Николас Спаркс - The Return

“Another reason not to be in your line of work.”

“I think we’ve established that I’m not engaging in shoot-outs every shift.”

“But if you were, you’d be fine. Since you’re an excellent shot.”

“My nickname is Bull’s-eye,” she said with a wink. “In my own mind, anyway.”

The waitress came by with bread and rolls, apologizing that she hadn’t brought them earlier. I took a roll and buttered it, as did Natalie.

While we nibbled, the conversation continued to drift here and there, with an ease typical of people who’d known each other far longer. We talked about the bees and beehives, shared memories of our college experiences, life in a small town versus the city, the Navy, favorite rides at Disney World, a bit about my parents and my grandfather. I even touched on my grandfather’s curious journey to Easley and his final words to me.

When the waitress brought our food, it was as delicious as Natalie had promised. Out of town or not, it was a place where I’d gladly eat again. Especially with Natalie.

Though our easy rapport continued throughout dinner, it never crossed into the territory of flirting—whether she felt any real romantic interest in me was hard to tell. That she was enjoying dinner and my company, I had no doubt. As to whether she ever wanted to have dinner again, I honestly had no idea.

And yet, I couldn’t recall the last time I’d had such a pleasurable evening. It wasn’t just because she’d said the right things when I’d told her about my parents, or that she’d shared with me her own loss from childhood. Instead, I realized that I admired the value she placed on certain things—family, education, friendship, and kindness, among other things—and it was clear that she struggled with some of the things she saw regularly on her job—addiction, domestic violence, bar fights. She confessed that those things sometimes left her feeling agitated and unable to sleep after a shift had ended.

“Why don’t you quit?” I finally asked. “You have a degree and work experience. I’m sure you could find something else.”

“Maybe,” she admitted. “But for now, I think it’s best if I stick with it.”

“Because you want to make a difference?”

She touched the thin gold chain at her neck. “Sure,” she finally said, “let’s go with that.”

Neither one of us was in the mood for dessert, but we agreed on coffee. A little caffeine would help with the drive back to New Bern. As she stirred her cup, I realized that aside from work and family, she’d told me little about herself since she’d arrived in New Bern a few years back. In fact, she’d said barely anything about her life in New Bern at all.

Maybe to her it wasn’t all that interesting. But as I turned these facts over in my mind, Natalie stared out the window. Because of the interior lights of the restaurant, I was treated to her profile as it was reflected back in the glass. And in that moment, I understood that instead of focusing on the evening we’d just spent together, she had something else on her mind.

Something that made her feel sad.

* * *

In old-school fashion and because I’d invited her, I paid the check. To her credit, she was content to let me do so with a gracious thank-you.

The night had cooled by the time we began the ambling trek toward our vehicles. It was clear, with a spray of stars overhead and the Milky Way illuminating a path toward the horizon. The streets were empty, but from the restaurants near the water, I could hear the faint murmur of conversation and clinking glasses. Waves gently lapped against the seawall.

It still wasn’t late and I thought about suggesting that we sit on the veranda of the restaurant, with its glorious view, but I was nearly certain that she’d decline. To that point, we’d yet to have had so much as a glass of wine when we were together, not that it mattered. It was simply another interesting quality of the time we’d spent together.

“I was thinking about what you told me earlier,” she finally said. “About your grandfather.”

“Which part?”

“His last trip, and his end at the hospital,” she said. “You’re sure that he’d never mentioned Easley before?”

“Not to me,” I said. “Claude didn’t know anything, either, but I haven’t spoken with his father yet.”

“Then for all you know, he could have been on the way to somewhere else,” she pointed out. By then, we’d reached the waterfront. She paused, her ocean-colored eyes searching mine. A strand of spun-gold hair fell across her face, and I was tempted to tuck it behind her ear. Her voice broke my reverie. “Have you thought about trying to find his truck?”

“His truck?”

“There might be something in the cab,” she explained. “Maybe an itinerary, or the name of whomever he was visiting, or even the place he was going. Notes, maps, anything.”

Even before she’d finished speaking, I wondered why I hadn’t thought of it before. Then again, I wasn’t in law enforcement or a fan of mystery novels, so maybe that had something to do with it.

“You’re right,” I mused aloud. “But how would I find his truck?”

“I’d start with the hospital. Find out who they use for ambulance services. There’s probably a record somewhere of where they picked him up. Depending on where he was found, the truck might still be there. Or it may have been towed, but at least you’ll have a starting point.”

“That’s a great idea,” I said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She nodded. “And let me know what happens. I’m interested, too.”

“I will,” I said. “Which reminds me—I don’t think I have your cell number. In case I need to call.”

Or wanted to call, which was far more likely.

“Oh,” she said, and I got the impression that she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Not wanting to give her too much time to think, I reached for my phone and activated the contact list. After a moment, she took it—her reluctance was clear—and typed in her details before handing it back to me.

“I should probably be heading back,” she announced. “Early day tomorrow, and I still have to finish some laundry.”

“I understand,” I said. “I have a busy day tomorrow, too.”

“Thank you again for dinner.”

“You’re welcome. It was a pleasure getting to know you better.”

“You too. It was nice.”

Nice? Not exactly the description I’d been hoping for.

“Oh, before you go, let me get the honey.”

I retrieved the jars from my SUV and handed them over, feeling a kinetic jolt as our fingers brushed. I was reminded of the way she’d gently touched my scar earlier. I knew I wanted to kiss her, but she must have read my mind and automatically took a small step backward. In the sudden space between us, I detected a lingering energy, as though she’d wanted to kiss me as well. Perhaps I was imagining it, but I thought I detected a trace of regret in her parting smile.

“Thank you for these, too,” she said. “I’m almost out.”

She turned and slowly made her way to her car. As I watched her go, I thought of something and pulled the phone from my pocket again. The screen was still on the contact page, and I dialed the number. A few seconds later, I heard the faint sound of a phone beginning to ring. She reached into her purse before catching sight of the number and glancing at me over her shoulder.

“Just checking,” I said.

She rolled her eyes before getting into her car. I waved as she drove past and she returned the gesture before reaching the road that would take her back to New Bern.

Alone, I wandered to the railing, watching the ocean sparkle in the moonlight. The breeze had picked up, cooling the air, and I turned my face to it, pondering her reluctance to kiss me. Was it part of her overall hesitation to appear in public with me? Was she really worried about small-town gossip, even this far from New Bern?