Adrienne smiled. "My dad likes everyone. Before his strokes, there was nothing more enjoyable to him than listening to people talk and learning what they were all about. He was endlessly patient, and because of that, people always opened up to him. Even strangers. They would tell him things they wouldn't tell anyone else because they knew he could be trusted." She hesitated. "You want to know what I remember most, though?"
Paul raised his eyebrows slightly.
"It was something he used to say to me, ever since I was a little girl. No matter how good or bad I'd done in anything, no matter if I was happy or sad, my dad would always give me a hug and tell me, 'I'm proud of you.' "
She was quiet for a moment. "I don't know what it is about those words, but they always moved me. I must have heard them a million times, but every time he said them, they left me with the feeling that he'd love me no matter what. It's funny, too, because as I got older, I used to joke with him about it. But even then, when I was getting ready to leave, he'd say it anyway, and I'd still get all mushy inside."
Paul smiled. "He sounds like a remarkable man."
"He is," she said, and sat up straighter in her chair. "And because of that, I'll work it out so he won't have to leave. It's the best place in the world for him. It's close to home, and not only is the care exceptional, but they treat him like a person there, not just a patient. He deserves a place like that, and it's the least I can do."
"He's lucky he has you as a daughter to watch out for him."
"I'm lucky, too." As she stared toward the wall, her eyes seemed to lose their focus. Then she shook her head, suddenly realizing what she'd been saying. "But listen to me going on and on. I'm sorry."
"No reason to be sorry. I'm glad you did."
With a smile, she leaned forward slightly. "What do you miss the most about being married?"
"I take it we're changing the subject."
"I figured it was your turn to share."
"It's the least I could do?"
She shrugged. "Something along those lines. Now that I've spilled my guts, it's your turn."
Paul gave a mock sigh and gazed up at the ceiling. "Okay, what I miss." He brought his hands together. "I guess it's knowing that someone is waiting for me when I get home from work. Usually, I wouldn't be home until late, and sometimes Martha would already be in bed. But the knowledge that she was there seemed natural and reassuring, like the way things should be. How about you?"
Adrienne set her teacup on the table between them.
"The usual things. Someone to talk to, to share meals with, those quick morning kisses before either of us had brushed our teeth. But to be honest, with the kids, I'm more worried about what they're missing than what I am right now. I miss having Jack around, for their sake. I think little kids need a mom more than they need a dad, but as teenagers, they need their dads. Especially girls. I don't want my daughter thinking that men are jerks who walk out on their family, but how am I going to teach her that if her own father did it?"
"I don't know."
Adrienne shook her head. "Do men think about those things?"
"The good ones do. Like in everything else."
"How long were you married?"
"Thirty years. You?"
"Eighteen."
"Between the two of us, you'd think we'd have figured it out, huh?"
"What? The key to happily ever after? I don't think there is one anymore."
"No, I guess you're right."
From the hallway, they heard the grandfather clock beginning to chime. When it stopped, Paul rubbed the back of his neck, trying to work out the soreness from the drive. "I think I'm ready to turn in. Early day tomorrow."
"I know," she agreed, "I was just thinking the same thing."
But they didn't get up right away. Instead, they sat together for a few more minutes with the same silence they'd shared on the beach. Occasionally, he glanced toward her, but he would turn away before she caught him.
With a sigh, Adrienne got up from her chair and pointed toward his cup. "I can bring that into the kitchen. I'm going that way."
He smiled as he handed it over. "I had a good time tonight."
"So did I."
A moment later, Adrienne watched as Paul headed up the stairs before she turned away and began closing up the Inn.
In her room, she slipped out of her clothes and opened her suitcase, looking for a pair of pajamas. As she did, she caught the reflection of herself in the mirror. Not too bad, but let's be honest here--she looked her age. Paul, she thought, had been sweet when he'd said she'd needed nothing done.
It had been a long time since someone had made her feel attractive.
She put on a pair of pajamas and crawled into bed. Jean had a stack of magazines on the stand, and she browsed the articles for a few minutes before turning out the light. In the darkness, she couldn't stop thinking about the evening she'd just spent. The conversations replayed endlessly in her mind; she could see the way the corners of his mouth formed into a crooked smile whenever she'd said something he found humorous. For an hour, she tossed and turned, unable to sleep, growing frustrated, and completely unaware of the fact that in the room upstairs, Paul Flanner was doing exactly the same thing.
