Николас Спаркс - A Walk to Remember

Hegbert brought his hand to his eyes and started rubbing them. He sighed.

"If it's important to you, you can," he said.

Not the most stirring vote of confidence I'd ever heard, but it was good enough for me.

"What should I bring?" she asked. In the South it was tradition to always ask that question.

"You don't need to bring anything," I answered. "I'll pick you up at a quarter to five."

We stood there for a moment without saying anything else, and I could tell Hegbert was growing a little impatient. He hadn't turned a page of the book since we'd been standing there.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said finally.

"Okay," I said.

She glanced down at her feet for a moment, then back up at me. "Thank you for driving me home," she said.

With that, she turned around and walked inside. I could barely see the slight smile playing gently across her lips as she peeked around the door, just as it was about to close.

The next day I picked her up right on schedule and was pleased to see that her hair was down once more. She was wearing the sweater I'd given her, just like she'd promised.

Both my mom and dad were a little surprised when I'd asked if it would be all right if Jamie came by for dinner. It wasn't a big deal—whenever my dad was around, my mom would have Helen, our cook, make enough food for a small army.

I guess I didn't mention that earlier, about the cook, I mean. In our house we had a maid and a cook, not only because my family could afford them, but also because my mom wasn't the greatest homemaker in the world. She was all right at making sandwiches for my lunch now and then, but there'd been times when the mustard would stain her nails, and it would take her at least three or four days to get over it. Without Helen I would have grown up eating burned mashed potatoes and crunchy steak. My father, luckily, had realized this as soon as they married, and both the cook and the maid had been with us since before I was born.

Though our house was larger than most, it wasn't a palace or anything, and neither the cook nor the maid lived with us because we didn't have separate living quarters or anything like that. My father had bought the home because of its historical value. Though it wasn't the house where Blackbeard had once lived, which would have been more interesting to someone like me, ithad been owned by Richard Dobbs Spaight, who'd signed the Constitution. Spaight had also owned a farm outside of New Bern, which was about forty miles up the road, and that was where he was buried. Our house might not have been as famous as the one where Dobbs Spaight was buried, but it still afforded my father some bragging rights in the halls of Congress, and whenever he walked around the garden, I

could see him dreaming about the legacy he wanted to leave. In a way it made me sad, because no matter what he did, he'd never top old Richard Dobbs Spaight. Historical events like signing the Constitution come along only once every few hundred years, and no matter how you sliced it, debating farm subsidies for tobacco farmers or talking about the "Red influence" was never going to cut it. Even someone like me knew that.

The house was in the National Historic Register—still is, I suppose—and though Jamie had been there once before, she was still kind of awed when she walked inside. My mother and father were both dressed very nicely, as was I, and my mother kissed Jamie hello on the cheek. My mother, I couldn't help but think as I watched her do it, had scored before I did.

We had a nice dinner, fairly formal with four courses, though it wasn't stuffy or anything like that. My parents and Jamie carried on the most marvelous conversation—think Miss Garber here—and though I tried to inject my own brand of humor, it didn't really go over too well, at least as far as my parents were concerned. Jamie, however, would laugh, and I took that as a good sign.

After dinner I invited Jamie to walk around the garden, even though it was winter and nothing was in bloom. After putting on our coats, we stepped outside into the chilled winter air. I could see our breaths coming out in little puffs.

"Your parents are wonderful people," she said to me. I guess she hadn't taken Hegbert's sermons to heart.

"They're nice," I responded, "in their own way. My mom's especially sweet." I said this not only because it was true, but also because it was the same thing that kids said about Jamie. I hoped she would get the hint.

She stopped to look at the rosebushes. They looked like gnarled sticks, and I didn't see what her interest was in them.

"Is it true about your grandfather?" she asked me. "The stories that people tell?"

I guess she didn't get my hint.

"Yes," I said, trying not to show my disappointment.

"That's sad," she said simply. "There's more to life than money."

"I know."

She looked at me. "Do you?"

I didn't meet her eyes as I answered. Don't ask me why.

"I know that what my grandfather did was wrong."

"But you don't want to give it back, do you?"

"I've never really thought about it, to tell you the truth."

"Would you, though?"

I didn't answer right away, and Jamie turned from me. She was staring at the rosebushes with their gnarled sticks again, and I suddenly realized that she'd wanted me to say yes. It's what she would have done without thinking twice about it.

"Why do you do things like that?" I blurted out before I could stop myself, blood rushing into my cheeks. "Making me feel guilty, I mean. I wasn't the one who did it. I just happened to be born into this family."

She reached out and touched a branch. "That doesn't mean you can't undo it," she said gently, "when you get the opportunity."

Her point was clear, even to me, and deep down I knew she was right. But that decision, if it ever came, was a long way off. To my way of thinking, I had more important things on my mind. I changed the subject back to something I could relate to better.

"Does your father like me?" I asked. I wanted to know if Hegbert would allow me to see her again.

It took a moment for her to answer.

"My father," she said slowly, "worries about me."

"Don't all parents?" I asked.

She looked at her feet, then off to the side again before turning back to me.

"I think that with him, it's different from most. But my father does like you, and he knows that it makes me happy to see you. That's why he let me come over to your house for dinner tonight."

"I'm glad he did," I said, meaning it.

"So am I."

We looked at each other under the light of a waxing crescent moon, and I almost kissed her right then, but she turned away a moment too soon and said something that sort of threw me.

"My father worries about you, too, Landon." The way she said it—it was soft and sad at the same time—let me know that it wasn't simply because he thought I was irresponsible, or that I used to hide behind the trees and call him names, or even that I was a member of the Carter family.

"Why?" I asked.

"For the same reason that I do," she said. She didn't elaborate any further, and I knew right then that she was holding something back, something that she couldn't tell me, something that made her sad as well. But it wasn't until later that I learned her secret.

Being in love with a girl like Jamie Sullivan was without a doubt the strangest thing I'd ever been through. Not only was she a girl that I'd never thought about before this year—even though we'd grown up together—but there was something different in the whole way my feelings for her had unfolded. This wasn't like being with Angela, whom I'd kissed the first time I was ever alone with her. I still hadn't kissed Jamie. I hadn't even hugged her or taken her to Cecil's Diner or even to a movie. I hadn't done any of the things that I normally did with girls, yet somehow I'd fallen in love.