But it wasn't fair to the children. They needed her guidance and her love, they needed her attention. They needed her to tell them that everything was going to be all right. They'd already lost one parent, and that was hard enough. But lately, it seemed to Adrienne that they'd lost their mother as well.
In the gentle hue of the soft-lit kitchen, Adrienne glanced at her watch. At her request, Dan had taken Max and Greg to the movies, so she could spend the evening with Amanda. Like Adrienne, both of her sons were worried about Amanda's kids. Not only had they made extra efforts to stay active in the boys' lives, but nearly all of their recent conversations with Adrienne had begun or ended with the same question: What do we do?
Today, when Dan had asked the same question again, Adrienne had reassured him that she'd talk to Amanda. Though Dan had been skeptical--hadn't they tried that all along?--tonight, she knew, would be different.
Adrienne had few illusions about what her children thought of her. Yes, they loved her and respected her as a mother, but she knew they would never really know her. In the eyes of her children, she was kind but predictable, sweet and stable, a friendly soul from another era who'd made her way through life with her naive view of the world intact. She looked the part, of course--veins beginning to show on the tops of her hands, a figure more like a square than an hourglass, and glasses grown thicker over the years--but when she saw them staring at her with expressions meant to humor her, she sometimes had to stifle a laugh.
Part of their error, she knew, stemmed from their desire to see her in a certain way, a preformed image they found acceptable for a woman her age. It was easier--and frankly, more comfortable--to think their mom was more sedate than daring, more of a plodder than someone with experiences that would surprise them. And in keeping with the kind, predictable, sweet, and stable mother that she was, she'd had no desire to change their minds.
Knowing that Amanda would be arriving any minute, Adrienne went to the refrigerator and set a bottle of pinot grigio on the table. The house had cooled since the afternoon, so she turned up the thermostat on her way to the bedroom.
Once the room she'd shared with Jack, it was hers now, redecorated twice since the divorce. Adrienne made her way to the four-poster bed she'd wanted ever since she was young. Wedged against the wall beneath the bed was a small stationery box, and Adrienne set it on the pillow beside her.
Inside were those things she had saved: the note he'd left at the Inn, a snapshot of him that had been taken at the clinic, and the letter she'd received a few weeks before Christmas. Beneath those items were two bundled stacks, missives written between them, that sandwiched a conch they'd once found at the beach.
Adrienne set the note off to the side and pulled an envelope from one of the stacks, remembering how she'd felt when she'd first read it, then slid out the page. It had thinned and brittled, and though the ink had faded in the years since he'd first written it, his words were still clear.
Dear Adrienne,
I've never been good at writing letters, so I hope you'll forgive me if I'm not able to make myself clear.
I arrived this morning on a donkey, believe it or not, and found out where I'd be spending my days for a while. I wish I could tell you that it was better than I imagined it would be, but in all honesty, I can't. The clinic is short of just about everything--medicine, equipment, and the necessary beds--but I spoke to the director and I think I'll be able to rectify at least part of the problem. Though they have a generator to provide electricity, there aren't any phones, so I won't be able to call until I head into Esmeraldas. It's a couple of days' ride from here, and the next supply run isn't for a few weeks. I'm sorry about that, but I think we both suspected it might be this way.
I haven't seen Mark yet. He's been at an outreach clinic in the mountains and won't be back until later this evening. I'll let you know how that goes, but I'm not expecting much at first. Like you said, I think we need to spend some time getting to know each other before we can work on the problems between us.
I can't even begin to count how many patients I saw today. Over a hundred, I'd guess. It's been a long time since I've seen patients in this way with these types of problems, but the nurse was helpful, even when I seemed lost. I think she was thankful that I was there at all.
I've been thinking about you constantly since I left, wondering why the journey I'm on seemed to have led through you. I know my journey's not over yet, and that life is a winding path, but I can only hope it somehow circles back to the place I belong.
That's how I think of it now. I belong with you. While I was driving, and again when the plane was in the air, I imagined that when I arrived in Quito, I'd see you in the crowds waiting for me. I knew that would be impossible, but for some reason, it made leaving you just a little easier. It was almost as if part of you had come with me.
I want to believe that's true. No, change that--I know it's true. Before we met, I was as lost as a person could be, and yet you saw something in me that somehow gave me direction again. We both know the reason I went to Rodanthe, but I can't stop thinking that greater forces were at work. I went there to close a chapter in my life, hoping it would help me find my way. But it was you, I think, that I had been looking for all along. And it's you who is with me now.
We both know I have to be here for a while. I'm not sure when I'll be back, and even though it hasn't been long, I realize that I miss you more than I've ever missed anyone. Part of me yearns to jump on a plane and come to see you now, but if this is as real as I think it is, I'm sure we can make it. And I will be back, I promise you. In the short time we spent together, we had what most people can only dream about, and I'm counting the days until I can see you again. Never forget how much I love you.
