Nicholas Sparks - The Best of Me

“Yes, it has.”

“I have about a thousand questions.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Only a thousand?”

He laughed, but she thought she heard an undercurrent of sadness in it. “I have questions, too,” she went on, “but before that… you should know that I’m married.”

“I know,” he said. “I saw your wedding band.” He tucked a thumb in his pocket before leaning against the workbench and crossing one leg over the other. “How long have you been married?”

“Twenty years next month.”

“Kids?”

She paused, thinking of Bea, never sure how to answer the question. “Three,” she finally said.

He noticed her hesitation, unsure what to make of it. “And your husband? Would I like him?”

“Frank?” She flashed on the anguished conversations she’d had with Tuck about Frank and wondered how much Dawson already knew. Not because she didn’t trust Tuck with her confidences, but because she had the sudden sense that Dawson would know immediately whether she was lying. “We’ve been together a long time.”

Dawson seemed to evaluate her choice of words before finally pushing off the workbench. He walked past her, heading toward the house, moving with the liquid grace of an athlete. “I suppose Tuck gave you a key, right? I need something to drink.”

She blinked in surprise.

“Wait! Did Tuck tell you that?”

Dawson turned around, continuing to walk backward. “No.”

“Then how did you know?”

“Because he didn’t send one to me, and one of us has to have it.”

She stood in place, debating, still trying to figure out how he knew, before finally following him up the path.

He climbed the porch steps in a single fluid motion, stopping at the door. Amanda fished a key from her purse, brushing against him as she slipped it into the lock. The door swung open with a squeak.

It was mercifully cool inside, and Dawson’s first thought was that the interior was an extension of the forest itself: all wood and earth and natural stains. The plank walls and pine flooring had dulled and cracked over the years, and the brown curtains did little to hide the leaks beneath the windows. The armrests and cushions on the plaid sofa were almost completely worn through. The mortar on the fireplace had begun to crack, and the bricks around the opening were black, charcoaled remnants of a thousand roaring fires. Near the door was a small table bearing a stack of photo albums, a record player that was probably older than Dawson, and a rickety steel fan. The air smelled of stale cigarettes, and after opening one of the windows, Dawson switched on the fan, listening as it began to rattle. The base wobbled slightly.

By then, Amanda was standing near the fireplace, staring at the photograph sitting on the mantel. Tuck and Clara, taken on their twenty-fifth anniversary.

He walked toward Amanda, stopping when he was beside her. “I remember the first time I saw that picture,” he offered. “I’d been here for about a month before Tuck let me inside the house, and I remember asking who she was. I didn’t even know he’d been married.”

She could feel the heat radiating from him and tried to ignore it. “How could you not know that?”

“Because I didn’t know him. Until I showed up at his place that night, I’d never talked to Tuck before.”

“Why did you come here, then?”

“I don’t know,” he said with a shake of his head. “And I don’t know why he let me stay.”

“Because he wanted you here.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Not in so many words. But Clara hadn’t been gone that long when you came along, and I think you were just what he needed.”

“And here I used to think it was just because he was drinking that night. Most nights, for that matter.”

She searched her memory. “Tuck wasn’t a drinker, was he?”

He touched the photo in its plain wooden frame, as if still trying to comprehend a world without Tuck in it. “It was before you knew him. He had a liking for Jim Beam back then, and sometimes he’d stagger out to the garage still holding the half-empty bottle. He’d wipe his face with his bandanna and tell me that it would be better if I found someplace else to stay. He must have said that every night for the first six months I was sleeping out there. And I’d lie there all night, hoping that by the next morning he would have forgotten what he’d told me. And then, one day, he just stopped drinking, and he never said it again.” He turned toward her, his face only inches from hers. “He was a good man,” he said.

“I know,” she said. He was close enough that she could smell him; soap and musk, mingling together. Too close. “I miss him, too.”

She stepped away, reaching over to fiddle with one of the threadbare pillows on the sofa, creating distance again. Outside, the sun was dropping behind the trees, making the small room even darker. She heard Dawson clear his throat.

“Let’s get that drink. I’m sure that Tuck has some sweet tea in the refrigerator.”

“Tuck doesn’t drink sweet tea. He’s probably got some Pepsi, though.”

“Let’s check,” he said, making for the kitchen.

He moved with the grace of an athlete, and she shook her head slightly, trying to force away the thought. “Are you sure we should be doing this?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s exactly what Tuck wanted.”

Like the living room, the kitchen might have been stored in a time capsule, with appliances straight from a 1940s Sears, Roebuck catalog, a toaster the size of a microwave oven and a boxy refrigerator with a latch handle. The wooden countertop was black with water stains near the sink, and the white paint on the cabinets was chipping near the knobs. The flower-patterned curtains — obviously something Clara had hung — had turned a dingy grayish yellow, stained by the smoke from Tuck’s cigarettes. There was a small, barrel-top table with room for two, and a clump of paper napkins had been stuffed beneath it to keep it from wobbling. Dawson swung the latch on the refrigerator door, reached in, and pulled out a jug of tea. Amanda entered as he set the tea on the counter.

“How did you know that Tuck had sweet tea?” she asked.

“The same way I knew you had the keys,” he answered as he reached into the cupboard and pulled out a pair of jelly jars.

“What are you talking about?”

Dawson filled the jars. “Tuck knew we’d both end up here eventually, and he remembered that I like sweet tea. So he made sure he had some waiting in the refrigerator.”

Of course he did. Just as he’d done with the attorney. But before she could dwell on it, Dawson offered her the tea, bringing her back to the present. Their fingers brushed as she took it.

Dawson held up his tea. “To Tuck,” he said.

Amanda clinked her glass with his, and all of it — standing close to Dawson, the tug of the past, the way she’d felt when he’d held her, the two of them alone in the house — was almost more than she could handle. A little voice inside her whispered that she needed to be careful, that nothing good could come of this, and reminded her that she had a husband and children. But that only made things more confusing.

“So, twenty years, huh?” Dawson finally asked.

He was asking about her marriage, but in her distracted state it took her a moment to grasp. “Almost. How about you? Were you ever married?”

“I don’t think it was in the cards.”

She eyed him over the rim of her glass. “Still playing the field, huh?”

“I keep pretty much to myself these days.”

She leaned against the counter, unsure what to read into his response. “Where do you live now?”

“Louisiana. In a parish just outside New Orleans.”