Nights in Rodanthe (3 page)

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.

A
drienne 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.

Rodanthe, 1988

T
he morning sky was gray when Paul Flanner left the at-torney’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.