The final stretch of the drive ended at a small cottage nestled in a grove of ancient live oaks. The weathered structure, with chipping paint and shutters that had begun to blacken at the edges, was fronted by a small stone porch framed by white columns. Over the years, one of the columns had become enshrouded in vines, which climbed toward the roof. A metal chair sat near the edge, and at one corner of the porch, adding color to the world of green, was a small pot of blooming geraniums.
But their eyes were drawn inevitably to the wildflowers. Thousands of them, a meadow of fireworks stretching nearly to the steps of the cottage, a sea of red and orange and purple and blue and yellow nearly waist deep, rippling in the gentle breeze. Hundreds of butterflies flitted above the meadow, tides of moving color undulating in the sun. Bounding the field was a small, slatted wooden fence, barely visible through the lilies and gladiolas.
Amanda stared at Dawson in wonder, then at the field of flowers again. It seemed like a fantasy, one person’s imagined vision of heaven. She wondered how and when Tuck had first planted it, but even then, in that moment, she’d known that Tuck had planted the wildflowers for Clara. He’d planted them to express what she meant to him.
“It’s incredible,” she breathed.
“Did you know about this?” His voice mirrored her own sense of wonder.
“No,” she answered. “This was something that was meant for just the two of them.”
As she said it, she had a clear picture of Clara sitting on the porch while Tuck leaned against a column, reveling in the heady beauty of the wildflower garden. Dawson finally removed his foot from the brake and the car rolled forward toward the house, the colors blurring like droplets of living paint stretching for the sun.
After parking near the house, they climbed out and continued to take in the scene. A small, winding pathway was visible through the flowers. Mesmerized, they waded into the sea of color beneath a patchy sky. The sun reemerged from behind a cloud, and Amanda could feel its warmth dispersing the perfumed scent that surrounded her. All her senses felt amplified, like the day had been created specifically for her.
Walking beside her, she felt Dawson reach for her hand. She let him take it, thinking how natural it felt, and she imagined she could trace the years of labor etched into his calluses. Tiny wounds had scarred his palms but his touch was improbably gentle, and she knew then, with sudden certainty, that Dawson would have created a garden like this for her as well if he’d known she wanted it.
Forever. He’d carved the word into Tuck’s workbench. A teenage promise, nothing more, yet somehow he’d been able to keep it alive. She could feel the strength of that promise now, filling the distance between them as they drifted through the flowers. From somewhere far away, she heard the distant rumble of thunder and she had the strange sense that it was calling to her, urging her to listen.
Her shoulder brushed against his, making her pulse quicken. “I wonder if these flowers grow back, or if he had to sow seed every year,” he mused.
The sound of his voice brought her out of her reverie. “Both,” she answered, her voice sounding strange to her own ears. “I recognize some of them.”
“So he came up earlier this year? To plant more seeds?”
“He must have. I see some Queen Anne’s lace. My mom has it at the house and it dies out when winter settles in.”
They spent the next few minutes wandering along the path while she pointed out the annuals she knew: black-eyed Susans, blazing stars, morning glories, and prairie asters, intermingled with perennials like forget-me-nots, Mexican hats, and Oriental poppies. There seemed to be no formal organization to the garden; it was as if God and nature intended to have their way, no matter what Tuck’s plans might have been. Somehow, though, the wildness only enhanced the beauty of the garden, and as they walked through the chaotic display of color, all she could think was that she was glad Dawson was with her so they could share this together.
The breeze picked up, cooling the air and ushering in more clouds. She watched as he raised his eyes to the sky. “It’s going to storm,” he observed. “I should probably put the top up on the car.”
Amanda nodded but didn’t let go of his hand. Part of her feared that he might not take it again, that the opportunity might not arise. But he was right; the clouds were getting darker.
“I’ll meet you inside,” he said, sounding equally reluctant, and only slowly did he untwine his fingers from hers.
“Do you think the door’s unlocked?”
“I’d be willing to bet on it.” He smiled. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Could you grab my bag while you’re out there?”
He nodded, and as she watched him walk away, she recalled that before she’d loved him, she’d been infatuated with him. It had started out as a girlhood crush, the kind that made her doodle his name on her notebooks while she was supposed to be doing her homework. No one, not even Dawson, knew that it hadn’t been an accident that they’d ended up as chemistry partners. When the teacher asked the students to pair up, she’d excused herself to go to the bathroom, and by the time she got back Dawson was, as usual, the only one left. Her friends had sent her pitying glances, but she was secretly thrilled to be spending time with the quiet, enigmatic boy who somehow seemed wise beyond his years.
