Nicholas Sparks - The Best of Me

“He’s getting predictable now,” Dawson commented, taking in the bottles.

She shrugged. “There are worse things.”

They admired the view of the Bay River through the window, neither of them saying anything more. As they stood together, Amanda basked in the silence, comforting in its familiarity. She could sense the slight rise and fall of Dawson’s chest as he breathed, and she had to suppress the urge to reach for his hand again. In unspoken agreement they turned from the window and continued their tour.

Across from the kitchen was a bedroom centered by a cozy four-poster bed. The curtains were white and the bureau had none of the dings and scratches of Tuck’s furniture back in Oriental. There were two matching crystal lamps, one on each of the nightstands, and an Impressionist landscape painting hung on the wall opposite the closet.

Connected to the bedroom was a bathroom with a claw-foot tub, the kind that Amanda had always wanted. An antique mirror hung above the sink, and she caught sight of her reflection next to Dawson’s, the first time she’d seen an image of them together since they’d returned to Oriental. It occurred to her that in all the time they’d been teenagers, they’d never once been photographed as a couple. It had been something they’d talked of doing but had never gotten around to.

She regretted it now, but what if she’d had a photo to keep? Would she have tucked it away in a drawer and forgotten it, only to rediscover it every few years? Or would she have stored it somewhere special, a place known only to her? She didn’t know, but seeing Dawson’s face next to hers in the bathroom mirror felt distinctly intimate. It had been a long time since anyone had made her feel attractive, but she felt that way now. She knew that she was drawn to Dawson. She reveled in the way his gaze traveled over her, and the graceful ease of his body; she was acutely aware of their almost primal understanding of each other. Though it had been only a matter of days, she trusted him instinctively and knew she could tell him anything. Yes, they’d argued on that first night over dinner and again about the Bonners, but there’d also been an unvarnished honesty in what they’d said. There were no hidden meanings, no secret attempts to pass judgment; as quickly as their disagreements had flared up, they’d passed.

Amanda continued to study Dawson in the mirror. He turned and caught her gaze in the reflection. Without looking away, he gently reached out to smooth back a stray lock of hair that had fallen across her eyes. And then he was gone, leaving her with the certainty that whatever the consequences, her life had already been irrevocably altered in ways she’d never imagined possible.

After she retrieved her bag from the living room, Amanda found Dawson in the kitchen. He’d opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses. He handed one of them to her, and they made their way wordlessly to the porch. Dark clouds at the horizon had rolled in, bringing with them a light mist. On the sloping, wooded bank that led to the river, the foliage took on a deep green vibrancy.

Amanda set her wine aside and rummaged through her bag. She pulled out two of the envelopes, handing the one with Dawson’s name to him and holding the other, the one they were meant to read before the service, in her lap. She watched as Dawson folded his envelope and slipped it into his back pocket.

Amanda offered him the blank envelope. “Are you ready for this yet?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Do you want to open it? We’re supposed to read it prior to the ceremony.”

“No, you go ahead,” he said, moving his chair closer. “I’ll read it from here.”

Amanda lifted the corner of the seal, then gently pried it open. Unfolding the letter, Amanda was struck by the scrawl on the pages. Here and there, words were crossed out, and the uneven lines exhibited a general shakiness, reflecting Tuck’s age. It was long, three pages front and back, making her wonder how long it had taken him to write it. It was dated February 14 of this year. Valentine’s Day. Somehow that seemed appropriate.

“You ready?” she asked.

When Dawson nodded, Amanda leaned in and both of them began to read.

Amanda and Dawson,

Thank you for coming. And thank you for doing this for me. I didn’t know who else to ask.

I’m not much of a writer, so I guess that the best way to start is to tell you that this is a love story. Mine and Clara’s, I mean, and while I suppose I could bore you with all the details of our courtship or the early years of our marriage, our real story — the part that you’ll want to hear — began in 1942. By then, we’d been married three years, and she’d already had her first miscarriage. I knew how much that hurt her, and I hurt, too, because there was nothing I could do. Hardships drive some people apart. Others, like us, grow even closer.

But I’m drifting. Happens a lot when you get older, by the way. Just wait and see.

It was 1942, like I said, and for our anniversary that year, we went to see For Me and My Gal, with Gene Kelly and Judy Garland. It was the first time either of us had ever seen a flicker show, and we had to drive clear to Raleigh to do it. When it was over, we just sat there in the seats after the lights came up, thinking about it. I doubt you’ve ever seen it, and I won’t trouble you with the details, but it’s about a man who maims himself to avoid going off to the Great War, and then has to woo back the woman he loves, a woman who now believes him to be a coward. By then, I’d received my draft notice from the Army, so there were parts of it that hit home a little bit since I didn’t want to leave my girl to go to war, either, but neither of us wanted to think about that. Instead, we talked about the title song, which had the same name as the flicker show. It was the catchiest, prettiest thing either of us had ever heard. On the drive home, we sang it over and over. And a week after that, I enlisted in the Navy.

It’s kind of strange, since, as I said, I was about to be drafted into the Army, and knowing what I do now, the Army probably would have been a better fit, considering what I do with engines and the fact that I didn’t know how to swim. I might have ended up in the motor pool making sure the trucks and jeeps could roll through Europe. Armies can’t do much if vehicles ain’t running, right? But even though I was nothing but a country boy, I did know that the Army puts you where it wants, not where you want to go, and by then folks knew it was only a matter of time before we hit Europe for good. Ike had just gone into North Africa. They needed infantry, men on the ground, and as excited as I was about the thought of taking on Hitler, the thought of joining the infantry just didn’t sit with me.

At the enlistment office, they had this recruiting poster on the wall. For the Navy. Man the Guns, it said. It showed a shirtless seaman loading a shell, and something about it just spoke to me. I can do that, I thought to myself, so I walked over to the Navy desk, not the Army’s, and signed up right there. When I got home, Clara cried for hours. Then she made me promise to come back to her. And I promised her I would.

I went through basic training and ordinance school. Then, in November 1943, I got posted to the USS Johnston, a destroyer out in the Pacific. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that being in the Navy was less dangerous than being in the Army or the marines. Or less terrifying. You’re at the mercy of the ship, not your own wits, because if the ship went down, you died. If you went overboard, you died, because none of the convoys would risk stopping to rescue you. You can’t run, you can’t hide, and the idea that you have no control at all just gets into your head and it sticks there. In my time in the Navy, I was never so scared in my life. Bombs and smoke everywhere, fires on the deck. Meanwhile, the guns are booming and the noise is like nothing you’ve ever heard. Thunder times ten, maybe, but that doesn’t describe it. In the big battles, Japanese Zeros strafed the deck continually, the shots ricocheting all over the place. While this is going on, you’re supposed to keep doing your job, like nothing unusual is happening.