Nicholas Sparks - The Best of Me

“All right,” he finally whispered.

Amanda began to cry then. Wrestling with the emotions raging through him, Dawson stood. She did, too, and he pulled her close, feeling her collapse against him. As he breathed her in, images began to cycle through his mind — the sunlight striking her hair as she stepped from the garage when he first arrived at Tuck’s; her natural grace as she moved through the wildflowers at Vandemere; the still, hungry moment when their lips had first touched in the warmth of a cottage he’d never known existed. Now it was coming to an end, and it was like he was watching the last flicker of light wink out in the darkness of an endless tunnel.

They held each other on the porch for a long time. Amanda listened to the beating of his heart, sure that nothing would ever feel so right. She longed, impossibly, to start all over. She would do it right this time; she would stay with him, never abandoning him again. They were meant for each other, and they belonged together. There was still time for both of them. When she felt his hands in her hair, she almost said the words. But she couldn’t. Instead, all she could do was murmur, “I’m glad I got to see you again, Dawson Cole.”

Dawson could feel the smooth, almost luxurious, silkiness of her hair. “Maybe we could do it again sometime?”

“Maybe,” she said. She swiped at a tear on her cheek. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll come to my senses and just show up in Louisiana one day. Me and the kids, I mean.”

He forced a smile, a desperate, futile hope leaping in his chest. “I’ll make dinner,” he said. “For everyone.”

But it was time for her to go. As they left the porch, Dawson reached for her hand and she took it, squeezing so tight it was almost painful. They retrieved her things from the Stingray before slowly walking to her car. Dawson’s senses felt acutely heightened — the morning sun pricked the back of his neck, the breeze was feathery light, and the leaves were rustling, but none of it seemed real. All he knew was that everything was coming to an end.

Amanda clung to his hand. When they reached her car, he opened the door and turned toward her. He kissed her softly before trailing his lips down her cheek, chasing the pathway of her tears. He traced the line of her jaw, thinking about the words that Tuck had written. He would never move on, he understood with sudden clarity, despite what Tuck had asked of him. She was the only woman he’d ever love, the only woman he ever wanted to love.

In time, Amanda forced herself to take a step away from him. Then, slipping behind the wheel, she started the engine and closed the door before lowering the window. His eyes were bright with tears, mirroring her own. Reluctantly, she put the car in reverse. Dawson backed away, saying nothing, the ache he felt etched in her own anguished expression.

She turned the car around, pointing it in the direction of the road. The world had gone blurry through her tears. As she rounded the curve in the drive, she glanced into the rearview mirror and choked out a sob as Dawson grew smaller behind her. He hadn’t moved at all.

She cried harder as the car picked up speed. The trees pressed in all around her. She wanted to turn the car around and go back to him, to tell him that she had the courage to be the person she wanted to be. She whispered his name, and though there was no way he could have heard her, Dawson raised his arm, offering a final farewell.

Her mother was seated on the front porch when Amanda arrived. She was sipping a glass of iced tea while music played softly on the radio. Amanda passed her without a word, climbing the stairs to her room. Turning on the shower, she removed her clothes. She stood naked in front of the mirror, as drained and spent as an empty vessel.

The stinging spray of the shower felt like punishment, and when she at last stepped out, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a simple cotton blouse before packing the rest of her things in her suitcase. The clover went into a zippered compartment of her purse. As she usually did, she stripped the sheets from the bed and brought them to the laundry room. She put them into the washer, moving on autopilot.

Back in her room, the list of things to do continued. She reminded herself that the ice maker in the refrigerator back home needed to be fixed; she’d forgotten to arrange that before she’d left. She also needed to start planning the fund-raiser. She’d been putting that off for a while, but September would be here before she knew it. She needed a caterer, and it would probably be a good idea to start soliciting donations for the gift baskets. Lynn had to sign up for SAT prep classes, and she couldn’t remember whether they’d put the deposit down on Jared’s dorm room. Annette would be coming home later this week, and she’d probably want something special for dinner.

Making plans. Moving past the weekend, reentering her real life. Like the water in the shower washing Dawson’s scent from her skin, it felt like a kind of punishment.

But even when her mind finally began to slow, she understood that she still wasn’t ready to go downstairs. Instead, she sat on the bed as sunlight streamed gently through the room, and all at once she remembered the way Dawson had looked when he’d been standing in the drive. The image was clear, as vivid as if it were happening all over again, and despite herself — despite everything — she suddenly knew that she was making the wrong decision. She could still go to Dawson and they could find a way to make it work, no matter what the challenges might be. In time, her children would forgive her; in time, she would even forgive herself.

But even then she was paralyzed, unable to bring herself to move.

“I love you,” she whispered into the silent room, feeling her future being swept away like so many grains of sand, a future that already felt almost like a dream.

Marilyn Bonner stood in the kitchen of the farmhouse, idly watching the workers make adjustments to the irrigation system in the orchard below. Despite yesterday’s downpour, the trees still needed to be watered, and she knew the men would be out there most of the day, even though it was the weekend. The orchard, she’d come to believe, was like a spoiled child, always needing just a bit more care, a bit more attention, never quite satisfied.

But the real heart of the business lay beyond the orchard, in the small plant where they bottled the jellies and preserves. During the week, it housed a dozen people, but on weekends the place was deserted. When she’d first built it, she could remember townspeople whispering that there was no way her business could support the cost of such a facility. And maybe it had been a stretch at the time, but little by little the whispers had been silenced. She’d never get rich making jelly and jam, but she knew the business was good enough to pass down to her kids and allow them both a comfortable living. In the end, that was all she’d really wanted.

She still had on the same outfit she’d worn to church and her visit to the cemetery. Usually, she changed immediately after returning home, but today she couldn’t seem to summon the energy. Nor was she hungry, and that was unusual, too. Someone else might think she was coming down with something, but Marilyn knew well enough what was bothering her.

Turning from the window, she inspected the kitchen. She’d had it renovated a few years ago, along with the bathrooms and most of the downstairs, and she found herself thinking that the old farmhouse had finally begun to feel like home — or rather, the kind of home she’d always wanted. Until the renovation, it had felt more like her parents’ house, a feeling that didn’t sit well with her as she’d gotten older. A lot of things didn’t sit well with her as she struggled through adulthood, but as hard as some of the years had been, she’d learned from the experiences. Despite it all, she had fewer regrets than people might imagine.