Nights in Rodanthe

Summer was hot and sticky; most of July was spent indoors with the air-conditioning running; in August, Matt headed off to college, while Amanda and Dan went back to high school. As the leaves on the trees turned to amber in the softer autumn sunlight, she began thinking of things that Paul and she might do together when he returned. She imagined going to the Biltmore Estate in Asheville to see the holiday decorations; she wondered what the children would think of him when he came over for Christmas dinner or what Jean would do when she booked a room at the Inn in both their names right after the New Year. No doubt, Adrienne thought with a smile, Jean would raise an eyebrow at that. Knowing her, she would say nothing at first, preferring to walk around with a smug expression that said she'd known all along and had been expecting their visit.

Now, sitting with her daughter, Adrienne recalled those plans, musing that in the past, there had been moments when she'd almost believed they'd really happened. She used to imagine the scenarios in vibrant detail, but lately she'd forced herself to stop. The regret that always followed the pleasure of those fantasies left her feeling empty, and she knew her time was better spent on those around her, who were still part of her life. She didn't want to feel the sorrow brought on by such dreams ever again. But sometimes, despite her best intentions, she simply couldn't help it.

"Wow," Amanda murmured as she lowered the note and handed it back to her mother.

Adrienne folded it along its original crease, put it aside, then pulled out the photograph of Paul that Mark had taken.

"This is Paul," she said.

Amanda took the photo. Despite his age, he was more handsome than she had imagined. She stared at the eyes that had seemed to so captivate her mother. After a moment, she smiled.

"I can see why you fell for him. Do you have any more?"

"No," she said, "that's it."

Amanda nodded, studying the photo again.

"You described him well." She hesitated. "Did he ever send a picture of Mark?"

"No, but they look alike," Adrienne said.

"You met him?"

"Yes," she said.

"Where?"

"Here."

Amanda's eyebrows rose. "At the house?"

"He sat where you're sitting now."

"Where were we?"

"In school."

Amanda shook her head, trying to process this new information. "Your story's getting confusing," she said.

Adrienne looked away, then slowly rose from the table. As she left the kitchen, she whispered, "It was to me, too."

By October, Adrienne's father had recovered somewhat from his earlier strokes, though not enough to allow him to leave the nursing home. Adrienne had been spending time with him as always throughout the year, keeping him company and doing her best to make him more comfortable.

By budgeting carefully, she'd managed to save enough to keep him in the home until April, but after that, she would be at a loss as to what to do. Like the swallows to Capistrano, she always came back to this worry, though she did her best to hide her fears from him.

On most days when she arrived, the television would be blaring, as if the morning nurses believed that noise would somehow clear the fogginess in his mind. The first thing Adrienne did was turn it off. She was her father's only regular visitor besides the nurses. While she understood her children's reluctance to come, she wished they would do so anyway. Not only for her father, who wanted to see them, but for their own good as well. She had always believed it important to spend time with family in good times and in difficult ones, for the lessons it could teach.

Her father had lost the ability to speak, but she knew he could understand those who talked to him. With the right side of his face paralyzed, his smile had a crooked shape that she found endearing. It took maturity and patience to look past the exterior and see the man they had once known; though her kids had sometimes surprised her by demonstrating those qualities, they were usually uncomfortable when she'd made them visit. It was as if they looked at their grandfather and saw a future they couldn't imagine facing and were frightened by the thought that they, too, might end up that way.

She would plump his pillows before sitting beside the bed, then take his hand and talk. Most of the time she filled him in on recent events, or family, or how the children were doing, and he would stare at her, his eyes never leaving her face, silently communicating in the only way he could. Sitting beside him, she would inevitably remember her childhood--the smell of Aqua Velva on his face, pitching hay in the horse stall, the brush of stubble as he'd kissed her good night, the tender words he'd always spoken since she was a little girl.

On the day before Halloween, she went to visit him, knowing what she had to do, thinking it was time he finally knew.

"There's something I have to tell you," she began. Then, as simply as possible, she told him about Paul and how much he meant to her.

When she finished, she remembered wondering what he thought about what she'd just said. His hair was white and thinning: His eyebrows reminded her of puffs of cotton.

He smiled then, his crooked smile, and though he made no sound, when he moved his lips, she knew what he was trying to say.

The back of her throat tightened, and she leaned across the bed, resting her head on his chest. His good hand went to her back, moving weakly, soft and light. Beneath her, she could feel his ribs, brittle and frail now, and the gentle beating of his heart.

"Oh, Daddy," she whispered, "I'm proud of you, too."

In the living room, Adrienne went to the window and pushed aside the curtains. The street was empty, and the streetlights were circled with glowing halos. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked a warning to a real or imagined intruder.

Amanda was still in the kitchen, though Adrienne knew she would eventually come to find her. It had been a long night for both of them, and Adrienne brought her finger to the glass.