Now, as he closed up the car, history seemed to be repeating itself, and she felt that same excitement. There was something about him that spoke only to her, a connection she’d missed in the years they’d been apart. And she knew on some level that she had been waiting for him, just as he’d been waiting for her.
She couldn’t imagine never seeing him again; she couldn’t release Dawson to become nothing but a memory. Fate — in the form of Tuck — had intervened, and as she started walking toward the cottage she knew there’d been a reason for it. All of this had to mean something. The past was gone, after all, and the future was the only thing they had left.
As Dawson had predicted, the front door was unlocked. Entering the small house, Amanda’s first thought was that this had been Clara’s refuge.
Though it had the same scuffed pine flooring, cedar walls, and general layout as the house in Oriental, here there were brightly colored pillows on the couch and black-and-white photographs artfully arranged on the walls. The cedar planking had been sanded smooth and painted light blue, and the large windows flooded the room with natural light. There were two white built-in bookshelves, filled with books and interspersed with porcelain figurines, something Clara had obviously collected over the years. An intricate handmade quilt lay over the back of an easy chair, and there wasn’t a trace of dust on the country-style end tables. Floor lamps stood on either side of the room, and a smaller version of the anniversary photograph perched near the radio in the corner.
Behind her, she heard Dawson step into the cottage. He stood silently in the doorway, holding his jacket and her bag, seemingly at a loss for words.
She couldn’t hide her own amazement. “It’s something, isn’t it?”
Dawson slowly took in the room. “I’m wondering if I brought us to the wrong house.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, pointing to the picture. “It’s the right place. But it’s pretty obvious that this place was Clara’s, not his. And that he never changed it.”
Dawson folded his jacket over the back of a chair, setting Amanda’s bag alongside it. “I don’t remember Tuck’s house ever being this clean. I figure that Tanner must have hired someone to get the place ready for us.”
Of course he did, Amanda thought. She recalled Tanner mentioning his plans to come here, and his instructions that they wait until the day after their meeting to make the trip. The unlocked door only confirmed her suspicions.
“Have you already seen the rest of the place?” he asked.
“Not yet. I was too busy trying to figure out where Clara let Tuck sit down. It’s pretty obvious she never let him smoke in here.”
He thumbed over his shoulder, in the direction of the open door. “Which explains the chair on the porch. That’s probably where she made him sit.”
“Even after she was gone?”
“He was probably afraid that her ghost would show up and scold him if he lit up inside.”
She smiled, and they set off to tour the cottage, brushing up against each other as they navigated through the living room. Just as in the house in Oriental, the kitchen was at the rear, overlooking the river, but here the kitchen was all about Clara, too, from the white cabinets and intricate scrollwork in the moldings to the blue-and-white tile backsplash above the counters. There was a teapot on the stove and a vase of wildflowers on the counter, obviously plucked from the garden out front. A table nestled beneath the window; on it stood two bottles of wine, red and white, along with two sparkling glasses.
“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.
In October 1944, we were cruising near Samar, getting ready to help lead the invasion of the Philippines. We had thirteen ships in our group, which sounds like a lot, but aside from the carrier, it was mainly destroyers and escorts, so we didn’t have much firepower. And then, on the horizon, we saw what seemed like the entire Japanese fleet coming toward us. Four battleships, eight cruisers, eleven destroyers, hell-bent on sending us to the bottom of the sea. I heard later that someone said we were like David against Goliath, except we didn’t even have a slingshot. And that’s about right. Our guns couldn’t even reach them when they opened fire. So what do we do? Knowing we didn’t stand a chance? We engaged. The Battle of Leyte Gulf, they call it now. Went straight for them. We were the first ship to start firing, the first to launch smoke and torpedoes, and we took on both a cruiser and a battleship. Did a lot of damage, too. But because we were out front, we were the first to go dead in the water. A pair of enemy cruisers closed in and began firing, and then we went down. There were 327 men on board, and 186 men, some of them close friends, died that day. I was one of the 141 that made it out alive.