Nine
Despite closing the shutters and drapes to keep out the morning light, Paul woke with Friday's dawn, and he spent ten minutes stretching the ache from his body.
Swinging open the shutters, he took in the morning. There was a deep haze over the water, and the skies were gunmetal gray. Cumulous clouds raced along, rolling parallel with the shore. The storm, he thought, would be here before nightfall, more likely by midafternoon.
He sat on the edge of the bed as he slipped into his running gear, then added a windbreaker over the top. From the drawer, he removed an extra pair of socks and slipped them on his hands. Then, after padding down the stairs, he looked around. Adrienne wasn't up, and he felt a short stab of disappointment at not seeing her, then suddenly wondered why it mattered. He unlocked the door, and a minute later he was trudging along, letting his body warm up before he moved into a steadier pace.
From her bedroom, Adrienne heard him descend the creaking steps. Sitting up, she pushed off the covers and slipped her feet into a pair of slippers, wishing she'd at least had some coffee ready for Paul when he awoke. She wasn't sure he would have wanted any before his run, but she could at least have made the offer.
Outside, Paul's muscles and joints were beginning to loosen and he quickened his stride. It wasn't anywhere near the pace he'd run in his twenties or thirties, but it was steady and refreshing.
Running had never been simply exercise for him. He'd reached the point where running wasn't difficult at all; it seemed to take no more energy to jog five miles than it did to read the paper. Instead, he viewed it as a form of meditation, one of the few times he could be alone.
It was a wonderful morning to run. Though it had rained during the night and he could see drops on the windshields of cars, the shower must have passed through the area quickly, because most of the roads had already dried. Tendrils of mist lingered in the dawn and moved in ghostly procession from one small home to the next. He would have liked to run on the beach since he didn't often have that opportunity, but he'd decided to use his run to find the home of Robert Torrelson instead. He ran along the highway, passing through downtown, then turned at the first corner, his eyes taking in the scene.
In his estimation, Rodanthe was exactly what it appeared to be: an old fishing village riding the water's edge, a place where modern life had been slow in coming. Every home was made of wood, and though some were in better repair than others, with small, well-tended yards and a thin patch of dirt where bulbs would blossom in the spring, he could see evidence of the harshness of coastal
life everywhere he looked. Even homes that were no more than a dozen years old were decaying. Fences and mailboxes had small holes eaten away by the weather, paint had peeled, tin roofs were streaked with long, wide rows of rust. Scattered in the front yards were various items of everyday life in this part of the world: skiffs and broken boat engines, fishing nets used as decoration, ropes and chains used to keep strangers at bay.
Some homes were no more than shacks, and the walls seemed precariously balanced, as if the next strong wind might topple them over. In some cases, the front porches were sagging and had been propped up by an assortment of utilitarian items to keep them from giving way completely: concrete blocks or stacked bricks; two-by-fours that protruded from below like short chopsticks.
But there was activity here, even in the dawn, even in those homes that looked abandoned. As he ran, he saw smoke billowing from chimneys and watched men and women covering windows with plywood. The sound of hammering had begun to fill the air.
He turned at the next block, checked the street sign, and ran on. A few minutes later, he turned onto the street where Robert Torrelson lived. Robert Torrelson, he knew, lived at number thirty-four.
He passed number eighteen, then twenty, and raised his eyes, looking ahead. A couple of the neighbors stopped their work and watched him as he jogged by, their eyes wary. A moment later, he reached Robert Torrelson's home, trying not to be obvious as he glanced toward it.
It was a home like most of the others along the street: not exactly well tended, but not a shack, either. Rather, it was somewhere in between--a sort of stalemate between man and nature in their battle over the house. At least half a century old, the house was single storied with a tin roof; without gutters to divert runoff, the rain of a thousand storms had streaked the white paint with gray. On the porch were two weathered rockers angled toward each other. Around the windows, he could see a lone strand of Christmas lights.
Toward the back of the property was a small outbuilding with the front doors propped open. Inside were two workbenches, covered with nets and fishing rods, chests and tools. Two large grappling hooks were leaning against the wall, and he could see a yellow rain slicker hanging on a peg, just inside. From the shadows behind it, a man emerged, carrying a bucket.