What had they been to each other, she and Paul? Even now, she still wasn't sure. There wasn't an easy definition. He hadn't been her husband or fiance; calling him a boyfriend made it sound as if he were a teenage infatuation; lover captured only a small part of what they had shared. He was the only person in her life, she thought, who seemed to defy description, and she wondered how many others could say the same thing about someone in their life.

Above her, a ringed moon was surrounded by indigo clouds, rolling east in the breeze. By tomorrow morning, it would be raining at the coast, and Adrienne knew she'd been right to hold back the other letters from Amanda.

What could Amanda have learned by reading them? The details of Paul's life at the clinic and how he spent his days, perhaps? Or his relationship with Mark and how it had progressed? All of that was clearly spelled out in the letters, as were his thoughts and hopes and fears, but none of that was necessary for what she hoped to impart to Amanda. The items she had set aside would be enough.

Yet once Amanda was gone, she knew she would read all of the letters again, if only because of what she'd done tonight. In the yellow light of her bedside lamp, she would run her finger over the words, savoring each one, knowing they meant more to her than anything else she owned.

Tonight, despite the presence of her daughter, Adrienne was alone. She would always be alone. She knew this as she'd told her story in the kitchen earlier, she knew this as she stood at the window now. Sometimes she wondered who she would have been had Paul never come into her life. Perhaps she would have married again, and though she suspected she would have been a good wife, she often wondered whether she would have picked a good husband.

It wouldn't have been easy. Some of her widowed or divorced friends had remarried. Most of these gentlemen they married seemed nice enough, but they were nothing like Paul. Jack, maybe, but not Paul. She believed that romance and passion were possible at any age, but she'd listened to enough of her friends to know that many relationships ended up being more trouble than they were worth. Adrienne didn't want to settle for a husband like the ones her

friends had, not when she had letters reminding her of what she was missing. Would a new husband, for instance, ever whisper the words that Paul had written in his third letter, words she'd memorized the first day she'd read them?

When I sleep, I dream of you, and when I wake, I long to hold you in my arms. If anything, our time apart has only made me more certain that I want to spend my nights by your side, and my days with your heart.

Or these, from the next letter?

When I write to you, I feel your breath; when you read them, I imagine you feel mine. Is it that way with you, too? These letters are part of us now, part of our history, a reminder forever that we made it through this time. Thank you for helping me survive this year, but more than that, thank you in advance for all the years to come.

Or even these, after he and Mark had an argument later in the summer, something that inevitably left him depressed.

There's so much I wish for these days, but most of all, I wish you were here. It's strange, but before I met you, I couldn't remember the last time that I cried. Now, it seems that tears come easily to me... but you have a way of making my sorrows seem worthwhile, of explaining things in a way that lessens my ache. You are a treasure, a gift, and when we're together again, I intend to hold you until my arms are weak and I can do it no longer. My thoughts of you are sometimes the only things that keep me going.

Staring at the distant face of the moon, Adrienne knew the answer. No, she thought, she wouldn't find a man like Paul again, and as she leaned her head against the cool pane, she sensed Amanda's presence behind her. Adrienne sighed, knowing it was time to finish this.

"He was going to be here for Christmas," Adrienne said, her voice so soft that Amanda had to strain hear it. "I had it all worked out. I'd arranged for a hotel room," she said, "so we could be together his first night back. I even bought a bottle of pinot grigio." She paused. "There's a letter from Mark in the box on the table that explains everything."

"What happened?"

In the darkness, Adrienne finally turned. Her face was half in shadow, and at the expression on her mother's face, Amanda felt a sudden chill.

It took a moment for Adrienne to answer, the words floating through the darkness.

"Don't you know?" she whispered.

Seventeen

The letter, Amanda saw, had been written on the same notebook paper that Paul had used to write the note. Noticing that her hands were trembling slightly, Amanda laid them flat on the table.

Then, with a deep breath, she lowered her gaze.

Dear Adrienne,

As I sit here, I realize that I don't even know how I'm supposed to begin a letter like this. After all, we've never met, and though I know of you through my father, it's not the same. Part of me wishes I was able to do this in person, but due to my injuries, I couldn't leave just yet. So here I am, struggling for words, and wondering if anything I write will mean anything at all.

I'm sorry that I didn't call, but then, I decided that it wasn't going to be any easier to hear what I have to say. I'm still trying to make sense of it myself, and that's part of the reason I'm writing.

I know my father told you about me, but I think it's important that you know our history from my perspective. My hope is that it'll give you a good idea of the man who loved you.

You have to understand that when I was growing up, I didn't have a father. Yes, he lived in the house; yes, he provided for my mom and me; but he was never around, unless it was to reprimand me about the B I'd received on a report card. I remember that when I was a kid, my school had a science fair that I participated in every year, and from kindergarten through eighth grade, my father never made it once. He never took me to a baseball game, or played catch in the yard, or even went with me on a bike ride. He mentioned that he'd told you some of this, but believe me when I tell you that it was worse than he probably made it seem. When I left for Ecuador, I honestly remember hoping that I'd never see him again.