I’ll bet you’re wondering why I’m telling you this — you’re probably thinking I’m drifting again — so I might as well get to it. On the raft, with this big battle raging all around us, I realized that I wasn’t afraid anymore. All of a sudden, I knew I’d be okay because I knew that Clara and I weren’t done yet, and this feeling of peace just came over me. You can call it shell shock if you want, but I know what I know, and right there, under an exploding sky filled with gun smoke, I remembered our anniversary from a couple of years ago and I started singing “For Me and My Gal,” just like Clara and I did on the car ride home from Raleigh. Just boomed it out at the top of my lungs, like I didn’t have a care in the world, because I knew that somehow Clara could hear me, and she’d understand that there was no reason to worry. I’d made her a promise, you see. And nothing, not even going down in the Pacific, was enough to stop me from keeping it.
Crazy, I know. But like I said, I got rescued. I got reassigned to a crew ship and hauled marines to Iwo Jima the next spring. Next thing I knew, the war was over and I was home. I didn’t talk about the war when I got back. I couldn’t. Not a single word. It was just too painful and Clara understood that, so little by little, we settled back into our lives. In 1955, we started building the cottage here. I did most of the work myself. One afternoon, just after I’d finished up for the day, I walked toward Clara, who was knitting in the shade. And I heard her singing “For Me and My Gal.”
I froze, and the memories of the battle came racing back. I hadn’t thought about that song in years, and I’d never told her what happened on the raft that day. But she must have seen something in my expression because she looked up at me.
“From our anniversary,” she said before going back to her knitting. “I never told you this, but while you were in the Navy, I had a dream one night,” she added. “I was in this field of wildflowers, and even though I couldn’t see you, I could hear you singing this song to me, and when I woke up, I wasn’t afraid anymore. Because up until then, I was always afraid that you weren’t coming back.”
I stood there dumbstruck. “It wasn’t a dream,” I finally said.
She just smiled and I had the sense that she’d been expecting my answer. “I know. Like I said, I heard you.”
After that, the idea that Clara and I had something powerful — spiritual, some might say — between us never left me. So some years later, I decided to start the garden and I brought her up here on our anniversary to show it to her. It wasn’t much back then, nothing like it is now, but she swore it was the most beautiful place in the world. So I tilled more ground and added more seeds the next year, all the while humming our song. I did the same thing every year of our marriage, until she finally passed away. I had her ashes scattered here, in the place she loved.
But I was a broken man after she died. I was angry and boozing and losing myself little by little in the process. I stopped tilling and planting and singing because Clara was gone and I didn’t see the reason to keep it going. I hated the world and I didn’t want to go on. I thought about killing myself more than once, but then Dawson came along. It was good to have him around. Somehow he helped remind me that I still belonged in this world, that my work here wasn’t done. But then he got taken away, too. After that, I came up here and saw the place for the first time in years. It was out of season, but some of the flowers were still blooming, and though I don’t know why, when I sang our song tears came to my eyes. I cried for Dawson, I suppose, but I also cried for me. Mainly, though, I was crying for Clara.
That was when it started. Later that night, when I got home, I saw Clara through the kitchen window. Even though it was faint, I heard her humming our song. But she was hazy, not really there, and by the time I got inside she was gone. So I went back to the cottage and started to till again. Got things ready, so to speak, and I saw her again, this time on the porch. A few weeks later, after I scattered seeds, she started coming around regularly, maybe once a week, and I was able to get closer to her before she vanished. But then, when the flowers bloomed, I came out here and wandered among the flowers, and by the time I got home I could see and hear her plain as day. Just standing right there on the porch, waiting for me, as if wondering why it took me so long to figure things out. That’s the way it’s been ever since.
She’s part of the flowers, you see? Her ashes helped to make the flowers grow, and the more they grew, the more alive she became. And as long as I kept the flowers going, Clara could find a way to come back to me.
So that’s why you’re here, and that’s why I asked you to do this for me. This is our place, a tiny corner of the world where love can make anything possible. I think that the two of you, more than anyone else, will understand that.
But now it’s time for me to join her. It’s time for us to sing together. It’s my time and I have no regrets. I’m back with Clara again, and that’s the only place I’ve ever wanted to be. Scatter my ashes to the wind and flowers, and don’t cry for me. Instead, I want you to smile for the both of us; smile with joy for me and my gal.
