Николас Спаркс - The Return

Or was it that she was already seeing someone else?

Chapter 7

I hadn’t been lying to Natalie when I’d said I had things to do on Monday. As opposed to most days, when I had time to goof off before taking a break and then goofing off some more, the responsibilities of life sometimes intruded, even if I didn’t have to punch a clock or show up at the hospital or office. For starters, it was almost the middle of April, and my taxes were officially due.

The documents had been waiting for weeks in a cardboard box delivered courtesy of UPS. I used the same accounting firm my parents had used, initially because I knew nothing about finance or accounting, and after that because I assumed that switching to another firm would add unnecessary complications to my life, when things were already complicated enough. Frankly, thinking about money bores me, probably because I’ve never had to really worry about it.

My taxes were complicated because of the various trusts, investments, and portfolios I’d inherited from my parents, some of which had been funded with more life insurance than either of my parents needed. Still, whenever I saw my net worth—my accountants would meticulously prepare a balance sheet for me every February—I would sometimes wonder why I’d been so insistent on becoming a doctor in the first place. It wasn’t as though I needed the money. The interest I collected annually was a lot more than I would ever earn as a doctor, but I think something inside me craved my parents’ approval, even if they were no longer around. When I graduated from medical school, I imagined them clapping in the audience; in my mind’s eye, I saw my mom’s eyes welling with tears while my father beamed with pride at a job well done. In that moment, I understood clearly that I’d rather my parents were alive than to have received the generous inheritance they’d left me. When my statements arrive in the mail every year, I’m always reminded of those losses, and there are times when I’m too overwhelmed to even peruse them.

Even though I’d tried to explain it to Natalie while we’d been at dinner, I knew I hadn’t been able to find the words to adequately express the loss or grief I really felt. Because I was an only child, I hadn’t just lost my parents; I’d lost my entire immediate family as well. Over the years, I’d gradually come to believe that family is like your shadow on a sunny day, always there, just over your shoulder, following you in spirit no matter where you are or what you’re doing. They’re always with you. Thank God my grandfather was there to carry on part of that role, as he had so many other roles when I was younger. With his passing, however, the days are now endlessly cloudy, and when I glance over my shoulder, there is nothing there at all. I know there are others in my situation, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. It just makes me think that no shadows follow them either; that they, like me, often feel entirely alone.

Reflecting on all of this made me wonder whether I would actually sell my grandfather’s property. Though I’d told myself that I’d come to New Bern to get the place ready for the realtor, it was also the only remaining link to both my mother and my grandfather. At the same time, if I didn’t sell, I wasn’t sure what I’d do with it. I couldn’t simply lock it up—the vagrant might break in again, right?—but I wasn’t sure I wanted to rent it, either, because I didn’t want strangers messing with the peculiar charm of the place. In the room where I’d slept as a kid, there were pencil marks on the closet door where my grandfather had duly etched my height next to those he’d marked for my mother; the thought that someone might paint over that history wasn’t something I wanted to contemplate. My condo in Pensacola had simply been a place where I lived; this house, my grandfather’s house, carried the ghosts of meaningful memory; it was a place where the past continued to whisper, as long as I was willing to hear it.

Knowing I had a lot to do, I went for a halfway decent run, showered, and poured myself a cup of coffee. At the table, I went through the documents from my accountants. As always, there was a cover letter that explained everything I needed to know, and little stickers on various forms indicating where I needed to sign. My eyes began glazing over at the thirty-second mark, which was normal, and I finished two additional cups of coffee before finally sliding the various documents into the appropriate preaddressed envelopes. By midmorning, I stood in line at the post office, making sure everything was postmarked, before heading back to the house and writing an email to my accountants, letting them know the deed was done.

Next on the to-do list were the beehives. After donning the same suit I’d worn the day before, I loaded the wheelbarrow with the equipment I needed, then collected a few shallow supers, along with some queen excluders. I hoped that I wasn’t too late. Without the queen excluder, the queen might suddenly fly off in search of a new hive, taking her swarm with her. That was what had happened in Brazil in 1957 after scientists bred Africanized honey bees, aka killer bees, thinking they would thrive in the tropical conditions. A visiting beekeeper, believing the queen excluders were hindering the movement of the bees inside the hives, removed them, and twenty-six queens as well as their swarms escaped, traveling north, eventually reaching the US.

I pushed the wheelbarrow along the same path I’d used the day before, intending to work from left to right. As I got settled in place, I glanced toward the road and saw Callie walking, most likely on her way to the Trading Post. Like the other times I’d seen her walking, her head was bowed and she shuffled along with what seemed to be grim determination.

Wandering toward the edge of the property, I held up a hand in greeting.

“Off to work?”

My sudden appearance must have startled her and she stopped.

“You again.”

They were the same words Natalie had said to me at the park by the river, and I was struck by the notion that Callie was equally mysterious and guarded.

“It’s me,” I said. Then, realizing I was wearing the suit, I motioned toward the hives. “I have to do some work on the hives so the bees stay happy.”

She continued to eye me almost warily. When she crossed her arms, I noticed a bruise near her elbow. “They’re bees. Can’t they take care of themselves?”

“You’re right,” I admitted. “They’re not like Termite in that you have to feed them, but they still need a little tending now and then.”

“Do they like you?”

“Who? The bees?”

“Yes, the bees.”

“I don’t know. They seem okay with me.”

“You’re wearing a suit. I never saw your grampa wear a suit. When I walked past here, I mean.”

“He was braver than I am.”

For the first time since I’d seen her, she cracked the slightest of smiles. “What did you want?”

“Nothing. I saw you walking past and thought I’d say hello.”

“Why?”

Why? I hadn’t expected the question and for a moment, I couldn’t think of a response. “Just being neighborly, I suppose.”

She seemed to stare right through me. “We’re not neighbors,” she said. “I live a ways down the road.”

“You’re right,” I said.

“I have to go,” she said. “I don’t want to be late for work.”

“Fair enough. I don’t want you to be late, either.”

“Then why did you stop me to talk to you?”

I thought I’d answered that with the whole being neighborly thing, but I guess to her mind, I hadn’t. But feeling as though she wanted to end the conversation sooner rather than later—again, like Natalie at the farmers’ market, which made me think how similar they were in temperament—I took a step backward toward the wheelbarrow.