Then, of all things, he decided to come here, to be with me. You have to understand that deep down, there'd always been an arrogance about my father that I'd grown to detest, and I figured he was coming down because of that. I could imagine him suddenly trying to act like a father, dishing out advice that I didn't need or want. Or reorganizing the clinic to make it more efficient, or coming up with brilliant ideas to make the place more livable for us. Or even calling in some debts owed to him over the years to bring a whole crew of young volunteer physicians to work at the clinic, all the while making sure the entire press corps back home knew exactly who was responsible for all the good deeds. My father had always loved to see his name in print, and he was acutely aware of what good publicity could do for him and his practice. By the time he arrived, I was actually thinking of packing my bags and going home, leaving him behind. I had a dozen responses lined up for just about anything I thought he might say. Apology? A little late for that. Good to see you? Wish I could say the same. I think we should talk? I don't think that would be a good idea. Instead, all he said was, "Hey," and when he saw my expression, he simply nodded and walked away. That was our only contact during the first week he was there.

It didn't get much better right away. For months, I kept expecting him to revert to his old ways, and I watched for it, ready to call him on it. But he never did. He never complained about the work or the conditions, he offered suggestions only when asked directly, and though he never took credit for it, the director finally admitted that my father had been the one who supplied the new medicines and equipment we'd desperately needed, though he'd insisted that his gift remain anonymous.

What I think I most appreciated was that he didn't pretend we were something we weren't. For months, we weren't friends and I didn't regard him as a father, yet he never tried to change my mind about those things. He didn't pressure me in any way, and I think that's when I began to let my guard down about him.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that my father had changed, and little by little, I began to think there was something about him that was worth a second chance. And though I know he'd made some changes before he met you, you were the main reason he became the person he did. Before he met you, he was trying to find something. After you came along, he'd already found it.

My father talked about you all the time, and I can only imagine how many letters he must have sent you. He loved you, but I'm sure you know that. What you might not know is that before you came along, I'm not entirely convinced that he knew what loving someone meant. My father had accomplished a lot of things in his life, but I'm certain he would have traded it all for a lifetime with you instead. Considering he was married to my mother, it isn't easy for me to write this, but I thought you'd want to know. And part of me knows that he would be pleased at the thought that I understood how much you meant to him.

Somehow, you changed my father, and because of you, I wouldn't trade this last year for anything. I don't know how you did it, but you made my father into a man that I miss already. You saved him, and by doing so, I guess that in a way, you saved me as well.

He was at the outreach clinic in the mountains because of me, you know. It was absolutely terrible that night. It had been raining for days, roads everywhere washing out in the mud. When I radioed the main clinic to say that I couldn't make it back because my Jeep wouldn't start, and that a major mudslide was imminent, he was the one who commandeered another Jeep--over the director's frantic protests--to try to reach me. My dad came to save me, and when I saw it was him sitting behind the wheel, I think it was the first time I'd ever thought of him in that way. Until that point, he'd always been my father, but not my dad, if you know what I mean.

We made it out just in time. Within minutes, we heard the roar as the side of the mountain gave way, destroying the outreach clinic instantly, and I remember that we glanced at each other then, unable to believe how close it had been.

I wish I could tell you what went wrong after that, but I can't. He was driving carefully and we'd almo

st made it back. I could even see the lights from the clinic in the valley below. But suddenly, the Jeep started to skid as we rounded a sharp curve, and the next thing I knew, we were off the road and tumbling down the mountain.

Other than breaking my arm and several ribs, I was okay, but I knew immediately that my dad wasn't. I remember screaming at him to hold on, that I'd go get help, but he grabbed my hand and held me in place. I think even he knew it was almost over, and he wanted me to stay with him.

Then, this man who had just saved my life asked me to forgive him.

He loved you, Adrienne. Please don't ever forget that. Despite the short time you spent with him, he adored you, and I'm terribly sorry for your loss. When things are hard, as they are for me, fall back on the knowledge that not only would he have done the same thing for you that he did for me, but because of you, I was given the chance to get to know, and love, my dad.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, thank you.

Mark Flanner

Amanda lowered the letter to the table. It was almost dark in the kitchen now, and she could hear the sound of her own breath. Her mother had stayed in the living room, alone with her thoughts, and Amanda folded the letter, thinking of Paul now, thinking of her mother, and, oddly, thinking of Brent.

With effort, she could recall that Christmas so many years ago--how quiet her mother had been, the smiles that always seemed a little forced, the unexplained tears that they'd all assumed had something to do with their father.

And, through it all, she had said nothing.

Despite the fact that her mother and Paul hadn't had the years together that she'd had with Brent, Amanda knew with sudden certainty that Paul's death had struck her mother with the same intensity that Amanda experienced when sitting beside Brent's bed for the very last time--with one difference.

Unlike her, her mother hadn't been given the chance to say good-bye.

When she heard the muted sounds of her daughter's sobs, Adrienne turned from the window in the living room and made her way to the kitchen. Amanda looked up in silence, her eyes filled with unspoken anguish.