Tuck
Dawson leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, trying to imagine Tuck as he wrote the letter. It sounded nothing like the laconic, rough-hewn man who’d taken him in. This was a Tuck that Dawson had never met, a person Dawson had never known.
Amanda’s expression was tender as she refolded the letter, taking extra precaution not to tear it.
“I know the song he talks about,” she said after she had stowed the letter safely in her purse. “I heard him singing it once while he sat in the rocker. When I asked him about it, he didn’t really answer. Instead, he played it for me on the record player.”
“At the house?”
She nodded. “I remember thinking it was catchy, but Tuck had closed his eyes and he just seemed… lost in it. When it was over, he got up and put the record away, and at the time I didn’t know what to make of it. But now I understand.” She turned toward him. “He was calling to Clara.”
Dawson slowly rotated his wine glass. “Do you believe him? About seeing Clara?”
“I didn’t. Not really, anyway. But now I’m not so sure.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance, reminding them again of what they had come here to do. “I think it’s probably time,” Dawson said.
Amanda stood, brushing off her pants, and together they descended to the garden. The breeze was steady now, but the mist had grown even thicker. The crystalline morning was gone, replaced by afternoon weather that reflected the murky weight of the past.
After Dawson retrieved the box, they found the path that led to the center of the garden. Amanda’s hair rippled in the breeze, and he watched as she ran her fingers through it, trying to keep it under control. They reached the center of the garden and stopped.
Dawson was conscious of the weight of the box in his hands. “We should say something,” he murmured. At her nod, he went first, offering a tribute to the man who’d given him shelter and friendship. Amanda, in turn, thanked Tuck for being her confidant and told him that she’d come to care about him like a father. When they were finished, the wind picked up almost on cue, and Dawson lifted the lid.
The ashes took flight, swirling together over the flowers, and as she watched, Amanda couldn’t help thinking that Tuck was looking for Clara, calling out to her one last time.
They retreated to the house afterward, alternately reminiscing about Tuck and sitting in companionable silence. Outside, the rain had begun to fall. It was steady but not hard, a delicate summer rain that felt like a blessing.
When they grew hungry, they ventured out into the rain, taking the Stingray down the twisty drive onto the highway again. Though they could have returned to Oriental, they drove instead to New Bern. Near the historic downtown district, they found a restaurant called the Chelsea. It was nearly empty when they arrived, but by the time they left, every table was occupied.
There was a short break in the rain, and they spent it strolling the quiet sidewalks, visiting the shops that were still open. While Dawson browsed in a secondhand bookstore, Amanda took the opportunity to step out and call home. She spoke to both Jared and Lynn before touching base with Frank. She called her mom, too, leaving a message on the answering machine telling her that she might be late and asking her to leave the door unlocked. She hung up just as Dawson approached, feeling a stab of grief at the thought that the night was almost over. As if reading her mind, Dawson offered his arm, and she clung to it as they slowly made their way back to the car.
Back on the highway, the rain started again. The mist grew thicker almost as soon as they crossed the Neuse River, tendrils stretching from the forest like ghostly fingers. The headlights did little to illuminate the road, and trees seemed to absorb what little light there was. Dawson slowed the car in the wet, murky darkness.
The rainfall was steady on the soft-top, like the passing of a distant train, and Amanda found herself thinking about the day. Over their meal, she’d caught Dawson staring at her more than once, but rather than feeling self-conscious, she didn’t want him to stop.
She knew it was wrong. Her life didn’t allow for that kind of desire; society didn’t condone it, either. She could try to dismiss her feelings as temporary, a by-product of other factors in her life. But she knew that wasn’t true. Dawson wasn’t some stranger that she happened to rendezvous with; he was her first and only true love, the most enduring of all.
Frank would be crushed if he knew what she was thinking. And despite their troubles, she knew she loved Frank. Yet even if nothing happened — even if she went home today — she knew that Dawson would continue to haunt her. Although her marriage had been troubled for years, it wasn’t simply that she was seeking solace elsewhere. It was Dawson — and the us they created whenever they were together — that had made all of this both natural and inevitable. She couldn’t help thinking that the story between them was somehow unfinished; that both of them were waiting to write the ending.