Paul
When she finished reading, Adrienne set aside the letter and reached for the conch they'd stumbled across on a long-ago Sunday afternoon. Even now it smelled of brine, of timelessness, of the primordial scent of life itself. It was medium sized, perfectly formed, and without cracks, something nearly impossible to find in the rough surf of the Outer Banks after a storm. An omen, she'd thought then, and she remembered lifting it to her ear and saying that she could hear the sound of the ocean. At that, Paul had laughed, explaining that it was the ocean she was hearing. He'd put his arms around her then and whispered: "It's high tide, or didn't you notice?"
Adrienne thumbed through the other contents, removing what she needed for her talk with Amanda, wishing she had more time with the rest of it. Maybe later, she thought. She slid the remaining items into the bottom drawer, knowing there was no need for Amanda to see those things. Grabbing the box, Adrienne stood from the bed and smoothed her skirt.
Her daughter would be arriving shortly.
Two
Adrienne was in the kitchen when she heard the front door open and close; a moment later, Amanda was moving through the living room.
"Mom?"
Adrienne set the box on the kitchen counter. "In here," she called.
When Amanda pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen, she found her mother sitting at the table, an unopened bottle of wine before her.
"What's going on?" Amanda asked.
Adrienne smiled, thinking how pretty her daughter was. With light brown hair and hazel eyes to offset her high cheekbones, she had always been lovely. Though an inch shorter than Adrienne, she carried herself with the posture of a dancer and seemed taller. She was thin, too, a little too thin in Adrienne's opinion, but Adrienne had learned not to comment on it.
"I wanted to talk to you," Adrienne said.
"About what?"
Instead of answering, Adrienne motioned to the table. "I think you should sit down."
Amanda joined her at the table. Up close, Amanda looked drawn, and Adrienne reached for her hand. She squeezed it, saying nothing, then reluctantly let go as she turned toward the window. For a long moment, there were no sounds in the kitchen.
"Mom?" Amanda finally asked. "Are you
okay?"
Adrienne closed her eyes and nodded. "I'm fine. I was just wondering where to begin."
Amanda stiffened slightly. "Is this about me again? Because if it is--"
Adrienne cut her off with a shake of her head. "No, this is about me," she said. "I'm going to tell you about something that happened fourteen years ago."
Amanda tilted her head, and in the familiar surroundings of the small kitchen, Adrienne began her story.
Three
Rodanthe, 1988
The morning sky was gray when Paul Flanner left the attorney's office. Zipping his jacket, he walked through the mist to his rented Toyota Camry and slipped behind the wheel, thinking that the life he'd led for the past quarter century had formally ended with his signature on the sales contract.
It was early January 1988, and in the past month, he'd sold both his cars, his medical practice, and now, in this final meeting with his attorney, his home.
He hadn't known how he would feel about selling the house, but as he'd turned the key, he'd realized he didn't feel much of anything, other than a vague sense of completion. Earlier that morning, he'd walked through the house, room by room, one last time, hoping to remember scenes from his life. He'd thought he'd picture the Christmas tree and recall how excited his son had been when he padded downstairs in his pajamas to see the gifts that Santa had brought. He'd tried to recall the smells in the kitchen on Thanksgiving, or rainy Sunday afternoons when Martha had cooked stew, or the sounds of voices that emanated from the living room where he and his wife had hosted dozens of parties.
But as he passed from room to room, pausing a moment here and there to close his eyes, no memories sprang to life. The house, he realized, was nothing more than an empty shell, and he wondered once again why he had lived there as long as he had.
Paul exited the parking lot, turned into traffic, and made his way to the interstate, avoiding the rush of commuters coming in from the suburbs. Twenty minutes later, he turned onto Highway 70, a two-lane road that cut southeast, toward the coast of North Carolina. On the backseat, there were two large duffel bags. His airline tickets and passport were in the leather pouch on the front seat beside him. In the trunk was a medical kit and various supplies he'd been asked to bring.
Outside, the sky was a canvas of white and gray, and winter had firmly settled in. It had rained this morning for an hour, and the northerly wind made it feel colder than it was. It was neither crowded on the highway nor slick, and Paul set the cruise control a few miles over the speed limit, letting his thoughts drift back to what he had done that morning.
Britt Blackerby, his attorney, had tried one last time to talk him out of it. They'd been friends for years; six months ago, when Paul first brought up all that he wanted to do, Britt thought Paul was kidding and laughed aloud, saying, "That'll be the day." Only when he'd looked across the table at the face of his friend had he realized Paul was serious.
Paul had been prepared for that meeting, of course. It was the one habit he couldn't shake, and he pushed three neatly typed pages across the table, outlining what he thought were fair prices and his specific thoughts on the proposed contracts. Britt had stared at them for a long moment before looking up.
"Is this because of Martha?" Britt had asked.
"No," he'd answered, "it's just something I need to do."
In the car, Paul turned on the heater and held his hand in front of the vent, letting the air warm his fingers. Peeking in the rearview mirror, he saw the skyscrapers of Raleigh and wondered when he would see them again.
He'd sold the house to a young professional couple--the husband was an executive with Glaxo, the wife was a psychologist--who'd seen the home on the first day it was listed. They'd come back the following day and had made an offer within hours of that visit. They were the first, and only, couple to have walked through the house.
