’d never even held a gun. And that’s what I thought it would be like—bad guys, dangerous situations, shoot-outs—it’s all about the gun, right? That’s what they show on television, anyway, and that’s all I knew. But once I got in, I quickly figured out that it was more about people skills. It’s about defusing situations and calming emotions whenever possible. And, of course, paperwork. Lots of paperwork.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“It’s like any job, I guess. There are parts about it I like, and other parts that I don’t. You occasionally experience things that you wish you hadn’t. Gut-wrenching things you can’t forget.”

“Have you ever shot someone?”

“No. And I’ve only had to draw my gun once. Like I said, it’s not what you see on television. But you know what?”

“Do tell.”

“Even though I’d never held a gun, I ended up being a pretty good shot. Top in my class, in fact. And since then, I’ve taken up skeet shooting and sporting clays, and I’m pretty good at those, too.”

“Sporting clays?”

“It’s like skeet—there are various stands and you use a shotgun—but the clays come from differing angles, with differing speeds and trajectories. It’s supposed to more accurately reflect the way birds and small game move in the wild.”

“I’ve never been hunting.”

“Neither have I. And I don’t want to. But if I ever did, I’d probably be pretty good.”

I couldn’t help but feel a bit of admiration for her. “It’s actually not that hard to imagine you with a shotgun. Since the first time I saw you, you were armed, I mean.”

“I find it…relaxing. When I’m at the range, I’m able to tune everything else out.”

“I hear massages are good for that. Personally, I prefer yoga.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You do yoga?”

“My psychiatrist’s recommendation. It’s helpful. I can now put on my shoes without having to sit down. It makes me popular at parties.”

“I’ll bet.” She laughed. “Where do you do yoga around here?”

“Nowhere yet. I haven’t looked for a place.”

“Will you?”

“Maybe. I won’t be here that long.”

“Will you ever come back?”

“I don’t know. I guess it depends on whether I sell the house. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be back at the end of summer for a week to finish harvesting the honey.”

“You know how to do that?”

“Sure,” I said. “It’s actually not that hard. It’s sticky and messy, but not hard.”

She shuddered. “Bees scare me. I mean, not the friendly bumblebees, but the ones that buzz around your face like they’re trying to attack you.”

“Guard bees,” I said. “Some people call them bouncer bees. They’re not my favorite, either, but they’re important for the hive. They help protect it from predators and keep bees from other colonies out of the hive.”

“Are guard bees different than regular bees?”

“Not really. As a bee goes through its life cycle, it will serve in various jobs at various times: It’ll be an undertaker bee, or a bee that cleans the hive, or takes care of the queen, or feeds the larvae, or forages for nectar and pollen. And toward the end of its life, it may become a guard bee.”

“Undertaker bees?” she echoed.

“They remove the dead bees from the hive.”

“Really?”

I nodded. “My grandfather considered beehives to be the world’s most perfect community. Of course, the colonies are almost entirely female, so maybe that has something to do with it. In fact, I’d bet that almost every bee you’ve ever come across has been female.”

“Why?”

“Male bees are called drones, and they only have two functions: They eat, and fertilize the queen, so there’s not too many of them.” I grinned. “It’s kind of the perfect job, if you ask me. Eating and sex? I think I would have been a pretty good drone.”

She rolled her eyes, but I could tell she thought it was sort of funny. Score one for Benson.

“So…what does a beehive look like?” she asked. “I mean, the kind that beekeepers maintain, not natural ones?”

“I could describe it, but it would probably be better to actually see one. And I’d be happy to show you my grandfather’s, if you’d like to come by sometime.”

She seemed to study me. “When are you thinking?” she asked.

“Any time tomorrow is fine. Early afternoon? Say one o’clock?”

“Can I think about it?”

“Sure,” I said.

“All right,” she said with a sigh, before bending to retrieve her basket. “Thanks for the visit.”

“You too. But before you leave, would you like to join me for lunch? I’m getting kind of hungry.”

She tilted her head and I almost thought she’d say yes. Then: “Thank you, but I really can’t. I have some errands I have to run.”

“No worries.” I shrugged. “I just thought I’d offer.”

She just smiled and started walking, my eyes following her graceful figure.

“Natalie!” I called out.

She turned. “Yes?”

“If I was a betting man, what kind of odds would you give me that you’ll actually show up tomorrow?”

She pursed her lips. “Fifty-fifty?”

“Is there anything I can do to increase those odds?”

“You know,” she drawled, taking another step backward, “I really don’t think there is. Bye, now.”

I watched her recede into the distance, hoping she would turn to look back at me, but she didn’t. I remained at the rail, replaying our conversation, and contrasting it with the way Natalie had reacted when Julie appeared at the farmers’ market. I understood Natalie’s aversion to being the focus of small-town gossip, and yet the more I considered it, the more I wondered whether that was all of it. Natalie, I suddenly realized, had purposely limited her conversation with Julie not only because of what Julie might say to others, but also because there was something Natalie didn’t want me to know about herself.

Now, we all have secrets. Despite what I’d told her about my past, I was still a stranger, so there was no reason to expect her to share whatever hers were. But as I continued to reflect on the situation, I couldn’t shake the notion that Natalie was less concerned about what her secrets might reveal than about the guilt her secrets seemed to wield over her.