After they passed through Bayboro, Dawson slowed the car. Coming up was the turn onto another highway, one that led south, to Oriental. Straight ahead lay Vandemere. Dawson would make the turn, but as they approached the intersection, she wanted to tell him to keep going. She didn’t want to wake tomorrow wondering if she’d ever see him again. The thought was terrifying, and yet somehow the words wouldn’t come.
There was no one else on the road. Water flowed from the macadam into shallow gullies on either side of the highway. When they reached the intersection, Dawson gently applied the brakes. Surprising her, he brought the car to a stop.
The wipers moved the water from side to side. Raindrops glittered in the reflection of the headlights. As the engine idled, Dawson turned toward her, his face in shadow.
“Your mom is probably expecting you.”
She could feel her heart beating, speeding up. “Yes.” She nodded, saying nothing more.
For a long moment, he simply stared at her, reading her, seeing all the hope and fear and desire in the eyes that held his own. Then, with a flicker of a smile, he faced the windshield, and ever so slowly the car began to roll forward, toward Vandemere, and neither one of them was willing or able to stop it.
There was no awkwardness at the door when they returned to the cottage. Amanda made for the kitchen as Dawson turned on the lamp. She refilled their glasses of wine, feeling both unsettled and secretly thrilled at exactly the same time.
In the living room, Dawson turned the radio dial until he found some old-time jazz, keeping the volume low. From the shelf above, he pulled down one of the old books and was thumbing through the yellowed pages when Amanda approached him with the wine. Returning the book to its spot on the shelf, he took the glass and followed her to the couch. He watched as she slipped off her shoes.
“It’s so quiet,” she said. Setting her glass on the end table, she pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around her knees. “I understand why Tuck and Clara wanted to remain here.”
The dim light of the living room lent her features a mysterious cast, and Dawson cleared his throat. “Do you think you’ll ever come back here again?” he asked. “After this weekend, I mean?”
“I don’t know. If I knew it would stay like this, then yes. But I know it won’t, because nothing lasts forever. And part of me wants to remember it just like it was today, with the flowers in full bloom.”
“Not to mention a clean house.”
“That, too,” she agreed. She reached for her wine, swirling it in the glass. “Earlier, when the ashes were floating away, do you know what I was thinking about? I was thinking about the night we were on the dock watching the meteor shower. I don’t know why, but all of a sudden it was like I was there again. I could see us lying on the blanket, whispering to each other and listening to the crickets, that perfect, musical echo. And above us, the sky was just so… alive.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Dawson’s voice was gentle.
Her expression was melancholy. “Because that was the night I knew I loved you. That I’d really and truly fallen in love. And I think my mom knew exactly what had happened.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the next morning, she asked me about you, and when I told her how I felt, we ended up in a screaming match — a big one, one of the worst we ever had. She even slapped me. I was so shocked, I didn’t know how to respond. And all the while she kept telling me how ridiculous my behavior was, and that I didn’t know what I was doing. She made it sound like she was angry because it was you, but when I think back on it now, I know she would have been upset no matter who it was. Because it wasn’t about you, or us, or even your last name. It was about her. She knew I was growing up, and she was afraid of losing control. She didn’t know how to handle that — not then, and not now.” She took a sip and lowered the glass, spinning the stem with her fingers. “She told me I was self-centered this morning.”
“She’s wrong.”
“I thought so, too,” she said. “At first anyway. But now I’m not so sure.”
“Why would you say that?”
“I’m not exactly acting like a married woman, am I?”
Watching her, he held his silence, giving her time to consider what she was saying. “Do you want me to bring you back?” he finally asked.
She hesitated before shaking her head. “No,” she said. “That’s the thing. I want to be here, with you. Even though I know it’s wrong.” Her eyes were downcast, lashes dark against her cheekbones. “Does that make any sense?”
He traced a finger along the back of her hand. “Do you really want me to answer?”
“No,” she answered. “Not really. But it’s… complicated. Marriage, I mean.” She could feel him weave delicate patterns across her skin.
“Do you like being married?” Dawson asked, his voice tentative.
Instead of answering right away, Amanda took a sip of her wine, collecting herself. “Frank is a good man. Most of the time, anyway. But marriage isn’t what people think it is. People want to believe that every marriage is this perfect balance, but it isn’t. One person always loves more deeply than the other. I know Frank loves me, and I love him, too… just not as much. And I never have.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t you know?” She looked at him. “It’s because of you. Even when we were standing in the church and I was getting ready to take my vows, I can remember wishing that you were standing there, instead of him. Because I not only still loved you, but loved you beyond measure, and I suspected even then that I would never feel the same way about Frank.”
