Nicholas Sparks - The Best of Me

As always, he wondered about her: what she was doing, where she lived, what her daily life was like. That she was married, he had no doubt, and over the years he’d tried to imagine the kind of man she would have picked. Despite how well he’d known her, he couldn’t picture her laughing with or sleeping next to another man. He supposed it didn’t matter. The past can be escaped only by embracing something better, and he figured that was what she’d done. It seemed as though everyone else was able to, after all. Everyone had regrets and everyone had made mistakes, but Dawson’s mistake was different. It was strapped to his back forever, and he thought again of Dr. Bonner and the family he’d destroyed.

Staring out at the water, he suddenly regretted his decision to return. He knew that Marilyn Bonner still lived in town, but he didn’t want to see her, even inadvertently. And though his family would no doubt learn that he’d come back, he didn’t want to see them, either.

There was nothing here for him. Though he could understand why Tuck had made arrangements for the attorney to call him after he’d died, he couldn’t figure out why Tuck’s express wish had been for Dawson to return home. Since receiving the message, he’d turned the question over and over in his mind, but it didn’t make sense. Never once had Tuck asked him to come and visit; more than anyone, he knew what Dawson had left behind. Nor had Tuck ever traveled to Louisiana, and though Dawson wrote regularly to Tuck, he infrequently received a response. He had to think that Tuck had his reasons, whatever they might be, but right now he couldn’t figure them out.

He was about to return to the car when he noticed the now familiar flash of movement just beyond his periphery. He turned, trying without success to locate the source, but for the first time since he was rescued, the hairs on his neck started to prickle. There was something there, he suddenly knew, even if his mind couldn’t identify it. The setting sun glittered sharply off the water, making him squint. He shaded his eyes as he scanned the marina, taking in the scene. He spotted an elderly man and his wife pulling their sailboat into a slip; halfway down the dock, a shirtless man was peering into an engine compartment. He observed a few others as well: a middle-aged couple puttering around on a boat deck and a group of teenagers unloading a cooler after a day spent on the water. At the far end of the marina, another sailboat was pulling out, intent on capturing the late afternoon breeze — nothing unusual. He was about to turn away again when he spotted a dark-haired man wearing a blue windbreaker and staring in his direction. The man was standing at the foot of the dock and, like Dawson, was shading his eyes. As Dawson slowly lowered his hand, the dark-haired man’s movements mirrored his own. Dawson took a quick step backward; the stranger did the same. Dawson felt his breath catch as his heart hammered in his chest.

This isn’t real. It can’t be happening.

The sun was low behind him, making the stranger’s features difficult to discern, but despite the waning light Dawson was suddenly certain it was the man he’d seen first in the ocean and then again on the supply ship. He blinked rapidly, trying to bring the man into better focus. When his vision finally cleared, though, he saw only the outline of a post on the dock, fraying ropes tied at the top.

The sighting left Dawson rattled, and he suddenly felt the urge to go directly to Tuck’s place. It had been his refuge years before, and all at once he recalled the sense of peace he’d found there. Somehow he didn’t relish the thought of making small talk at the bed-and-breakfast as he checked in; he wanted to be alone to ponder the sighting of the dark-haired man. Either the concussion had been worse than the doctors had suspected or the doctors were right about the stress. As he edged back onto the road, he resolved to check with the doctors in Louisiana again, although he suspected they’d tell him the same thing they had before.

He pushed away the troubling thoughts and rolled down the window, breathing in the earthy scent of pine and brackish water as the road wound among the trees. A few minutes later, Dawson made the turn onto Tuck’s property. The car bounced along the rutted dirt drive, and as he rounded the corner the house came into view. To his surprise, a BMW was parked out front. He knew it wasn’t Tuck’s. It was too clean, for one thing, but more than that, Tuck would never have driven a foreign car, not because he didn’t trust the quality, but because he wouldn’t have had the metric tools he’d need to repair it. Besides, Tuck had always favored trucks, especially those built in the early 1960s. Over the years, he’d probably bought and restored half a dozen of them, driving them for a while before selling them to whoever happened to make an offer. For Tuck, it was less about the money than the restoration itself.

Dawson parked beside the BMW and stepped out of the car, surprised at how little the house had changed. The place had never been much more than a shack even when Dawson had been around, and there had always been a half-finished-and-in-need-of-repair appearance to the exterior. Amanda had once bought Tuck a flowering planter to spruce up the place, and it still stood in the corner of the porch, though the flowers had long since withered away. He could recall how excited she’d been when they’d presented Tuck with it, even if he hadn’t known quite what to make of it.

Dawson surveyed the area, watching a squirrel as it skittered along the branch of a dogwood tree. A cardinal called a warning from the trees, but other than that, the place seemed deserted. He started around the side of the house, walking toward the garage. It was cooler there, shaded by the pines. As he rounded the corner and stepped into the sun, he caught sight of a woman standing just inside the garage, examining what was probably the last classic car that Tuck had ever restored. His first thought was that she was probably from the attorney’s office, and he was about to call out a greeting when she suddenly turned around. His voice died in his throat.

Even from a distance, she was more beautiful than he remembered, and for what seemed an endless span of time, he couldn’t say anything. It occurred to him that he might be hallucinating again, but he slowly blinked and realized that he was wrong. She was real, and she was here, in the refuge that had once been theirs.

It was then, while Amanda was staring back at him from across the years, that he suddenly knew why Tuck Hostetler had insisted he come back home.

Neither one of them was able to move or speak as surprise gradually turned to recognition. Dawson’s first thought was how much more vivid she was in person than in his memories of her. Her blond hair caught the late afternoon light like burnished gold, and her blue eyes were electric even at a distance. But as he continued to stare, subtle differences slowly came into focus. Her face, he noticed, had lost the softness of youth. The angles of her cheekbones were more visible now and her eyes seemed deeper, framed by a faint tracing of lines at the corners. The years, he realized, had been more than kind: Since he’d seen her last, she’d grown into a mature and remarkable beauty.

Amanda was also trying to absorb what she was seeing. His sand-colored shirt was tucked casually into faded jeans, outlining his still-angular hips and wide shoulders. His smile was the same, but he wore his dark hair longer than he had as a teenager, and she noticed a wash of gray at his temples. His dark eyes were as striking as she remembered, but she thought she detected a new wariness in them, the sign of someone who’d lived a life that had been harder than expected. Perhaps it was the result of seeing him here, in this place where they’d shared so much, but in the sudden rush of emotion she could think of nothing to say.