Николас Спаркс - The Return

“I did too,” I admitted. “And you’re welcome.”

The sun was at her back, making her face difficult to read, but when she placed her hand lightly on my forearm, I sensed that she, like me, didn’t want the day to end just yet.

“How long will you be at your parents’?”

“Not long,” she said. “I’ll visit for a couple of hours and then head back home. I have to work tomorrow morning.”

“How about we meet for dinner later? When you get back?”

She studied me carefully, then hedged. “I’m not sure what time that will be.”

“Any time is fine,” I said. “You could shoot me a text when you’re leaving and I could meet you somewhere.”

“I…um…”

She trailed off before reaching into her pocket and pulling out her keys.

“I don’t like to go out in New Bern,” she finally said.

Though I could have asked her the reason, I didn’t. Instead, I took a step backward, giving her space. “It’s just dinner, not a commitment. Everyone’s got to eat.”

She said nothing, but part of me began to suspect that she wanted to say yes. As to why she was holding back, I still wasn’t sure.

“I could meet you down at the beach if it’s easier,” I offered.

“That’s out of the way for you.”

“I haven’t been to the beach since I’ve been back here,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to go.”

Well, not really. Not until just now, anyway.

“I don’t know of any good restaurants at the beach,” she said.

“Then how about Beaufort? You must have someplace you like there.”

As I waited for her answer, she jingled her keys. “There is a place…” she began, her voice barely audible.

“Anywhere,” I said.

“The Blue Moon Bistro,” she said in a rush, almost like she was afraid she would change her mind. “But it can’t be too late.”

“Pick the time. I’ll meet you there.”

“How about half past six?”

“Perfect.”

“Thank you again for the beekeeping lesson today.”

“Glad to do it,” I said. “I enjoyed spending time with you.”

She let out a soft exhale as she slipped into the driver’s seat. “Me too.”

I closed her door and she turned the key. The engine came to life, and glancing over her shoulder, she backed the car out. As the car stopped and then began to roll forward, I reflected on the mystery of Natalie Masterson. By turns confident and vulnerable, revealing and secretive, she seemed to be a woman of complex instincts.

Still, what had begun as a flirty diversion had already begun to morph into something deeper, a desire to connect with and truly understand a woman whom I couldn’t figure out. Nor could I shake my desire to connect with the real Natalie—to leap the wall she seemed compelled to build between us—and perhaps form something even deeper and more meaningful. Even to me, it struck me as a romantic notion that bordered on the ridiculous—I reminded myself again that I didn’t really know her—but at the same time, I know what my grandfather would have said.

Trust your instincts, just like the bees do.

Walking back to the house, I spotted the jars of honey on the porch table and realized she’d forgotten to take them. I put them in the SUV, then spent the rest of the afternoon on the back porch with a textbook in my lap, trying not to think about Natalie or even my own feelings, but finding it impossible to concentrate. Instead, I replayed our time together over and over again, finally admitting to myself that I was simply counting the minutes until I could see her again.

Chapter 6

What to wear.

Normally, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but I found myself googling the restaurant to get a better idea of the dress code. As far as I could tell, the place was tasteful and charming. Built in a historic home, the photos showed heart pine flooring, smaller tables with white tablecloths, and plenty of natural light streaming in through the windows. I could imagine getting away with jeans, but in the end, I went with your basic Annapolis look: tan pants, a white button-up shirt, navy sport jacket, and Top-Siders. All I needed was a scarf, and I could walk around saying things like, Anyone up for some yachting?

It would take a little under an hour to get there, but not wanting to be late, I made it across the bridge to Beaufort with at least forty-five minutes to spare. The town was nestled on the Intracoastal, and I parked near the waterfront, just around the corner from the restaurant. I spotted a pair of wild horses across the waterway, grazing on one of the many barrier islands that make up the coastline of North Carolina. My grandfather told me these horses were descended from the mustangs that survived Spanish shipwrecks off the coast, but who knew if that was true?

I decided to use the extra time to browse the art galleries along the waterfront. Most of the work was by local artists, featuring either beach themes or the historic architecture in Beaufort. In one of the galleries, I saw a painting of a house where Blackbeard the Pirate had allegedly lived; I vaguely recalled that the wreck of Blackbeard’s ship, the Queen Anne’s Revenge , had been discovered in the Beaufort Inlet. The gallery owner confirmed my recollection, though he also admitted that there was some uncertainty about the whole thing. The wreck was estimated to be the correct size and the cannons they’d found on the ocean floor were from that period, but there was nothing to specifically indicate the name of the ship. It wasn’t as though they’d been able to reach into the glove compartment and check the registration, and the ocean can cause a lot of damage in three hundred years.

Wandering to the waterfront again, I noticed the sun slowly going down, casting a golden prism across the water. Heavenly light, my grandfather used to call it, and I smiled, reminiscing about all the times he’d brought me here for an afternoon at the beach, followed by an ice cream cone in Beaufort. Thinking back, I was amazed by how much time he’d been able to make for me whenever I was in town. I found myself turning again to his strange journey to Easley, my last visit with him, and his final, mystifying words to me.

Go to hell…

Not wanting to dwell on it, I shook the thought away. By then, it was coming up on six thirty, and I started toward the restaurant, wondering whether she’d show. Just then, however, I saw Natalie’s car pulling into an open space near my SUV. I turned in that direction, reaching her car just as she climbed out.

She’d changed into a flowered, high-necked sleeveless dress that accentuated her figure, and black medium-heeled boots, with a sweater draped over her arm. A thin gold chain around her neck glowed in the waning light. When she reached inside the car for her purse, I noted how graceful her every move was. Her arms and legs were lithe and toned, swishing the thin fabric of her dress around her in a tantalizing motion.

Closing the car door, she turned and startled.

“Oh, hey,” she said. “I’m not late, am I?”

“You’re actually a few minutes early,” I said. “You look great.”

She adjusted the thin necklace, as though making sure the—locket? medallion?—was hidden from view. “Thank you,” she said. “Did you just get here?”

“I came a little early,” I said. “How did your visit with your parents go?”

“Same as usual.” She sighed. “When he’s at the beach, my dad likes to read on the back porch. My mom has been slowly decorating the place since they bought it, and was dying to show me the redecorated guest room. I love them to bits, but sometimes spending time with them feels like the movie Groundhog Day , where every day is the same.”