Dawson’s mouth felt dry. “Then why did you marry him?”
“Because I thought it was good enough. And I hoped I could change. That over time, maybe I would come to feel the same way about him as I did about you. But I didn’t, and as the years went on, I think he came to see that, too. And it hurt him, and I knew it hurt him, but the harder he tried to show me how important I was to him, the more suffocated I felt. And I resented that. I resented him.” She winced at her own words. “I know that makes me sound like an awful person.”
“You’re not awful,” Dawson said. “You’re being honest.”
“Let me finish, okay?” she said. “I need you to understand this. You need to know that I do love him, and I cherish the family we’ve created. Frank adores our children. They’re the center of his life, and I think that’s why losing Bea was so hard on us. You have no idea how terrible it is to watch your child get sicker and sicker and know that there’s nothing you can do to help her. You end up riding this roller-coaster of emotions, feeling everything from anger at God to betrayal to a sense of utter failure and devastation. In the end, though, I was able to survive the pain. Frank never really recovered. Because underlying all those other things is this bottomless despair and it just… hollows you out. There’s a gaping hole where all this joy used to be. Because that’s what Bea was. She was joy in living form. We used to joke that she came out of the womb smiling. Even as a baby, she hardly ever cried. And that never changed. She laughed all the time; to her, everything new was a thrilling discovery. Jared and Lynn used to compete for her attention. Can you imagine that?”
She paused, her voice becoming more ragged. “And then, of course, the headaches started and she began bumping into things as she toddled around. So we visited a host of specialists, and each of them told us there was nothing he could do for her.” She swallowed hard. “After that… it just started getting worse. But she was who she was, you know? Just happy. Even toward the end, when she was barely able to sit up on her own, she still laughed. Every time I heard that laugh, I’d feel my heart break just a little bit more.” Amanda was quiet then, absently staring toward the darkened window. Dawson waited.
“At the end, I used to lie in bed with her for hours, just holding her as she slept, and when she’d wake up we’d lie there facing each other. I couldn’t turn away, because I wanted to memorize everything about the way she looked: her nose, her chin, her little curls. And when she’d finally fall asleep again, I’d hold her close and just weep at the unfairness of it all.”
When Amanda finished she blinked, seemingly unaware of the tears spilling down her cheeks. She made no move to wipe them away, and neither did Dawson. Instead, he sat perfectly still, attuned to every word.
“After she died, part of me died, too. And for a long time, Frank and I could barely look at each other. Not because we were angry, but because it hurt. I could see Bea in Frank, and Frank could see her in me, and it was… unbearable. We barely held ourselves together, even though Jared and Lynn needed us more than ever. I started to drink two or three glasses of wine every night, trying to numb myself, but Frank would drink even more. Finally, though, I recognized that it wasn’t helping. So I stopped. But for Frank, it wasn’t so easy.” She stopped to pinch the bridge of her nose, the memory awakening the familiar traces of a headache. “He couldn’t stop. I thought that having another child might heal him, but it didn’t, really. He’s an alcoholic, and for the last ten years he’s lived half a life. And I’ve reached the point where I don’t know how to give him back that other half.”
Dawson swallowed. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I don’t, either. I like to tell myself that if Bea hadn’t died, this wouldn’t have happened to Frank. But then I wonder whether his decline was partly my fault, too. Because I’d been hurting him for years, even before Bea. Because he knew that I didn’t love him in the same way he loved me.”
“It’s not your fault,” he said. Even to him, the words sounded inadequate.
She shook her head. “That’s kind of you to say, and on the surface I know you’re right. But if he’s drinking to escape these days, it’s probably to escape from me. Because he knows I’m angry and disappointed and he knows there’s no way he can erase ten years of regret, no matter what he does. And who wouldn’t want to escape from that? Especially when it comes from someone you love? When all you really want is for that person to love you as much as you love them?”
“Don’t do that,” he said, capturing her gaze with his own. “You can’t take the blame for his problems and make them yours.”
“Spoken like someone who’s never been married.” She gave him a crooked smile. “Let me just say that the longer I’ve been married, the more I’ve come to realize that few things are ever black and white. And I’m not saying that the problems in our marriage are entirely my fault. I’m just saying that there might be a few shades of gray somewhere in there. Neither one of us is perfect.”