Paul wasn't surprised. He'd been there the second time they'd walked through, and they'd spent an hour going over the features of the home. Despite their attempts to mask their feelings, Paul knew they'd buy it as soon as he'd met them. Paul showed them the features of the security system and how to open the gate that separated this neighborhood from the rest of the community; he offered the name and business card of the landscaper he used, as well as the pool maintenance company, with which he was still under contract. He explained that the marble in the foyer had been imported from Italy and that the stained-glass windows had been crafted by an artisan in Geneva. The kitchen had been remodeled only two years earlier; the Sub-Zero refrigerator and Viking cooking range were still considered state of the art; no, he'd said, cooking for twenty or more wouldn't be a problem. He walked them through the master suite and bath, then the other bedrooms, noticing how their eyes lingered on the hand-carved molding and sponge-painted walls. Downstairs, he pointed out the custom furniture and crystal chandelier and let them examine the Persian carpet beneath the cherry table in the formal dining room. In the library, Paul watched as the husband ran his fingers over the maple paneling, then stared at the Tiffany lamp on the corner of the desk.
"And the price," the husband said, "includes all the furniture?"
Paul nodded. As he left the library, he could hear their hushed, excited whispers as they followed him.
Toward the end of the hour, as they were standing at the door and getting ready to leave, they asked the question that Paul had known was coming.
"Why are you selling?"
Paul remembered looking at the husband, knowing there was more to the question than simple curiosity. There seemed to be a hint of scandal about what Paul was doing, and the price, he knew, was far too low, even had the home been sold empty.
Paul could have said that since he was alone, he had no need for a house this big anymore. Or that the home was more suited to someone younger, who didn't mind the stairs. Or that he was planning to buy or build a different home and wanted a different decor. Or that he planned to retire, and all this was too much to take care of.
But none of those reasons were true. Instead of answering, he met the husband's eyes.
"Why do you want to buy?" he asked instead.
His tone was friendly, and the husband took a moment to glance at his wife. She was pretty, a petite brunette about the same age as her husband, mid-thirties or so. The husband was good-looking as well and stood ramrod straight, an obvious up-and-comer who had never lacked for confidence. For a moment, they didn't seem to understand what he meant.
"It's the kind of house we've always dreamed about," the wife finally answered.
Paul nodded. Yes, he thought, I remember feeling that way, too. Until six months ago, anyway.
"Then I hope it makes you happy," he said.
A moment later the couple turned to leave, and Paul watched them head to their car. He waved before closing the door, but once inside, he felt his throat constrict. Staring at the husband, he realized, had reminded him of the way he'd once felt when looking at himself in the mirror. And, for a reason he couldn't quite explain, Paul suddenly realized there were tears in his eyes.
The highway passed through Smithfield, Goldsboro, and Kinston, small towns separated by thirty miles of cotton and tobacco fields. He'd grown up in this part of the world, on a small farm outside Williamston, and the landmarks here were familiar to him. He rolled past tottering tobacco barns and farmhouses; he saw clusters of mistletoe in the high barren branches of oak trees just off the highway. Loblolly pines, clustered in long, thin strands, separated one property from the next.
In New Bern, a quaint town situated at the confluence of the Neuse and Trent Rivers, he stopped for lunch. From a deli in the historic district, he bought a sandwich and cup of coffee, and despite the chill, he settled on a bench near the Sheraton that overlooked the marina. Yachts and sailboats were moored in their slips, rocking slightly in the breeze.
Paul's breaths puffed out in little clouds. After finishing his sandwich, he removed the lid from his cup of coffee. Watching the steam rise,
he wondered about the turn of events that had brought him to this point.
It had been a long journey, he mused. His mother had died in childbirth, and as the only son of a father who farmed for a living, it hadn't been easy. Instead of playing baseball with friends or fishing for largemouth bass and catfish, he'd spent his days weeding and peeling worms from tobacco leaves twelve hours a day, beneath a balled-up southern summer sun that permanently stained his back a golden brown. Like all children, he sometimes complained, but for the most part, he accepted the work. He knew his father needed his help, and his father was a good man. He was patient and kind, but like his own father before him, he seldom spoke unless he had reason. More often than not, their small house offered the quietude normally found in a church. Other than perfunctory questions as to how school was going or what was happening in the fields, dinners were punctuated only by the sounds of silverware tapping against the plates. After washing the dishes, his father would migrate to the living room and peruse farm reports, while Paul immersed himself in books. They didn't have a television, and the radio was seldom turned on, except for finding out about the weather.
They were poor, and though he always had enough to eat and a warm room to sleep in, Paul was sometimes embarrassed by the clothes he wore or the fact that he never had enough money to head to the drugstore to buy a Moon-Pie or a bottle of cola like his friends. Now and then he heard snide comments about those things, but instead of fighting back, Paul devoted himself to his studies, as if trying to prove it didn't matter. Year after year, he brought home perfect grades, and though his father was proud of his accomplishments, there was an air of melancholy about him whenever he looked over Paul's report cards, as though he knew that they meant his son would one day leave the farm and never come back.