Николас Спаркс - The Return

“New pots and pans?”

“No,” I said. Pulling out a penknife, I began to cut through the tape. “It’s from the lawyer for the tow truck guy. He had my grandfather’s things.”

“After all this time?”

“Lucky break,” I said.

“I’ll let you get to it.”

“If you wouldn’t mind, could you wait? There might be something in here that I need help figuring out.”

I flipped open the lids and removed some crumpled newspaper. On top was a baseball cap, one I recognized from many long-ago summers. It was worn and stained, but I greeted the sight of it like an old and beloved friend. I wondered whether he’d been wearing it when he’d had his stroke and it had fallen off, or whether it had been in the passenger seat beside him. I didn’t know; all I knew was that it was coming with me, wherever I ended up in life.

I found his wallet next, bent and molded, the leather creased. Whatever cash had been in it had been taken, but I was far more interested in the photographs. There were a couple of Rose, a photo of me when I was a child, and a family portrait that my mother must have sent him when I was in high school. There was a photo of my mom and dad as well. In a ziplock baggie, I found his car registration, along with some pens and a pencil with bite marks in it, all of which were probably taken from the glove compartment. Beneath that was a small duffel bag, and I pulled it out. Inside were socks and underwear, pants and two shirts, along with a toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant. Wherever he was going, he didn’t intend to stay long, but nothing I’d found got me any closer to knowing where that might be.

The answer came at the bottom of the box, in the form of two highway maps that had been paper-clipped together. They were at least thirty years old, yellowed and thin, and when I unfolded them, I noticed routes highlighted in yellow. One route led north toward Alexandria, where he’d gone for my parents’ funeral, but the route he’d traced avoided the interstate, following smaller, more rural highways.

I could feel Natalie at my shoulder and watched as she traced the other highlighted route, leading west on other rural highways toward Charlotte, then across the border into South Carolina. Easley? Though it was impossible to know for sure, the highlighter ink looked fresh, more vivid than the other highlighted route on the map.

The second map showed the states of South Carolina and Georgia. For an instant, I was afraid that my grandfather hadn’t marked it. But I quickly realized that he had. It picked up where the other map had left off. He’d circumvented Greenville—the detour kept him north of the city—but then caught the highway that led directly to Easley.

And then kept going.

Through South Carolina and into Georgia, where the route ended in a small town northeast of Atlanta, right on the edge of the Chattahoochee National Forest. From Easley, it wasn’t that far—I’d guess less than two hours, even at speeds my grandfather drove—and as I saw the name of the town, I felt crucial pieces of the puzzle begin to lock together.

The name of the town was Helen.

Chapter 17

Even as I stared in shock, I felt my mind flashing back to the conversation with the old men on the porch at the Trading Post, and I thought about the ride I’d taken in the boat, when I knew in my heart that my grandfather wouldn’t have gone to visit a woman named Helen. It hadn’t made sense to me, because my grandfather had still been in love with the same woman he’d always loved, even though she had long since passed away.

Natalie, too, was staring at the name. She was standing close to me, close enough to touch, and I remembered the night I’d taken her in my arms. She’d felt so perfect and I thought we were perfect together, but she wasn’t willing to tell me the truth of what was really going on with her. Now, as I caught the faint sounds of her exhales, I noticed she was studying the map in the same way I was. I sensed that pieces were beginning to fall into place for her as well, even if I was no closer to understanding how she felt about me.

Instead of speaking, I scanned the maps again, making sure there were no other clues, no other possible destinations. I ran the timeline in my head—just as I’d done before—and felt again that my grandfather must have known the trip might be risky for him because of the distance, as well as his age. Whatever the reason, it had been important, and I could think of only a single possible reason.

When I glanced at Natalie, I suspected I was further along in my suspicion than she was. Which made sense, because it was my mystery, not hers. As she continued to ponder, her brow was furrowed slightly, and as always, I thought she was beautiful.

“Helen, Georgia?” Natalie finally asked.

“So it seems.”

“Did he know anyone there?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? I tried to remember whether I’d ever heard him mention the town, or even whether he’d mentioned a friend from anywhere in Georgia. Someone from the war, or a work buddy who’d moved away, perhaps, or maybe even a fellow beekeeper. But it didn’t take long for me to realize that my grandfather’s life had always been about New Bern, while Callie had both a sweatshirt and a calendar from Georgia.

“I doubt it,” I finally said. “But I think he knew someone from there.”

It took her a few moments to intuit what I was thinking. “You mean Callie?”

I nodded. “I think he went to find her family.”

“Why? She didn’t get sick until last week.”

“I don’t know. But if we assume Callie was from Georgia and he was traveling to Helen, Georgia, it makes sense.”

“That’s a little thin, don’t you think? And if she’s so secretive, how would he have even known she was from Helen?”

“I don’t have all the answers yet. But they did know each other. He cared about her enough to help her get a job. He was going to Helen for a reason. Like me, maybe he thought she was a runaway and wanted to help her.”

“Are you going to ask Callie about it?”

I didn’t answer right away, another recovered memory suddenly leaping to mind. When I’d approached Callie during her lunch, she hadn’t become upset until I’d asked specifically whether my grandfather had ever mentioned Helen. At which point, she’d panicked.

I said as much to Natalie, though she still looked doubtful.

“I know I’m right,” I added. “Can’t you see how it all fits?”

Natalie exhaled. “Gimme a few minutes, okay? I need to make a phone call. I’ll be right back.”

Without further explanation, Natalie walked out the front door. I watched through the window as she tapped some numbers into her phone, then a couple more. It was more than a few minutes—closer to ten—before she finally came back inside.

“I called the police department in Helen.”

“And?”

“I asked them to check on any runaways named Callie. No one with that name is missing.”

“Are they sure?”

“It’s a small town,” she explained. “Super small. Like six hundred people. He would know. There are only a few runaways in the books at all in the last five years.”

Despite her findings, I still knew I was right. I could feel it and knew I had to check it out. Though I could drive, flying would be easier. I took a seat at the kitchen table and booted up my computer.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m checking on flights to Atlanta.”

“You’re going to Helen after what I just told you? To do what? Knock on doors? Ask people on street corners?”

“If I have to,” I said.

“What if she lived in the country somewhere? Or in the next town over?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said.