“That sounds like something a therapist would say.”
“It probably is. A few months after Bea died, I started seeing a therapist twice a week. I don’t know how I would have survived without her. Jared and Lynn saw her, too, but not as long. Kids are more resilient, I guess.”
“I’ll take your word on that.”
She rested her chin on her knees, her expression reflecting her turmoil. “I never really told Frank about us.”
“No?”
“He knew I’d had a boyfriend in high school, but I didn’t tell him how serious it was. I don’t think I’ve ever even told him your name. And my mom and dad, obviously, tried their best to pretend it had never happened at all. They treated it like this deep, dark family secret. Naturally, my mother breathed a sigh of relief when I told her I was engaged. She wasn’t thrilled, mind you. My mom doesn’t get thrilled about anything. She probably considers it beneath her. But if it makes you feel better, I had to remind her of Frank’s name. Twice. Your name, on the other hand…”
Dawson laughed before suddenly growing quiet. She took a sip of wine, feeling the heat as it slid down her throat, barely aware of the soft music still playing in the background. “So much has happened, hasn’t it? Since we last saw each other?” Her voice was small.
“Life happened.”
“It was more than just life.”
“What are you talking about?”
“All this. Being here, seeing you. It makes me think back to a time when I still believed that all my dreams could come true. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like that.” She turned toward him, their faces inches apart. “Do you think we could have made it? If we’d moved away and started our lives together?”
“It’s hard to say.”
“But if you had to guess?”
“Yes. I think we would have made it.”
She nodded, feeling something crumble inside at his answer. “I think so, too.”
Outside, a squall began to force waves of rain against the windows like handfuls of tossed pebbles. The radio played softly, music from another time, blending with the steady rhythm of the rain. The warmth of the room was cocoonlike, and Amanda could almost believe that nothing else existed.
“You used to be shy,” she murmured. “When we were first paired together in class, you barely spoke to me. I kept dropping hints, waiting for you to ask me out and wondering whether you ever would.”
“You were beautiful.” Dawson shrugged. “I was no one. It made me nervous.”
“Do I still make you nervous?”
“No,” he said, then reconsidered. A slight smile eased onto his face. “Maybe a little.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Is there anything I can do?”
He took her hand and turned it this way and that, noting how perfectly their hands seemed to fit together, reminding him again of what he had given up. A week ago, he’d been content. Maybe not perfectly happy, maybe a bit isolated, but content. He’d understood who he was and his place in the world. He was alone, but that had been a conscious choice, and even now he didn’t regret it. Especially now. Because no one would have been able to take Amanda’s place, and no one ever would.
“Will you dance with me?” he finally asked.
She answered with the ghost of a smile. “Yes.”
He rose from the couch and gently helped her up. She stood, her legs feeling shaky as they moved toward the center of the small room. The music seemed to fill the room with longing, and for a moment neither of them knew what to do. Amanda waited, watching as Dawson turned to her, his face unreadable. Finally, placing a hand on her hip, he drew her closer. Their bodies came together then and she leaned into him, feeling the solidness of his chest as his arm circled her waist. Ever so slowly, they began to turn and sway.
He felt so good to her. She breathed in the smell of him, clean and real and everything she remembered. She could feel the taut plane of his stomach and his legs against hers. Closing her eyes, she laid her head on his shoulder, flooded with desire, thinking of the first night they’d ever made love. She’d been trembling that night and she was trembling now.
The song ended but they continued to hold each other as another song started. His breath was hot on her neck and she heard him exhale, a kind of release. His face inched even closer, and she leaned her head back in abandon, wanting the dance to last forever. Wanting them to last forever.
His lips grazed her neck first, then gently brushed her cheek, and though she heard a faraway warning echo, she strained toward the butterfly touch.
They kissed then, first hesitantly, then more passionately, making up for a lifetime apart. She could feel his hands on her, all of her, and when they finally separated, Amanda was conscious only of how long it had been since she’d ached for this. Ached for him. She stared at Dawson through half-closed eyes, wanting him more than anyone she’d ever known, wanting all of him, here and now. She could feel his desire as well, and with a movement that seemed almost preordained, she kissed him once more before leading him to the bedroom.